The lone figure''s footsteps broke into the dense snow with a sullen ''shumph, shumph, shumph.'' Windblown tendrils of the icy powder swirled around his heavy fur and steel-plated boots. He strode a barren plain of white which spread out before towering spires and bluffs of an intruding mountain range. The rugged and imposing cliffs did not belong in his land. They started their invasion sixteen years ago. After the war with the horde from across the ocean was won, the mountains of the north made their move.
The mountains started slowly, barely noticeable. The man recalled as his footsteps pressed into the snow, ''shumph, shumph, shumph''. They began as a small bump that could be easily worked through. His steps plodded, ''shumph, shumph, shumph''. Then they became an outcropping that could be walked around, ''shumph, shumph, shumph.'' They rose to quaint hills that could be scrabbled over, ''shumph, shumph, shumph.'' Then they became jagged summits that could be conquered, ''shumph, shumph, shumph''. Finally, they formed imposing cliffs that could only be… ''shumph''… surrendered to.
The man stopped and raised his gaze to the cliffs before him. His eyes were protected from the painful glare of the snow through the slits of his thick plumed helmet. He would not surrender. He would not cower. He would not leave defeated. He drew his sword.
The mountains had taken his family. They had taken his kingdom. Some said the mountains had even taken his mind. But he would not let them take away his last chance to fight. He would not let the mountains take away his last chance for pride.
He drew a deep breath that filled his lungs with the cold bite of frozen air. His chest swelled against the padding of his plate armour. He tossed his grey fur cloak back and slammed his sword against his gauntleted palm. The sword rang out across the bitter landscape with a harmonic call to the mountains, a call to fight.
The hum of the sword faded and gave way over the frozen range to the soft hiss of blown snow. The hiss was soon broken by the sound of a ''crump'' as a small shadow cracked in the pristine white surrounding him. A burst of snow erupted from the crack as a black object jumped at the man.
He swung his sword and batted it aside. With a clang, the object tumbled into the snow. It spun around and regarded the man without eyes. It gave him an evil sneer without having a face. The assailant before the man was a black form of geometric lines and smooth curves, a strangely constructed vile creature to convey the mountain''s tyranny. It lunged at the man, but with a flick of his wrist, he impaled it on his sword. The evil construct leaked black ichor down his weapon. He dismissively knocked it off with his free hand. The symbol of the mountain''s oppression was meaningless without others.
''crump,'' ''crump,'' ''crump,'' ''crump,'' Lines and ragged shadows broke out around the man. ''crump,'' ''crump,'' ''crump,'' ''crump,'' they surrounded him. Black beings burst out of the snow, casting the man in a haze of white frost as they tore at him. He cleaved the first in half. The second he smashed with his mail fist. The third crushed with the pummel of his sword. The fourth kicked, the fifth stabbed, the sixth slashed, the seventh dodged, and the eighth backhanded. The seventh returned only to be batted across the field. They were all meaningless without others… many others.
''crump,'' ''crump,'' ''crump,'' ''crump,'' ''crump,'' ''crump,'' ''crump,'' ''crump,'' ''crump,'' ''crump,'' ''crump''…
The drifts around the man erupted as black geometric fiends swarmed him. The man slashed, dodged, parried, evaded, and hacked through the assembling forms. Some scampered to his legs, others lunged at his body, and even others fluttered to gnash at his head. As the man beat them down, his metal armour clanged and screeched to their pummels and scratches. Each of the black assailants fell to the man''s defence in a spray of black liquid. No sound emanated from them as they succumbed to the man''s blows.
He knew not how long it took, but eventually, the swarm was slain. The man looked over the lifeless masses strewn about him and the unworldly blood he was covered in. He unclasped his cloak and let it drop to the gray and black slush-stained snow.
He stretched his shoulders and took in a satisfied breath. A grim smile formed beneath his helmet, meaningless without many, many, many others.
The ground shook, and the snow parted as a dark mound rose. Its form was an amalgam of shapes like those the man already slew. Blocks and spheres combined with lines and curves to form a head, body, and legs... and fangs and claws. This fiend was not silent like its smaller predecessors. It opened its pointed, gruesome maw to let out a wailing screech into the air. From around the new creation, hundreds of small shadows cracked and rippled out over the snowy plain. Behind the creature, three more amalgams just like it arose from the snow banks; behind those, a mountain began to stir.
The man jabbed his sword into one of the limp black masses at his feet, letting its blood coat the tip of his sword. He raised the blade and ran at the shrieking inky form before him. He thrust his sword into its chest. It howled in pain as it twisted back from the strike. While it gyrated away, the man could see that lines and curves that made up its body formed into words. They read: "Transfer Request to the Bemeanian 45th division of Shapur II. Reasoning: I would like to be stationed closer to my family."
With the Transfer Request in hand, the man pulled his mind back to reality with a sigh...
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His forlorn gaze scanned across his office crammed away amidst a fortress of paperwork, his enemies merely overdue documents and his weapon nothing more than a drying pen. How the prestigious warrior had fallen.
There was never rest for weary however and so he slouched over the transfer request, his pen ready to ''slay'' its next ''opponent''. As he scrutinized the lines of text, memories of his own family flooded his thoughts. He pondered whether he had ever been stationed close to them during the harrowing Battle of Horsa, amidst the treacherous terrain of the Cruor Swamps, or even as he trudged through the unforgiving Mokoi Badlands. Pausing to inhale a deep breath, he sought solace within himself. With a newly calmed mind, he placed his weapon firmly onto the antagonizing page before him. He realized that, yes, his family was near him through each and every one of those trials; because, the military was his family; that was where he belonged, and that was where this person belonged: Request denied.
The door swung open, "Sir, are you in here?" The inquiry pierced the room like a dagger, tearing through the tattered defences of the weary man. It seemed as if the very question itself had the power to deflate his will to carry out the daunting task at hand. He wondered, gazing around the room cluttered with a mountain of paperwork, if there was truly enough bureaucracy in this chamber to hide behind its oppressive walls.
A quick, despairing glance around affirmed the grim truth. Mountains of files, requests, reports, and depositions formed a chaotic landscape, dominating his desk and shrouding his office like a relentless tempest. There was no direct line of sight between the door and his seat; one had to embark on a labyrinthine journey, navigating through winding tunnels of testimonies and precarious bridges of binders amidst ink forests and towering paper peaks just to reach his desk. It was a place where one could easily become lost in the twisting passages of documents for hours, remaining unnoticed by the outside world.
The messenger stammered, their voice laced with anxiety, as if uncertain whether their words were worthy of the room, "I, I have the list of candidates for the new Murugan Squad,"
The tired man pondered momentarily, realizing the messenger''s unease might have stemmed from a fear that their voice might not penetrate the dense paper fortress surrounding him. "I have already reviewed the candidates; none of them will suffice."
The messenger insisted. "B-but you have to form a squad from the list,"
"Have you seen the candidates?" the frustrated man retorted, his voice booming from behind the towering stacks of paper. A few of the taller piles swayed slightly under the force of his frustration.
The messenger, worried about the stability of the paper pillars, responded cautiously, "No, sir, I have not."
"They''re a joke! An embarrassment to the entire Pangean Entente! They can hardly manage to don their own armour properly! Sending them into battle would be like offering a comedic gift to the mokoi, who would probably take them home for their children to devour."
The messenger quietly retorted. "I don''t think that''s quite true… sir,"
"Even the son of that so-called ''hero'' could do better."
The messenger apprehensively countered, "Well, in all fairness, the Hero of New Heirisson Conquest''s son is said to be one of the greatest swordsmen alive, not to mention a supremely skilled magician... and, well, the son of the Hero of New Heirisson Conquest."
The frustrated man couldn''t help but emit an aggravated sigh. He had long grown weary of the incessant adulation bestowed upon celebrities more accustomed to gracing the front page of newspapers than the front lines of battle. "Please, don''t tell me you''re another one of his hopeless admirers. His swordsmanship, while impressive, is far from refined. And what relevance does his status as the son of that so-called ''hero of humanity'' hold, anyway?"
"Well, the hero is widely regarded as the most skilled fighter in all of history."
The weary man scoffed, "Not that skilled."
"He was skilled enough to beat you." Silence hung in the air for a moment before the messenger hastily added, "I-I''m sorry, sir."
The disgraced man took a moment to recollect himself before responding, his voice laced with an odd mixture of understanding and subtle rebuke. "It doesn''t matter anyway. It''s not like anyone capable would enlist in the Pangean Entente anymore. Without the war, it''s a miracle we still have an Entente, let alone people wanting to join it. And with the Tournament only a month away, nobody would think of joining us bygones, nobody of merit at least."
"Sir, I think you''ll find the recruits in our shortlist are significantly strong."
The man huffed with exhaustion. "That''s not the same, sure they have strength; even the ''hero'' has plenty of strength, but that''s not what''s needed for my Murugan Squad. It''s quite understandable, someone with your limited experience might find it challenging to discern between mere strength and genuine skill. The Hero possesses strength and talent, certainly, but his skill is easily overshadowed by his ego. True skill is a far rarer and greater treasure."
His mind wandered to those exceptional individuals he so wished to see among his list of Murugan candidates. "Like that young girl from the Sodality of Rain in the Elemental Festival eight years ago," He pondered idly on the mysterious prodigy. "I wonder what became of her." His thoughts returned to the present as a more pertinent example of the ideal disciple he sought came to mind. "Or Liederkranz, she was the pride of the Murugan Squad. What she possessed was true skill."
"I don''t understand sir." the messenger admitted, brows furrowed in confusion.
He answered simply. "Talent is like a fresh delicious cheese, while skill is akin to a cheese that has been left out to age, fermenting into a true delicacy."
"I— what?" The messenger was now really confused.
"It means I am not perfect. I can''t age cheese that thinks being fresh is better."
The messenger blinked, still bewildered. "I can ask for someone to prepare you some cheese if you would like?"
The aggravated man bellowed in response, "It means I won''t be choosing any of those candidates for the Murugan Squad!"
The messenger winced back against the stern tone, feebly managing to stutter back. "Um sir, I am s-s-sorry but the ge-general s-sai-"
"Common son, speak more clearly."
"THE GENERAL SAID - I DON''T CARE IF NONE OF THE CANDIDATES PASS THAT IMPOSSIBLE TO PLEASE MAN''S CRITERIA, HE MUST CHOOSE SIX FROM THE LIST OR ELSE HE WILL HAVE TO REORGANIZE THE MILITARY FUNDS OF THE PAST TWELVE YEARS!... sir." The messenger delivered his message hurriedly, his voice laced with anxious panic as he awaited his superior''s response.
The agitated man was certainly exhausted at this point. That warmonger general of his kept on pushing him to train the next generation of Murugan Squad now that none of its members were on active duty, or so the general wished! He was still on active duty, and no matter how much the general pushed for him to step down from the front-lines and Murugan Squad, he still had many decades of fight in him!
Besides, those pencil pushers always hiding in the protection of Parapet Island under the guise of guiding the war effort could never understand what the battlefield actually entailed. They thought that just because a kid could swing an expensive sword their daddy bought them, they could be sent to the field and start collecting heads. They don''t understand that this war isn''t like any other. When someone is thrown in the middle of a war-zone and stares down against their first mokoi, realizing for the first time the difference between them and a mere human, recognizing the true nature of this war, that decides who is capable of fighting: who is capable of joining the Murugan Squad, the only unit in the Pangean Entente to venture onto mokoi territory and return. It wasn''t for some little brat that happened to fill some senile, wealthy noble''s bingo board of ''qualified warrior.''
For now, he would give up on fighting. He could just hide the candidate list at the bottom of his stacks of work. It would be beyond his control if he lost the list then. "Fine, just leave the list somewhere on the table."
"...Sir?" The messenger asked back, unsure.
"Yes?"
"Where is the table?"
The defeated man, overwhelmed by despair, faltered and allowed his head to drop heavily onto the chaotic jumble that had once been known as his desk. A disconcerting ripple coursed through the teetering stacks of parchment threatening to collapse. This was truly a grim state. "Just leave it on a pile somewhere." he muttered, resignation lacing his voice.
The messenger gently placed the list onto one of the many human-sized temples of bureaucracy. As he turned to depart, a trace of genuine concern softened his words. "How''s your back, sir?" he inquired, his tone brimming with sympathy.
"Better."
"Get well soon sir." With that last farewell, the messenger began to walk out of the room.
"Yes please."
"Sir?"
"If you could ask someone to prepare me some cheese, that would be wonderful."
"Yes sir." The messenger began to leave the room again.
"Aged, not fresh."
"Yes sir."
The door shut, and finally, the old man had the room to himself again, and he could return to his long-overdue work. The pen did not fit as comfortably in his hand as a sword, but such were the ways of his recent life.
He firmly clenched onto his mighty weapon, gathering his strength and steeling his will. With a dash into the ink, his weapon was unsheathed, and he thrust the pen into his next opponent. A mighty tax form. His weapon bled ink onto the bottom of the paper as he carved out his name onto the body of the page. With a flick of his wrist, the opponent was slain. He raised the corpse of the tiring and challenging enemy and dumped it upon one of the many stacks of corpses by his side. The stack swayed, side to side to side, indecisive of whether it would accept this extra load. After a few seconds of suspense, it decided it couldn''t.
The stack collapsed, plummeting down onto another stack, which in turn plummeted down onto another, causing a cascading catastrophe of drowning bureaucracy. The man could do nothing but watch as each procrastinated burden transformed the whole room into a sea of paper. No more walls or tunnels; the place was a mess, but at least he could see the door and the window; he forgot he had one of those. He also saw a strange object in the centre of the room. He was certain he did not have one of those.
In the centre of the room, there was what seemed to be a small pink rhombus, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other forms. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards the man holding a much more interesting piece of paper, a glowing parchment: it read.
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<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="width: 100%; text-align: center">You have been invited to</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="width: 100%; text-align: center">The Tournament</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td style="width: 100%; text-align: center">You are The Knight</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>