Sweat is streaming off my body. Despite not moving an inch, I have put out more effort in the past twenty-odd seconds, than I would in five minutes of physical fighting. If I use my mana more, it should get easier. I need to practice with the techniques I learned from Smithing. Without having a better endurance while using mana, despite the effectiveness, this will be useless to me in anything other than a one on one duel.
As more attacks get past his defenses, the Throd'nahk snarls in frustration and dives toward me. His spear is writhing with thick ropes of blue lighting, as he stabs towards me.
I do not have time to recover my swords, and sheathe my fist in pure kinetic force, with my ki. As I slip past the point of the spear, the lighting arcs into me, causing my muscles to seize up momentarily. My fist misses the Throd'nahk's face, but I still hit his chest at an angle.
Crack.
Something breaks inside the Throd'nahk, probably a rib or two, as he careens off to the side. Out of control, he tumbles across the floor, lighting arcing and grounding into the stone.
Grinning like a hungry wolf, I launch myself at him, before he can recover.
“Enough!” Thrall's voices booms inside the training hall.
I watch the Throd'nahk, not trusting that he will stop, but he rises to his feet and releases his lightning.
Brad is strong! Perzey knows Brand will never lose! Why am I hearing things again? Is it because of the strain of overusing my mana?
“Is he ready, Mahkah?” Elan'fer'sha's question is softly voiced, but still caries in the silence.
The Throd'nahk stares at me, with a complicated expression I cannot decipher. “He can defeat the Ogre. As for the SvartAlfar, I don't know. I still don't understand that one's Power well enough, but whoever wins, it will not be an easy fight.”
Elan'fer'sha smiles, and her eyes are filled with pure avarice, as she looks at me. “In five days, you will fight in the arena.”
She turns her attention to the Throd'nahk. “Come, Mahkah. We have a match order to arrange.”
“Wait here!” Thrall follows Elan'fer'sha and the Throd'nahk out of the training hall.
Mahkah. Is that the Throd'nahk's name? Throd'nahk is nothing but a title, but I have never heard the slaves address him as anything else.
The Throd'nahk did not seem to be holding back at all. He was using a lot more Power than he displayed when he tested me in the beginning. It feels like that day was in the distant past, even though it has been less than two months.
I look at the practice swords, circling above my head. Now that I am not pushing them to reach the fastest possible speeds, there is almost no effort in keeping them airborne. This would not even qualify as practice. Every day, from now on, I am going to have to push myself to the limit with controlling dancing weapons. If I do not do something at least as strenuous as attacking the Throd'nahk, I will never build up proper strength and endurance in using mana.
Thrall returns and stares at me for a few moments. “You are natural Maker, being able to become a Smith, while possessing two Secrets proves it. Most beings can never become a Maker, if they cannot refine their nature to find a single Secret. Your Secrets can be frighteningly strong, but they are possessed of a double, edge as dangerous to you as your enemies. If you are not careful, what you Make will often have a hidden dark side to it. The more powerful your works; the stronger their curse will be.”
As always, I whispered my Secrets under my breath. Thrall's hearing is freakishly good.
“The Smith who trained me never said anything about some Secrets of Steel being stronger than others, or being dangerous to the Smith who wielded them.”
Thrall frowns. “The mortal Makers in the Labyrinth have very limited knowledge. Over the millennia, they have been repressed by the Jotuns and their DokkAlfar followers. Too many Makers die in the endless wars, before passing on the entirety of their knowledge. Book, scrolls and even entire libraries are put to the torch. The more that is destroyed and lost; the tighter those beings and organizations that still have the knowledge hold it. Even in a trade hub as massive a Tallifer, very little is commonly known, and many secrets are held.
“While you are here, I will guide you toward the deeper mysteries of Making, but I cannot train you. My way of training is not compatible with your potential and way of learning. A Maker like yourself always has to find his own way.
“Come with me!” Thrall walks toward the corner of the training hall with the massive jungle gym erected in it.
A stack of rolls of rice paper appears on the ground in front of Thrall. He must have taken it from within his spatial storage device, but I still cannot tell which item that is. With a bag, it is blatantly obvious, and with other types of spatial storage devices, there is usually some sort of visual clue as to what the item is. With Thrall, I have yet to see any telltale signs.
At Thrall's gesture, one of the rolls of rice paper floats into the air. One end of the roll ties itself to an upright pole. Then, the roll begins to weave its way through the jungle gym. As the roll of rice paper runs out, the other end again ties itself to an upright pole. The end result is a three dimensional maze of rice paper strung throughout the jungle gym.
“I was originally going to rely on your affinity for force and kinetic energy to try and initiate a psi breakout in some variant of kinetics. After watching you sparring, I changed my mind. You have a natural awareness that probably results from your latent psi. I am going to use your continuing training in Shadow Fist to force a breakthrough in spatial awareness. It is arguably the highest form of physical psi awareness, and it has some similarities to kinetic abilities.”
Thrall stares at me for a few moments, perhaps waiting to see if I have any questions. “A true master of Shadow Fist can walk across a still pond of water, without leaving any traces. He can move without being seen. He can pass through solid stone, as if it were air. At the absolute peak of mastery, should a true master of Shadow Fist choose to exercise his skill, only another chosen by the Od will be able to see, hear, or sense him. In the mazes I create in this array of poles and bars, you will learn to move without leaving a trace.”
I gesture toward the rice paper maze in the jungle gym. “So, how will this awaken that spatial awareness thing?”
A leather helmet that resembles a World War II aviator's helmet appears in the Thrall's hand. “This will block out all of your normal senses. Channeling mana into it will block sight and hearing. Channeling ki into it will block touch, taste, and smell. You will be in a sensory void, until you stop channeling or begin to use some type of psi-based awareness.”
Taking the helmet, I feel a strange attraction from it. It fells almost like a magnet or a vacuum that is trying to draw in my Power.
“Before you put that on, try to walk the first length of rice paper without affecting it.”
From where it is tied to the upright, the first stretch of the rice paper goes under a horizontal bar that is only a fraction of an inch off the ground to another one at the same height. It is almost flat on the ground, but there still a slight gap between the paper and the ground in the first and last quarter of its length.
Using ki to stabilize my weight an position in relation to the paper, I step onto it.
Rip!
My ki tore through the paper, as I expected. Shadow Fist is not based on ki, but I wanted to verify that the way I have used ki in the past would not work.
I try walking across the first length, while moving in the Shadow of the Od. Looking back, I see a tear where my feet touched the paper on each step.
A slight smirk sits on Thrall's lips. “Ki is manipulated through the body, and your physical senses are of the body. Psi is manipulated through the soul, and the Od is touched through the soul. If you become aware of the surface of the paper in your soul, walking in the Shadow of the Od will let you step on its shadow instead of its reality. Put the helmet on and use it!”
Thrall turns and walks out of the training hall. That bastard like
s to drop a few comments or give a quasi-explanation and let you sink or swim.
I put the helmet on and channel my ki and mana into it. The world disappears around me.
It takes time to adjust to the loss my normal senses, how much I cannot even begin to guess, but eventually I begin to be dimly aware of the world around me. For my normal senses, the world is an empty void, but now, I can tell up from down. I can sense the solid mass of stone beneath, and the uprights and crossbars of the jungle gym are less substantial shadows in my mind. However, the rice paper may as well not exist.
Unlike sight which is restricted to an arc in the direction my eyes are facing, this awareness is a full 360° globe. When I have fully mastered it, spatial awareness will give me a huge advantage
*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***
Return: Day 197
Tyrend is sitting opposite me. Since that first day, he has been eating with me morning and night, which are the two meals I eat in the mess hall. At lunch, I eat in the training hall.
The slaves that were in the same holding pen as me, are wearing loincloths now, at lest the survivors are. There are only five of them left, and they all have some fresh scars to add to the ones they arrived with. I still do not know any of their names. They are nobodies, who are not worth my time.
Broken-shoulder is still alive and kneeling behind one of the homosexual gladiators, with his good hand grabbing the back of the gladiator's loincloth. Broken-shoulder cannot raise his right arm past his diaphragm anymore. Since he never had his day in the arena, his dick is still hanging out like mine. Broken-shoulder's buddies are even making jokes about him, like they do every day.
Sensing my eyes on him, Broken-shoulder turns his head to glare at me. His lips are a mass of scars, and his snarl reveals his missing teeth. The gladiators knocked out all of Broken-shoulder's teeth so he cannot bite down on their dicks, while he sucks them. His life has become a living hell.
“Gladiators, present yourselves!” The Throd'nahk's voice carries clearly into the mess hall. He must have some more new meat.
The gladiators rise from their seats, stuffing the last of their breakfasts in their mouths. Some take the hard bread with them, as the file out of the mess hall.
I follow them but do not exit the tunnel into the arena.
The Throd'nahk has a group of fifteen newbies in the arena this time.
“Steel is pain. Steel is cruelty.” As has become my habit, I only cast the spell on my left eye.
One of the new slaves looks familiar from when I thought Taereun was a game. A tall man with brown hair looks like someone who was running with the Explorer's Guild, when I was active in the southern part of the Western Reaches. He is a Possessed, and the man I remember was a player. This could be the same person. Considering he is here, he must be a victim of The Nameless' second harvest. I do not remember ever hearing the man's name, but I think he was one of the higher-ups in The Postmen. How he managed to get himself collared in Gor'achen?
I almost jump, when a huge man suddenly enters my awareness. Thrall has the ability to just appear, as if out of thin air. Even though I have at least the basic ability to use spatial awareness, I have yet to spot him walking up to me. He is just suddenly there in my awareness, when does the pop out of thin air act.
“That's seriously fucking annoying.”
Thrall chuckles briefly. “That Possessed is interesting. He is another Maker.”
“Oh? I've seen him before. He's in The Postmen, but I don't know his name.”
“Graham.”
I laugh, but it is not humorous sound.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Graham is one of the co-founders of The Postmen. He was Alva's buddy, maybe her lover. The two of them started The Postmen together, but Graham built the Troubleshooter organization all by himself. He was also responsible for the close ties between The Postmen and the Explorer's Guild.
The new slaves get the same beat down as the slaves that arrived with me. Graham is the last one to take to the sand.
The Throd'nahk gestures at Graham. “Choose your opponent!”
After scanning the line of gladiators, Graham points at Tyrend. “Him.”
With a grin, Tyrend struts over to a weapon rack and picks up the heavily curved scimitar-like swords he used the day I arrived.
“Before you arrived, that one could have been the champion, whenever he chose to claim the position.”
During the time of Taereun as a game, I saw Graham fighting a few times, but while I remember he was effective, I never paid to much attention to him. If he is a Maker, most of his Power will be tied up in abilities that will support his combat skill, and he will likely have very little in the way of active combat abilities. The combat abilities of Makers are more along the line of my dancing swords, abilities that manipulate the items they can craft in an offensive fashion.
When I faced that frog's golems, he was almost certainly using his Power to enhance them, and it may have even required his direct control to turn the one into a martial arts facsimile. If I had known that at the time, I would have just gone straight after that damned frog and dealt with the golems after he was down.
Graham takes up a sword and shield. The sword is bit longer than a common long sword, around the length of a bastard sword with a narrower blade. It is an odd blade that seems to be exclusively made for point work. The shield is nothing special, just a large, round shield.
With the way he holds his sword, while testing its weight and balance, Graham obviously knows what he is doing. The question is, without any Power to support him, how well can he do against a master of the blade like Tyrend.
“Begin!”
Graham closes with Tyrend, but his movements are not reckless. He does not reveal any large openings, when the point of his sword lashes out. As Tyrend sidesteps, he lunges in with a shield bash, for Tyrend to step back.
Tyrend's grin is wider than his normal cocky expression, as his scimitars turn into a whiling tsunami of hard wood. His slashes come from constantly varying angles, but Graham blocks all of them cleanly with either his shield or his sword. Every time Tyrend leaves a gap in his wall of steel, he is forced to dodge or block the point of Graham's sword.
Tyrend is better than I realized, but Graham is nearly his equal. Tyrend is whirling dervish putting out a near continuous stream of attacks. Graham is a heavily defensive fighter, who shuts down his enemy's attacks while launching his own attacks into the openings he creates. This match is going to come down to a battle of endurance if one of them does not make a fatal mistake.
The Throd'nahk's face is a stiff mask as he watches the combat. This is the second batch of new meat in a row that is screwing up his plans. Slowly, his mask cracks, and something resembling malicious glee fills his face. He glances towards the tunnel, and seeing Thrall and myself, he schools his expression into his normal imperturbable lack of expression.
As for the rest of the gladiators, most of them could clean their lower jaws off the sand with a shovel. By most standards, all of them are masters of their chosen weapons, but they are not even close to Tyrend and Graham's levels of skill.
The end of the fight is almost anticlimactic. Graham leans back slightly to let one of Tyrend's scimitars pass by his face and smashes the second with his shield. As he thrusts his long sword at Tyrend's stomach, he stops cold. The point of Tyrend's other scimitar is already at his throat.
“You used that trick on too many times. If you had saved it for a sure kill, you would have had me.” Tyrend's grins is cockier than normal.
“I thought I had you the first two times, and the way you moved made it look like you never noticed the setup.” Graham's voice has a bit of a sullen air to it. His breathing is also a bit heavy. His endurance is not a match for his skill.
Tyrend claps Graham genially on the shoulder. “Be proud! You're one of the top hundred fighters I've ever faced or seen. Learn everything the Throd'nahk has to teach you, and you might have a
long life in the arena.”
“Come with me.” Thrall leads me to the training hall.
“You are progressing too slowly. I'm going to try something different. Put the helmet on and channel your Power into it.”
After doing as Thrall says, my entire perception of the world around me is from my spatial awareness. Thrall is a blazing beacon compared with the inanimate matter. A sudden brilliance lances out from him and hits me.
This pain is one of the worst I have ever felt. Just like when my soul threads were severed, this pain is not in my body.
“AAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRR!” My scream echoes in my own ears as I lose control over my channeling, and the sensory blocking from the helmet ends.
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!?”
As I step through the Shadow of the Od and begin to attack Thrall, he does not defend himself from my strikes, but I do no damage to him. Hitting Thrall is akin to hitting a Thrall-sized block of iron.
“AAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRR!”
My nearly unending screams echo in the training hall, as I futilely attack Thrall. It feels like my mind and soul are being torn apart, until something gives way inside of me and Power floods through my fists. The pain eases, and the impact of my punches drives Thrall back slightly.
Thrall hits me with a casual backhand I cannot avoid, and I fly through the air, before tumbling across the floor.
Shakily rising to my feet, I tear off the helmet.
“What the fuck did you do that for?” I want to kill the fucking bastard, not scream at him, but I already know I am not strong enough to do it.
Thrall begins to speak in a flat emotionless tone. “Your mind and soul are covered with scars, just like your body. While you have torn open the scars in your soul to let your ki flow, the scars in your mind were sealing most of your psi inside of you. I thought that having you train your awareness would loosen the psychic scars and let you wield your psi, but it was having no effect. I used my own Power to tear open the scars in you mind.”
Slave Pits of the Tyrannical God (Path of Transcendence Book 2) Page 11