by J. T. Wright
The Rat stomped and lashed out with its tail. Trent smoothly pivoted to avoid the strike, casually slashing the tail as it whistled by him, severing it in the middle. His hands twisting on the hilt of his sword, he let out a breath and lunged forward with Long Slash, scoring a deep groove in the Rat’s arm and side.
Trent hacked at the Beast’s back as he stomped and whirled around it, avoiding claws and teeth. Had he been in control of his actions, Trent would have been thrown off by the red numbers that floated up from the wounds he inflicted.
‐10 from the severed tail.
-45 from the slash to the creature’s side.
-50 from a nick to the side of the Wererat’s overly muscular neck.
The green number above the Beast’s head declined. 740, 695, each hit reduced the number by a small amount. Then, in a rush, the number began to fall. Red drifted out from bleeding wounds. Crimson 10s tinted with silver flooded out too fast to be counted from every cut Trent had made. The Wererat collapsed in moments, letting out a shrieking squeak as it railed against the unfairness of its death.
Silver. Liquid silver imbued in the wooden blade. A deadly poison to the Moon Cursed. Was that why the secondary numbers had been tinted with a bright grey? Trent wanted to turn the blade over in his hands and tried to look down at it. He didn’t expect his body to respond, and when it did, and his vision rushed back to his eyes, he took a step back in shock.
He had returned to his original position. The Forest was once again alive with dark colors and shadows. A new Wererat replaced the vanished body of the one he had killed. Not waiting for him to recover his footing, it rushed at him with a wail.
Trent was still adjusting to his returned control. His hands were clumsy on his hilt, his feet hesitant as he met the charge. His first strike only grazed the Rat’s tail, pushing it aside when it swept towards his face. Then his hands and jaw tightened. His second slash was low, cutting at the Beast’s legs. His third hit hammered into the Rat’s back, splitting the skin and sending the Beast to the ground, its weakened leg unable to support it.
He could still see the red numbers leaping into the air as he struck for vital areas, and the Rat withered beneath his blows, flopping over in a desperate attempt to fend him off. It was a pointless struggle. How many Wererats had Trent faced with an Elwire blade in hand? He had lost count. Long after he had met the quota demanded by the Moonlit Forest, the Rats had kept coming for him, and he had kept sending them on their way. He knew where their weakness lay.
After the second Rat fell, Trent’s vision soared once again. A slightly larger Wererat replaced the one he had vanquished. He killed this one twice, as well. Once as a spectator in his body, and once as master of his own movements.
There was no time for thought between each encounter. The Rats came, and Trent killed them. Each time he was in control, he refined his movements. It was not until the fifth Rat that he realized it wasn’t Military Fencing or Basic Longsword that he was using to combat the Moon Cursed Rats. It was the unnamed Technique he had developed himself.
“The weapon is wrong.” The world froze when Trent spoke. Both he and the Rat were held in place, and a sense, as if a listening ear had been turned his way, filled him. He was surprised when the words left his mouth. There had been no need for speech before. Floating in the air above his body, he hadn’t realized he could speak. That someone might be listening was less shocking. Trials were always filled with ears and eyes.
The sword vanished from his hands, and the belt carrying Sorrow and Strife settled on his hips. His hands touched the heads of the hatchets, and Trent shook his head. “No, not for this.”
Hatchets became heavy, curved knives with bone hilts. Trent shook his head again. It still wasn’t right. They were too short. The curve was suitable for slashing, but the tips slipped when he thrust. The hilts grew longer under his fingers, and Trent drew two swords.
One was double-edged, straight, and narrow, the other more like a cleaver than a sword. The blades were short, less than two feet long. They didn’t feel as comfortable in his hands as longer blades did. He had neglected the training of Basic Small Blades. His Clever Hands Skill did not reach the heights his other abilities had, but none of that mattered.
These were the blades meant for his Technique, the Technique that had combined so many of his other Skills. Thrust, Slash, Parry, and Acrobatics, they could all be put into play with these swords, if he was good enough. Trent’s hands flexed around the hilts as that thought occurred to him.
A breeze pushed underneath his mask. The Trial had resumed. Trent lifted his swords. The Rat he had been prepared to face was gone. In its place, a Shadow Wererat crouched, its shoulders hunched as it regarded him with milky white eyes.
Stronger, more vicious and cunning than the average Were-Beast, the Shadow Rat lurked in plain sight, its tail twitching in the dirt. It was an opponent Trent had barely managed to surpass before. He felt a thrill looking at it now while realizing he would not be an observer in this fight.
Without thinking, Trent was on the balls of his feet and rushing forward. The Wererat rose from its crouch but made no move towards the Swordsman. A sneer played across its lipless mouth. It was a leader; it did not fight alone.
The sneer it wore faded as Wererats leaped out of the bushes and were cut down in an instant. The Swordsman neither looked nor slowed as his blades sliced, removing limbs and disemboweling with each stroke. A thrust with his right hand and the straight blade it held. A slash with his left, a pivot, and the Swordsman was moving faster.
The leader of the slain prepared its Shadow Lunge Skill too late. The Swordsman was on the Rat before it could channel its Mana. A thrust caused the Shadow Rat to step back, and it struck out with its tail to cover its retreat. The Swordsman flipped his body over the hairless appendage, absently cutting the tail as it passed below him. When his feet touched the ground, his left hand directed a slash at the Beast’s snarling face.
Shadow Lunge activated, and the Wererat stepped through the void to come out at the Swordsman’s back. A blade cut at its throat before it could bring its teeth to bear, drawing blood. The Beast’s paw came up, halting the blade’s progress at the cost of a clawed finger. A claw for a life, a fair trade, though not one the creature was glad to make. The Swordsman anticipated the attack like he had seen it a hundred times.
The Shadow Rat summoned more of its minions, striking out with its tail, trying to create distance between itself and the Warrior stalking it. Working for a time, it bought itself precious seconds while the Swordsman was a whirlwind of death, reaping the lives of lesser creatures. Then he came for the Rat again, and all it could do was hold him back.
It couldn’t last. The Shadow Rat lost an inch of its tail every time it struck. A paw fell to the ground, a gash opened on its side. The Swordsman was relentless in his pursuit and his blades never stopped. The Wererat used Shadow Lunge to retreat, but every time it stepped from the darkness, the Swordsman was always facing it, his mask reflecting and amplifying the pale moonlight. The thrust that sunk into the Rat’s chest stopping its heart was almost a relief.
Trent ripped the straight sword in his right hand out of the Shadow Rat as it fell. He flicked his wrist, sending steaming blood to stain the forest floor. It merged with the rest of the crimson liquid there. Puddles of the viscous fluid drenched the ground; a few more drops were hardly noticeable.
The Shadow Rat had been a minor Guardian. Battling it, Trent had increased his proficiency in Basic Small Blades and Clever Hands. The unnamed Technique had also risen a level. These were all things he could feel if he set his mind to it. There was no need to check his Status.
And Trent had other things on his mind. He closed his eyes, and the world paused.
These were the right blades, but the Technique was far from perfect. There was too much in it. There were unnecessary steps, strikes that were too deep, and they all needed to be trimmed.
It was Ocean Meets the Shore. While that Technique was undeniab
ly powerful, Trent was lacking the weapons or expertise to employ it. Despite that, it colored everything he did. His Elwire swords, weapons he had carved personally, were lighter versions of an Al’rashian longsword. A hint of a curve on a single-edged blade, a slashing weapon which narrowed at the tip for the rare thrust; it was a difficult weapon to master. He had never intentionally meant to carve the wooden swords that way.
In the hands of a master, an Al’rashian longsword was a devastating weapon of war. Trent was no master, and he felt no shame in admitting that. He wasn’t entirely satisfied with the swords in his hands, one for thrusting, one for slashing. Still too complicated, but they would have to do. No matter how he channeled his thoughts, begging this strange Trial for a simple longsword and shield, the swords remained. He would have to adapt.
It occurred to Trent, as he opened his eyes, that if the short swords in his hands were the next form of Sorrow and Strife, he would have lost the additional damage caused by Liquid Silver. He would have to be precise without the poison’s aid. A misstep would cost him dearly.
It was too late for second thoughts. His eyes opened and he was observing again as his body attacked a grey Werewolf. He felt the sting as the Wolf’s howl ripped leather and flesh from his side. A misstep. He would have to fix that when he was in control.
**********
A black Werewolf howled as it struck the tree next to it.
-3500.
The numbers in red flashed as claws cut the timber in two and sent the ponderous trunk crashing down. Trent had seen sights like this a hundred times. Seeing it again, he expected to be numb to the display. That it could still send a shiver through him was unexpected. The 5000 in green numbers that hovered over the Werewolf’s head might have had something to do with the cold sweat that broke out from his pores.
A single hit from this Wolf would be enough to kill ten Trents. Just a graze would rip the life from him. The pathetic 630 drifting over his head was nothing to this Beast. He had just watched as an avatar was crushed in this Beast’s hands without scoring a hit. It wasn’t a comforting image to have in mind as he took control.
The Beast roared, bellowing a challenge, shaking the trees mightily. Trent drew his swords, his palms sweaty inside his gloves. The black Wolf, twice as large as any Trent had seen took a step forward, lowering its muzzle and snapping at the air. Seeing Trent stand still, it reached down and ripped a tree, ten feet tall, from the ground.
Trent ducked into the Forest as the Werewolf hurled the tree at where he had been standing. The cracking of limbs and splintering of wood sounded behind him as he sprinted through the Forest. The sound was initially caused by the tree trunk hitting the path, but when the Werewolf realized Trent wasn’t coming to face it, fresh branches were snapped as it howled in pursuit.
The Beast is massive. Confine its bulk in the trees. No shield. Use the Forest as a substitute. A blow or Skill that lands on a trunk is one that is not taking his head. These were the thoughts that flashed through his mind as Trent spun in the direction of the approaching Beast. He flung himself out of the way as an arm as thick as his torso swung for him.
Like he had thought, the trees sheltered him and slowed his enemy. Trent darted forward, cutting at an arm, and thrusting towards a chest covered in fur dense enough to be called armor. A broken tree trunk fell, striking the Wolf’s shoulder. The Beast shrugged it off, staggering backward under the weight. Trent sliced at the Werewolf’s legs, then dodged the falling tree himself, leaping on top of it to run away along its length.
He had gotten three hits in before retreating, but the red -9, -12, and -7 that popped up under his blades was discouraging. In the face of the green 5000, it was nothing. His thrust had sunk three inches into the Beast’s chest. On a man, that would have penetrated an internal organ. On the Werewolf, Trent hadn’t even cut through the outer muscle.
A game of cat and mouse ensued. The mouse used his teeth when he was able, but mostly, he ran. The cat had bigger teeth and never seemed to feel the mouse’s bites. Lacking a convenient hole to hide in, Trent would be at the mercy of the cat’s claws the moment his feet failed him.
It was frustrating. Time passed uncertainly, but Trent had defeated an unknowable number of Beasts in this Trial. He fought without sleep, without feeling the need to sleep or eat, and without end. 1 on 1, 5 to 1, 10 to 1, his foes increased, and he defeated them. He would defeat this one as well. Somehow.
A wall of trees brought Trent skidding to a halt. He flung himself into a roll as the Werewolf, hot on his trail, extended its black claws at his back. Trent came to his feet, ready to Dodge falling trees and dart through the hole the Werewolf created. Sparks flew as claws connected with wood. The trees stood unwavering. Drool leaked from the Werewolf’s jaws as it slowly turned its head and cocked it to the side.
Trent’s shoulders sagged. Sparks were not the result he was looking for. Neither was the unbroken circle of trees that now surrounded him in a tight confining wall. Hadn’t he run here to inhibit the Beast? Why was the Trial turning on him?
A circular room with no exit. A Beast too large, too fierce, and too intelligent for a single person to handle. This was a Guardian. A real one. Not a piddling Shadow Rat. Perhaps it wasn’t a Dire Bear, a Beast which by all rights should be faced by a group of thirty well-armed Adventurers, but it was more than should be confronted by a single Level 14 boy.
Maybe Terah’s Gift had matured. Poison was an excellent way to deal with impossible creatures. If it were possible, Trent would have risked diverting his attention to check the herbs growing in his Storage. The hitch was, Storage could not be opened. He had tried previously, and the space that housed all his miscellaneous equipment was inaccessible. He hadn’t known that was possible.
He didn’t even have his pouches with his darts. All this Trial allowed him were the weapons in his hands, and since he had switched to the two short swords, no other substitutions had been allowed. Had he known things would go that way, he would have put more thought into his choices.
The Werewolf, standing twice as tall as Trent, huffed in a mocking growl. Its movements were slow and measured as it turned square on its trapped prey. A light of understanding lit its white eyes. Its knuckles rested on the earth as it leaned forward and sprayed spittle at Trent as it roared.
Trent reversed the curved blade in his left hand and held the straight blade out in front at shoulder height. He growled back at the Beast, swallowing his fear and burying it. He couldn’t run? That was fine! He had cut the Beast, and it had yet to touch him. He would cut it a thousand times if that were what it took. He would bleed the thrice-damned monster and leave it on the Forest floor to burn under the moon's curse!
He knew its Skills. He had faced them in other Beasts. A howl to paralyze, a howl to rend flesh, a red light that surrounded the claws and withered all that came near it. Maybe there were others, but Trent had grown used to watching for and responding to the attacks of the Moon Cursed. He was not afraid!
There was a moment of uneasy silence. Then as the Beast started lifting an arm to swat the bug-like Swordsman, Trent surged forward. Ducking between the creature’s legs, he hacked at an ankle and stabbed into a thigh. His feet brushed against the grass, never stopping. His hands painted a picture of pain, rage, and helplessness that belonged to him as much as the Beast. He met snarl for snarl while dodging trampling feet and crushing paws.
Trent cut a long gash on the Wolf’s jaw when it snapped at him and struck a fang with the hilt of his sword. The tooth broke, and the Beast lifted its head in agony, momentarily forgetting the cause of its indignity. Trent also stuttered to a halt, stunned by the results of what was an instinctive strike.
A glow, white and cleansing, surrounded his sword when he struck the Wolf’s fang. Trent had not engaged a Skill or channeled a Spell through his blade, but he had felt the drain to both his Stamina and Mana. He just didn’t know why. The purifying effect of the blow had come from… the unnamed Technique? But how?
There was no time for thought. An answer came to him in a half-remembered conversation. A conversation about Ocean Meets the Shore. Every third… and fifth?... strike using that method of attack was powered. That seemed right; it clicked with the knowledge of that Skill, though it wasn’t a complete understanding. Did his own Technique have a similar function? Trent had been using Skilled Strikes often, limiting them as his Stamina decreased.
The Werewolf’s attention fell back onto him, and Trent was in motion again, not activating any Skill other than Dodge and Dash, which he needed to stay ahead of the giant Wolf. He thought of nothing but his swords. He connected with them, felt them slice the Beast’s hide, and tried to communicate with them. The swirling and stomping of the Wolf became the drumbeat that guided his dance. He found the state that he had tried to recapture after the Burning, and it spoke to him of the unnamed.
-8
-14
-350
The glow shone off the blade of the sword in his left hand. It bit deeply into the creature’s thigh, and the Werewolf staggered back, screaming. The straight sword in his right hand lit up, and Trent thrust at the Beast’s groin.
-425
Red, flashing like a warning flare, brighter than ever before, drifted from the wound as Trent scored a hit on a critical area with a powered thrust. Trent was thrown to the ground as a leg brushed against him, but it was no attack. The Werewolf howled in wretched disbelief as it sank to its knees.
Trent scrambled upright. His Stamina and Mana were half depleted from the two strikes. That worried him. He had enough for two more hits and no potions to restore what he spent. The Wolf had over 3000 HP left. Too much for Trent to drain.
Then he saw it.
-50
-50
The two wounds he had dealt the Beast bled freely, and continued to sap the creatures HP. The knowledge was there in his head. The powered strikes of his Technique contained the effects of Bloodletting and the purification of Heart of the Inferno. It was a devastating attack against the Cursed and the Undead. Both were prey of the Shadow Hunter, and now Trent had the weapons to fight them!