by Marc Mulero
“One,” she shouted as the flames dissolved instantly.
She about-faced, spinning into a wild series of slashes to meet the next two that were advancing on her. They backed up, one with a scythe, the other a staff. The latter was bold enough to ignite the edges of his Bo with blue Crule of his own and attacked furiously. Vasa sheathed her swords over her shoulders and dodged one flaming downward strike by side-stepping, arms spread to taunt, and then ducked the next overhead swing. The next two swipes of the staff came quickly, but she reached for one blade with two hands, activated Crule so blue fire would clash with green at her back, and swung it out of its holster in a flashy show to meet the other side of the stick before twirling it into a pointed stab at the Bo wielder’s chest. Glite armor flashed red before he crumpled to the floor.
“Two,” Vasa roared, backing up and spinning her sword side to side to meet each wide swing of the scythe. “Remember class, while Crule regenerates by movement, pulling in the elements around us much like a fliser culminates water, the process is slow,” she said in between heavy breathing. “And so, not every attack can be a fiery blaze.”
Bare metal clashed to illustrate her point. “Only kill shots,” she bellowed, igniting her sword again to chop the scythe stem in half followed by an artful pull of her second blade, which ignited immediately, and slashed from shoulder to belt to immobilize the next assistant.
“Three.” Her voice flew with her as she dashed across the arena, far away from her students to showcase her next move.
The last assistant pulled an ancient weapon hardly utilized by the Factions – a gun. Large and automatic, she aimed it at her proctor and opened fire without hesitation. Sparks flew, but nothing bounced away: the bullets seemed to stick to her like magnets under the cloak, which was quickly becoming a shredded mess before her students’ eyes. Her Glite armor continued to light up beneath it until crumpled bullets fell to her feet and the noise eventually stopped. Now it was her turn. Herim Vasa burst into a blur and ignited her sword once more, leaving her last assistant to fall limp.
“Four.”
The class clapped and screamed with excitement. Chatter broke out amongst the pupils, eager to learn the ways of their teacher.
Her mask retracted, and she bowed before holding up her hand for silence. “Again, we settle here. But how? Why? It is so important to know our history… because it is glorious.”
Vasa pressed a button on her arm and her assistants were unfrozen, left to pick up the mess that she made. “Take ten minutes to process what you just witnessed, and then we will begin our history lesson.”
Eres immediately turned to Windel. “That was amazing. Who in Mustae is this person? No way she was a proctor her whole life.”
“I told you! Apparently, she was a legend on the Colliding Spheres when she was younger.”
“She doesn’t look old.” Eres was aghast.
“She’s not. But holding top spot amidst an entire world of competition is not something that lasts long. Especially after being studied, combatants always find weaknesses. I don’t know the ins and outs, but somehow she landed here, and we should be grateful.”
“I am. I love this…”
Windel was amused by his giddiness. “What other classes have you taken so far?”
“Oh! I looked for you yesterday on break in the yard, but no luck. I wanted to tell you about everything, but really, it’s all about Factions class. Proc-”
“-tor Ren,” Windel finished for him.
“What else do you know about him?” Eres’ eyes lit with wonder.
“Well, let’s see. He’s a master of octor editing and presenting, and an incredibly knowledgeable world traveler.”
“That explains all of his trinkets. What Faction does he belong to? Umboro?”
“Yes, and all of the others. He has poly-allegiance because of his contributions.”
“Wow.” Eres looked to the floor. “That’s like, the opposite of being boundless.”
Windel chuckled. “Well, yeah. Poly-allegiance is reverence, earned. Boundless is more for… hiding, running away from something.”
Eres felt heat rise in his face. She was insulting his father and didn’t even know it. Might as well have called him a coward. He didn’t realize it, but the innocent glee left his expression, leaving silence to come between them. Fortunately, Windel was wise to it.
“I’m sorry Eres.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Is someone you know boundless? I didn’t mean to-”
“N… no. Just thinking about something,” he lied.
“Eres, you can talk to me. Open up a bit so maybe my big mouth will stop offending you. Twice in two days!”
He just scoffed in a mocking way. “What’s there to know about an orphanage in the middle of nowhere?”
Windel leaned in, eyes squinted in scrutiny, as if she was seeing right through him. “I don’t believe you, future Skrol. You’d fit right in with them, you know. Very mysterious and aloof.”
Eres rolled his eyes as a smile crept up her face, and for the first time, he pushed her back playfully.
Just then, Herim Vasa began strutting back toward the class, stealing the collective attention and glancing at the many raised hands before her.
She waved a finger to say, “No, I know my time slot is longer than others, however I still think it too short. We have a lot to get to. And for your benefit, I want to get this lecture done in one shot, so we can spend the majority of our time in a way that’s appropriate for this wing of Kor – in action.”
The class cheered.
“Alright, alright. So, I’ll take one question, then it’s hands down.” Vasa scanned the room and picked a random student. “You. Go.”
Every other person holding their hand up groaned, making the chosen one bashful.
“Erm… why were your weapons all different colors of Crule? Do they do different things?”
A sole hoot left Proctor Vasa. “That’s two questions, my dear boy. Curiosity bleeds in here. That’s good.” She paced around the assembly. “Crule is literally the latest development in War Tech to date. It does one thing, and that’s cut through Glite armor. Kill shots. So no, colors do not matter in terms of substantive purpose. Hmph, an Artificer would have my head if they heard me tell you that-”
“An Artificer?” a student asked.
“Someone who constructs Crule. Like a chemist. They create secondary traits by using different ingredients, which could also alter the appearance of Crule… hey!” She caught herself. “No more questions! What you saw in the demonstration today was not true Crule. It lacks the ingredient yuzin, allowing us to display what you would see on a battlefield, without dousing this place in blood.”
More nervous laughter sparsely echoed from the crowd.
“The armor, too, is modified for sparring. As you witnessed, if a kill shot is landed, the armor becomes too heavy to move and paralyzes you until the bout is over, but that’s neither here nor there. To finish answering your questions: dueling is very, very, popular, which spawns all types of creativity. The first Crule powered weapons behaved as a normal orange flame would, but as time went on, experiments commenced, compositions changed. The flames became less boisterous and more refined. Then some clever duelists learned how to dye the chemical, allowing them to brand themselves with unique identifying colors. Others use these dyes for legacy in murder. Skrols and Trainers are generally the ones culminating the most exotic dyes due to their travels, but rarely will you see either of those at the king of the hill in the Colliding Spheres.”
“Ugh,” Windel scoffed under her breath, “he could’ve asked any question about this badass, and he asks about the colors of Crule…”
“I don’t know, I thought that’s a pretty cool thing to know. I wonder if anyone goes about trying to collect different dyes.”
She rolled her eyes playfully. “Boys.”
Not really. Eres thought before saying aloud, “Oh yeah? What would you have asked her?”
“Are you
kidding? How long were you Champion of the Colliding Spheres? What Faction did you grow up with? Why did you leave the duel grounds? I can go on forever.”
“Oh please, you’re just thinking of that after the fact. I didn’t see your hand go up!”
Windel’s cheeks flushed pink before she pushed him with two hands, leaving him to topple from his seat onto one of his elbows.
He laughed, and was about to say something else, but the whisper fighting ceased when Proctor Vasa moved on to her lecture.
“The story of our warring Factions could be taught for an entire year, using up all of your periods in each day, but I will leave such matters to the academics. Here, you will learn only the necessities so that you can understand and appreciate why you are all watching me duel in modern times with ancient weapons.”
Chapter 8
The Eplon and the Swul
Two proctor’s assistants bustled toward Vasa carrying a display of antique armaments lined up in what appeared to be a carved, wooden timeline. Another brought forth an old projector with slides shaking inside of it.
Vasa strolled up to the first weapon sitting in the row as the projector beamed on. “We start in olden times, before the Factions were cohesive and rule bound, before deliberation, Imperions, treaties. When land in the warm sphere was still being claimed, and differences in appearance was a source of great intimidation.
“Dagos - the ancient race of body altering tribespeople - felt threatened, invaded by the ever-strategizing Swuls. These sharp claws,” she flicked one of them, “had blunt bottom blades, so that when they defended their lands charging on all fours, they wouldn’t cause self-inflicted wounds. Of course, it wasn’t figured out right away. Trial and error. Pain, it seems, is a powerful motivator to create efficiencies. So, after much refinement, these old things enhanced a Dagos’ attack. And when they pounce with one of these, oh, you do not want to be on the other end. They mimic beasts of the jungle. Ferocious, deadly, unique fighters. Twisting upright to meet their opponents eye-to-eye, and then contorting back to all fours to catch their enemies off-guard. The only thing I can compare that to as a uemon would be a boxer switching from orthodox to southpaw, only much, much more effective,” she praised. “If there were a Dagos present in this class, I’d have them try these on and give us a show… perhaps next time.” She rested the strange equipment back down and paced to the next.
“Swuls on the other hand, prefer more traditional armaments, and are a people who thrive on challenge. While they were once conquerors who couldn’t be quelled, that model was unsustainable if we were to ever co-exist. But they made their mark. Some still debate to this day whether they are in fact uemon. Though it is widely accepted truth, some Swuls would still argue that they are their own race. Indeed, there are some differences: Increased comparative muscle mass, higher clocking of strength, speed, etcetera, likely from the passing of a warrior’s lifestyle generation through generation. And with that, sometimes some hard heads.” She winked at the girl sitting in Glite armor. “Just kidding, Nuganzia.”
Zia sneered and stared Vasa down, looking like she wanted to duel her on the spot, but the proctor peered back and carried on.
“So, the Swuls breached Dagos territory, bypassing the Umboro because of similar genetic makeup, and invaded head on to end what they believed were demon spawn. Some of the nicknames for the Dagos recorded back then were Hell Beasts, Mustae’s Bane, Dark Shifters… labels that fueled the fire.”
On cue, a map unfurled from the top of the dome, so big that the region names were still visible far down below from where the students sat. Vasa twisted a link on her gloved finger so that a beam of green light shined on the point where the Swuls had begun their journey.
“They started in Teos, the Swul mainland, and traveled southwest by airship, past Loushan, Sadue, and Poulanta.” Her beam traced the path as she spoke, and then what sounded like a massive set of propellers spinning to take off boomed around the dome. Eres wanted to laugh because she was so much of an entertainer that it was almost comical, but her straight face kept him and the others at bay. “It is written that the sound of the fleet as they sailed over populated lands was louder than any thunder ever heard. Before the invasion was known, it is written that most thought the Verglas Sphere had finally begun to collide further into the Osa Sphere. Armageddon was feared.” She paused and tapped a finger to her ear as the whooshing morphed into an ominous drone, proving that when thousands of propellers were humming together, it was, quite menacing. “No one knew back then. There was no instant communication through wires or anything of the sort… just messengers. And airships weren’t the sleek vessels you know today. They were huge, clunky things that were more daunting than they were effective, but they accomplished their goal.”
Proctor Vasa spun and paced to where a blank screen was being held by two assistants. “When they finally reached the Dagos mainland of Ralfas, Dagos scouts were immediately dispatched to the Umboro and Eplon lands, beseeching them for assistance. Appealing to the side of duty, old friendships, and the promise of new alliances, but all in all, few tribes came, and when they did, the fighting had already been underway for months.” The screen flickered on to show glaringly old footage of a chaotic battle taking place.
A Dagos pounced a warrior, slamming him hard onto the floor before rising onto two legs like a gorilla about to beat on its chest. The roar was thunderous, a war cry to announce what was to come next. Slash, slash. A flurry of ferocious swipes that opened up the man’s insides sent blood spatter spewing into the air. Airships were descending with purpose in the backdrop as another two Swuls charged up to the Dagos. But the beast’s eyes were blood-drunk, his bones contorting. Slowly, the Dagos revealed a height greater than both of the sword wielding warriors, and before the dark shifter could capitalize on his intimidating stance, two more Swuls fell from the sky, landing pointed spears through his shoulders in retaliation. That’s when the footage cut out.
“More than three-hundred thousand Dagos were wiped from Ingora in five short months, and with them went two-hundred thousand Swuls. The war was deemed ‘The Failed Cleansing.’ Where the Swuls expected their ambush and tactics to keep their losses under twenty thousand, they underestimated what happens when foreign forces invade a home - instincts that rise from the heart. The fear of what would happen to their families if they lost… such a feeling cannot be replicated. But that is not the point here…” She strolled back to the weaponry. “These weapons produced a type of combat that was personal, albeit ruthless.” She displayed curved swords, scythes, more Dagos claws, ornate blades of all sizes, staves, spears, bows and arrows, etc. And then she paced to the end of the display.
“After many battles and endless conquering,” she pointed her finger to the pulsing red lands that Eres assumed were the markings of the Swuls’ takeovers, “they made the mistake of touching Eplon territory, who knew the day would come and were more than prepared.” Vasa held up an old looking rifle, and then pointed once again to the map, where the red markings were receding.
“The Eplons created guns, lots and lots of guns. The Swuls didn’t stand a chance. There was no tech that could properly defend against high flying shrapnel moving at what appeared to be the speed of light. So, embarrassingly enough, they were pushed back, by arguably the weakest physical species this world has to offer, but by no means the least capable. Alas, the Swuls surrendered, leaving the Eplons in control and owed a tremendous debt by the rest of the world. Their demand was not dominance like the Swuls had required. Only democracy. And so, the Faction system was born.”
The footage of artful Dagos and Swul warriors parrying and advancing complimented the slow crawl of red on the map above. The booming sound effects around them racked their ears. And over it all, their proctor’s voice narrating each battle made for an enveloping sensation that the onlookers were, in fact, living out the history of war. Eres and Windel didn’t even think to whisper to one another. They were entranced. Feeling as thou
gh they were experiencing the fear and the intensity that the warriors were.
“However, class, that’s not where today’s lesson ends. The next question is an easy one. When was the last time any of you have seen a gun?” She skimmed to find a sole hand rising amongst the crowd.
“You, Ibin.” Vasa pointed.
“My oopa’s study has two rifles encased in glass. They are relics,” the student replied formally.
“Exactly.” She heard precisely what she had expected. “How could such a monumental invention, one that changed the history of war, be reduced to an artifact?”
Eyes shifted between one another, but no hands went up.
“Well, I’ll tell you.”
The map suddenly spawned varying colors of glowing film that grew in size, encasing certain regions of the Osa Sphere like transparent bubbles, separating one Faction from the other. Red for the Swuls, green for Umboro, blue for the Eplons, and black for the Dagos.
“Not everyone accepted this new way of life - the Factions. Some saw it as an invasion of freedom, others valued the old traditions too much to let them go. So came the boundless, and among them, one of the fiercest of the Swul dynasty - head warrior and a legend in battle: Ovar Octanious.
“Since birth, Ovar trained with unbroken precision to lead his troops into combat, as a commander like his ancestors before him. So, he did. Ruthless in his ways, and rumored to have over a thousand kills in his wake, the general had thought he’d seen it all… until the Eplons uncovered their new tech. It was there he was forced to watch his best friends die. All of his beliefs – that the Swuls were destined to rule and that they were doing the righteous work of their king and queen – were foiled in an instant. All of it seemed to be a lie.”
Flashes of Ovar slid past the screen. He was like a lion wrapped in armor, full purple hair darkened only by bloodstain and tamed only by a few heavy braids made him unmistakable. His armor was black, swords double-sided, and was missing something that most other warriors wielded: a shield. He carried no protection yet was still at the front and center of every war portrait. One thing was for sure, this bold image accentuated his valor. But when Proctor Vasa began to explain his downfall, the portraits began to change… new artworks plagued the screen, ones of bullets in motion, of Ovar running, looking over his shoulder in dismay, watching his brothers and sisters jerk back with their futile weapons in hand.
