Adonne Lawrence
@lawrenceadonne210306
2 years ago

Jorak's heartbeat quickened at the sound of excited cheering coming from a distance. With every staggered step he took forward, they got even louder. He'd long ago stopped trying to peek through the fabric obscuring his vision; his keen eyes couldn't beat thick blackness. Yet, he knew where he was being taken to. He'd personally requested for it, after all.

With a strained grunt, rough hands pushed him forward. As he landed—with a grunt of his own—on the hot sand, the bag over his head was yanked away. Jorak twisted on the ground as he attempted to shoot hateful stares at the guards responsible. Unfortunately, they'd already begun the walk back to the tunnel. “Good luck winning against him,” one said with a mock tone and a half look over his shoulder. Jorak immediately began to imagine creative ways he'd kill that guard afterwards.

The roar was almost deafening at this point. Jorak winced as he rose to his feet, partially convinced that the noise was responsible for the growing ache in his forehead. Then he realized how high the attendance was. The arena was quite large; an open, rounded structure with fine sand at its core and enough seats to accommodate two Districts at once. Only about a quarter of those seats were occupied. Still, it was quite the gathering for an unofficial match.

The blare of trumpets caused Jorak to spin around. Several feet above the battle pit, he could spot members of the Council seated comfortably in the richly decorated balcony. The four wide seats were occupied, with serious-looking guards flanking them. The large chair in the middle was vacant, though. And it made Jorak scowl.

The trumpets rang out again, until the crowd settled down and became less rowdy. By then, the faces of the poor boys handling the instruments were bright red with exhaustion.

Jorak recognized the council member who'd risen to his feet and made his way forward. He had to suppress the overwhelming desire to incinerate him there and then, mostly because he deserved a slower, more excruciating death. With his long hands raised, he began to speak.

“I welcome you all, good people of Conqueros, to this memorable day in the sight of men and gods. Where the fate of the tried, Jorak Syllvan, will be tested and decided by his hands, but mostly by the favour of the gods.”

For a man past his sixties, he spoke loud and steadily. The entire arena had grown quiet to listen, like they didn't already know why they'd come. Jorak didn't need to be told that the news spread like the wildest of fires; he knew. The news of his arrest, the result of the trial, his decision afterwards . . . They'd reached all the hidden corners of Conqueros by the following day. Twisted in various ways by the mouths they left, of course.

“The accused,” he continued, “has personally requested to test the fires of trial by combat! Should he succeed, his innocence shall be apparent and his life spared. Should he fail…”

With that, he suddenly locked eyes with Jorak. And the latter mustered every ounce of hatred and spite in his gaze back. He had to win, had to beat whatever fool they threw at him. That would only be the beginning of his victory; proving to the fools before him that their judgement was inconsequential, irrelevant. Proving to the King that his fears were real and it was only a matter of time.

“It's quite interesting that your King decided to miss out on such a memorable day, isn't it?” Jorak suddenly called out. If the arena wasn't already silent before, it became a graveyard then. Jorak looked around him, scanning all their faces like a hawk. Disgust swelled in his chest. “Was he afraid to see me crush his champion?” He asked as his gaze fell back on the Council member. The latter glared back calmly, like a parent quietly overseeing the tantrums of a child.

Adjusting his overflowing robe, he motioned his hand towards the guard on his left. The result was almost immediate. The wooden gate behind Jorak creaked loudly, causing him to turn around. A lone man stepped from the tunnel shadows and onto the sand bathed in sunlight. His strange body armour was so dark it barely reflected any of the light afforded it. The sword and shield he wielded were of the same deep black hue; his helmet as well. The stranger's identity was completely shrouded by the piece of metal on his head, which confused Jorak further. The newcomer stopped just a few feet away, uttering not a single word.

He couldn't explain it, but Jorak could feel something strange from the man's presence. A buzzing, sizzling sensation in the hot air. He could've sworn he saw a tiny blue lightning arc appear on the edge of his black blade. Seeking an explanation, he turned to the Councilman with a questioning look. The expression Jorak found on his wrinkled features gave him his answer even before he spoke.

“Behold, the challenger's opponent. The King's Champion; the Black Knight!”

As if on cue, an excited roar erupted from the crowd. Jorak glared at the Councilman, Eras Barak, as he slowly returned to his seat. The trumpets blared loudly again, this time signalling the commencement of the contest.

Jorak turned to his opponent, who still stood motionless on the spot. He'd expected another puppet Elemental who served the King blindly like all the rest, and there was nothing to prove that this one was no different. Yet, within himself, Jorak knew he was. He'd never seen an Elemental fight with a sword, at least.

Suddenly, the Black Knight took a step back, spread his legs slightly, brought his shield up, and had the sword out wide. That brought Jorak back to reality; the fight had just begun.

Jorak planted one foot behind the other, bringing his fists up and level with his chin. His plan was simple: wait until his opponent made the first move. Only then would he begin to work counters around the attacks. It was a defensive move that would've greatly disappointed his father, and it almost made him chuckle at the thought.

Jorak would've missed his opponent's first attack if he'd blinked. Even with his eyes wide open, he couldn't have possibly anticipated it. One moment he was motionless, then the Black Knight crossed the distance between them with lightning speed. Before he could even think to react, Jorak's face had met with his opponent's shield, and the force sent him flying backwards. Stunned beyond comprehension, Jorak struggled up from the sand and to his feet. His throbbing head only fueled his growing anger. He immediately realized he would've already lost the battle, and possibly his head, if the Black Knight had swung his sword instead. Whilst trying to understand how he'd moved so quickly, Jorak came up with a new plan: abandon the first one. He brought his hand to the corner of his lip, raising an eyebrow at the sticky, red liquid on his knuckles.

First blood.

“You should at least do me the honour of revealing your name.” Jorak said suddenly as he took his stance again. “It'll do me good to know the identity of the man I'm about to kill.”

Placing his open hands close, he unleashed a powerful stream of fire onto his rival. Jorak had anticipated that he'd impede the attack with his shield, and he would have loved to melt it. However, that would've been the foolish choice that'll end his life, for holding a strong fire attack like that for long was bound to exhaust him completely. Instead, he kept shooting the flames steadily for a moment. Then he leapt into the air with a powerful boost. As he quickly descended, he directed his fist at the Black Knight's head, aiming to blow it off with a potent strike.

The impact caused a strong shockwave that rippled all the way to the far end of the wall, marking it with a crack. It only took a split second for Jorak to realize he was looking at blackened sand, and not the lifeless body of the Black Knight. As he stared with wide eyes, refusing to believe he'd dodged the attack, movement caught the corner of his eye. He quickly turned to his right, prepared to launch another strike. Again, he'd come up short in terms of speed, and was knocked back before he could react.

The shock had spread over every inch of his body, followed quickly by pain. He felt weak, immobilized, and that puzzled him. If he were hit by the forces of any other Elemental, the impact would've been immediate. The pain, definite. There was nothing familiar about the pain he felt now. All his muscles and joints felt wound up and retired, refusing to work. Yet, he knew with every second he spent facedown he was only presenting himself as an easy kill. And that embarrassed him more than anything else.

As he pulled his face out of the sand, his blurred vision caught sight of a glowing weapon. Then his eyes widened. He yelled as he immediately propelled himself to the side with a small explosion, just narrowly averting the huge lightning arc that came at him. He'd barely the time to get to his feet before another strike rushed at him. Two smaller arcs. Jorak twisted swiftly in the air as he managed to evade the first one. The second arc came too quickly, catching him in the chest.

He gritted his teeth as he staggered backwards, exerting all his energy trying not to fall over. As much as it was hard to believe, he'd finally witnessed it himself. The mysterious warrior that was the main topic of recent rumours. Jorak was never one to pay mind to gossip, but he should've recognized him from the stories he'd heard. Sure, most of the information may have been false and exaggerated, but he was now sure of one thing.

The Black Knight could manipulate the rawest, most destructive power of nature. He controlled lightning.

Panting heavily, he raised his gaze to his opponent with a new look in his eyes. The one of extreme caution. He watched the sword give off a bright blue glow, with tiny lightning arcs zapping all over the blade. That had to be the answer, he presumed. Jorak could shoot fire from his hands, feet, and occasionally breathe it from his mouth. He didn't need a weapon to channel his power. So far, that's all the Black Knight had displayed. If he could disarm him, he'd definitely be much more vulnerable.

Jorak became more intentional with his breathing, taking in more air to soothe his aching muscles. If the rumours were true, then he was in the presence of a very formidable fighter, and the chances of him breaking into the heavily guarded city vault successfully would be higher than winning this match.

But there was only one way to find out.

Taking a deep breath, Jorak spun around quickly, swinging his left arm up and around. The result was a great launch of fire so robust it left a trail of charred sand. Just as he predicted, the Black Knight blocked the move with his shield. But the force was so great he slid backwards. Jorak took that as a positive sign, and decided not to leave him with an opening to attack.

His next moves were swift and precise, which was quite surprising from a man who could barely move moments ago. A rapid triple spinning kick delivered three fire shots at the armoured challenger, followed by a burst from a sweeping kick aimed at the legs. His quick fists delivered fire ball after fire ball, his nimble feet brought him nearer to his target. Although the Black Knight evaded most of the attacks, he was too occupied with avoiding being hit to strike back. That further motivated Jorak to get closer.

Close enough, Jorak swung his foot at the Black Knight's head. Just as he'd predicted, he already had his shield up and ready. What that did was leave his chest region open and unprotected. Jorak suddenly stopped his foot midair, and proceeded to attack with his hand instead. The powerful explosion sent the Black Knight flying backwards, crashing into the wall far behind.

Jorak dropped his hanging foot and took a deep breath. He tensed body relaxed a bit, and he began to feel the aches in his joints again. But he knew it would be detrimental, indeed quite deadly, to slow down now. He hadn't accomplished his aim yet. The strike might have been powerful enough to stun him, but he knew it hadn't taken him out. Now that he'd managed to produce a potent hit of his own, the best thing to do was to follow through. Now to get that damned sword . . .

Jorak could suddenly see glowing blue eyes from underneath the dust and smoke. The blade also gave off a bright blue hue, and, surprisingly, the shield as well. Jorak scowled at his costly hesitation, looking to remedy it with another wave of attack. Before the flames could leave his fists, however, a low lightning arc sped at him, striking his legs. Jorak felt his limbs give way underneath him, and had yet another reunion between his face and the ever-present sand. Getting up had never been such a challenge; Jorak could've sworn he heard his body screaming for mercy. He shook visibly as he attempted to rise from his extremely vulnerable position. His legs, the victims of the latest attack, refused to give in to his command. “Get up, for crying out loud!” He whispered fiercely. He slowly propped himself up with his arms, settling for a kneeling position. His legs needed time to recover, the same time that was too much a luxury to afford.

Jorak helplessly watched as his opponent launched into the air, bringing his sword down with brute force. The lightning it produced rushed at Jorak faster than he could blink, knocking the wind out of his lungs as it crashed into him. As the aftershock sent spasms along his body, wave after wave of attacks flooded him. The forces picked him up, slammed him back onto the sand, and rolled him along the dirt like a rag doll.

Beaten, battered, and broken, Jorak rested his back on the wall he'd been mercilessly deposited on. He couldn't move a single muscle, and it felt like the entirety of his form was doused with flames. He spat out blood as he watched the Black Knight walk up to him. He couldn't deny his fear or newfound respect for his opponent. Or his hatred. Nevertheless, he prefered to go out this way. It was a hundred times more acceptable than rotting in a cell or burning on a stake. He felt oddly satisfied that he could at least confirm one or two of the rumours about the stranger, even if he wasn't going to live to tell them.

The Black Knight stopped right before him, easing his shield arm. Jorak could only keep an eye open as the other was swollen shut, but that was all he needed to stare at the black sword being pointed at him. His ragged breathing came out slowly, a grunt formed as he pushed up against the wall. He'd lost, quite spectacularly too. And he was prepared for the consequences of his decision.

The Black Knight remained in that position for a while. For the first time, everything felt so frozen in place. Even the crowd—which Jorak had completely ignored all this time—had gone silent since the turn of events. Everyone waited for the victor to swing the sword.

Instead, he lowered it. Stepped back. And spoke.

“You asked for my name,” he said. An oddly soothing baritone echoed in the helmet. Jorak didn't want to die finding comfort in the voice of his potential killer, but he was out of options for things he could and couldn't do. The Black Knight was quiet again. Then: “Dante. Since you deserve the name of the man that will kill you.”

With that, he turned around and strode away. Jorak was left perplexed; he imagined everyone was. Why didn't he swing the sword? Why was he walking away? What was actually going—

Suddenly, without warning, Jorak got the last surprise. The last thing he saw was the back of the man who'd defeated him almost easily, right before numerous lightning bolts shot down from the sky above him. Jorak's screams filled the arena, then it all went quiet soon after. His last thoughts, right before the light in his eyes went out, was one of deep regret, as he realized he'd never get to kill that guard after all.

#Nirclestories