Knights Apocalyptica

Bedwyr stared at the sky above; sweat ran down his brow, his shirt long thrown into the dust. In the distance, he could see the lights of the Kingdom. Lights to keep the streets alive, even in the depths of the night; though there was the sun cycle on the surface, the people had long adapted to working in three separate shifts. The tradition still continued, even up here.

“Not enough.” He said quietly—a boulder was nearby, along with several others—his only decoration in this wasteland; training of this sort didn’t tend to do well when inside the Academy. Too much attention. Some of his class had ideas on what being a Knight meant; their ideas weren’t his. As they filtered out, they found their niches and applications, and this raw Strength training was often abandoned in favor of more specialized or more practical training geared to help their marks in class.

Unless, of course, they were going for power.

To him, though, with his Talent…

This kind of training was often the most simple way to advance everything. Want to get stronger? Lift heavier things. Over and over and over again, he kept lifting heavier and heavier things. Tedious, sure. But every time he gained an increase in his Virtue… All of his virtues advanced.

“Another set, then,” his muscles burned with pain, but the tournament was coming up. In it, he would face several strong Knights, and that was from the people in the academy alone. Who knew what was outside of their walls?

It was hotly debated in the second year who the strongest among them was. His name often came up in the rankings, but regarding raw singular Virtues, at least a few other Initiates exceeded him. Including, he suspected, his brother. Focusing on a specific area, complemented with a Talent that might lead to better growth, could do that.

Still, he knew when it came to a straight fight… He would likely win. It wasn’t a sure thing, but none among his peers had found a way to compete in an even fight against him.

“Only because I work like this,” Bedwyr sighed, massaging his arms. The pain was a dull constant ache. In the last couple of weeks, he’d had to go to a healer since he’d overdone it and torn muscles; still, he’d seen two increases in his tier. For him, that kind of growth was unprecedented since hitting the C-Rank. At this rate, if he kept pushing, he would reach the B-rank in time for the tournament. Passing that bottleneck, though, was admittedly quite intimidating.

When he lifted that boulder, when his muscles spasmed and tore apart, when that pain flashed hot and hurt him more than any fight had, the only picture in his mind was his brother.

He’d heard the stories. Sought them out. The Knights who’d seen him fight, the Pendragons who talked about their time on the road with the ‘crazy kid.’

All of that pain, all of the suffering his brother went through.

If Bedwyr were stronger, then he could share that burden. He should be protecting his younger brother, but to date, he had failed that job; he was stronger, sure. But Erec was right. The day was quickly approaching that his brother would surpass him... and probably, more likely than not, find himself in even deeper and deeper danger as he kept going down this blood-soaked path.

“Stronger.” Bedwyr rolled his shoulders and walked over to the massive boulder.

With a grimace and a scream of his muscles, he lifted it above his head. Then, as sweat beaded his brow, he slowly bent at the knees… Then he stood back up and put it back down again.

Thrice, five times—eight—fifteen.

He kept going, the pain only increasing as his tendons wanted to give in and give up, yet Bedwyr persisted, his eyes on the moon above as he shouldered the massive boulder, squatted, and then put it back down to lift again.

The pain was temporary. Necessary.

If he was to compete in the tournament, he must show Erec—must show his brother that he needn’t be alone on this quest.

She left us. Made her choice.

The last image he’d seen of their mother crossed his mind: the sorrow as she said goodbye to him. Disappeared. He’d caught her late at night before she’d fled. He remembered seeing the pure fear on her face even as she told him everything was alright and there was nothing to worry about.

He remembered his last promise to her before she put him back to bed, and he never saw her again.

“I’ll look after him,” he said to her, to her ghost, even as he lifted the boulder for the twentieth time, his legs screaming and shaking as they threatened to give out, to fall and let him be crushed underneath the might of the stone. “Erec will be fine.”

Again.

The boulder went up, then came down.

His body wanted to die; it curled up in pain and broke.

But, as long as it could still lift, he would lift.

How many now?

Thirty? The last set had ended at twenty, yet he kept pushing. The memories were so vivid as they swirled around him, an almost tangible thing in the night; the rock in his hand felt right. Familiar. The barren earth around him was his home since he’d been born.

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As he lifted again, as sweat dripped down from his body and joined the earth below, he remembered the days after she left. The fear and nervousness as their family separated and the Kingdom treated them with the utmost suspicion. He’d made sure to go to Erec’s room every night to read the crying boy to sleep and promise him they would be fine. They would see their mother again one day.

Again.

It went up. It came down.

His muscles were like steel. A notification flashed in the corner of his vision, no doubt telling him that all of his Virtues had advanced once more. That would put him at Tier 8. Yet another step closer, but not enough.

Protect.

Beneath him, he felt the earth beneath his feet, the weight of the boulder above pushing him deeper and deeper.

With it, rooted to this ground, he felt a strength rise from his legs. Embracing the feeling of Strength. He went again.

Fifty.

Seventy.

A simple jump at this tier in Strength wasn’t enough to justify this. Nothing could, yet it was inexplicable; the pain was there, yes, Goddess, more pain than he should have been capable of. Before, when he’d felt like this, his tendons had snapped, and the healer had needed to perform emergency prayer on him. A whole week of recovery; he’d hid that from his family. Not from Gwen, but no one else had found out.

But now, his body wasn’t giving out. His vision was clear as if his muscles were made of stone and steel, and his mind calmed, pressing back against the pain. Defying logic.

Again.

Ninty… Ninty Eight…

One hundred.

Something snapped; the boulder cracked in his hands, raining dust and rock down on him; his vision burned, doubling as both a notification and the world shifted around him. Layered with a scene of a different place, a different time.

Soul (Aspect: Earth): Rank [NULL] - Tier 0 → Rank C - Tier 8

Faith: Rank C - Tier 7 → Rank NULL - Tier NULL

The notification vanished, accompanied by pure fear as the wasteland vanished. The boulder disappeared from his hands.

Bedwyr found himself at a round table. He saw only a man with a black beard staring at him, one hand holding his head up.

“Ah. Took your sweet time, huh?”

— - ☢ - — - ☼ - — - ☢ - —

Above, the lights that blessed this reforged earth burned in flames, their flickering candles a symbol of that which scorched the earth—a tragedy, but one which would be rectified.

“We are close,” the Cardinal mumbled, his head bowed. His eyes alighted with vision as she saw through them, rifling through his mind with her fiery fingers as she combed his memories. “We’ve been investigating, and those marks of Her presence are…”

WEAK.

Yes. They were weak. She’d ripped the reports from his congregation's investigation from his head, but they weren’t just weak. By all accounts, they weren’t the same since she’d last interfered in this world fifty years ago.

SIMILAR. KILL IT. RUIN IT. CRUSH IT.

Each hate rang in his head like a bell, the intensity increasing as her fiery grip on his soul clenched; the Cardinal gasped, leaning forward. Sweat curled from his heat, then burst to smoke as his skin burned; he looked at his hands; the veins throbbed with red, and the pain curled in. The eye above. Her eyes. All of it was pressing in, staring at him. Her chosen piece in the Kingdom.

He scratched at his skin, reassuring her. Promising her in his head they would find this little silver flame and snuff it out.

Just yesterday, there was a sighting at the worksite for the arena.—his men were asking questions. Looking into it.

KILL IT QUICKER.

“We don’t have the control,” he begged, curling onto himself on the floor as he directed more of the whirling tempest at him. Her sight refined at his explanations, pressing down like a hot brand in his skull as she scoured him

TAKE IT. TAKE CONTROL.

They were. They did. They continued to.

But it took time; nobody wanted to oppose the crown openly without good reason. Not when it had the backing of the Knights and the military; it took time and resources to convince them and then more time still to coordinate.

WORK BETTER. BURN IT. KILL IT. FIND IT.

KILL, KILL, KILL, KILL, KILL, KILL.

The word seared itself through the Cardinal’s skull, and he screamed, curling in further, wondering if this was it. If she was going to dissolve him into ash and take his already-damn-near gone soul and burn it as she did with all of them eventually.

But the heat subsided, and she withdrew, pulling back further. Her rage was an inferno as always; her vengeance and necessity lingered as an overwhelming presence that suffused his entire being. As the pain receded, the Cardinal stopped shaking on the ground, pulling himself up and dusting off his cloak as her attention turned elsewhere.

He dusted his red robes off, taking in a deep, racking breath.

And then he let her blessed feeling run through him, let it saturate his skin and bones, let the heat of that hatred warm him.

Love.

It was love. That hate was love that squirming gut-clenching pain; it was her love. Her love for them. For her people, for the pieces of her vessel. Part of her hole.

“Love, love, love.” The Cardinal said, a smile spreading wide across his face as he itched his skin—the still-warmed skin that had come to a breath away from combustion. She needed them. Needed her reds to go and stomp out that little silver flame; he would deliver that.

They would deliver more than that, too.

This whole Kingdom, he would bequeath onto her, along with crushing that pesky little silver fire which earned her hate. Whether it belonged to that bitch Lavinia or what his reports led to believe, some off-shoot in a young Knight, it didn’t really matter. What she wanted, her flock would deliver. Her love was what sustained them until she burned them up in fuel to face the monster above.

She was their savior. She clashed with Lavinia, but once that false goddess, that monster that ruined their world, died, they would be free, and She might ascend to the heavens and claim her place on the celestial throne. Then all might feel her love. All might bend the knee to her and let themselves become one piece of her far greater and vast whole.

The Cardinal scratched at his skin, hot red blood coming free as he continued, his grin only growing wider as he strode out to his congregation—faster.

They needed to be faster.

The King had given them all the fuel they needed to start a fire in this Kingdom and had supplied all of the ingredients in his haste to embrace the outside world. It would be child’s play to fan those embers and grow the flames.

From there, they could deliver all She wanted.

And her love would be. She would shower him with her affection. They might be together, one, as he longed and dreamed of.

“A lot of work. A lot. A lot. A lot. Yes.”

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