Lars' sleep deepened, almost like he would be never woken again.
His breathing slowed down further, and the tears in his eyes stopped flowing.
Deep within his subconscious, he swam in the darkness that comprised it.
Inside that darkness, a bright light suddenly swallowed him.
Inside that light, the spirits of his father, mother, and younger sister held him, their memories flooding towards him.
Lars didn't know it himself, but the three spirits were strong enough to allow him to view what had happened to his life before he joined Nickolaus' army.
They didn't know what the outcome of their actions would be, but they couldn't care less.
The only wish they carried was to strengthen his resolve further, and re-ignite the fierce flame his heart once had, not knowing that the other side of the coin could mean him being left a soulless man, fighting only to die.
He fell in the middle of their old field in their village, and saw his younger self walking away from his house, waving at his family as he did so.
It didn't take him a minute to realize that he was there to watch his past, although akin to a silent movie.
Lynn, even in a shirt, suspenders and pants, was still as beautiful as he remembered.
His mother, Ava, was smoking her pipe and had a huge smile on her face.
His father, Quincy, was waving back at him as strong as he could, and had a really proud look on his face.
-
Events of 19 Years Ago
Running towards his younger self, he tried to stop him but his hand just passed through, like a phantom.
No matter what he did, all he could do was watch his younger self walk away.
He lunged, punched, kicked, hit him with both maces, grabbed, only to phase through, landing on his face each time he did so.
Seeing that version of himself brought about mixed emotions in his heart.
Sadness, pain, and a crushing amount of longing.
All he could do was rise up and follow his younger self as he walked.
They walked up to Mana Ridge without stopping, and arrived there by sunset.
Seeing their master in a long while was heartwarming, yet at the same time filled his heart with dread.
He walked inside of the tower while the two conversed.
His younger self entered the tower the same time as the master of the Sirius Style descended the stairs.
The master looked as gruff as he always had, a large X-shaped scar right in the middle of his face, his brows furrowed and eyes alert yet weary.
An old and well-trained Crusader, Heinrich, is the current master of the Sirius Fist and their trainer in both the Clerical Arts and the martial art.
That man gave him one look, then chose him as a new student, alongside another student, seemingly a pampered son of some noble somewhere.
As soon as his younger self wore that winter cloak, everything seemed to go fast forward, dragging him wherever the travelers went.
The flow seemed to stabilized when they arrived at the old training temple in a mountain frozen solid by the snow.
That mountain would serve to be his home for years, and bore witness to his rise in power.
It seemed so nostalgic being there after all those years of fighting.
He watched as his younger self took a chain whip with a spiked iron ball at the end and began practicing it.
The early stages of what he currently calls the "Dance Of The Grim Reaper's Tail", a whip style he built from scratch using the Sirius Style's footwork.
There were five of them, fellow students to the Sirius Style.
Three were warriors, two were clerics in training, he and the other one.
One practiced with the sword, the second with the hammer, the third with the axe, and they practiced with all the cleric's weaponry, maces, flails, and shields.
They were given separate rooms, each and every one comfortable with a mana-powered heater to keep themselves warm.
Lars' younger self kept on practicing the footwork in his own room, while he went around the room, watching quietly.
If he could guide his younger self, he would do so, whole-heartedly and without hesitation.
He had an urge to hug his younger self, bury his face on the shoulder, and warn him of his fate, powerfully so that he gripped his pants while crying.
He sobbed and wailed, knowing it wouldn't be heard, screaming with every fiber of his being.
Looking at the night sky as he cried, he looked like some of the prisoners he had killed as he observed them on their last night of life.
On his knees and weeping, lamenting and regretting the lack of time to fully atone for their sins.
Only on that moment did he know a small fraction of their suffering, hours before their demise, brought about by his hands.
The pain and sadness he had bottled up for so long was finally let loose, and one of the guilty burdens of his heart was gone.
And so that night ended, and the time flow in that world hastened to morning in minutes.
Their training started the following morning, outside in the snow.
The warmup was sparring, and the warrior with the hammer and the other cleric in training fought their hardest to keep up.
Lars was leading the pack during their run in the snow, used to his village's savage winters.
Seeing his younger self running fast in the snow brought a smile on his face, one he hasn't done more than half of his life.
Then came the sparring battles, the main lessons, and meditative training amidst the heavy snow and wind.
Lars and the other one, whose name escapes him even to this moment, kept on training up to midnight, with the former training with the whip well after his sparring partner had slept.
Both of them would spar with maces, flails and shields combined with what they learned so far in the martial art.
It did look like a dance, except their kicks were dead giveaways that they were fighting.
Little to their knowledge, their master was watching every sparring match they had, checking their progress.
Lars had power, toughness and flexibility to withstand the training, the other one not far behind.
Their grace in battle, albeit a training match, was still something to observe and record.
Lars the elder watched as his younger self fought, reminiscing how his eyes had that fierce light in them, while nowadays they had only the dark look of a maddened executioner.
As if allowing him a bigger window to reminisce, the sounds began flooding towards his ears.
The sigh of the wind, the sound of two pairs of feet moving back and forth, their grunts and shouts.
"You can keep up on me after all! Nice footwork, just a little more improvement and were on equal ground!"
His younger self jumped diagonally towards his opponent, and did a spin kick, his opponent blocking it with his shield.
"You think so? I think I still have much to go, though!"
Lars the younger followed that strike with a rising kick and followed it with a reverse heel kick, while his opponent met his strikes with a falling kick and a spin kick.
His older self crossed his arms and continued watching them, still the unseen observer, seemingly inexistent in his own dream, given to him by the ghosts of his family.
Lars found himself falling yet again, and time flew forward to the day of their first examination to see if they have any progress at all, which was half a year after they arrived.
His first opponent was the warrior using a rubberhead hammer, while he used a leather whip, surprising even his master with his choice of weaponry.
"Like a valiant warrior of old, eh, Lars? Can't say I hate it, however."
With the fall of their master's hand, they began fighting.
The warrior rushed in, dragging his hammer with his left hand and the gauntleted right hand at the ready.
He took a swing at Lars, who dodged it by jumping upwards using the hammer's head as his platform.
Lars swung his whip out and hit his opponent on the chest while in mid-air, never letting up his assault upon landing on the ground.
His older self could only watch as he remembered how he fought that day, while his younger self did it in front of him.
Coiling the whip on his opponent's ankle, he flipped the guy over and in midfall, he kicked the guy on the torso with a reverse spinning heel kick.
Lars the elder muttered to himself the rules of this so-called battle.
"One : The finishing blow must be a strike from the Sirius Art of combat."
"Two : Implementation of the Sirius Art to weaponry is allowed, but restricted to the supplied weapons except the successorship battle, where true weapons will be supplied if the participant has no weapon available."
"Three : The battleground will always be the Square, the Circle reserved for the battle for the successorship battle."
"Four : The outcome of every battle is final and any appeal for a rematch will be denied."
"Five : The victor in any of the final matches can kill or spare his defeated opponents."
A frown formed on his face as he winced.
It was one thing he hated about the Sirius school.
He was the only survivor of the battle for successorship, spared by the one who defeated him.
The fact that he can't remember the name pisses him off even more.
He saw his younger self sweep his hair backwards, and look towards the sky as the count to ten reached its end.
His first official victory in battle, his first taste of actual combat.
The taste that became twisted and turned into the taste of death, which he liked after he began lashing out at the world.
That smile was more than ominous, and brought a sense of dread to his older self.
Up next was the other cleric that was brought in with him, carrying a rubberhead flail with a wooden shield.
Lars the younger sat near a brazier, and warmed himself up.
The other young cleric's opponent was the warrior with the rubber sword.
His steps were graceful, beautifully striking his enemy like the stormy winds bringing about rain or snow, unlike his which was the wind that brought about sandstorms and hail, frighteningly brutal and wild.
Their dances were as different as night and day, like the dance of a graceful lady performing on stage and the dance of a mad slasher butchering his prey.
Their master knew he had attained the "Gaea" form, while Lars had gained the "Fury" form, the two halves which must be united to achieve full mastery.
Both showed great promise as clerics and martial artists.
Perhaps it was an odd whim of the Gods that two great men was given to him to train, each of them showing greater promise than he ever had in youth.
If they had been separated in period, each of them would have been the strongest successor of their respective eras.
The tragedy brought about by the heavens is that two great students have been brought down this world, mighty in their own respects
"Perhaps, this is the whim of fate. Their paths are too different, like a raging river and a calm stream. Should they ever clash, each would only nullify the other."
Even if he knew he wouldn't be heard or even seen, Lars the elder stood beside Heinrich and crossed his arms.
"Not necessarily nullify. The calm stream will render the raging river fully useless further down."
"They far outclass the others they came with, and their learning capabilities surprise me."
He wasn't prepared for what his master said next.
"Lars, I personally find you fitting to be the next successor. You remind me too much of my own youth, only that you are better."
Just like that, the guilt of losing back then was dispelled, lifted off his heart, and one more burden was completely removed.
Amidst tears of joy and a huge smile on his face, he had wanted to say something after all those years of harsh training.
"Master. . . Thank you. It was an honor learning under your guidance."
No sooner had he finished uttering that sentence, time moved faster than before.
4 years had passed in mere minutes, and it was time for the battle for their succession, their clerical training long over.
His hair had grown quite long, reaching the middle of his back, and was tied in place with a thin string.
He had grown taller as well, more built, the years of training evident.
The time for slaughter, and his younger self was present, now carrying a whip with a spiked iron ball on the tip.
Their battle was set by a winner-kill-loser system, the one who came out victorious shall fight against the master and kill him to become the new successor.
The winner can also spare the loser's life, that is, if he so wished.
Standard procedure would be the winner executing the loser.
His fellow Cleric's face was nothing like he remembered.
Back then, he had the face of an innocent person, but now it's twisted, like a beast awaiting its prey, a sickening smile on his face and a fierce, mad look on his bloodshot eyes.
And it was the first time he was ever seen cracking his knuckles.
The warriors who has studied under them had already geared up with heavy equipment.
Their equipment was of no exception, indicating they had to rely on their mastery of the Sirius style to move freely.
The master, Heinrich, was wearing his armor as well, a heavy set of equipment which seemed heavier than theirs.
Lars the elder watched on, leaning on a pillar, still the unseen observer in his own past.
Their battlefield was the Circle, the final ring in the basement arena.
Taking their places beside the arena, Heinrich raised his hand.
"First battle, Lars versus Maximilian!"
Hearing their names called, Lars and the warrior with the hammer stepped forward.
He let the whip's chain links fall to the ground, the blades on their links gleaming in the sunlight pouring in through the glass on the roof.
The hammer looked threatening, but it was not enough for his resolve to waver.
It was, however, more than enough to send his heart pounding in excitement, it seemed ready to explode from his chest.
They waited with bated breath for Heinrich's signal.
Their hearts skipped a beat when it did ring out in the arena.
"BEGIN!"
Their fight started with a loud bang.
They dashed forward with their weapons at the ready, poised to strike at any moment possible.
The warrior's hammer raised, and Lars already saw an opening.
At the moment the hammer's head began falling down, he took a step forward and spun towards the left side.
He met a wide-arced kick hitting him square in the collarbone and the chest, sending him flying back a few feet.
Using the momentum he obtained after being hit, he spun to the right and unwound the whip.
By his third step, after the first spin, he let the whip loose, and its bladed links dug into the armor.
With a strong pull, the blades ripped the heavy armor to chunks, revealing them to be made of nothing more than cheap tin, made heavy by mercury fillings in gaps inside the parts both the thick and the ornate.
Ripping flesh and muscle, the bladed links passed through them like a glowing hot knife through warm butter.
The weapons were made of razor-sharp steel strengthened by secret forging techniques, sharpened by a diamond sharpening wheel.
Opened flesh bled out with small fountains of blood, splattering around the ring, even on Lars' face.
It was worse than he imagined, getting blood on his face, the steely taste in his mouth and smell in his nose.
His older self grinned as he mused over his younger self's experience, one that he would come to relish years later.
Lars continued his attack, the whip's blades slicing flesh off the bone which fell to the ground, the whip's lashes strengthened by the Sirius style's dance-like footwork.
A lash took off the arm's bone from its socket with a strong pull from the whip's barrage.
The younger Lars had his eyes closed since he couldn't handle the visceral spectacle in front of him.
He wished he could cover his ears so he coud block out the screams his opponent made.
An overwhelming urge to vomit flooded his heart, mind, and body.
He had no idea that the Sirius art was this strict with those who try to master it.
The full weight of the souls left behind in the Circle, their regrets filling the air.
The older Lars could barely make their presence out, seeing only silhouettes of those ghosts.
Their sad moans barely audible through his first kill's drying screams.
Heinrich's order boomed throughout the arena.
"Now, Lars! Kill him!"
Despite his hesitation, Lars jumped forward and kicked Maximilian's head off with a jumping kick, and upon landing began spinning and kicking.
The already-ripped parts got hit and flew off from the impact, ripping them from their sockets.
As soon as the ripped-apart corpse fell down to the ground, the phantoms vanished.
"The victor : Lars!"
He watched with a grim face as his younger self went down from the ring and vomited in one corner.
Their first kill, brutal and messy and inhumane, no matter how you look at it.
A slave dragged the corpse off the floor after picking up and tossing the sliced-off parts off the arena.
Heinrich cleared his throat and raised his hand yet again.
"Second Match : Glauber and Neil!"
The warrior with the axe and the other with the sword clambered onto the arena, their weapons raised and at the ready.
"I'll make this fair."
Glauber roared and Neil felt his body's strength go further, beyond its own limits.
"Sounds like something you would do, Glauber. Well, to make it even more fair, why not just use what we have learned so far in our martial art?"
Neil threw his sword off and Glauber did the same to his axe.
"Well then, shall we dance?"
Glauber nodded, and both dashed forward.
Their first attack met each other at the exact middle, their knees hitting the other.
Neil followed with a low reverse sweep kick, while Glauber followed his with a jumping spin kick.
Both flipped backwards and ran towards the other yet again.
They kicked sideways, their feet meeting in the middle with a loud bang.
A flurry of kicks ensued, each arcing hit meeting at the middle.
Sparks flew off, the sound of clanging metal ringing throughout the arena.
Their battle heated up as their movements became faster.
Both of them roared as their last attack connected, and jumped backwards.
They ran towards each other in full speed, building momentum for their planned course of action.
Neil spun clockwise and leapt forward, dancing through the air like a top with his right leg outstretched, each spin letting it gain more momentum.
Glauber hopped forward and slided until both were in range, and kicked upwards.
Their attacks met yet again, and both increased the force in their legs.
Neil felt the bone in his right leg shatter, and the skin rip upon impact.
Glauber's leg burst apart, bone, marrow, blood and ripped muscle flying everywhere.
Neil put nearly all his strength in the next spin, and the heel of his other foot hit Glauber's temple.
The force was enough to let it explode, brain matter, blood and other bodily fluids smeared on the boot and the shin guards.
Heinrich's voice boomed out yet again.
"The winner, Neil!"
Limping off the arena, he was greeted by Lars, which extended his hand and healed him.
The flesh put itself together, the cracked bone mended itself.
"Not the best method, but at least it works. Sit down and let it fully heal."
A warm and bright smile appeared on his face, as Neil limped towards a stone bench.
Lars stood up and stretched, looking at the sky as he did so.
"Hey, Neil. . . What would you do if you won and became the new successor?"
Neil leaned against the cold wall, sighed in relief, and looked up.
"Probably keep the peace. That's what I have wished for, even as a child. How about you, Lars?"
"I'd probably start traveling, refine the style further. Probably become an itinerary monk, too."
"You choose the long road, huh? Not bad."
Neil's leg fully healed itself while they chatted.
Heinrich's voice announced the coming of the next battle.
"Neil versus-"
The name of the other Cleric was still muted out, as he expected.
The elder Lars somewhat expected it, and winced as that Cleric's face bore murderous anticipation for the upcoming fight, it sickened him to the point of almost vomiting.
Neil stood up and readied himself, cracking his fists as he walked forward.
Both went up the stage and bowed to the other.
The Cleric took on a prepared stance, hands open with the palms facing downwards, both legs straight like pillars.
Heinrich raised a brow.
"That stance. . . The Heroic Phoenix Stance. . ."
Neil moved towards his opponent cautiously, eyeing his every move.
His opponent closed his eyes, as if showing that he doesnt mind his opponent.
Neil took the initiative and attacked with a lunging forward kick.
He did not know it would be his last as he felt wind cut through him.
As soon as he landed, he noticed his knees now bent the other way, and so did his elbows.
The cherry on top is that his head got severed from his body by a powerful and well-placed kick.
"The winner, -!"
Lars saw his younger self fall on his knees, a look of shock and fear on his face as tears streamed down.
Despite that, the younger Lars steeled himself for the inevitable battle.
Only two of them were left alive, and only one may challenge the current Master in combat.
His face now one of resolve as hot as the sun, his eyes seemed to burn with unbridled fury for the first time, his heart seething with rage, each beat seemed to send waves through the air.
Each step forward seemed to leave a burning impression on the ground as he walked towards the ring.
Innate power flowed from his heart as he took on his combat stance.
He didn't show any signs of hesitation or fear, his body shaking not in fear, but in murderous anticipation.
"BEGIN!"
The battle began with a loud bang as their battle cries filled the air.
Deathly silence soon followed as blows were traded in rapid succession.
Dances both elegantly graceful and brutally furious followed as kicks and open-palm strikes flew from the two combatants.
Jumping to the air at the same time, they exchanged high-speed kicks as they descended, their eyes focused on the other.
Heinrich could see their auras, Lars' a set of six whitish-blue wings which were majestically spread open, his opponents' an unnatural mix of white and red wings, spread open threateningly.
Lars' eyes burned and his body shook with unfathomable and unspeakable fury and seething rage that he had only felt now, and unknowingly would live with when he becomes an adult.
It was enough to make him feel like his own innards were in fire.
Blood called for blood, and he wanted to see it spill, enough to see it fill an ocean.
All he saw in front of him was a meat puppet for him to rip to pieces, instead of an equal.
Both prepared for their final strike, for impatience had gripped the combatants.
Dashing towards the other, they had the same technique in mind.
Using the momentum created by the sudden stop, they jumped forward and performed a flying kick.
It was decided in a flash.
The slight deviation on his opponent's kick made sure the attack ripped upwards from his abdomen to the base of his neck, the impact on his jaw knocking him unconscious.
However, right before he lost consciousness, he spun mid-air in defiance and hit his opponent's right thigh, unsure if he at least made a dent.
He felt himself crumple to the floor, but couldn't see anything, hanging on to whatever shred of consciousness and life he could desperately grab.
The unnamed opponent gripped him hard on the neck, the cold metal conveying the possiblity of his neck being crushed clearly.
"Know this, dog. You may have landed a hit on me, but I beat you. Remember the name. . ."
The older Lars had approached the scene, a grim look on his face, touching his own neck.
". . . Stormgrace. And you will pay dearly for this insult, mongrel!"
In front of him, time had rushed forward again, to a vision of his family's death.
Both father and mother were crushed by the falling of their roof, while his younger sister had been raped and stabbed repeatedly, the knife lodged in her eye.
The gruesome sight pushed him over the edge as he woke up, screaming.
He experienced a new kind of fury, entirely different from the blazing one he had before.
Silent, calm, yet white-hot, fueling his heart and reviving his soul.
Thin strands of lightning flowed from his fingertips, with an even more focused form.
"I know I will one day fight him again. And on that day, I will change the outcome."
