** disclaimer: Digimon does not belong to me. Takeru and Hikari doesn't belong to me. If they did, I'd be rich. So leave me alone you vultures!
**Author's notes: 'Kay guys, first of all, THANK YOU to everyone who reviewed! Wow…I got 67 reviews! You don't understand, but Phawx and I have this rivalry thing going, and I just tied him in review numbers yesterday! Alright, enough rambling. On with the story. Contest update at the bottom.
The Age of Gods: Chapter Three
By: TK Takaishi
** one day later **
A light breeze ruffled the tall grass in the valley, creating ripples of green like waves on a lake. The sky was overcast, a dismal lead gray. Although it was mid-afternoon, the mountain valley was cold, void of the welcome warmth of the sun. The stark gray of mountain rock, and blinding white of summit snows surrounded the small, green oasis between the peaks.
An army was halted at the base of those great mountains. From afar, it looked like a dark smudge on the green land, a tide of black. Tents and temporary shelters were pitched; war-horses were tended to. Soldiers sat about cleaning and tending to their weapons. Shimmering scimitars were polished and sharpened. Some of the warriors had their masks off, and some of them had them on. A small fraction of the Imperial Army of Khaydarin but resplendent and impressive in military force nonetheless.
But as a whole, the army wasn't moving. They followed but one leader. And the leader was not ready. So the army was not ready. The time was not yet.
At the top of a cliff overlooking that army, a single man gazed impassively over his command. His dark, satin black cape billowed lightly in the breeze. Around him was arranged certain high-ranking commanders within the army, each indistinguishable beneath their Centurion's masks.
The man's face was also hidden beneath a half-mask, but it was not the conventional battle masks of the common Khaydarin soldiers. The cold, dark metal seemed molded to the man's features leaving only slight, shaded slits for the eyes, and exposing his nose, jaw and mouth.
"You are certain of this?" his voice quiet, but commanding. It wasn't much more than a soft, conversational tone, but somehow, it cut across the sound of the wind and the rustling grass.
An observer would've seen this man's authority immediately. It was not that his underlings backed away in fear of him. Rather, it was the way they oriented themselves, arranged in parabolas around him, as if he was the center of gravity on the cliff and everything else was moved by the force of his presence.
Behind him, three Khaydarin soldiers kneeled, with one knee on the ground. Their battle masks lay on the ground, exposing their faces. The middle soldier raised his head at his master's voice.
"Yes sir."
Praetor Caylor Ga'artred paused. "He shouted 'Shun Ten Satsu'?" The strange words were pronounced with a strange, but almost musical accent.
"Yes sir."
Then Caylor was silent. Shun Ten Satsu. The devastating succession technique had been developed nearly a hundred years ago, and had been passed down through the generations from master to pupil. It was unique only to the once legendary Ishida knights. There were few attacks in the world that could even come close to rivaling its destructive power. And from the description, this…"farmer" had apparently mastered it.
But that was nothing in comparison to what else he was hearing.
His dark cape swirled about him as he turned away from his army and towards the three soldiers. Kneeling down, he examined closely the two rough sketches that the soldiers had reproduced on paper.
"You say that this mark here," he said as his black-gloved finger tapped lightly upon one of the sketches, "appeared on the boy's chest." Lightly, he traced the outline of the rising meteor.
"Not just appeared, my Lord. It…it glowed." The soldier hesitated, then forged on. "And when it did, he seemed to become a warrior possessed. We were powerless to stop him."
"Describe the boy."
"He had blond hair and light blue eyes. He was young, no more than fourteen. Small and light of body, though of medium height."
"Did he have a stand?"
"None that I could discern sir. No incarnation, just a glowing, golden aura. It's as if he barely has control over it."
"And this?" Caylor tapped the other sketch. "Where did this appear?" The sketch resembled a morning star.
The Khaydarin footsoldiers looked at one another. "On the girl's chest, my Lord," the leader finally responded. "Except this one was a pure white in colour, and did not glow nearly as brightly. I might have missed it if I wasn't looking. But it was there."
"And what did she look like?"
"The girl was also about fourteen. Truth to be told, neither of the children struck me as impressive. They were both clad in the plain attire of mountain children, and neither of them looked to possess great strength. The girl had chestnut brown hair and crimson eyes. Both of them had a light complexion."
Caylor seemed to frown behind his mask. A slight note of surprise sounded in his voice. "The girl was fair?"
"Yes sir."
"Think carefully before you reply."
"Yes sir." The soldier's voice was firm. "She was fair."
This time, Caylor was silent for nearly a minute.
The crest of Ishida did not come as a complete shock. Neither had the Shun Ten Satsu. After all, this army had been sent to find just such a boy and his guardian.
And the description fit. The Queen of Ishida had been blond with blue eyes. It was quite conceivable that her son would take after her in terms of appearance. Even the age was right. If one took into account all the years since the Age of Gods, the boy would have been fourteen.
But the other crest…
Praetor Caylor Ga'artred was an avid student of history, well versed in the stories of Gaea. At the beginning of the Age of Gods, and the first appearances of the stand-masters, the Ishida bloodline was only one out of six families blessed with the power of the stand. The infamous names, Sheid, Fan-Tzui, Jakt, Ishida and Chironsala were known to every child old enough to understand stories.
Among them, was the bloodline of the kingdom of Yagami, a geographically small, but politically and financially powerful country. The morning star was their crest. The Yagami stand-masters were reputed to be generally peaceful, perhaps the most peaceful of the Council. But legend also had it that if provoked, the House of Yagami was capable of bending the very elements to their will.
More importantly though, was that unlike Ishida, Khaydarin was certain that every last member of Yagami had been killed. They had seen and burnt the bodies themselves.
And here, the description did not fit.
The Yagami bloodline had been black, invariably with dark hair, and brown-black skin and eyes. There was no possible way this…peasant girl…had been born of Yagami blood. It was not a question of historical probability but a question of biology and logical reason. Even if she had tried to disguise herself with make-up, there was no way to duplicate crimson eyes.
So how did it come to pass that she possessed the Crest of Yagami?
"What game are You playing here?" he murmured softly.
"Sir?"
Caylor didn't bother to reply as he continued to think. Could it be possible? God worked in many mysterious ways, and his paths and wishes were not for mere mortals to know.
Or was it?
"And where are they now?" The Praetor drilled a sharp glare at the kneeling soldiers.
The leader gulped visibly. "I…I don't know sir. We had to retreat. The enemy was too strong for us. The rest of our unit was killed effortlessly…"
"In other words, you have no idea where they are."
"Y-yes, my Lord."
[[Caylor stood up, finished with his inspection of the crests. In his mind, he shelved the dilemma for now. The question of God's will could be addressed later. Right now, he had a stand-master to hunt down, and a problem to deal with. He stepped back, and gazed at the three soldiers together. "Who gave the order to retreat?"
A long pause. Then the first soldier raised his head. "I did sir."
Caylor tilted his head. The soldier's battle mask was off, and his face was young, with dark-brown hair, and stormy, gray-coloured eyes. "What is your name, sub-centurion?" he said, reading the rank off the golden stripes on the soldier's collar.
"They call me Locke sir. Locke Dimak."
"Stand up, sub-centurion Locke Dimak. Look at me." Slowly, the soldier stood up, but refused to meet Caylor's penetrating gaze. The other two gazed fixedly at the ground with fear. A deadly silence fell over the gathered assembly as everyone watched with baited breath. Praetor Caylor was a relatively new commander, but other Praetors of the Imperial Army did not take failure lightly.
A failed mission was often punishable by death, effective immediately.
"Your orders were to kill any survivors. Yet, when you found three Kurtalians, you retreated without killing them. Why?" The Praetor stood at ease. Frighteningly emotionless.
The sub-centurion took a deep breath. "Sir, these were not normal Kurtalians. We could not defeat them. I would gladly have given my life for the Empire, but I deemed it more important to return."
"Why? Why, in your opinion, had the battle already been lost? And why was it more important to return?"
By now, Locke was trembling. But to his credit, he did not back down, he did not beg. Instead, he drew himself up and looked the Praetor in the eye.
"Because I possessed information that was vital to the army of Khaydarin. I have already described the battle to you in detail, my Lord. The instant that the knight who wielded the Shun Ten Satsu killed our Centurion, I knew there was no way I could defeat the enemy. The boy alone was dangerous enough. With the knight, it was hopeless.
"I also realized that perhaps this was what we were looking for. The existence of said knight, the stand-master of Ishida, and the stand-master of Yagami. I would serve no purpose for the Empire dead, and thus decided to retreat with all due haste to bring this information to you."
Caylor nodded. The other two soldiers on the ground cowered. The Praetor was not a physically imposing man. Although he was tall, he was also built rather slim. Caylor scorned armour, opting instead for a simple dark tunic, and a mask. Not at all like the other Praetors, who dressed themselves in fine, jewel-encrusted body armour, and golden sashes, as befitted their position.
Yet when he wished, his presence was huge, imposing. He maintained an aura of power, of might. His eyes, hidden behind his mask seemed to be able to discern all, laying the souls of those he gazed upon naked. He was the Praetor, a terrible godly figure, all-knowing, all-discerning.
It was easy to see how the Praetor had risen to what was possibly the highest rank a soldier could hope to achieve in his lifetime at such a young age.
"Locke Dimak," Caylor purposely dropped the title 'sub-centurion'. "You have had a day to think over your actions. In your opinion, was there anything you could have done better?"
The sub-centurion shuddered, then steeled himself determinedly. "No sir, with all due respect, I don't think so. I have reflected upon my actions countless times, and I do not believe there was any better way. I made a judgement call, and I still stand by it."
Caylor nodded approvingly. Turning, he gazed at his army once again. His army. "You have done well, Locke." The two soldiers on the ground stared incredulously at their master. To their complete and utter amazement, Caylor nodded at them.
This Praetor was different.
"You made a quick decision on the battlefield, which resulted in a chance for us to strike back. Others would do well to learn from you, so that defeat is not disgrace. The Khaydarin Empire needs bright leaders like you, who aren't afraid to take the initiative. Your unit's Centurion died, didn't he?"
Locke nodded numbly. "Yes sir. He was killed by the Shun Ten Satsu."
"He was a fool anyway. If he had come back alive, I would've killed him myself." Caylor's words were underscored with ice. "A Khaydarin soldier does not delight in torturing his victims. He had no business calling himself a warrior for the Imperial Army."
A shiver ran down Locke's spine. Caylor may be different, but he was still a Praetor, and treated as such.
"I hereby promote you to Centurion, to be given command of your own unit. Given unto you will be all the power and privileges as befitting your new rank. Your first assignment is to seek out the stand-master and his guardian. Dismissed, Centurion Locke."
Locke stood dumb-founded, as the surrounding officers and soldiers fell silent. This Praetor was different. Any other commander, and Locke and his men would have been slaughtered on the spot. The temper of past Praetors had been legendary. But this one was different. Caylor have him a slight, glacial smile.
"Go Centurion. Your unit awaits you."
"T-thank you sir," Locke stammered as he backed away. "I am honoured- "
Caylor dismissed him with a wave of his hand. Instead, he turned to his other subordinates. "Break camp. We march back for Kurtal. This army moves out within the hour. Trackers and scouts move ahead of the main body of the army to try and pick up their trail before it gets too cold. If it takes me forever, I will find those two stand-masters…"
Startled out of their sudden paralysis, the two soldiers on the ground leapt to their feet, and ran off. The rest of the soldiers dispersed to do their commander's bidding with newfound alacrity and purpose.
If the army had been willing to follow Praetor Caylor Ga'artred before, they were now ready to die for him.]]1
** three weeks later **
Deep in the heart of the trackless, mountain forests, a small clearing parted the trees. The warm afternoon sunlight filtered softly down through the mottled trees to cast speckled shadows on the loamy ground.
"This clearing is your world. Your universe."
Richard's voice broke the silence. The clearing was still as Takeru stood within the large circle carved into the ground by Richard's sword. In his hand, he gripped the royal sword of Ishida. Opposite him, Richard stood, feet askance in a relaxed stance, sword drawn.
"There is nothing outside of this instant, this moment. Nothing. You will not be distracted, because there is nothing to distract you, past or future. There is only the here and now. Your sword will find its mark because that is all there is to hit in the world."
"Khaydarin-" Takeru started.
"Does not exist until I say it exists."
The boy fell silent. On the sidelines, Kari watched curiously. The little place in the woods was secluded, deep in the mountain forests, where no one could find them. It was where the three of them had taken refuge after fleeing from Kurtal.
In truth, the boy had been training with a sword ever since he was eight. Richard had passed onto Takeru many of his own techniques. But as the boy was finding out, there was still a lot to learn.
"As we progress, your shall train to narrow your focus down to a pinpoint. But until then, this shall suffice." The young boy and the old man bowed to one another. Then the former knight adopted a defensive stance, his blade at the ready.
"Attack me, using any one of the stances I taught you. Come at me as if you wish to kill me."
Takeru hesitated. "Father…" He was far too used to calling Richard "father" to stop now.
"Do it." The man's stance didn't waver, but he did crack a small grin. "If you manage to scratch me, I'll gather firewood for the next week." Then the grin faded. Standing stock-still, he became like a statue of stone, unblinking as he waited for the attack.
The boy paused a little longer, then raised the blade with a determined gleam in his eyes. In his hands, the beautiful katana felt like a live thing. The balance was perfect. The sword felt like it could be balanced on the tip of a pin. The razor-sharp blade shimmered lightly in the sunlight, and the hilt felt molded into his grip.
Kari watched with wide-eyed interest as the boy chose his stance.
There were ten, basic stances used in Kenjitsu, or the martial art of sword fighting. And hundreds of variations on each stance. Each was used for varying situations, from guarded defense (Ela stance), to vicious offense (Tenkei stance).
In this case, the boy chose a relatively conservative Battou stance.
Takeru was well aware that his left shoulder was still incapable of any maneuvers requiring strength. Sheathing the blade, the boy oriented himself sideways, presenting his stronger right side to his opponent. His right shoulder dipped closer to the ground, and his hand hovered near the hilt of the sheathed sword on his left, ready to draw and strike like a serpent, as his feet spread out for better stability. The draw and strike tended to enhance the speed of the attack by almost two to three times.
The two remained motionless for a long moment, Takeru poised precariously on his attack stance, Richard grounded like a rock into his defensive stance. Two stone statues, unyielding. An almost meditative silence spread across the clearing.
Then Takeru attacked.
It became apparent that his injury had not affected his speed at all. With cat-like grace, Takeru charged from one end of the circle to the other in a split second, his blade slicing outwards in a blurred, silver arc.
A resounding crash and a shower of sparks erupted as Richard crouched and deflected the blade deftly. Takeru wasn't finished, however. Spinning around, he did the unthinkable and struck out viciously with the sheath in his left hand.
The Battousai (sword and sheath technique). Often the best time to counter-strike was right after a powerful swing, when your opponent was off-balance. The second blow with the sheath served as a follow-up blow that often caught unwary swordsmen too eager to exploit their advantage. And Takeru pulled off the difficult Battou derivative with minute precision and speed, aiming the blow at Richard's chin.
Except Richard's chin wasn't there.
Throwing himself backward, the former knight avoided the blow deftly. Without pausing, Takeru withdrew his blade quickly, and slashed out with a backhand attack, aimed at Richard's throat, sheath held up in defense. Once started, the Battousai must be carried through to the end. There was no backing off, or the momentum of the attack would be lost. For a few moments, a vicious parrying match ensued as Takeru pushed the knight back relentlessly.
In response, Richard's sword began weaving in a complex series of mind-bending feints, parries, and thrusts. Three parries to the blade, then a particularly savage blow to the hilt. Startled, Takeru's sword was wrenched out of his hand. His sheath followed a heartbeat later. Before the boy could blink, Richard had swept his feet out from under him. Lying flat on the ground, Takeru looked up to see the gleaming blade poised at the tip of his throat, with the knight's arm drawn back for a killing thrust.
A second later, Takeru's sword buried itself blade-first into the loamy earth a good ten feet away. The whole thing had lasted less than a heartbeat.
It was a long moment before Richard finally lowered his blade. "You're getting better Takeru, but you're still not charging aggressively enough. When I say 'come at me as if you mean to kill me', I mean it."
On the ground, Takeru panted lightly, a small grin on his face. "Hey, at least I scratched you…"
Richard looked down to see the tiny cut on his left hand. "So you did." He sighed. "That's the last time I'm making a bet. You're getting too good, and I'm getting too old for this…"
Then the light banter faded. Takeru's face turned serious. "Besides, you know I never liked mortal sword combat."
Richard arched an eyebrow. "That's a poor sentiment for the King of Ishida to hold…"
Takeru looked away. "Would you please stop calling me that? It's not like I asked to be born of Royal blood," he said quietly.
Richard sighed, but he let the boy be. Instead, he offered his hand to the boy. "Come on, that's enough training for now. You should take a break."
"How's the shoulder?" Kari chipped in concernedly from where she stood on the sidelines.
Takeru took the offered hand, and grimaced as he pulled himself up. "It still hurts," he admitted as he walked over and sat down beside Kari, nursing his shoulder. "But not as much. I can do some limited maneuvering with it."
Richard retrieved the boy's sword from where it was sticking out of the ground. "That's good. That was a pretty nasty thrust wound you received. A lesser person might have died on the spot. But of course, considering that you're…"
"Don't say it."
Richard frowned. "Why not?"
Takeru remained silent.
"Takeru, you have to face the truth sooner or later. You are not a mountain farmer boy. You are more than that. You are a stand-master."
Beside him, Kari gently took the boy's hand. "Takeru, what exactly is the matter? I accepted it. It took some time, but I did. Both of us, we're more than what we thought we were. We possess something special. Something to be borne with pride, not with shame."
"Three weeks ago," The boy's voice was heated. Angry. "My name was 'Takeru Takaishi', a simple mountain boy. Now all of a sudden, I'm supposed to be the Crown Prince of Ishida? And just because of that, you're telling me I have to save the world? To be the next Adun? It's too much! I'm too weak, too young. I can't do this!"
Richard opened his mouth to speak, but stopped as Kari shook her head. Instead, she spoke in a quiet voice. "Regardless of what you think, God has chosen you. You are his servant, called to do his will. And he loves you, more than anything. If He believes you can do it, you can do it. What? You don't trust God's judgement?
"Don't you find it incredible? That God has given you enlightenment, something more than others?"
Takeru laughed grimly. "Kari, I wish I could have your faith. Things would be so much simpler. But have you heard the proverb of the enlightened man?"
Kari shook her head.
"There once was a wise man. He thirsted constantly for knowledge. And so he studied, and learned all he could. But the more he learned, the more he realized how much he could never learn. And so, he asked God for total enlightenment. He asked, 'Lord, grant me all thy knowledge, everything there is to know on earth.'
"And God granted his prayer. He does cruel things like that sometimes. It was more than a mere mortal could bear. All the grief, hurt, hatred and anger in the world, the man understood it, all too well.
"So in response, the wise man went and drowned himself because it was the only logical thing left to do."
Richard sighed. "Takeru, you don't really believe in that, do you?"
Takeru looked away. "Father, to be honest, I'm not sure anymore…"
A long moment passed while as they contemplated the question in silence. The small, afternoon breeze blew gently through the clearing.
It was Kari that broke the silence.
"It's not true"
Takeru turned to look at her as she continued.
"Let's put aside the question of faith for now. A true God would want only the best for his subjects. He wouldn't be interested in keeping control, because he will always be in control. He just is. He would want to teach us to be just like him, to act like him. He'd teach, train and share, but never force.
"Takeru, if you do choose to renounce your heritage, nobody can stop you. If you choose to ignore your gift, that's your right. It's a choice you have to make yourself. All we can do is support you along your way, and provide you with all the information you need. And God is not what you're making Him out to be."
Takeru sat quietly as he listened to Kari's words. He sighed and lay down on his back, allowing the cool, mottled blue-green shade of the foliage to play across his face. "What you're describing isn't God.
"You're describing parents. And not just that. You're describing good parents. There are plenty of parents who abandon and neglect their children." From where the boy had come from, he had seen plenty of that.
"To want with all your heart to share the good things that you have, and to spare people the bad things if you could. To rejoice in seeing people around you grow and mature, until they begin to want to teach and share all about the happiness they've found. That is goodness."
Kari's smile was triumphant. "But isn't that what God is? A loving parent?"
**********
Darkness…
This is how it should be. This was how it was before God created the accursed light. This is how it's going to end.
Within this realm, the demon languished in his true form. Within the utterly impenetrable stone walls, it was at home, without fear of being scathed by the light…
But hark! Who approaches?
Praetor Caylor Ga'artred was communing.
There was nothing. The outside world didn't exist. Firmly, he clamped an imaginary hand over his eyes, and an imaginary hand over his ears. The world was an illusion. He was ascending, and this realm was far more real than the dreamworld the others called "reality".
There was the familiar rush. The sense of disorientation, as if he had been lifted. And then he was there.
Looking down, he saw himself clad in the same dress as he had been before he slipped into the trance. The dark robes, the simple regalia of a warrior. At his side hung his sword. Touching his face, his fingers brushed against cold metal. His mask was still in place. His physical body was still there.
Or was it? Was it just his mind? His psyche?
His stand?
But the world was different.
This was a plane above reality. The plane of thought, of emotion. Nothing but darkness stretched out in all directions. There was no up. There was no down. There was no distance, no whereness, because it was only he, in an unending void.
Did such relativistic concepts even apply in this realm? Did the notion of distance, location, and even duration exist here? Things existed only if he decreed them to exist. Here, reality itself bended to his will, objects shadows of thought.
Some said it was a plane closer to heaven.
Or, the Praetor mused grimly, a plane closer to hell.
It was a place few could reach. In the past, stand-masters had been known to achieve this plane, and commune with each across great physical distances. However, at present, Caylor knew of no others beside himself, and his master that could reach it.
Of course, if the news he heralded was true, there would soon be more that could reach it. At least two. Maybe six. It all depended…
You are here. The voice seemed to come from all directions at once. Whispering, almost silent, but in the void, it sounded as clearly as a bell. Deep and sonorous, but with an edge of bitter menace.
The Praetor dropped to his knee, kneeling on the void. How is that possible?
Your servant is here.
What is it that you wish to tell me?
All of a sudden, the Praetor was not alone.
Coalescing from motes of darkness, a vortex of blue-black shimmered silently before him, resolving itself into a humanoid figure. Its jet-black skin blended perfectly with the utter darkness, black upon black. Indistinguishable save for a thin bluish sheen of reflected light around its muscular frame. A pair of piercing, glowing eyes affixed themselves onto the Praetor's kneeling form. Fiery embers of hate and violence, glowing hellish red in the darkness.
More than that, the Caylor could not tell.
For the darkness seemed to shroud him like a tangible cloak. The Emperor never revealed more of himself than was necessary, even to his strong right hand. The figure seemed to shimmer in the darkness, parts appearing and reappearing. Caylor knew that this was not the Emperor's physical self. That was back on the Island of Akeldama, deep in the stronghold of Khaydarin, and that was almost three month's march away. But this was his mental image, a disguise donned like a mask.
The Praetor had suspected at first that the Emperor was a stand-master to achieve this plane, but had rejected the idea a long time ago. Stand-masters did not possess the ever-present shroud of darkness that seemed to follow the Emperor. Stand-masters did not have the cold, dark and baleful light that this man possessed. He was a flickering phantom, there, but never truly seen…
I bring important news, my Emperor. It may change everything.
The stand-master?
Yes, my Lord. And…more than that.
Even as the Praetor spoke the words, he thought of them. He shaped them with the language of his mind, thought shapes much clearer than simple, spoken language, yet so strange and dimensionless they could never be described to someone who lacked the ability. It would literally be like trying to describe a sixth sense.
A flash of light erupted on his right, summoned by the Praetor's will. Out of the shimmering vortex that was reality here, a small form solidified. An image of a small boy, young and innocent. Blond hair and blue eyes flashed alarmingly bright in such a dark background. On his chest gleamed the crest of Ishida, flashing with a fierce golden brilliance.
The cowled figure hissed.
Ah, after fourteen years, you have found him then. So, our elusive prince has taken after his mother in appearance.
According to the accounts of my soldiers, this boy's name is 'Takeru'. The knight has apparently decided to keep the boy's first name, as 'Takeru' has been his name since birth. I have no idea what his surrogate last name is.
Have you destroyed him yet?
No.
This is most unlike you, Praetor Caylor. You are rarely so careless.
I was not careless. There is more. It would seem we have more problems to deal with than a single, rogue stand-master.
Beside the image of Takeru, two more flashes of light emerged. Richard flared into existence, his sword drawn. And Kari also appeared, the crest of Yagami glowing a pure, snow-white on her chest. The brown hair of the image floated briefly in the void.
What is this? More survives?
Three weeks ago, a unit of my soldiers found these three in the small village of Kurtal, in the heart of the great Novinha mountain ranges of the west. Seven soldiers of the ten-man unit were destroyed, but the survivors managed to report back to me. What you see here is what they have described. We are currently attempting to track these three, but the mountains are hampering our efforts.
Looking at the mental image of Richard, Caylor nodded.
We do not know much about this man. All we know is that he is a master of the Shun Ten Satsu, one of the last of the legendary Ishida knights, and thus a force to be reckoned with. It is safe to assume that it is he who has fathered our elusive prince for all these years.
And he has done a remarkably good job, to keep the prince hidden from us for so long. Not surprising, considering he's a knight of the Ishidan order.
No. That is not surprising in itself. But the girl has also exhibited a crest, as you can see. The crest of Yagami, element of light. She is undoubtedly a stand-master. Never, in all my years as a soldier, have I heard of such a gathering of potential power in one place. An Ishidan knight, and two stand-masters.
Was she with the Ishidan prince?
Yes, my Lord.
Is she of royal blood?
No. She is white.
A long pause ensued as the cowled figure, shrouded in shadows, slowly studied the mysterious figure of Kari.
How is that possible? How can someone not of royal blood possess a stand?
The Praetor remained silent. He had a theory, but he was sure that his master would come to the same conclusion anyway. The question was rhetorical.
Fifteen years ago, his master, the Emperor of Khaydarin, had wiped out almost all of God's servants. After five hundred years, the Council had finally fallen. Within the space of three weeks, five of the six great bloodlines of stand-masters had been completely extinguished, every last member slaughtered.
And all of a sudden, Gaea was without the leadership of the Godspoken.
The only one remaining was the bloodline of Ishida, and even that line was precarious at best. Caylor gazed at the mental image of Takeru he had conjured. The young, blond boy. Just one surviving member. The last remaining link in a long line of Emperors. Kill him, and that line would be extinguished as well.
And so what had God done? To combat the dark Empire of Khaydarin? To restore the balance?
Damn Him and his meddling ways. Even as we were destroying the Council, He created new bloodlines. A new generation of stand-masters, perhaps greater than the last…
The Emperor's figure withdrew, and faded away into the darkness. His form shimmered, and became translucent, then transparent, then nonexistent. But his voice, his soft, whispering voice remained.
Praetor Caylor, my trusted right hand. If our plans are to succeed, this threat must be eliminated here and now. Within five or six years, we will be ready. Soon, the next Seihad will be at hand, and we will be ready to claim back what is ours. But this, this must not be allowed. Even God himself must not interfere in our plans.
Find them all. Find the boy. Find the girl. If this is true, and He really is starting new bloodlines, then this girl is only the first of a new generation. Find the new stand-masters. Hunt them down one by one if need be, but find them.
And when you do, destroy them.
**Author's notes: Ngg…I actually don't like this chapter at all, and I have a feeling that that impression is mutual. Any prospective authors out there, here's a word of wisdom for you. Novel-sized projects are a MAJOR headache. This entire chapter, in fact, this entire saga is nothing but setup, setup, setup…and did I mention setup? As a result, it came off sounding kinda forced… (make that really forced)
Goes to show you I've still got a long way to go. -_-…Oh well, hope you can bear with me until I get my inspiration back.
Contest is still on. There are currently 23 people who have expressed interest to me, either through email or review. If you're interested, it's not too late to sign up! In case you missed it, contest details are in chapter two. Five people have already submitted entries, and yes, I've read every one of them. ^_^ Some impressive talent ff.net's got floating around. Come on people! Dazzle me!
1. That section outlined above is adapted from Timothy Zahn's Star Wars book "The Last Command", pg. 67-69. Bantam books 1991. It does not belong to me either. (No duh…)