[Dez] Unmatched, But at What Cost?

[Sparky]

[Refs]

SPOILER: Click to show

Spell name: Martial Dominance
Spell Main Element: War
-Spell Sub Elements: N/A
Affinity Strength: 7
Function: With each blow in combat, a mage practiced in the art of war gains footing upon their adversary. As the battle progresses, a mage tied with the element of war surges with more energy. Rather than tiring as a battle progresses, this spell instead acts as a second wind, boosting the caster's strength and combat ability. Further, the more the caster trades blows with their adversary, the more they learn patterns and weaknesses to exploit, hammering home more ferocious strikes and potentially intimidating an enemy into backing down or slipping up due to their overwhelming skill and presence.
Availability: Open

Spell name: Annihilation Arts: Crimson Harvest
Spell Main Element: War
-Spell Sub Elements: N/A
Affinity Strength: 9
Function: The caster pushes themselves past their natural limits, overclocking their body to it's breaking point all for the sake of striking their target as many times as possible in a matter of seconds. Harnessing the power of war magic throughout their body and upon the edge of their blades, the caster attacks dozens, if not hundreds of times faster than the eye can comprehend, rending any target infront of them. This spell can be extremely dangerous to use, causing immense backlash upon the war mage themselves as punishment for pushing their body so hard. Causing extreme exhaustion or untold physical harm as muscles and bones are strained to compensate for the immense force exerted. This spell cannot be cast liberally, and must only be used in dire circumstances.
Availability: Open

Total Words: 1600

    Training was not optional in the Amari lineage. Every mage born to the family had a duty to be the best they could possibly be. Skilled in the arts of survival, combat, and magical prowess. The family had a reputation to uphold, producing mages of incredible quality and moral standing. Even those who were too physically frail for combat were at least taught how to master their magic. Even if they could not follow the footsteps of their ancestors, then at the very least they would forge their own path. And the clan did everything they could for each child. 

    For one as loved by magic as Dez, it was imperative that his teaching was as rigorous as possible. 

    Dez's mentor was a hard man. Harsh in his lessons. Unforgiving of any mistakes. He was a war hero, a friend of his father. The boy didn't know if he was naturally rough, or if the treatment was specific to him alone. With so much weight placed upon his shoulders to be the best, undoubtedly there must have been something placed upon the man expected to teach him. Mistakes were unforgiveable. If the performance wasn't spotless and without mistakes, then Dez was to do it again. Constant repetition. Memorizing each stance. Each swing. Each punch. Forcing his body to remember the movements faster than his mind. With such a high affinity for war, the boy's senses were naturally sharper. His ability to process and comprehend the fight around him second only to the man who taught him. 

    It was more than just the movements. The placement. The skills. He was also taught to remember the pain of being struck. How even a dull wooden sword could crack itself upon his stomach or his legs. The feeling of fighting while bruised and battered. Grit through it. Fight against it. Dez was taught to steel himself against even the harshest of blows. Future adversaries would not be so kind as to let him sob.

    The boy couldn't remember what triggered it, but eventually the blows felt dull in the back of his mind. Pain surged the same, but his body resisted the urge to collapse under it. At the time, he assumed that perhaps he had toughened up. Gotten stronger. Or then again, perhaps the mind was a fickle thing. Displacing itself away from the moment to preserve some shred of sanity. A last ditch attempt to resist a mental break. 

    Worse was the fact that after every training session ended, Dez's mentor sat him down, tended to the wounds, and talked with him in calm and comforting tones. Gentle prodding towards where he did exceptionally well, and where he still could improve. Sometimes they even got ice cream. He was the only person who gave the young mage that level of care. Every time, the teenager wished that his mentor never did that. That he remained cruel. Cold. Indifferent. It would have made it easier for the blue-haired boy to hate him. Easier for him to deal with the blows and the punishments. The harsh scolding. But every night, Dez was reminded that his mentor was simply doing a job, and his intentions, in their own way, were born from compassion. 

    He wanted Dez to be the best. To help live up to those expectations put on the both of them. Young, angry, and frustrated with everything, the teen found that he hated his mentor's honesty. Could it even be considered hypocrisy when the man was only being truthful?

    Some mentors were known to be harsher upon their favorite students. Especially those who'd seen long years of combat. Fear was always the motivator, but not for themselves. The concept that these great mentors were only leading their students to lives of death, and a fear that those same students would, themselves, be killed in the process. Cold indifference kept distance. Harsher punishments instilled zero tolerance for mistakes. 

    Dez had no idea if it was the correct way to teach, or if a gentler approach might have worked best. Unfortunately, the  blue-boy didn't have any other mentors around to could see the other side of the coin. Instead, he got the rough shit. What a great way to lose a coin toss. 

    Weeks and months of training all culminated to a final test every year. Tests of agility, strength, control, building up to a trial by combat. Sparring between each student. Not a ladder fight, but multiple rounds going until each student versed one another. Victories were tallied to determine a pass or a fail. There was no real champion of this faux-tournament, but the students still looked for one. Protective aura's marked when a student was considered defeated. In years past, Dez was unable to go without one or two defeats to his record, which always earned him a thorough scolding. Meanwhile, the other mentors praised theirs for each little victorie. 

    Such was the cost of being born an heir. 

    This year was different. A long descent had brought Dez down a dark path. Taunting thoughts and nightmares filled with his own death. The cost of failure was high. If the boy couldn't go undefeated, then what would happen if he was defeated in the wild? Out in the world, things were crueler. Meaner. More vicious. Like Dez's mentor had taught him. Even now, his opponents would capitalize on any sign of weakness. Any display of hesitation was leapt upon. Any flinch, any yelp, was used as a weapon.

    Violet eyes watched each match. Practiced hands swept aside every challenger. With dull resignation, the young Amari accepted what was to come. Somewhere deep down, the empathy his parents taught him to pay attention to was berried deep inside. As each round went by without Dez taking a single blow to his aura, the blue-haired boy was certain some part of him felt awful about what he was doing to others. None of those thoughts reached the surface, or manifested in his actions. Covered head to toe in glowing crystal armor, the revenant tore through his opponents with vicious and ruthless efficiency. 

    Even with healing magic and potions to refresh stamina, each fight took its toll on the boy. If not physically, then mentally. The world grew dull and muted around him. Colors ceased registering in his mind outside the vibrant blue of his own crystals. Perhaps he was blanking out, his mind shutting down from years of stress, fear, anxiety, and a growing, painful depression. Violet eyes watched strands of blue curl out from his finger tips as crystals shot forth incredibly fast, but also painfully slow. Perception muddled itself in his head.

    A colored reality versus the dim, monochrome of his mind. 

    The final match wasn't like the others. Another student on a hot streak strode confidently out onto the floor. Meanwhile, Dez could barely see the corners of his vision. That was fine. All he had to do was sense the electricity in the world around him, and the picture became clear again. Each muscle in Dez's body felt heavy, and all of the noise didn't quite read properly. One last fight. If he could win this properly than he wouldn't have to die. 

    Sensing weakness, his opponent sought to taunt the boy. Lips moved, and words certainly left his lips. Dez couldn't remember what the other student said, and yet the inky black was stricken by a pulsing, vibrant red. The young man's vision widened as a new heat boiled in his chest, then narrowed in a different way. Hype focused on a singular point. Only the sound of the bell ringing broke the muted silence of Dez's world.

    Crystals cracked and burst with lightning as the young mage barreled down upon his opponent with an unmatched fury. Each strike was ferocious and heavy enough to stagger the other mage with each impact. The movements were vicious, but not unguided. Years and years of practice hammered into the boy's very body kept his motions from becoming tainted by rage. Why was he angry? Because he didn't want to lose.

    Why didn't he want to lose? Because he didn't want to die. Dez's opponent kept up their guard and blocked each strike flawlessly. From the outside, it looked as though they were on the backfoot, only a matter of time until Dez swung the fight fully in his favor. Until the blue-haired mage caught something after a strike.

    They were smiling. 

    A switch flipped in Dez's brain and the world snapped back into focus. Color and sound reintroduced themselves to the boy's exhausted brain. Past the fury and the intent to break his enemy, the Amari heir heard his own panting. There was a reason why his opponent was grinning despite being under such a vicious assault. The other mage was waiting for the heir to exhaust himself. Violet eyes narrowed and bare feet pushed back from the other mage, ending the spree of attacks. A moment of confusion flickered in the eyes of the opponent, followed by irritation. They weren't going to get an easy win, not off Dez. 

    Despite the realization, the damage already had been dealt. Dez was panting heavily, while his opponent's aura had only taking a middling level of damage. Still, regrounding himself back in reality helped the boy steady his stance. Each traded blow was measured and matched his adversary. Blades clattered and cracked themselves against one another, only to reform, and with the pressure mounted upon the other mage, many ranged spells were difficult to pull off effectively. Even when point blank shots popped off, Dez responded fast enough to block even them. 

    With each traded blow, the young man found his footing. He was learning the patterns, picking up on each little hit. The way they placed their footing. Which angles they favored, even the subtleties that clued in which arm was the dominant one. Dez stopped panting, instead feeling a new surge of momentum fill his body and reclaim his muscles. Strikes were getting through now. But this adrenaline rush wouldn't last. The other mage had been primarily on the defense, meaning they still had more stamina left in reserves. Dez had to finish it up before he exhausted himself again. 

    Dez stepped back, then lunged forwards. Time slowed. Details became clearer. And yet, as the world moved around him at a snails pace, the boy still found the footing to move without effort. War magic surged through every part of his body. Every muscle, all the way down to the bone. It met his blade, sharpened its edge. As slow as if they'd been stuck into molasses, his opponent was left wide open in the blue-haired mage's eyes. Dez swung. Then swung again. Then again. Then again. 

    In the time it took a person to blink, blue lines had been drawn in the air where the young Amari had placed his slashes. Reality snapped back to normal speed, and his opponent's aura shattered. The other mage took a single, stumbled step, and froze. Shocked and in disbelief that it was over. Exhaustion gripped Dez's body with a deep, inescapable ache. He did not stumble. Relief washed over him. He won. A perfect, flawless victory without a single hit marking his aura. The boy didn't have to die. He didn't have to die...

    He didn't...

    Why was he afraid of dying in the first place...?

    Once more the darkness ebbed into his vision, highlighted by thin streaks and shocks of red. This whole time, the boy had been told of the cost of failure. How he would die if he wasn't careful but... since when did he decide to go into battle anyways? No one had thought to ask the boy if that life was fit for him. If that's what Dez wanted to do. And now, he was faced with everything he had been through. All the pain. The frustration. The fear of failure and death. Dez grit his teeth. 

    What had it all been for? Turning away, he was met with his mentor fast approaching. Without thinking, the boy cut the man off, growling in low tones. "I don't need you anymore. I got you your perfect victory. I'm done." A storm had wrapped itself around Dez's mind. Frustration and anguish that was left buried for years and left to sit and fester, now dripping from every crack in the boy's heart. He paused as he passed the man who'd taught him so much. The words felt too harsh. Too sudden. He scratched and clawed at his temples and the back of his head. Finally, the boy whispered without looking at the man. "There's a lot on my mind, I need to go think." 

    That was the last time he stepped foot in the clan's training grounds.

Final Word Count: 2139/1600

[swiftyuki]

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