Ember mage a litrpg fant.., p.2
Ember Mage: A LitRPG Fantasy, page 2
Targon walked to the center of the pit and greeted the man he considered father with a bow, same as he did every morning. They effortlessly assumed their preferred stances, and the air stilled as they watched each other.
After so many bouts against one another, the pair needed no signal to begin as their bodies simultaneously exploded into motion.
With his staff behind him, knees slightly bent, Targon set his free hand in front of him. He kept his stance loose, ready to strike or cast at a moment’s notice.
Aldrich nodded as he leaned forward, his weight on the balls of his feet, his dual-swords poised to strike.
On some unspoken signal, they began, dashing towards each other with violent intent.
After sixteen years of movement drills and staff sequences, Targon’s attacks and feints were well-rehearsed muscle memory. The air of the pit was filled with the crack of wood-on-wood and drumbeat of shifting feet on packed dirt.
Like always, their fluid exchanges fell away from the drills and entered an ever-changing dance.
When Targon swung his staff, he only used enough force to rebuff Aldrich’s dual-swords. Many years of painful counterblows and tumbles onto his face reinforced one crucial lesson: “Overcommitting means death.”
In any scenario against a true foe, one mistake was one too many.
For all of Targon’s training, he still cried out in pain when Aldrich’s sword connected with his fingers.
“Damn it! Why does that sting more than usual?”
“Increased weight,” Aldrich’s gave a smug grin, illuminated by the pulsing red light of the Qi energy imbued in the wooden sword. “Tough love, kid. Keep your wits about you and you won’t have to worry about it.”
As an Ember Born, Targon’s body was far more resilient than a human’s. Or so Aldrich insisted. Targon had a hard time believing it when compared to his father.
Still, he struck harder, faster, and recovered quicker than any other youth Aldrich brought to spar. Despite this advantage, Aldrich saw through all of his feints, blocked his strikes with ease, and rained down counter strike after counter strike, time and time again.
But he wouldn't give up just like that.
After Aldrich confirmed that his harsh lesson had sunk in, he settled back down into a ready stance-
Only for Targon to rush forward.
“Victory goes to the swift!”
Despite his attempt to catch the old man off guard, Aldrich easily blocked his swipe and responded with a sharp kick. Targon barely managed to reposition his staff to catch the brunt of the strike. The force of the blow still sent him sprawling back across the pit.
The battle shifted against Targon as the student was pushed to his limits by the master. Aldrich’s years of experience showed as the Qi-infused weapons rained down on his son.
Every strike against Targon’s body, every failure to defend, every hit he took left its mark. His sore and tired limbs cried out for release.
But he didn't quit. His heart hammered in his chest, and his breath was ragged. Though he used his Bursting Flames sparingly, the cost still mounted up over time.
Bursting Flame was one of the fruits of his Emberic heritage. Unlike Aldrich’s abilities granted through his training and class, Bursting Flame was just something he had always been able to do. He was able to control the intensity and focus of the flame to either scorch an enemy or propel his body through the air.
The sparring went on for more than two hours as the sun rose high into the sky above them. Their exhausting dance escalated in intensity over time, but eventually, their morning session neared its end.
Continuous Bursting Flames raised the temperature in the pit and left the area sweltering. Dirt stuck to the slick sweat that caked Targon's skin.
While he didn't feel as though his physical skills granted him an advantage over Aldrich, there was one thing that did.
He leaped to the side, using a directed Bursting Flame to give him the extra momentum to take him out of Aldrich’s reach.
Targon’s mind raced. He's going to... There!
A second shot of Bursting Flame, using only a wisp of Mana, allowed him to adjust his position in mid-air just in time to block Aldrich's blow. He landed back in the dirt, digging his staff into the ground to slow his momentum.
Aldrich had always praised Targon for his innovative use of his natural ability in creating his own fighting style. Still, Targon couldn’t help but feel that he had a long way to go.
Targon fired off another Flame, only for Aldrich to duck underneath the fire and strike him in the chest.
“Damn it.”
Hopping back, Targon distanced himself from Aldrich's most recent thrust, rubbing at his side. Painful though it might be, he could tell the old man had held back at the last moment. The fact that his father had to be careful with him rankled a little as he recalled one of the sayings he'd heard so many times during their past training bouts.
Never underestimate your opponent.
Overcome with frustration, Targon went into a frenzy, sending volley after volley of Bursting Flame towards his father. He could feel his Mana tick down with every shot, coming dangerously close to fading from Mana Depletion.
Qi covered Aldrich's weapons and body, the dual blades crossed in front of him defensively as the magical barrage approached.
No matter how hard Targon tried, he knew besting Aldrich would always be an exercise in futility.
But the adrenaline and challenge made him grin wildly.
Targon closed the distance quickly, lunging forward with a strike of his staff. Dodging with a simple side-step, the old man smacked the staff to the side.
In keeping with the sudden escalation of their battle, Aldrich charged his second blade with even more Qi as it fell with deadly purpose towards his son’s shoulder. Following the momentum of his parried staff, Targon twirled his weapon around his body and raised it to block-
Only to slip on the loose dirt beneath his feet.
A moment of hesitation cost him the advantage, forcing him to stumble back to avoid another strike.
He huffed in exasperation, once more creating distance between them.
“I’m getting old here, kid.”
Squinting at the obvious provocation, Targon sucked in a harried breath.
How does he never get tired?
Aldrich took the initiative and charged forward, an onslaught of blows raining down towards the tired Ember Born.
Targon's staff blurred as it spun wildly, blocking the flurry of blows. The sound of wood against wood cracking through the air drowned out all other sounds as Targon redoubled his efforts, pushing Aldrich back.
Rather than fighting him directly, Targon acted to move the battle in his favor.
Taking to the air with judicious use of Bursting Flame, Targon dashed over his father’s head, whirling his staff down on his unprotected skull.
Aldrich parried with both weapons and pushed back with a burst of Qi, sending Targon flying. Pinwheeling through the air he was forced to continuously cast Bursting Flame to stop himself from slamming into the wall.
Gritting his teeth, he furrowed his brows at his father.
With a dainty flourish of his swords, Aldrich beckoned Targon forward, grinning while taunting the youth.
“You gotta try harder than that, kid.”
The pithy remark caused Targon's eye to twitch in annoyance. For all his supposed physical gifts, the gulf of experience between them seemed insurmountable. Sweat stung his eyes, his lungs burned in protest, and his muscles ached with exhaustion.
He wanted to take a break to rest but knew Aldrich wouldn't relent until the sun struck the marker at the edge of the pit. Only then would they end practice so they could wash and eat the first meal of his day.
Targon wanted to do something, anything, to wipe the smug grin off the old man's face.
Targon rushed forward, a torrent of fire spewing from the tip of his staff as he slammed it into the ground. The force of the flame launched Targon into an arc over the larger man.
During his flight he sent a rapid series of Flames towards his father, who was forced to use his Qi to block the impact. The flurry of flames kept Aldrich busy and obscured his vision as Targon descended to the ground behind his mentor.
I've got him!
Targon pivoted on the balls of his feet, sweeping his staff toward Aldrich's unprotected rear.
“I win!” he triumphantly shouted.
Incredulity left his mouth hanging open in shock when Aldrich moved with inhuman speed to parry his attack, twisting Targon’s staff out of his hands.
Before he could react, the wooden edge of one of Aldrich’s swords pressed firmly against his neck, though the old man didn't even bother to glance back at him. Despite everything, he had still lost.
Targon took a moment to collect himself. He was frustrated, yes, but this was the closest he had ever come to putting his father on the ground. His body ached, but it was the ache of an athlete pushed to his limits.
He looked at the Paladin. Targon had known the man his whole life. He was tight lipped and abrasive, but Targon never doubted that the old man loved him, in his own way. The merciless combat in the pit was just Aldrich’s way of teaching him how to be a man.
Aldrich had been busy extinguishing the last wisps of Burning Flames. Targon caught a faint smile of pride on the old man’s face before he turned to talk to him.
“So, here's a tip: never, never pointlessly create a vulnerability for yourself,” Aldrich lectured. He put both of the swords into one hand and took the younger man’s arm, pulling him to his feet. “Flashy moves are good and all, but all of that was a large waste of Mana that left you vulnerable.”
“What do you mean?”
Aldrich stared at Targon and sighed, coating his sword with Qi.
“Pay attention.”
Nodding, Targon watched as the accumulation of Qi became visible on the edge of the sword.
He'd seen the same thing before, but never to the same level.
With a casual flick of the wrist, an arc of condensed energy easily split through the pit’s floor, traveling until it was buried deep into the pit’s fortified walls. The entire side of the pit collapsed on itself as the Qi Blade sliced its way through the ground for several meters in a fraction of a second. A nasty scar ruined the field, leaving Targon feeling dumbstruck.
He ruined the training pit…?
“Do you think you could've avoided that, suspended in the air?” Aldrich asked seriously.
“To be fair, I don’t think I could avoid that in any situation.” Targon scratched the back of his neck, amazed by the level of destruction the simple attack caused.
“You can. I’m sure of it,” Aldrich assured, bounding out of the pit before returning his swords to the rack. Targon jumped out of the pit with the help of Bursting Flame then went to put the staff away.
But Aldrich stopped him, pushing it back into his hands. When Targon looked at him with raised eyebrows, Aldrich sighed and looked away.
“You’re gonna wanna hold onto that, kid.”
“What’s going on, Aldrich? First, you push harder than I can remember. Now, you want me to keep my staff with me? You never let me take it away from the pit,” Targon said with some concern, looking at the sky, judging the time of day. They only had another hour before the sun reached its peak.
Pacing a few steps away from the pit, he sat in the short grass cross-legged. He always meditated after practice. While Mana naturally replenished over time, meditation hastened the process.
He filtered out the sensations of the outside world – the lingering heat from the pit, the sounds of Aldrich tidying their weapons away, even the mid-morning breeze against his skin. Slowing his breath he found the reservoir of power within him and sank his awareness into the pale blue nimbus of energy.
As he breathed, he visualized himself taking strands of Mana in his hands, folding it, refining it, wringing impurities out of it, and letting it return to his reservoir, replenished and refreshed.
Aldrich finished his work and walked over to where Targon sat.
“I’ll tell you after you wash. Also, don’t worry about breakfast. Today we’ll be eating rations on the road,” he informed his student.
The abrupt comment nearly caused him to lose focus on his Mana-cycling. Disbelief and uncertainty clawed their way from the depths of his gut as he dumbly stared at Aldrich, his mouth hanging open as though he wanted to catch a fly in his maw.
Aldrich laid next to Targon, staring at the clouds above.
“Aldrich, I-.”
Aldrich shook his head as he interrupted Targon. “The world is larger than most know, and we live in the cosmic boonies. People out in the civilized world…” Instead of finishing his thought, Aldrich asked, “How's your Mana?”
Targon watched Aldrich, trying to figure out what was bothering him. He shrugged, returning his focus to his meditation as he answered.
“Just above a third.”
“No matter how many times I hear it… Makes me kinda jealous,” Aldrich muttered under his breath. It took Aldrich three times as long to replenish half as much, even when meditating.
Sitting together in silence, they remained there until Targon stood a few minutes later, his Mana fully recovered. Aldrich rose shortly after, walking towards their home in silence.
Targon observed the homestead he grew up in. It was a simple two-story cottage made of wood adjoined by a small barn and their garden. Humble, but it'd been his home for most of his life.
A forest bordered the lands around their home, and Targon spent many evenings wandering the closer paths.
A large river flowed a short walk away and it was there they drew their water for cooking, cleaning, and bathing.
Targon had never seen Aldrich so disturbed, so... distracted.
He kept stealing glances at the man. There'd never been a time he could recall him acting so distant. He wrung his staff nervously as he hoped against hope that everything would be okay.
They took their boots off at the door, and Targon rested his staff against the door frame, catching the shaft as it nearly slipped to the ground.
As usual, he propped it up with one of his spare boots to make sure it would remain in place without falling. Once the staff was finally settled, he turned towards the steps. For a brief moment, he hesitated at the first step until Aldrich faded from view, rounding the corner to his washroom.
After pushing away the thought of raising his concerns with Aldrich, Targon ascended the stairs and entered his room. It seemed they'd depart soon, so he decided to pack before he washed, not that he knew where they were going or what the old man wanted from him.
He grabbed his extra sets of leathers and a random assortment of casual clothes from his wardrobe and threw them into a sack with some miscellaneous items.
Not much in the grand scheme of things, but Aldrich's training had taught him well how to live with only the bare essentials.
With most of his belongings packed, he looked around his room once more, reminiscing. He turned back to his wardrobe, staring at the only thing left inside.
Long white robes adorned with Alvara’s crest, seldom worn and consigned to the depths of his closet, swung gently within the cabinet.
Targon frowned at the robes, hesitantly setting them on his bed. The majority of people he’d ever met were members of Alvara’s church, and they all treated him with varying degrees of scorn and distaste. Out of the entire bunch of Alvara's followers, Aldrich was the only person that didn’t look at him with malice or disgust.
They lived rather minimally, staying far away from other people so the discrimination from the citizens of Avox wouldn’t reach them. A lonely life which suited the aged Paladin down to the ground, although it did leave Targon isolated and aching for company.
He had wanted to meet other people in his youth, but it never turned out well.
Targon let out a deep sigh, releasing a lot of his pent-up anxiety and stress. He stripped off his dirt-covered leathers as he walked towards the adjoining washroom.
One of Targon’s few luxuries was a wide wooden tub with a copper base. He filled it using water he’d fetched that morning before practice and used his Bursting Flame to heat the water until it steamed.
Targon settled himself into the water with a deep sigh. The water might have scalded a normal person, but his heritage meant he could tolerate extreme temperatures.
Closing his eyes, he allowed the water to loosen the grime for over a minute. But he knew he couldn’t dally for long. He took the thistle brush and vigorously scrubbed the accumulated sweat and dirt until his skin felt raw. Only then did he draw himself out of the tub, wiping away any missed filth while water dripped on the tiled floor.
In minutes, he pulled on soft undergarments, his leathers, and then held Alvara’s robes in his hands. With great hesitance, he donned the well-made robes, the same ones which acted as a symbol for those who hated his very existence.
Once they were in place, he shifted, trying to get them to sit without obstructing his movements too much. After a few vain attempts, he decided he wasn't going to be satisfied with the garb no matter what, so he grabbed his pack and walked down the stairs.
Aldrich stood at the doorway, tapping his foot and palming the hilt of his sheathed swords while waiting for him in his own robes. As a former active Paladin, his robes were much more extravagant than Targon's own.
Aldrich turned and walked out of the homestead. He was down the steps when he shouted over his shoulder. “I’m not getting any younger, kid.”
Targon pulled on his boots, grabbed his staff, and then rushed out after Aldrich. He caught up to him just as they passed over the simple wooden bridge that separated the homestead from the Pilgrim’s Path, the longest road in Avox.
The stories Aldrich had told him about the world spoke of how the Pilgrim’s Path spanned all the way from the east coast to the western mountains. An impressive distance to Targon, but Aldrich had only snorted when he'd said as much.
Properly speaking, Avox’s full formal name was The Theocracy of Avox. After the collapse of the Avoxian Empire, the Church of Alvara had risen to fill the power vacuum in the central provinces, expanding its rule in the name of Peace and Love to solidify control over much of the continent.
