Writer's Notes: Hello readers! To start things off, no RP characters here in Endless Gravestones, save for Cecily, were harmed or used in this fic. Please breathe deep and relax. I will be posting the next chapter in about a month's time and hopefully the succeeding chapters will come out faster. I'm really busy with a lot of things right now, and I'm only writing this with my free time. Ah, how I wish I could use the appropriate fonts for this. Post your comments at Letters to Idelice. Anyway, happy reading!!!

Morning had come to Idelice. The sunlight crept over the sharp spires of rock that had always covered the secluded town. A jagged shadow hung over the settlement. Scary as it may seem, it was a regular sight. The townsfolk never feared the casting, for the sharp spires was their guardian. Crisscross and grim… the mountain range that hid Idelice, Crissaegrim. Of course, the misty forest and the ghostly field of edelweiss were also part of Crissaegrim. All these protected the town. However, they were also the reason why the village was in seclusion.

At the farthest side of Idelice, right next to the peak of Crissaegrim was a great mansion, a mansion that housed a myriad of books. Books on magic, books on history, books on trivial things, many books, all kinds of books… save for books that were written plainly to make you laugh. In that mansion was a man…

“Neither bandit nor yoma can cross the threshold… as long as the librarian wears a smile on his face. Tranquility will forever reign over Idelice,” said the man in the dark brown, aristocrat’s attire. The water-stained frills of his clothing complimented his roach-colored coat. His black, wavy hair covered his sleepy, crimson eyes and his mouth spoke everything as if they were stories found in books. This man in the dark brown, patrician’s clothing was no other than the librarian of the mansion, the Librarian of Idelice.

Suddenly the main entrance opened, with creaks and cracks. From the glorious rays of the sun came forth a villager. The man had news for the librarian, or perhaps a favor.

“Master Librarian,” the man called out. He glanced left, right; the vast halls of the library could make one lost. For this man, his vision to see the librarian was lost. “Master Librarian!” he called out once more. He advanced between the towering book shelves thinking that he could find the man he sought.

“What is it?” asked a cold, calm voice. It came from behind the books to the right.

The villager saw a shelf with an empty space, and there he peered. The librarian was on the other side, a tome in his hand.

“Ah, master, we have a visitor in Idelice,” the villager said. He widened the peephole in the shelf to get a better view of the master of the mansion.

The librarian continued to skim over the tome in hand as if he was not paying attention. Visitors were rare in Idelice. To climb over the spires would mean death. To traverse the misty woods and the eerie edelweiss field would no doubt scare any mortal soul. However, it was not impossible to enter town. Anyone who was invited by the land can come… but only those deemed worthy by the librarian could stay.

“It’s a woman… a warrior with silver eyes and yellow hair,” added the villager. These descriptions of the foreigner were indeed intriguing. The villager sounded all excited.

The librarian abruptly closed the book in his hand. The sound of paper on paper had no doubt caught the anxious man’s attention. It appeared the aristocrat-looking librarian was not happy about the visitor. Or was he?

“Give the guest a tour of Idelice… but bring her here, you must not,” said the librarian with a cold and vindictive tone. Then the librarian waved his hand as if to say ‘go away’.

The villager fearing he may have wronged the master of the mansion, quickly left. The library doors shut themselves behind him, rude and ill-tempered.



The librarian looked outside the stained windows of the library. Nothing but vines, moss and stone could be seen beyond them. Not much of a panoramic view. There was nothing awesome, nothing striking. The librarian then turned to the shelf behind him. It was brimming with many books containing wondrous stories. Truly, the insides of books were more interesting than the world outside.

The aristocratic librarian approached the yellow-wood shelf and picked up a random book from it. He slowly turned the book to its front cover. He wanted to know what the title of the book was.



The eyes of the librarian sharpened. An interesting title was written on the cover. It felt action-packed, probably dark with lots of blood and gore. Monsters were no doubt everywhere, as well as insect-winged elves.

“For later,” the librarian mumbled as he walked further into the library. He paced until he arrived at the mansion’s atrium.

The atrium was grand beyond words. It was composed of two stories, the second story twelve feet from the ground floor held up by majestic arches. The ceiling was high enough for two more stories. The book shelves on the second floor were so tall that they almost reached the ceiling and ladders were needed to have access to the topmost books. The yellow-wood from afar looked like gold, giving the feel of royalty despite them being quite old. At the center of the atrium were several reading tables, varnished masterfully and seemingly ageless.

The librarian got to one of the tables, sat down and began to indulge himself with the book he had gotten. He spent an hour or maybe two hours reading. He did not stand up to go visit the little boys’ room, to stretch his back from sitting too long, to search for food to satisfy his hunger, not once did he even try. He sat there and read until he finally finished the book from cover to cover. When he was done, he merely set the book aside, appearing as always, emotionless.

“Sir Librarian!” called out a girlish, gleeful voice. Little footsteps loomed closer and closer to the atrium. “Oh there you are, sir,” said the source of the voice. It was a little girl, flaxen hair, in black ragged robes, wooden sandals, and blue eyes… certainly not the warrior the elder villager spoke of.

“I’m here to return the book I borrowed,” said the little girl as she showed a book with a colorful cover. For sure it was a book about fairytales and what not, most probably the kind with pop-up pictures. The child placed the book on the reading table and smiled with utmost innocence. “Thank you sir!” she said graciously.

The librarian looked at the child, his face unchanged and as lifeless as ever. “How is the visitor?” the man asked with an emotionless tone.

The little girl smirked. Did she see the visitor or not? Certainly the smirk was not the answer. “She’s a very kind person. She can do magic tricks too! I was really amazed… so now I want to borrow a book about magic!” said the child with enthusiasm.

The librarian rested his back on his seat and began to think. “A woman, a warrior, eyes like the color of fine steel, yellow hair and magic, indeed there is a silver-eyed witch in Idelice,” said his mind. The man rubbed his chin and pointed to a stack of books on the second floor, “Grimiores second floor, right.”

The aristocratic librarian did not want the child to draw the visitor’s attention to the mansion of books. The magic tomes should distract her, and so he advised the girl accordingly. He wanted the day to pass without anything troublesome happening, but then he remembered something, a sword… a claymore.



“Visiting hours has been cut short,” the librarian announced hoping the little girl would hear him. He looked to the pile of books on the upper floor only to find the girl delving deeper into the pile.

An hour of thinking of possible outcomes that could occur due to the sword had made him perceive the future. The librarian knew he had to get the little girl out before things would get messy. Impatience grew in him until he finally decided to take the girl outside with his own hands instead. The man climbed up the stairs to the second floor; with each step was a creak. “Time is up,” said the librarian. He sneaked silently behind the distracted petite child and surprised her. She looked at the tall librarian’s face covered with his wavy locks. “Isn’t it still early?” the girl asked, displeased with the turn of events.

The librarian picked up a tome on the floor, wiped the dust off of it then presented it to the child. “Take this one. You can come back some other time for the others,” the man said lifelessly. It was not a very convincing advertisement.

The little girl did not seem to understand. Usually there was a requirement to borrow something from the library. The girl did not know what to offer since the librarian suggested so suddenly. “What should I leave as collateral?” she asked curiously.

The librarian peered outside the vine writhed window and said, “A shortening of visiting hours for the day.” Of course, the little girl happily agreed.

The two made their way back to the entrance. The sunlight beaming in the entrance windows were still in place. Truly, it was still early to go home. High noon was still hours away. What made the librarian decide such a course of action? A mere misplaced sword? Why would he worry so?

Just when they were about to reach the exit, the librarian stopped. At that moment he knew it was already too late. The visitor had arrived.

The doors swung open, a figure stood in the middle of the morning light. Spaulders, sabatons, shining with the light, cape flowing with the breeze, a great sword revealed only by its hilt; all these were on the person who stood before the master of the mansion and the magic-searching child.

“Ah it’s the visitor!” exclaimed the little girl. Her ignorant bliss compelled her to do so. She ran to the stranger’s side and greeted, “My name is Alice, this is the Library of Idelice and he is the Master Librarian.”

The stranger smiled at the girl with her silver eyes and then placed her attention on the librarian. Business always came first, and it seemed the visitor had business with the aristocratically-clothed librarian. “My name is Cecily,” declared the warrior.

“The library will be closed for the day,” said the librarian in the roach-colored coat. He was well aware of what the silver-eyed woman’s purpose was and tried to evade it as much as possible.

The woman brushed her flaxen locks away from her eyes, held them back just for a second, and then said, “I’ll be borrowing a book about the history of Idelice…”

The librarian observed the blond she approached him. He saw her hand; slight traces of rust were on it, familiar rust. “Braids… the library is out of service for the day. Do not be stubborn,” he said as he turned away.

Suddenly the woman brandished her two-handed blade and attempted to take the librarian’s life.

“NO! What are you doing!?” screamed the child, her soul being traumatized. She could only watch helplessly.

“I had to be this close to know you were the Awakened Being?” said Cecily to the librarian.

Three days away from the Organization’s headquarters was a small village on the verge of harvest season. Wheat was their main produce. Vast expanses of this golden grass belonged to them. As a matter of fact, the village was one of the providers of food for the eastern provinces. The reason why the place was kept small was to leave the bountiful earth for growing wheat. No land was better to plant the crop on. It would have been a waste to build dwellings on top of such fertile soil.

The town had two lines of defense in case raiders came to pillage, a tall stone wall constructed by elite masons and a watch tower made by the same masons, housing veteran sentries and their weapons.

Lately, the village was being assailed by an unknown attacker. The silos were not pillaged; the wheat was safe. The only thing being taken from the village, were the lives of the villagers. Corpses would appear inside the supposedly serene town in the morning. Their bellies ripped open in ways unthinkable. Even though the sentries were competent be it night duty or otherwise, the attacker was intelligent enough to avoid detection. ‘Yoma attack’ was the conclusion of the majority and the village elders sent a request to the Organization.

A day after the request was sent… a man in black armor began staking out the location. He did not loom in the village. It was not his intention to linger with villagers. To be among the swaying tall wheat was better than relating with peasants.

“Night shall reveal our target,” the man said as he chewed on wheat chaff and bran, taking extra compensation from the village without the people’s behest.

Nightfall was still hours away. The man in dark steel looked above the sea of golden grass in search of the perfect spot to wait. His incompletely blond hair was the only thing a person would recognize as his body was submerged in the yellow foliage. The high-noon sun glazed the whole field with the color of honey. Anything and everything under the sun seemed to meld with the wheat, the Organization’s yoma hunter included. “Perfect spot,” the man said after searching for his stake point, a single tree among the ocean of wheat.

Waiting was all the man could do. It was nothing new to him. He was very patient after all. Although he loathed such troublesome work, someone had to do it. Wavy locks of blond swung back and forth in the wind, dancing before his stiff-looking face, the face of tolerance. The dark steel warrior killed time by the lonely tree, watching the town from afar.



Dusk, the sun began to set in the west. The once golden fields turned crimson, a sea of flames… or more likely an ominous sea of blood. Once night sets in, the mysterious, gut-feasting fiend would appear. It would sneak past the diligent guards of the outpost. It would enter households unnoticed, seek its prey, tear them open and enjoy its banquet. After which it would leave, its prey’s belly torn open like a rose in bloom.

The Organization’s man observed as the peasants hastily tried to finish their day’s work and run off home. They were like ants scattering about fearing the arrival of an ant eater. “Look at them,” said the warrior though talking to nobody, “…insects scuttling in terror as the great big swatter will lead them to bug heaven.” Deadlines were definitely taken seriously. Anyone who would not conclude their share of work would unquestionably carry on their jobs through the cold and horror-filled hours of darkness. The peasants hurriedly stored all their harvested wheat into the grain storage. Every once in a while, a laborer would stumble and drop his load because of recklessly trying to finish as fast as he could.

The hours trickled away like sand in an hourglass…

Finally, only a saffron line was left of the sun and its light on the horizon. Darkness covered the fields and the village. Only a few more peasants were left doing their work. The guards on night duty began to move to their posts. It was time for the Organization’s yoma hunter to move as well.

The warrior made his way through the black, across the barely noticeable sea of wheat. He approached the town carefully, skillfully, stealthily. He wanted to avoid encounters with anyone from the village. He only wanted to confront the murderous monster and get it over quickly. If the guards were as diligent as was noted, he had to steer clear of the main entrances and important places. The silo to the south was definitely one of the places to not visit and so were the guard tower to the east and the western entrance.

“Mission start,” the man whispered to the veil of darkness in front of him. He leaped over the town’s wall and landed on one of the roofs the village had to offer. Despite him being fleet footed, his spaulders clanged as it struck the sword sheathed on his back. He anxiously glanced around to check if his presence was noticed. Fortune shined over as it appeared his mistake went undetected.



The town looked abandoned with the curtain of darkness drawn. Only the lamps of the main avenue, the silo and the guard tower were a lit. If the culprit were truly a yoma then dousing the lamps in one’s abode would do nothing. Yomas know the scent of a meal. They can track prey down even amidst shadows. The same applied for the warriors of the Organization, but it was not whiff that drew them to their targets. It was the energy they used.

The man donning the black armor headed west atop the roofs until he saw a guard on duty, standing on the wall. Conscientious, could best describe the guard although suspicious would also apply. To the normal human eye, the sentry was just a sentry. To a warrior of the Organization, a sentry can be the target in costume. “A wolf in sheep’s clothing,” murmured the warrior as he speedily descended upon the enemy, sword ready and waiting.

Wrath quickly befell the monster in disguise. The warrior’s sword severed the hidden horror’s right arm, the arm with the pike it pretended to wield for the people. The yoma shrieked in utmost pain. He could not believe that he was found out. “How? How did you know?” the yoma asked, breathing heavily.

As an answer, the warrior flaunted his two-handed blade smeared with the monster’s blood. No words were needed.

“Blond hair, silver eyes… a highlander’s blade, claymore… hybrid? Is this is the hybrid many have been talking about?” The yoma panicked, gripping the gangrenous wound it had just received. It appeared this was its first time to encounter a hybrid. It had no experience dealing with one. Seeing how it felt cold steel cutting through its flesh and not being able to anticipate the attack, it had no choice but to run. Hysterically, it jumped off the wall and into the lightless field of wheat.

“Who goes there!?” sounded an angry yet scared voice. The other village guards had detected the ruckus and began to gather at the site of the attack. “Name your self!” shouted another of the sentries as he climbed up the stone steps to the top of the wall.

“Unnecessary human interaction,” the hybrid thought. He reached for the bodiless arm and tossed it at the guards then jumped down into fields. Pursuit of the target was top priority, socialization was never a requirement.

“What is this!?” screamed the guard who had caught the severed arm. He threw the limb away seeing at how it turned back to its original state, the arm of a murderous yoma. Confusion began to swell in the ranks as the sentries did not know what to do. Should they go out into the darkness to search for the culprit or must they continue to guard the terrified citizens?



Through darkness was the sound of feet trampling over grass and dirt. Wheat bowed down to the chased and the chaser, giving way to the hunt, making way for inevitable blood spill. Like game hunted, the yoma scampered frantically into the woods west of the village. The hunter did not give in to the challenge presenting itself, even with the shroud of obscurity. No shadow, tree or dress of human flesh could hide the yoma’s energy. That which gives life to the monster ascertains its death. With eyes closed and sword ready, the warrior of the Organization adeptly traversed the shadow-covered woods. There were many distractions, from chirping night birds to noisy crickets, or even the rustling of leaves and the sound of twigs snapped underfoot. These did not bother the yellow-haired warrior. The prey was just in front of him never changing its step as if foolishly luring in its own demise.

“What is it that keeps this man at my tail?” the yoma thought desperately. Perhaps an answer could be found, perhaps not.

In the distance, behind the tall firs and shadow-colored bushes was the faint glow of fire. A campfire was sure to be the origin of the sparse light. The unlucky camper would most probably meet his end if the yoma decides to do so and it decided to do so. It became all too obvious. The blond warrior had to act fast. The only thing to want was the corpse of the hunted. Suddenly the sentry-guised yoma sped up. It dashed faster towards the eerie glow. It bolstered every drop of energy it had for the sprint until finally…

Death was what the pretend-sentry found at the beacon of light. A large sword perforated his carcass, pinning him to the thick bark of a nearby fir. The monster gasped for breath. With every exhale was a dribble of disgusting yoma blood. With the last of its strength it glanced at its killer. Eyes wide open to disclosure, the yoma died and with that was the arrival of the warrior in dark steel.

The black clad man found to his paramount disappointment that the camper was of his kind, another warrior who coincidentally was camping in the woods. The camping warrior had quite a big physique, extremely buff and carried a humongous sword with him, three times larger than the standard claymore. “You won’t get a higher number if you can’t even catch a weakling such as that,” boasted the big warrior as he got back to his seat, a fallen log. “I am number twenty-four, Surt the Strong…” the large one said as he brandished his giant blade, showing his insignia.

The warrior in black looked at Surt with distaste. He produced a small piece of paper and a feather-pen from the shadows of his cape. With the yoma’s splattered blood, he inked his pen and began to scribble…



When he was done, the hybrid in black turned away from the fire and faded into the curtains of the night.

“He leaves a note of blood to remind the client of the contract and its completion. Even more so, he does not have a symbol… he may not even have a number,” mulled the large warrior, intrigued by the rather bizarre encounter. With a smirk, Surt whispered to the darkness, “The rumored warrior in black…”

Daybreak, a quarter-day away from the wheat meadows, the warrior in black waited. He had many questions in mind as well as many requests. Now that the mission was done all he had to do now was pass the time until his handler would arrive.

“I have no symbol, no number…” the hybrid thought as he combed his locks hanging over his face, “…not a trainee yet not a certified warrior. No past and an utterly obscure future. I have no name though I have an identity no matter how secretive it is.” The man continued to ponder without reserve. His existence was a mystery even to himself. To live as a rumor, to not be a fact was his fate. He was not assiduous but he still did his work regardless of how spiteful the work may be. All the towns he saved, all the missions he took seemed to lose their meaning as time progressed. He would not be remembered for his deeds. All he was to the world was an alien sighting.

Time stood still as he continued to wait. The little verdure the badlands had swayed with cold morning wind. The warmth of the sun did not reach out beyond the mountain-lined horizon. The warrior looked to the south, the direction to where the golden fields were found. He peered into the distance and all he could see where derelict rock formations in an endless plain of stones and scant vegetation. Nothing of importance was there. The dark-steel warrior persisted to linger, he had no choice. An hour or so passed and the unbearable heat the badlands were known for presented itself. With the heat came the horizon mirages. The hybrid glanced at the fake water that had appeared; two heads were surfacing from it. The long wait had ended. There were two people slowly approaching him though he was only expecting one; his handler.

“Good work as always,” praised the man in black robes as he arrived at his own pace. He had with him several items that looked like the standard, chrome-tinted warrior gear. “It is time you changed into these. I will take back with me the black gear,” spoke the handler with domineering sophistication.

The warrior in black did not stand up. He had a lot on his mind and pretending to be deaf was just a consequence of too much thinking. “I have questions…”

A grin materialized from the black cloak’s obscure facade. Disturbing would best describe how it looked. Apparently the handler anticipated this. With his ludicrous smirk he glanced at his warrior and said, “I will answer your queries after you change your gear… now go.”



After a short moment the warrior had changed into his new attire; a silver-colored suit of spaulders, vambraces and sabatons. In his hands were the pieces of his former gear. The warrior felt a bit uncomfortable as he had always donned the obsidian ensemble. However, this was what he wanted, to wear the standard gear and become a standard warrior. With this he was now one step closer to finding meaning to his existence.

“My questions…” prompted the hybrid as he passed the glinting dark steel to his handler. The man in black robes collected the gear with much deliberation in mind. “What do you wish to know?” the handler asked.

The warrior peered into the darkness under the hood. The handler’s eyes were covered in shades impenetrable. As the windows to the soul were veiled, the truths in his handler’s words were questionable. Nevertheless the warrior tried, “Why do I partake in these missions when I have not officially joined the ranks of the forty-seven? How come I have no number, no symbol even after these past fifty-two missions? More so, how come I have no name?”

With a crooked turnabout, the black cloak somberly stated, “From this point on you will be called Id.” Silence abounded. It appeared the warrior had no complaints about his name. Although he did not know what the name meant it did not matter to him. “The reason why you have no number is that all the forty-seven ranks are currently filled in. As promising as you are, the Organization just can’t debase a warrior from his position,” the handler eloquently added. A point was made by the black cloak despite an obvious loophole in the argument.

The blond picked up his brandless claymore as he mentally mixed up a counter-argument. He looked at where he thought his handler’s eyes were gazing at. It felt like eerie symbolism. “Regardless, isn’t it prohibited for a warrior with no rank to be given missions?” the hybrid retorted as if he were in the right.

The black cloak responded to the spite by presenting a black card. Id did not understand what this was all about. Was it another request for yoma hunting? “This is a special request,” asserted the handler, “It is a request from a warrior, a challenge to you.”

Id slowly walked towards the card and took it. He opened it and saw a familiar insignia. Unmistakably, it was the insignia of Surt, the warrior he had ran into a while back. “What am I supposed to do with this? A challenge would mean I would have to battle with a fellow warrior.”

“A warrior with rank,” the handler maliciously included. It was as if he wanted the brawl between warriors to actually happen. “So what if I square off with a warrior with rank?” Id continued to uneasily question. “The battle is to the death, if you manage to kill the numbered warrior, a rank will be empty… you know the rest,” said the evidently evil black cloak.

Without further scrutiny of the request, Id darted off into the horizon pointed by the black cloak’s face. The Saint Lleihl plateau was to that direction. Surely, Surt was waiting among the lush foliage that grew rampantly atop the upland. It seemed Id did not want to disappoint his challenger, nor did he want to disappoint himself. Blinded by the opportunity to gain identity, he rushed to the trap his handler had laid for him.

The black cloak watched as Id vanished into the mirage-lined distance. “Are you sure about this?” asked a serious voice. It was the other person who was with the handler a while ago. He carried the standard warrior’s attire and appeared to be of the numbers. It was part of the black cloak’s plan for him to purposely avoid the conversation. “Do you think Surt stands a chance against him?” the warrior apprehensively added.

“This is to prove the ‘Theory of Awakening’ to the unconvinced,” the handler proudly rambled on… and on again, “Number twenty-four is strong only in name. He does not stand a chance against our Id, not unless he awakens.”

Like Id, the handler and the mysterious warrior began their journey towards Saint Lleihl. They needed to witness the Theory of Awakening become undeniable fact. “Observe as usual, Eagle-eye Jherin,” the black cloak arrogantly ordered. “Concurred, Sir Clement…” replied the numbered warrior.



High noon, the sun directly above was beaming its rays upon the viridian scenery of Saint Lleihl. The unbridled ivy dared to reach the clouds. The plateau itself aided the ivy’s lofty dreams. Saint Lleihl was best known for its eerie fog-veiled landscape and the abundant ghost stories that originated from it. However, just for today, the weather was clear. Fate willed the clash that was about to commence between two pawns of the Organization.

Surt the Strong, twenty fourth among the warriors of the Organization, waited for the arrival of his adversary. Patience was not one of his strong points, nevertheless he calmly stayed put and ever ready, he was trembling in excitement to boot. “Ah… at last,” the giant warrior said to himself for at the distance he could see his rival had arrived.

“I did not know of any procedure of challenging a warrior. Fortunately, Clement introduced to me this ‘black card’ request,” Surt grunted in a near unintelligible manner. He drew his enormous weapon. It could no longer be called a claymore because of its formidable size. “Well, you being here would mean you accepted my challenge… warrior in black.” It took a moment for Surt to realize that the warrior in black was no longer using the usual obsidian equipment, still the face was unmistakable. “It seems we’re not in black today…” the jotun soldier said in a poor attempt to poke fun into the considerably serious meeting.

Wasting no time, Id produced his own weapon and speedily advanced towards his prize. The once, warrior in dark steel cut through the air whisking up a gust that pulled small shards of grass from the earth. Surt stood his ground holding his weapon horizontally before him, a defensive stance. Like the veteran he was, the oversized warrior guarded himself well against Id’s blitz. Not a single sound of gashing or scraping of flesh could be heard, just the continuous clanging of steel upon steel. After a few more failed strikes Id pulled away.

Even after the barrage neither warrior was short on air. Surt was amazed. If the warrior in black was this fast how come he was not able to catch up to the yoma that night? There was only one answer. “You were holding back against your quarry. You weren’t this fast then weren’t you?” Surt curiously asked, followed by a goading grin. There was more surprises awaiting him with this struggle and he was over-eager to find them all.

While Surt was waiting for a reply, Id jumped up high hoping to add more force into his swing when he would descend. Conversely, the giant knew how to defend against such an old-fashioned attack. Surt responded appropriately to his opponent’s aerial strike with a powerful upward swing of his own. The clashing forces cancelled each other out pushing Surt’s soles into the soil and keeping Id airborne a second longer. Riding on instinct, Id used that extra second to try another flurry of slashes only to have them blocked over and over again, making that second of floating even longer until finally he was grabbed by the foot and flung a sizeable expanse away. Id landed, back first into a thorny shrub then skidded on the dirt before coming to a stop. It was something painful to watch.

Number twenty four glanced at Id’s seemingly lifeless corpse. He felt a little disappointed thinking that that may be all that the warrior in black could do. “…you’re not taking this seriously either aren’t you?” the giant spouted with a heated tone. “I AM NO YOMA!” he violently exclaimed as he pierced the earth with his huge blade. “This is a duel between warriors! A duel of honor, for honor! Fight me with everything you’ve got because I will hold nothing back. That is the way of a true warrior and I respect that… I respect you!”

“Enough of your sermonizing,” Id said to himself as he got up from his uncomfortable position. He had broken his right arm, his dominant arm. The last swing of Surt and the hard fall had taken its toll. Luckily, regeneration was not a problem with Id. He just needed some time away from his powerful adversary. “Every strike I make, the force is reflected back at me. He doesn’t need to directly hit me at all. All he needs to do is defend with his sword,” he thought intuitively as he gazed at his trembling hands. He knew his wrist bones were already giving in, it was only a matter of time before they would break. He looked at his enemy who was fast approaching.

With golden eyes, Surt was closed in, his sword scrabbled the floor, dirt and grass kicked up into the air. The restraint on his weapon would no doubt build enormous pressure and in the instant it would be released, a great amount of damage would be dealt. It would be like a volcano saving all that pent-up anger for just one moment. “He’s keeping his yoki somewhere between the twenties and thirties… powerful but easily avoided because the ground restricts his blade,” Id carefully considered as he passed his sword to his left hand. Thinking his plan would work, he did not realize the impulsive rise in yoki his opponent had, a fraction of a second was all that was left to react to the sudden change. Surt had staunched a length of five men away from Id and prematurely sprung his explosive attack. A lethal volley of over forty fist-sized stones shot at Id in tremendous speed along with a cloud of dust.

“I told you to give it your all…” Surt said as he waited for the fallout to clear. Once again he got into his defensive stance knowing that the enemy was not yet down.

When the dust had finally settled a noticeably wounded Id was seen. Several stones had embedded themselves on his abdomen, arms and legs. The fingers on his left hand were broken beyond recognition that he dropped his claymore after the settling. His sword was clearly dented in many places. “You’re yoki shot up over thirty percent at the very last second,” Id evenly stated with heavy breathes, “There was no time for me to avoid it.”

“You can speak even as you are cordially dressed with ribbons of crimson,” wordily described the jotun. He changed his stance seeing that his opponent was mortally wounded. A simple offense would be enough to finish the battle, or so he thought.

Id was profusely bleeding and it appeared it would not stop. The heavily injured warrior showed his misshapen face and revealing his golden irises. The enemy was no push-over. If he had not protected his head with his claymore he surely would have died. He had to put more effort. With his right hand he quickly grabbed his ruined sword and pulled back a distance drizzling his blood every step of the way.

Surt looked at Id in astonishment. He was pretty sure his opponent could no longer move with such grave injuries. “Finally we’re getting serious!” the giant exclaimed as he stampeded his way towards Id, titanic sword ready as ever.

Id slyly ran around Surt avoiding each of the giant’s blows with heightened perception. He read all the moves the ranked warrior made. As Id tossed and turned he splattered his blood everywhere, even on Surt’s sword and gear. To make way for the finality, Id pulled out one of the blood-covered stones stuck to his gut and hurled it at the giant’s eyes, blinding the giant with the accompanying blood spatter.

Genuflection led from Surt’s loss of sight. Though he was weak at perception, he tried to use it. “What is this?!” the giant warrior scowled with trepidation. His perception showed him that his enemy was everywhere, to his front, to his side, to his rear, on his shoulders, on his sword, atop his head. He wiped the blood haze from his eyes and opened them to verify… but it was too late. Id had already plunged his claymore through the giant’s chest. This was the opening he had been waiting for.

“…I missed,” Id worriedly said to himself. His sword may have pierced his foe but it was a sliver short of the enemy’s heart.

“It’s not yet over! IT’S NOT YET OVER! It’S nOT OvER!!!” screamed the perforated Surt as he broke through all his limits and tapped all his yoki, from thirty to fifty, from fifty to eighty, from eighty and beyond.



Jherin observed the conflict from a safe distance. His range of perception was considerably large and it seemed he was the one charged of watching the warrior in black and the progress of black-clad Clement’s experiments. “Is this the result you wanted?” the warrior asked the handler. Fear was in every word he uttered.

“Yoki has always been the life-force of the yoma. A soldier of the Organization uses that very same energy from the implant given to them. When used too much, that part of the yoma takes over. This is what me and few others have called ‘awakening’,” the handler mortifyingly narrated with pen and paper in hand. He had finally gotten proof and the Theory of Awakening was finally a fact.

“Are you planning to cull the ranks?” queried the troubled Jherin.

“No… I and those who believe in the theory will take shelter. The Organization is a stubborn organism. It can only change when tragedy strikes it. Do not worry about yourself either. I have a made precautionary measures for you and everyone under me… save for Surt, of course,” Clement stated and promised. He hid his notes in his robes and prepared to head back to the east.

“How about the warrior in black and Surt?” the blond warrior continued to question as he was still boggled. The promised number for Id did not matter though, as it was never up to Clement alone to give a rank. Jherin knew from the beginning that it was a lie. However, leaving an awakened Surt running around would be a great liability to the Organization. As for Id, his talent would be an enormous waste.

The black cloak was never out of evil grins as he gave another one to Jherin. “Id will take care of Surt…” the man in black assured with unfaltering confidence.

Id hid himself among the ruins of Saint Lleihl Monastery since his battle with Surt. Apparently he had failed to slay the awakened being and as a result the nearest human settlement was attacked. Most, if not all the inhabitants in the area had their inners devoured by the hungry Surt. The beautiful architectural masterpieces that decorated the monastery were adulterated, their appreciation lost forever. Nearly everything was destroyed, including Id’s own will. He was nearly killed with his fight against the awakened Surt. It took a day for him to recover physically, but the mental scars would not recuperate in the same manner.

A week after the battle, Clement came to assign the warrior another mission. However, the handler saw how mentally unstable Id was and decided to leave Id for a while, perhaps another week.



“Have you regained a foothold on sanity?” Clement mockingly asked. The light from outside beamed towards the insides of a dilapidated hall in the monastery. The handler’s silhouette surrounded by a glorious radiance made him look like an angel.

Id gazed upon the ephemeral representation. He was not awed or humbled, nor was he frightened. The stoic expression on his face was worth more than a thousand words. The stillness in his eyes was as decrepit as the scattered rubble throughout the hall. “So the time has come for me to burden the responsibility of my failure,” Id said with a lifeless, pessimistic voice.

Clement slowly climbed down from the mountain of debris that was once a wall. He sauntered towards the tattered warrior with heavy steps, but not angry ones. The man in dark robes reached out his hand to the warrior, a noble yet strange gesture for a handler. “You have not failed Id…” the man consoled, “You did what you were meant to do, though not exactly. Still it is an achievement.”

The solace was not comforting to hear. One’s ears would bleed after hearing such a thing. If everything was meant to be then it meant the deaths of the people of Saint Lleihl was something he foresaw. Surt’s transfiguration was also something he anticipated. “Was this all part of a test? Everything? My loss of resolve, the deaths of those we seek to protect, the transformation of Surt? Everything was a controlled experiment?” Id asked in a fit of rage. He rolled to the side, drew his sword among his littered gear and brandished it, threatening to take the handler’s life.

Clement withdrew his hand and leisurely turned his head to the paranoid warrior. A cold upland breeze blew through the desecrated corridor. The handler’s robes swayed to the chilly gust like he had some ominous power, though the timing was purely coincidence. “The monastery failed to pay the fee for a request they made quite some time back. I think you know what happens to clients who fail to honor the contract,” Clement calmly said with an appropriate gesture of pointing at his listener.

“…if any incident concerning yomas would occur again the Organization would stay indifferent… but you planned this. You staged our battle on the plateau. You knew Surt would become an abomination. The chances that the monastery would be attacked were high from the very beginning,” Id rejoined, his finger pointed against his handler’s. His grip on the hilt of his sword grew even tighter.

The black cloak circled away from the malice that presented itself. He began to wander away from Id, towards another devastated section of the monastery. “Can you prove your thesis, Id? Do you really believe your claims are true? Or do you just want someone to blame?” Clement articulated in three consecutive questions.

The truth was obscured yet again as Id did not know what to believe or who to believe in. He thought that Clement may very well be correct and that he was just trying to find someone to blame. The warrior could not collect his thoughts. If his handler was trying to manipulate him yet again, then his handler was definitely succeeding.

“It was Surt who decided the battlefield, not me,” clamored the black cloak as he was already a considerable distance away.



The cobblestone was painted generously with the ruby color of blood. With the fragments of stone were pieces of torn flesh strewn throughout the remnants of the monastery’s atrium. The bodies of the victims were no where to be found. Fact was, Id had buried the bodies for he could not bear to see them lying around with their faces still experiencing their horrific last moments. Flies and maggots were thriving on the mutilated pieces of human meat despite the wintry weather.

“All this was just a coincidence that happened to be convenient for you,” muttered the warrior, still carrying his battered sword. There were still things he wanted to ask. This time his mind had composed itself. Striking another conversation would be easier.

The black cloak looked outside, through a shattered stained-glass window. One could never tell what was on a handler’s mind. Their actions do not align with their mind-set. “You have more questions do you?” Clement asked from nowhere. It looked like the black cloak was thinking ahead of his questioner. “You’re wondering what happened to Surt?”

Id was knocked for six. It was as if his handler was reading his mind.

“All soldiers of the Organization are made the same way. A part of the enemy is implanted in them. That piece of yoma in them is the source of their power… but in the end that piece will always be yoma,” the handler astutely stated, his eyes still to the outside.

Reminded of the process, Id no longer needed to hear more. It was enough for him to realize that all warriors relied on that power. With that power being a piece of a yoma, if it was used too much, then the yoma within would take over. Id realized that he himself could drown in that same power. As he thought about it he found it strange that he himself did not become some grotesque monster in the recent battle. Maybe he thought he would not survive, and so saw no need to use any more of the precarious energy. There was no need to awaken the yoma within.

“I have another query I wish you to answer,” the warrior implored with little respect, tossing aside his damage claymore as he did. “Surt… he was quite powerful for someone of his rank. He was adept in impulsively raising his yoki when the moment called for it.”

“You’re thinking that the single digits are godly. You fail to look at yourself my dear boy,” the black cloak raised as he turned away from the broken window. He slowly went for the displaced entrance of the monastery. The crackling sound of splintered glass sounded every step of the way. “You fought on par with Surt. Since he awakened the monster inside him, I assume you had defeated him when he was still humane. Wouldn’t that make you more powerful than number twenty four? You survived his rampaged when awakened, did you not? Doesn’t that mean you have far more potential than he ever had?” Clement deduced, though it was not clear if he was trying to enliven the warrior. He pushed open the remaining door of the entrance even if he could just exit through the side were the door had already fallen. The act looked like it had a deeper yet escaping meaning.

The atrium became brighter as the sun’s glow paraded through. The light was really dazzling. It was like the heavens had split open and all the angels had descended. How could opening a single door lead to such a wondrous thing?



Before Id was a vast landscape he had never stopped to behold in all its glory, the vast frontier of Saint Lleihl’s plateau. The beauty the verdant ivy had as it crawled up the ancient cairns and other bizarre rock formations were foreign to the warrior. It was only now that he saw their splendor. Id’s broken spirit somehow regained its strength. The view so kindly picked up his shattered pieces and put them back together. The abecedary of his doubts interred slowly into the dark recesses of his soul. He thought that maybe… one last time, he would trust the black cloak.

Clement riddled the stalled conversation, “Strange that the ghostly miasma has not returned yet.” He stooped to pick up a small pebble. He scrutinized the stone fragment and afterwards threw it away. “I am not omniscient. I know a lot…” the black cloak stammered then glanced at the warrior whose faith seemed renewed. “I know a lot but not everything,” Clement added, a mouth full of acumen.

A shivery, cleansing breeze blew into Id’s spirit. Fate had been sending signs all along. Perhaps the evidence was this strange phenomenon, the receded mist of the mesa. “For what reason does the mist hide,” asked the warrior.

“If you can give me the answer to that than I would most certainly kneel before you,” said the black cloak with a polite gesture. “Though I can most certainly say, the mist won’t leave this place vacated of its presence much longer,” Clement intelligibly stated as he pointed to the direction where the only other human inhabited settlement was. Also in that direction, was the highest point on Saint Lleihl. Id gazed at the point of the finger and then at the distance. A prevalent cloud was crawling out from unseen fissures like a phantom out for revenge. The mist was having its homecoming. It was moments like this that played on Id’s belief that the black cloaks were somehow all-knowing.

Knowing that, Id felt he had to redeem himself, to realign himself with the Organization. There had to be a way to attain redemption. It was then that it came to him, the only way. “I have to…”

“…find Surt and complete what you left unfinished?” Clement said, finishing Id’s proposal. Another exercise of semi-omniscience, and the warrior’s doubts were stirred and dissolved. “The encroaching fog, go to it. In the direction it came from is the only remaining locale that houses humanity, Valeholm. There you will find your new equipment to replace your thrashed ones… and your next mission. The mission that will aid you in claiming your deliverance,” the black cloak sermonized.

With that thought, Id ran towards Valeholm, heeding the black cloak’s reassuring words.

Now that Id had gone far off, another person appeared from the skeleton of the monastery. “They say that man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Giving him a mask will make him tell the truth,” stated the secretive person. “Don’t be simple, Rubel. You know that there are always exceptions,” responded Clement with an impish grin on his face. “Half truths are still truths. How can you be an exception?” added Rubel as he pushed his glasses up his nose. The black cloak laughed then started walking away from the ruins. “Getting people to do what you want is merely a matter of telling them what they want to hear,” Clement muttered to himself, being the proud puppeteer that he was.

Several days west of Valeholm, past the northern crags of Saint Lleihl and through an unnamed region of salty flats were the dust-blasted lands of Cairn. The area was famous for its towering cairns and its inhospitable climate. There were several towns in the region though they were only found at the borders. One of the towns, South Cairn, was Id’s next destination.

It was late afternoon when Id arrived in South Cairn. The winds were howling as was expected. The streets, the adobe houses, nearly everything was tinted a sun-dried orange. The townsfolk were dressed in thick robes just to combat the stinging, sandy wind. For the first time, Id walked through the town with people still busy on the streets. The events of past weeks had changed him. Perchance these things had grown trivial as his current situation gave him no time to think about it. The warrior made his way through the dusty passages of the village ignoring the eyes of the humans who passed by.

“Finally,” said a calm and composed voice. It was from a man in the same cloak and sword as Id. It was another warrior. The present mission would require several warriors, not necessarily a team. The man stood by South Cairn’s Waning Well, the town’s famous landmark. Beside the warrior was another soldier of the Organization. There were three of these silver-eyed one’s all in all.

Id approached the other two to report in. It was common courtesy for henchmen of the Organization to identify themselves to others especially if they were not prominent or infamous. “State your name and your number,” said the calm warrior by the well. He asked even though he knew it was not of any significance.

Id lied with no second thoughts, “Id, number 47.”

“What’s the point of having the weakest of us all when we’ve got number 2 right here?” complained the other warrior. He seemed apprehended by the introductions. “I probably won’t even have time to show off,” he indecorously added.

“I am Rigald, number 2,” the poised warrior announced, ignoring the loud-mouthed runt beside him. His introductions verified that the lineup had soldiers at the extremes, one of the highest and lowest. It also certified his position in the group as leader. “You’re number 47… the one who first encountered the target. I’ve been briefed that this yoma is different from others, a voracious eater. You still know how to track this monster, do you not?” Rigald authoritatively asked although he was rudely facing away from who he queried.

Id nodded then walked towards the northern end of town. It was obvious that he wanted to do this job. His tranquil exterior was no disguise to Rigald who also appeared to cover himself with false composure. The two silent ones went on first, leaving behind the supposed third member of the group.

A spit or at least the sound of it was the third warrior’s show of enthusiasm. “Tch… bunch of introverts. I don’t give a rat’s ass if you’re number 2. You look like the scrawniest shit to me… and that 47 looks even scrawnier,” he grumbled quietly in his spot. The raucous winds were still around, muting his words even further. He pulled down his hood and followed suit. Even if the mission was troublesome, he did not want to show apathy because he knew the black cloaks were watching, probably somewhere cozy. “Tch… I’m number 31, Jagreth…” the third warrior mumbled with arrogance and sarcasm as he traced the passage of the others.



A while passed, after the moon had set and the sun began to rear itself once again, the group of three had arrived at an abandoned vineyard in the middle of nowhere. As bizarre as it was, the vineyard seemed pretty much healthy. The fruit it grew was abundant, the trellises still intact notwithstanding the unforgiving winds. Someone was here taking care of the produce, someone not human. Dawn was barely here and the wind was still, just like that time on Saint Lleihl.

“I’ve heard that this used to be the best place to grow grape for wine in Cairn, but ever since this voracious eater showed up production had been stopped completely,” rambled Jagreth. It appeared he was a fan of alcohol despite being a warrior of the Organization. Warriors’ do not have the leisure or open privilege to drink such things. Jagreth continued to boast his knowledge on wines but the other two were dead silent and heeded no words from him.

The quiet two knew who tended the place. There was a monstrously large yoki enveloping the whole vineyard. Rigald became more focused yet filled with anxiety; one could see it in his eyes. This was an encounter unlike any other he had experienced. The colossal size of the yoma energy made him question if the number forty-seven beside him was the same one who came across this behemoth of a yoma. Being low ranked, how could number forty-seven survive such a beast? Rigald knew that something was not right.

“He’s behind the final drape,” Id cautiously whispered. There was a masterfully built trellis arc standing in front of them. Vines stretched down from the arc’s apex, like curtains to a stage. The uncontainable yoki was leaking out the space behind the screen of vines. “Fate’s paths are visible before my very eyes. I followed the one that would lead me to you,” Id authenticated his rapport with the monster hiding behind the curtain of vines.

A shuffling and rustling sound was heard followed by a loud crack and puff. There was a pregnant silence that succeeded the ruckus. Everything was taciturn for a few breaths, wind and all. Finally it spoke, “We meet again warrior in black… have you come to tie loose ends?” There was another short pause before the next puff. “Step inside. I honor the presence of the two others who are here with us,” the voice bellowed, every syllable uttered made the leaves rustle and the trellises crackle.

Rigald, being the leader of the group entered first, then Jagreth second.

There was a large man sitting on top of a broken boulder. He was crushing stones in his hands. Grinding them until dust was the only thing left of them. A single glance, then he recognized immediately who one of his visitors was. “Who would’ve guessed that number 2 would stop by?” the giant roused as he continued pulverizing the fragments of the boulder. He appeared disillusioned and turned away from the two who entered first. “Sadly… it is not you I want to talk with, number 2,” he muttered ignoring Jagreth altogether.

“No shit… what am I? Chopped liver?” Jagreth bragged angrily unaware of his position.

“You may have matters with number 47 but know that it doesn’t matter to me. Right now… you die,” stated Rigald with an unusually angry tone. He drew his claymore and rushed towards the target. With psychotic eyes, he drove his blade through the air, landing it on the target’s shoulder. There was a large clang on impact, a sound you are not supposed to hear when a blade runs through meat. Rigald’s eyes widened with fear and astonishment. His body was shaking violently then everything else followed. The whole place was collapsing.

The dust settled soon after and standing atop the rubble was Id and before him Surt. “I didn’t expect the calm, composed number 2 to be careless. I never noticed the blood haze in his eyes. However, this is the first time I’ve ever seen him fight,” said Surt ratifying his new assumptions on Rigald. “I am sure you have many questions warrior in black, as I too have many for you,” he quickly added.



A gentle waft blazoned over the vineyard. From a bird’s eye, the winery would look like a rectangle with a hole punched in it. So was the aftermath of Rigald’s failed assault on the former number twenty-four. The trellises bent under and over like snapped twigs leaving a clearing at the area where the encounter had happened. Rigald and Jagreth were nowhere to be seen. Hopefully they were just buried under the mountain of rubble and not terminated.

“So you’ve been promoted from zero to forty-seventh? Or was that a lie?” the jotun asked as he persisted to grind rocks in his palm, an addiction he could not resist. Surt slowly descended from the wreckage, leering, nearing. His intentions were obviously different. The situation was not like back then on the mesa. The giant stopped beside Id and spoke, “I know… Clement would never allow you to obtain a rank. He will always have you go anywhere he pleases at anytime. A warrior with rank has tasks limited only to his assigned number, his assigned region and neighboring regions. He wouldn’t like that restriction.”

Id glanced cautiously at the giant whose shadow had completely covered him. The distinguished enamel of Clement seemed to have lost its luster in Id’s mind. The cracks that have been formed in his trust of others were still there and would stay there for as long as he lived. Ignoring this fact was impossible. “But to be swayed now…” thought Id as the dilemma of conviction twisted his mind. There was only one true solution to this confusion. Id drew his claymore with no symbol and pointed it at Surt’s face. “Let us settle this in a manner you would agree to,” Id said with a confrontational glare.

The leer on Surt’s face turned into an appeased grin with teeth shining. “Yes, yes, indeed. I shall test my hypothesis upon your mettle. You truly know your enemy,” barked the giant as he properly turned to Id.

Clanking, creaking and other familiar sounds of dredging through ruins flowed out the rubble. Suddenly, Rigald rocketed out the debris like a rogue lion pouncing on its prey. The second highest-ranked warrior of the Organization swung his blade in a wide arc sending wayward splinters and sand towards Surt. The giant immediately responded to the blitz by shoving the approaching debris aside with his left arm, but he was too slow for Rigald and had no choice but to receive the sword strike with his right hand.

As predicted, Surt received the would-be fatal blow. The hair-raising, watery sound of flesh being mutilated reverberated through the vineyard. “I see your forte… and I respect it,” muttered the wounded giant, fumbling a bit to the pain.

“You’re number 24, Surt the Strong. How in the world did you end up becoming a yoma?” Rigald struggled to ask as he was having a hard time trying to remove his sword from the jotun’s arm. He glowered at his adversary with golden eyes as he realized his earlier mistake. “The technique you did earlier was your renowned resilience skill. It is a very good counter-offensive move to be able to return the force of your enemy’s blow… but it requires timing,” Rigald calmly stated as he successfully pulled his claymore and himself away from Surt. A red ribbon of blood followed the release of the blade.

Surt shook his injured arm to alleviate the twinge. The familiar ruby red color flowed out the giant’s wound. It appeared his weakness had been found out. His reaction time was not enough to match Rigald’s speed.

Now that battle was two on one. Rigald was only slightly injured and Id completely undamaged. The third warrior was still under the debris but that was not going to keep him out for the rest of the day. The odds were against the former giant of the Organization.

“Shi- shit! Damn it!” Jagreth stridently mouthed as he literally crawled out the woodwork. He had a few splinters here and there but it was not anything serious. “You’re going to pay for this big man!” the rowdy number thirty-one exclaimed as he got up and drew his sword.

Surt jumped back and away from the three. The smile he had worn earlier had not been wiped away by the turn of the tide. “I discovered my other self back at Saint Lleihl…” the giant bragged while looking at Id. Knowing what had happened, the former warrior in black got into a defensive lunging stance. He placed the blunt side of his sword atop his left arm while keeping the sword hilt in his right hand. “Prepare yourselves… we stand before the epicenter of a relentless earthquake!” Id warned the others because the real battle was about to begin.

The whole wasteland shook endlessly with each stomp and howl Surt made. The giant cairns were one-by-one being turned to dust as the titanic monster rammed into them, reducing potential strategic points and hiding areas for the three-cell Claymore team. The battle had turned in favor of Surt. The domain was his, the skin-pelting sand storms, the lacerating cairn surfaces, the lack of water and the intense heat. Now, he was as large as a small fort in both height and width. His hide became plated and fully adapted to the desert environment. Four large tusks grew from his snout and all that was left of his humanity was the embossed, human face upon his new, plated, mammoth forehead.

“How the heck are we going to win against that?” Jagreth panicked. His hands were shaking, unable to wield his sword resolutely. His eyes were shriveling to the dust storms Surt had kicked up.

Rigald was perched atop a small cairn. It enabled him to observe the giant’s movements above the searing sand. He watched as Surt continued to tear down each and every rock formation he could see. “He cannot sense us as his own power has peaked and overwhelms ours combined,” Rigald calmly deduced. A strategy was being formulated in his collected mind. Hopefully, he could make it in time to execute his plans.

Id waited for a humble plea for advice. Though it seemed Rigald would never do so. He was number two after all, the second best warrior in the Organization’s ranks. Pride was in the way. Id’s experience against the titanic yoma did not matter.

“Anything yet?” asked Id, obviously trying to get Rigald out of his superiority complex. “Don’t expect him to be as slow as he was before he transformed.”

It took a few seconds for Rigald to think over what Id just said. “You don’t need to state the obvious. Spiking your yoki has nothing to do with one’s physical size. It will definitely take more than just a mountain crashing on him to take him out,” uttered the proud number two. He continued to survey the area. As of the moment there was nothing else anyone of them could do.



The earth continued to shudder as Surt had discovered the hideaway of the three warriors. The past few minutes had given the group enough time to figure out how to deal with the behemoth. As Surt pulverized the boulder they sought refuge in, the three scattered, Rigald to the east, Jagreth to the west, and Id to the south.

“This has got to work. Number 2 planned it after all!” Jagreth said aloud, bolstered with faith. The veins on his face bulged out as he summoned more of the yoma energy within him, sprinting faster than he could without the augmentation. He dashed as fast as his legs could take him. He felt the tremors getting stronger, nearer. A short glance is all it took for panic to resurface. “Holy shi- !” Jagreth screamed frenetically as he saw Surt fast approaching.

Like a mighty herd of one, Surt pulled his head back, readying one powerful cleave. The momentum he had built up storming his way towards the unlucky number thirty-one was probably enough to level half of South Cairn, an estimated damage when placed upon Jagreth’s whelp of a body would be an absolute overkill.

“Where the hell are they?!” Jagreth whined endlessly as he climbed into the stony crevice of a rock formation. He was most definitely wrong if he thought that this would keep him safe from Surt, but if it was part of Rigald’s stratagem then it might very well be.

Seconds after Jagreth’s arrival on the stone spire, Surt crashed right into it. The impact was so prevailing that the spire shattered instantaneously. A rain of stones and a massive cloud of dust followed the impact.

“C’mon, I know you’re still there,” Surt bellowed as he shook his head. Crashing head first into an enormous boulder was bound to make one’s head spin. The behemoth raised his hooves then stomped the earth. Remains of the stone spire flung up in the air with every stomp he made. He wanted to see if a corpse would pop up from his bestial way of sifting. The colossus sustained his stomps but the evidence he wanted would not appear. “Did he get buried too deep or was he even here to begin with?” he asked himself.

“NOW!” shouted Jagreth as he climbed out of rubble and darted towards the colossal Surt. He pulled out his claymore and speeded right in between the giant’s tusks. There was no possible way the monster could retaliate. A sweeping attack was too easy to predict, all the warrior had to do was watch the movement of Surt’s face or so the warrior thought. Jagreth proceeded recklessly and as he predicted, Surt’s face moved to the left foretelling an incoming sweep from the right. He assumed the speed of the attack and timed what he thought was the perfect jump. It was then he noticed the behemoth’s visage discontinued its motion and in that instant he realized he no longer had his lower half. His body had been snipped in two. Surt’s tusks could also move like shears. “Gahh… so this was the plan!” Jagreth muttered with his last breath.

From a giant cloud of sand, Rigald came bursting forth, seeing the open opportunity he had made. He was still superior to the monster in speed, or so he believed. Tapping nearly fifty percent of his yoki, he wanted to make sure that this one strike was lethal. Both combatants were stuck in the moment as time slowed down. Rigald was a split-second away from slicing Surt’s last vestige of humanity, the embossed face at the center of the behemoth’s forehead. “You are finished!” said Rigald with voice raised most high.

A deafening clang echoed throughout the wasteland. The loud clash entered Id’s ears. He arrived seconds after Rigald’s reckless abandon. “He really wants to finish this as fast as he can… but he won’t defeat Surt by simply cutting ties,” the black warrior said to himself. He had his own plan, a better if not the perfect plan to swoon the colossus. Summoning his own yoki he raced to the top of the colossus while it was preoccupied with leering at Rigald’s folly. He made it to the top fast enough to witness number two’s right arm burst into a bloody mess, losing grip of his bent sword.

Rigald saw Id atop the monster’s head. He realized that he too was a decoy. “Tch… to be used… I knew there was more to him.” The proud number two fell unto the earth below, momentarily fazed.

Surt bellowed in laughter, conjuring miniature sandstorms in the process. It appeared his ego had been raised exponentially after crushing Riglad’s arm with his resilience. He was so caught up with his partial victory that he did not notice Id had already broken through his defenses. It took several seconds for Surt to realize he was already bleeding. Pain came slowly for such an enormous body; a weakness Id had speculated to be possible. Surt started shaking, turning and tossing wildly, desperate to remove the irritation which could turn fatal.

“You’re gonna have to think of a better plan to get rid of me!” exclaimed Id as he rode the behemoth. He managed to cling on to a crevice in between the colossus’ plating behind the neck. Armor was always weak at the joints and hinges. Exploiting this knowledge, Id was bound to be triumphant.

Suddenly, the humongous yoma stopped trashing and instead began shrinking. He was morphing back to his human form. It was the only way he thought possible to deal with the irritancy. If he could shrink back to his normal size, the warrior in black would not be able to hide on him.

“Unfortunately, I predicted you would do that,” the fake number forty-seven said in his mind as he disengaged from the colossus, dropping right behind it.

By some uncanny coincidence, Rigald was waiting in the right place at the right time, waiting just behind the colossus, waiting just in time for Id to come down and pitch him the only unscathed claymore throughout the whole battle. The very second the sword was passed, the battle was over. In a flash, Rigald severed Surt’s head the very moment he transformed back in to human shape. They were more than thirty men apart.



Sundown, several hours had passed since the mission’s completion. Id sat before a flamboyant bonfire, waiting for the day to end. Protocol did not move him to his next destination. Protocol did not move him to return to South Cairn and remind the employers of the contract. He left all of that to Rigald. Something kept him in place. Was it Surt’s bodiless head burning in the fire? Or was it something more?

To Id, the fire was the symbol of his doubt in the Organization. With Surt bringing withheld knowledge to the grave, the warrior may never know the truth. He looked at the lively cinders, at the skull of the former number twenty-four. A tongue of fire was lashing out from its maw. Even death would not keep it from speaking the truth.

“How was it?” asked a familiar voice from across the coming darkness.

“The sword was different… its durability unlike any other. It did not bend or break,” the doubtful warrior stated as he continued to glare at the flames.

Like an otherworldly creature, a black cloak climbed out of the shadows of the night and into the beacon of fire. It was Clement. Surely there was no way to escape this handler’s eye. He knew very well that Id’s resolve was shaken yet again by the encounter. “How was it?” the handler asked yet again.

“Working with the main corps, I at last grasped that we were too different,” briefed Id as he stared through the fire and into Clement’s hood with a blank yet daunting stare. Time stopped at that very instant that Id’s eyes could finally see through all facades. A shift in power overcame the warrior and he finally saw that his handler was fallible after all.

The black cloak immediately looked away. He did not know what Id had unearthed in the battle, but as always he thought he knew better than to be assumptive over his little toy. With a voice of full confidence he announced the black warrior’s next duty, “Return to the East… I shall temporarily keep back all missions that would be assigned to you and reassign them to someone else. You deserve some rest.” With that Clement dissolved into the darkness the way all black cloaks do.

“I will find the answers myself. They will be written in stone and not on the sharp tongues of liars like you,” Id said in contempt behind his handler’s back. “I shall return to the East… but I shall not rest until the truth is revealed.”

Lol wow thats a lot to read. I'll be looking forward to reading all of this once i get my net back. =D Thanks Idelice for writing a wonderful fic.

Thanks for your comment Miria-san. There's still a lot more of it on my draft but I haven't gotten much time to finalize and encode it. XD

To have everything you ever wanted to know, everything you ever wanted to see right in front of you but be unable to touch it, to understand it, to taste it… isn’t that a mere misperception of the mind? What you want will always be in the palm of your hand. What you need to say will always be at the tip of your tongue. It is just a matter of realizing that it is already there.

Truly, everything I needed to know was where I started out. It was where my being was born. The archives of the Organization, was always under my feet. Though the secrets were kept half and half, it was sufficient enough to know the truth, though it may be just half as well. Reality was always before my eyes but a different picture would always crop up from underneath the eyelids, and the lie would weave itself complete. Reality is subjective. The only that is real, is what is real to me.

This is reality; we are but toys, our names carved upon our faces, to play with ‘til our hinges creak, ‘til our color fades, our skin erodes. When we become too old or broken, wayward or curious, we must be tossed aside and new ones will fill the spaces we once occupied.

…But perhaps I am wrong. This is their reality, not mine, not ours. This is their reality, the reality pulled over our eyes.

Surely it is time to make my own.



“We’re here traveler,” said the straw-hat merchant as he put his caravan to a halt.

The traveler riding at the back cart nodded in thanks. He had a pile of books strapped and bound by expensive leather. He got off the caravan and waved at the merchant and there soon after the merchant left.

It was the middle of the crossroads. Further up north would be Pieta, south Rabona, east and west were places yet to be famous. Still, these were roads for merchants. Such roads were bound to be flooded with bandits and the occasional yoma. There were several compensations for these problems, namely, alternate routes and secret paths. Being only a traveler and knowing only the main roads could get one lost in these unfamiliar routes. However, though rare, secluded trading posts are on these routes. These posts are for rookie merchants wanting to utilize the roads.

Luckily for the traveler, there was a trade post right were he was dropped off. It was part of his contract with the straw-hat merchant. The traveler grabbed his books and his sword, and headed for the trading post beside the winding trade routes.

As soon as the traveler arrived at the front door, he opened it without any hesitation. “Good day…” said the traveler as he opened the door.

There was a man sitting behind the counter, wiping dry the wooden mugs that had been previously washed. “Good day to you sir… a newbie merchant without a cart I see,” said the post manager as he discontinued his cleaning. “What can I do for you? Come in! Come in!”

“No thanks, I’ll stay right here,” said the traveler as he shifted his weight to his left. “I wish to know the routes to the west,” the traveler added. There was a hint of eagerness in his passive voice.

The post manager saw the impatience the traveler had. With a smile he went to the door leading to the back of the trading post. “Well, if you need to know the trade routes, you’re gonna need to come in so I can show you the maps. What is your merchandise anyway?” said the manager, asking questions to which the answers were already obvious.

With heavy steps, the traveler approached the backdoor as well. “Books… and this sword… obviously,” said the traveler.

The manager scratched his head. “Well, books I can understand but if you wanted to sell that sword, as well-made as it is, it would’ve been better of you headed north, although if you get lucky you can start arms-dealing in the west. We all have different visions I suppose,” stated the manager as he unlocked the backdoor. It was a door that led to room full of maps of trade routes and reports on the economic situations from area to area, but the traveler only needed one piece of information from it all, a road to the northwest.



Upon getting what he wanted, the wanderer spent several hours on foot heading northwest. It had been a while since he followed the main trade route and made his own destination. The air started to get colder despite the nearing of high noon. It was only evidence that he was heading northward. The blades of grass got taller and taller as he progressed further. The trees were still further ahead at the foot of the northern mountains. It was going to be a long walk, a random one at that as it seemed the traveler had no real destination. It was probably a yearning for seclusion in this tranquil terrain.

It had been a little while passed noon and the traveler finally arrived at the foot of what was known as the Crissaegrim mountain line. It was named so due to its jagged peaks that looked sharp enough to cut the sky. The traveler saw that there was a path of trees piercing straight into the mountain range. It probably led to an unexplored valley. A rather large assumption for there was no map of the area in the trading post. It was probably deemed to dangerous to explore. The jagged peaks were ominous after all.

Out of nothing but what was probably inquisitiveness, the traveler decided to explore the area but then he realized he was not alone. He heard a sharp yet muffled sound of an arrow fast approaching. He turned around only to get the projectile right through his left shoulder forcing him to drop the books he had been carrying all this time. He pulled the arrow out of his shoulder as it was an inconvenience before looking towards the tall grass. “You don’t have to hide. I know where you are,” said the traveler.

There was no reaction, only the faint yet familiar sound of a bow creaking. The attacker was about to make his next move.

“This is problematic. I know I can’t run from this one. He can detect me no matter how far I run,” the wanderer said to himself. He then grabbed the books he dropped and made a run for the woods. It was an action contrary to what he thought. Still, it was the best way to deal with someone with an advantage of range. The trees would serve as good cover. As he dashed into the woods, several more arrows were fired, but as predicted, the forest had covered him.



“You’re now playing by my rules,” said the wanderer as he waited atop the tree branches, waiting for his enemy to concede.

A thin mist started to fill the forest. It signaled the coming of nightfall. If the battle would drag to that length it would be a setback for both sides. However, it could be another strategic advantage to use the cover of dusk aside from the alien terrain.

“Come out Id… I’ve had enough of your games!” called the enemy. It appeared the opposing side had lost its patience.

“That works too,” said Id. He was the traveler all along. He had escaped the Organization’s conspiracy. Not only had he gone rogue, he had stolen and replicated several documents kept within the Organization’s archives. These were the books he had been carrying.

Id jumped from tree to tree, pinpointing the source of the bawls. He had scattered his yoki throughout the woods to confuse his tracker, painting leaves and stones with his blood as he went deeper. The leaves would dance on the wind while the stones stayed immobile. This way he would not be detected so easily by his enemy who he knew was very good in sensing yoki.

Suddenly, a loud rustle followed by the proverbial hiss of a launched arrow came fast from below. The rogue’s plan was not foolproof. His opponent was really good in sensing yoki that he was able to discern Id’s through position. With no time to defend himself, he took the arrow to his left shoulder yet again. As he did so, he fell, but like a cat, landed on his feet.

“You almost got away,” said the aggressor as he pointed his arrow at Id’s head. “If you hadn’t come back to finish me, you would’ve. You’re too full of yourself,” the aggressor pointed out.

The rogue got up, pulling yet another arrow from his shoulder. He had misplayed his cards and now he was in a bad position. He realized that it would have been better if he left the books somewhere, now his enemy would have gotten both the obvious objectives; his death and the archive documents. At this point, the only thing Id could lose was his new life and so he took a gamble. He kept his game face on and spoke, “Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know what the documents contain?”

“You can’t talk your way out of this one Id. I’m here to liquidate you… as well as the documents,” said the warrior of the Organization. He was the warrior who accompanied Clement during Id’s journey to Saint Lleihl and was also the one who kept an eye on the battle atop the plateau.

“You’re Clement’s personal assistant aren’t you? To be able to track me down even after I left several scarlet trails throughout the countryside to confuse you is quite an amazing curse. You’re the one who always watches me and reports personally to that black cloak,” Id stated as he let go of the books. Escape was impossible. He had to deal with situation at hand, face to face. The problem was, an arrow was already pointing right in between his eyes, not to mention the enemy had amazing yoki sensing skills.

The tracker’s finger was getting tense. “This ends now!” shouted the warrior as he released the arrow, and to his wishes, it hit dead center.

A fountain of blood came forth from Id’s temple… but he flinched only momentarily. “I have nothing to say…” said the rogue as crimson continued to gush out his wound. Surprisingly his face was deformed, his muscles had enlarged. He was awakening.

“To bite the hand that feeds?” quoted the tracker as he was frozen in fear. He had witnessed the power of an awakened being before. The seemingly limitless yoki blasting out of a warrior’s body was something that frightened him out of his steely composure. He hastily threw away his bow and pulled out his sword. He ran towards the devouring yoki and swung blindly.

A coarse sound like rock shattering followed the slice, and as quickly as the yoki came it had dissipated. All that was left was a pool of blood, tattered clothes and what looked like Id’s shattered pieces.

“Was I able to kill him before he fully awakened? Did he become this pool of blood, these fractured pieces?” the warrior asked himself in distress. There were still faint signs of yoki from around the place but it was probably just the scarlet trail Id had left behind. He looked around frantically until he finally calmed down. He concluded that the battle was over as the yoki in the area was too weak to be that of an awakened being. He then grabbed the documents and left the woods.



Deep in the woods, at the presumable heart of Crissaegrim was an extensively wide clearing. This clearing was a meadow of edelweiss. It was a ghostly meadow covered with the lingering mist of the mountain. Nothing was scarier than this place at night, but even so, a man somehow wandered right into it. He was a discernable mess because he was bathing in his own blood. It was not long until he collapsed in the middle of the paddock.

“I guess there are people whose passion transcends all notions of good and evil,” said the man as he gasped for breath, an obvious sign of exhaustion. He pulled some petals of nearby flowers and used them to wipe the blood from his face. “It’s a good thing I kept that coat the merchant gave me,” he said to himself.

“Are you a mercenary?” asked a weak voice. The cover of night and the mist was a hindrance. Regardless, the tone was innocent and kind. Out of the darkness came a little girl with blonde hair and blue eyes. “Please help me. My village was suddenly attacked by bandits a few days ago and I have been running down the mountain to find help. I’ve never been outside my village before and…”

“I am no mercenary. I am no warrior. I have discarded my name. I can be of no help,” the man rudely interrupted the child as he continued to sanitize himself. He was slightly amazed that the child was not afraid of him. Soon enough he caught her looking at the claymore he had been dragging along with him. “I am not Id. I no longer work by the behest of the Organization. This perhaps is my true identity… a mercenary. A liberator perhaps,” he thought. The child before him was probably the same as him, on her own, her world in a state of chaos. Destiny seemed unreasonably cruel yet unconditionally kind at the same time.

The little girl then presented a book to the man. Was this the payment for the task at hand?

Without a second thought, the man took the book. “I’ll need a bath first before I verify the validity of your offer,” the man calmly stated as he got up from his bed of scarlet edelweiss. The man then thought, “I just might take this job. After all… I’m hungry.”

The moonlight waned as dark clouds hovered through the night sky. Each cloud casted a gloomy shadow depriving the land of what scarce light was left. The wind was still but the air was cold and the lingering pungent smell of open wounds was everywhere, on every tree, every stone, every blade of grass. Silence was abundant in all but the places were water ran; the valley streams. One stream was different from the rest as it was loudest. The crashing sound water made was noisier in this one stream due to the fact that it had one unnatural obstruction, Id.

“Wandering swordsmen bathe in their clothes…” said the little girl gleaming with innocence. She sat on a boulder naturally juxtaposed with the rushing stream. Her comment justified the nonexistence of soldiers or at least guards in her village. Bewilderment over a drifter’s bathing habits was quite bewildering itself.

Despite being clean of all blood and dirt, Id was adamant in staying on the stream. The pleasant feeling of water sifting through one’s body was something that had to be savored. Id locked his eyes on the book he was offered. The book was on top of a rock in the middle of the stream. Being the drifter that he was, Id knew he had to find a place to stay. Travelling was not his style. So he took the book and began reading.

“Wandering swordsmen read books while sitting in a stream…” said the little girl still gleaming with innocence. She could not help but smile and perhaps romanticize their fateful encounter.

The clouds finally broke and the moon’s glow reached the two. The night breeze finally picked up. The leaves on all the trees encompassing all corners of Crissaegrim rustled, not in a ghastly way but in a soothing verdant way. Both the little girl and the drifter were locked in a transient state of time as the orchestra of wind and water were accompanied by the flicking sound of pages turned.

Filled with excitement waiting for Id’s response to the book, the little girl kept herself occupied leaping from stone to stone from one side of the stream to the other until finally Id finally got out of the water. She was a bit disappointed as it appeared the wandering swordsman had yet to be moved by the book. Still pinning her hopes, she tailed Id as he reentered the woods. There was something in her that made her so sure that she would convince Id to help her.

Through the shadows the two travelled aimlessly deeper and deeper into the forest. In one last turn, as if by fate, they reached a clearing. At the center of the clearing was a rather old and misshapen tree. Its bark looked like a myriad of ghoulish faces imprisoned within the tree’s trunk, its branches leaf-barren. Despite the ominous ambience, Id proceeded towards the center while still reading the book. The little blonde followed zealously behind the drifter; and as the drifter stopped yielded before the ghastly bark so did she. She witnessed as Id climbed to the top of the tree then rested upon the largest branch and continued to read. Reciprocating the enigmatic action of the drifter, she herself sat upon the one, large, wayward root of the tree which was conveniently shaped like a seat. From there she watched and waited.



Dawn broke and the sky was patched with gray and blue. Id was still perched on his little piece of the tree. He was still reading. The little girl was asleep on her own piece of the tree. Despite her enthusiasm, her body was unable to endure the wait and was forced to slumber. For how long would Id make her tarry was yet to be known.

To the sound of chirping birds, the little child awoke. She rubbed her eyes and instinctively looked up to make sure Id was still there. With one big yawn she got up, stretched her arms, rubbed her palms together to alleviate the cold and breathed between her fingers. Soon after that the little girl climbed up the tree to see if her patience had paid off. “You can see the wall from here,” mentioned the girl as she reached the top of the tree. “According to the history of my village, that wall was supposed to be a rampart to protect the village, but the townsfolk did not think it was necessary so it was discontinued,” she generously added.

The child scouted the wall with her right hand over her eyebrows, fooled by the common notion that doing so would increase one’s range of sight. She saw a bandit at the highest point of the wall. It was obvious that they still occupied the village. Nothing could be done yet as the wandering Id was not yet satisfied with the offer. Seeing no use in being restless the little girl just sat patiently in front of the drifter. Every passing second was accompanied by her legs swinging like a pendulum.

As noontime approached the little girl saw that the drifter was nearly halfway through the book. It was then that things started to change. Throughout the course of midday there were occasions that Id had his hand cover his mouth and the child could not help but lean in hopes of catching a smirk. One such time, she leaned in too close and ended up having Id’s boot on her face.

It was not long until the next moon arrived. The passage of time seemed nonexistent. Id was still reading upon his little nest. The little girl was back to her chair of roots. The wind was calm as ever as evening spread out the valley again. Right after the night had arrived, the child witnessed her moment of triumph. It was fleeting but so adamantly reassuring.

He smiled ever so slightly.

“Soon… morning will come,” the little girl whispered to herself. She closed her eyes and fell asleep with the paramount certainty that Id would save her village.



Morning yet again and the little girl awoke. She glanced momentarily at her bare feet and the thought of washing them crossed her mind. Sluggishly, she removed herself from her throne of roots and like the child she was, ran into the woods in search of the stream.

When she arrived at stream she hurriedly sat by the water’s edge and began washing her feet. It was a pointless endeavor as she had no footgear and in no time her feet would be sullied again. Still, she did it. As she cleaned the dirt and grass off her soles she was abruptly pulled up and out of the water by the neck hole of her robe. She found herself face to face with the drifter’s placid visage.

“I will… do it,” said Id with a short pause right in the middle of a short line. Perhaps he felt a need to lengthen such diminutive phrases.

Slowly, surely, the little girl’s face brightened and beamed as if to say ‘See! I told you it would work. I’m a genius.’

Id gently put the little girl down and waited for his hirer to show the way to the village. He had his sword at his right and his work’s pay in his left.

“My name is Alice. It’s a pleasure to work with you, sir!” exclaimed the little blonde with her hand outstretched for a good-old handshake. But her hospitality was returned with a lifeless stare by the drifter. Understanding Id’s directness, she scurried into the woods to lead him to her village.

Hired hand and hirer rallied through the forest of Crissaegrim, over boulders and ponds, through transitory clearings and edelweiss patches. Soon they were before a glimmering creek with a wooden bridge. Beyond the bridge was a hoof trodden path, a tell-tale sign of the enemy scouting.

“After this is an edelweiss covered fissure. There’ll be another bridge…” said Alice as she bent over to catch her breath. Her feet had worn out. She had no footwear after all.

Although his face did not show it, Id was quite surprised by the little girl’s vocabulary. “Wash your feet,” he muttered frigidly as he got down to unstrap his boots.

Alice stared at the drifter. She was bemused by the sudden act of kindness he showed.

Id found it quite annoying and felt that it was impossible to unstrap his boots with her looking at him. “Go,” he ordered again, this time with a slightly louder voice.

The little child hurried to the creek and silently dipped her feet into the rushing water. She gazed at the bubbles emerging from the crashing water on her feet. It was a soothing feeling. Undoubtedly, this was the calm before the storm. She employed Id to help her village, but she did not state in what way. Bloodshed would result from her decision, but who was she to know. She was just an innocent little child who happened to know what a mercenary was. Suddenly, a blunt noise sounded and startled the little girl. She quickly turned to where the noise came. Boots, it was the sound of boots hitting the dirt. Alice took a glance at the drifter. He was now the one barefooted. Id’s style of withholding emotion contagiously afflicted the girl as she thanked him with no simultaneous smile. She gladly put on the boots and as she did Id proceeded into the road ahead.

Id emerged from the forest and found himself in a field of edelweiss rivaling the one he had languished in two nights past. The only difference was the presence of hanging bridge. At the opposite end of the field was the rampart that could be seen from atop the ghastly tree. There were three bandit sentries on the field and two atop the unfinished rampart. It was too risky to move now. He had to wait and succumb to the nostalgia the situation brought. “Fields of gold,” he mumbled when all of a sudden the scampering of a rustler approached him.

From the bushes came Alice. She was out of control and rushing towards the open field. Luckily, Id caught her collar and stopped her from being sighted. She struggled in fright. Being tugged in such a way would frighten anyone.

“Tonight,” the drifter said callously as always, nevertheless, it calmed the little girl. “The job will be done tonight.”

Night crawled over the landscape and an inevitable macabre had begun. Unlike the past silent nights, the flora and fauna of Crissaegrim cheered on, owls, wolves, bats, wind, water and trees. It was like a caldera reliving its days as a volcano. Oddly, there was no prevailing dusk mist but the looming clouds hindered moonlight and darkness flooded all over.

“Wait here,” Id whispered to Alice. He then took his sword, wielded it like he once did, then as the owls flocked boisterously out of the canopies, he darted off like lightning.

At the other end of the vale the bandits could hear fluttering amidst the howls of lobos. This foreboding music had inadvertently pierced their defenses, striking their minds with terror and telling them of horrifying things to come.

“This is creeping me out,” said an eye-patched bandit. He stared into the abysmal beyond the rampart he stood on.

“You aren’t used to this yet? Hell, there’s nothing out there that can put a splinter up my arse! We’re in the middle of no where! We’re lucky to have even found this rich place after running from the enforcers of Pieta,” said the other rampart watch. He continued to rant about the rewards of cowardice. When he had stopped he realized that the person he was talking to was no longer there. “Chicken stool…” he muttered as he spat at the void only to have his head skewered by a sword spat by the void in return.

From the cloak of shadows came the drifter, bloody hands and all. He pulled his sword from the bandit’s jaw and wiped it with the bandit’s clothes. “I should’ve taken one of the newer swords,” he thought as he saw blood seeping into the steel of his blade tainting its silvery glint with ruby red. Id took a picture of the village with his mind. He ignored the splendidly made townhouses and landmarks and searched for one structure only, the bandit lord’s quarters; a mansion at the farthest edge of town. From the information he extracted from one of the bandits, there would be none of them patrolling the streets. Everyone else would be in and around the mansion because there was no way anyone could enter the village from behind or from the sides.

“Sadly, your frontal defenses were lax,” mumbled Id as he carried his victim’s corpse over his shoulder. He leaped unto the nearest roof and headed towards the other end of town. The night was still young. The task had just begun.



Id arrived at the final townhouse at the edge of the village. A few more paces from his current position, was the mansion. He surveyed the area carefully. He did not want to awaken the slumbering townsfolk. It occurred to him that if there were so few guards at the rampart and this town was as large as it looked, why didn’t the locals fight their way out? Perhaps there was some strange circumstance that prevented them from fighting, the populace was mostly female or because of the place’s seclusion the chances of it being discovered by anyone were near zero, something of that sort.

“It’s about time for our shift,” clamored one of the bandits camped outside the mansion.

“Do we even need to? No one’s ever gonna find us here!” argued another.

“Idiot, then how the hell did we find this place?” retorted yet another.

After their pointless debate five of the bandits began their walk towards the rampart. If they were to discover the present sentries were missing things would get messy. They had to be taken out before they could reach the rampart. That process would be most effortless for Id.

Moments later, one of the remaining bandits camped in front of the mansion had a thought he wanted to share. “Don’t tell me those guys got lazy of moving their arses and decided to stay at the rampart,” he told the others by the campfire. He shuffled the firewood with his sword in order to keep the flame lit. Suddenly, someone flew through the camp and landed the mansion’s front door. The bandits quickly scrambled towards the mansion. They carried their spears, swords and torches eager to mutilate the troublemaker.

“What the hell…?” said the bandit who first arrived at the scene. He saw a disfigured corpse, blood gouting from its belly and chest.

The mansion doors opened as the bandits outside started to gather. From the mansion came the bandit lord and his decorated lieutenants. A hint of irritancy was on his face. “Is this about my refusal to allow you from taking the indulging yourselves with the women?” the bandit lord asked with a loud tone of anger. His eyes fixated at the ensanguined cadaver. “WHO DID THIS?!”

“I did,” said a lone figure behind the mob. The drifter stood at the middle of the path connecting the town proper to the mansion grounds. His sword was already adorned with the trickling blood of its victims. On his other hand were brigand’s clothes taken from their bearers. He then threw the ragged attires at the feet of the bandit lord. All eyes were now on Id.

“So that’s why those guys never came back,” said one of the bandits as he raised his torch at the drifter’s direction, trying to get a face.

The bandit lord glared at Id with utmost fierceness. His ignorance provided him with the false courage to command his remaining minions. “You took advantage of the darkness but now you come before us, forty strong. You think you can take us on by your self? You should’ve stayed in the shadows you little prick! Extirpate the fool!” mouthed the bandit lord, pointing his saber at their sole opponent.

Id took a quick step back and held his sword as if aiming a crossbow, though he truly was aiming. As the throng approached dangerously closer, Id threw his sword, piercing through a dozen skulls before boring itself into the trunk of a tree. Blood rained momentarily and a scarlet haze covered the path. Some bandits were horrified at that singular attack and were inevitably paralyzed by fear. Other bandits rushed into to take the drifter out only to be cut down one by one, each killed by the weapon of the previous fatality. When the fear-struck ones had recovered from their anesthetized state they realized that they were the only ones left standing.

“Save yourselves!” yelped one of the survivors. Without hesitation, he ran for the mansion door which unexpectedly slammed shut in his face. He pounded and pounded on the door, screamed and shrieked in terror.

When the insistent door hammering died down, the eerie sound of scrabbling followed. The hair-raising sound of fingernails cracking and snapping as it struggled against the wooden door was insufferable to human ears. Afterwards, a ghostly silence succeeded the sickening noise.

There were ten bandits left including the bandit lord and all of them were inside the mansion. The place turned out to be a large library consisting of a foyer and a two story atrium. The bandits gathered in the atrium, waiting for the intruder to come forth. They formed a flank that would defend them from an attack from any side, an unexpected military formation. The bandit lord was possibly a former military figure.

“Don’t keep me waiting bastard! Those thirty were just small fry! Can you take on my best men?” the bandit lord boasted. He kept a serious face on despite his profuse sweating. His false courage had shattered but he did not want his subordinates to lose morale and kept himself as calm as possible

The silence was finally broken by the sharp, mincing sound of a spear shooting out from the shadowy foyer. The bandits kept their flank and masterfully defended against the hurled projectile. The spear flew spinning until it finally landed noisily on the second floor beside a tactically placed oil lamp.

“The lamps must not be knocked over,” mumbled the bandit lord as he checked to see if all the lamps placed were still in place. There were eight lamps distributed throughout the atrium so that the place would remain well lit. This way, the drifter would not be able to make use of the shadows. This way, the playing field would be leveled, or so it seemed.

A skidding noise emanated from the shadowy entrance hall. Someone was probably dragging something towards the lights of the atrium. The flank turned to the source of the noise. The bandits’ hands started to tremble, become fatigued and impatient. “Come out!” dared one of the bandits. “Don’t lose your composure!” the bandit lord scolded but at that moment the formation had been already broken mentally. Several people came pouncing at the bandits. The flank panicked and began swinging their weapons frantically, shredding the incoming bodies.

“STOP! STOP!” ordered the bandit lord. He took a moment to look at the decimated corpses. They were all bandits… all except one. He looked at the unique, blood-drenched corpse that oddly enough, had no boots on. It was so damaged that whoever it was, he had lost his identity. “Good lord…” said the bandit lord as he covered his mouth. His insides were churning just by the sight of it. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain coursing through his leg. He looked down and saw crimson, vein-like objects latching onto his limb that was rapidly swelling.

There was one final chorus of screams before a calm stillness took over. Tranquility had set in. The villagers were still asleep as if nothing had happened.



Dawn came over the town. The sunlight crept over the sharp spires of rock that had always covered the secluded settlement. A jagged shadow hung over the township. Frightening as it may seem, it was a habitual sight. A feint haze of crimson festooned the morning mist on the path to Crissaegrim’s peak. Pools of blood were littered all over. Amongst the sanguine ambience was a single blood trail that suggested something had been dragged onward and into the mansion.

Alice sauntered into the library, walking across a carpet of red. She swiveled her head, side to side, taking glimpses of the books housed by the place. Finally, she arrived at the atrium and discovered the northern shelves had split open revealing a secret vestibule. The little girl approached the hidden passage cautiously and after gathering her resolved, entered.

After a few silent steps, Alice arrived in a small chamber. To her left was a bookshelf keeping tremendously old books that looked like they would turn to dust if they were to be touched. To her right was an armory, a collection of ancient swords and armor. In front of her was underground water streaming from one side of the chamber to another, passing through cracks in the walls. Beyond that was a pile of brigand clothes void of their bearers. Finally, atop the bloodied clothes was the drifter and in his hand was the book she gave him.

Id had a smile across his face, blood painting his maw, his eyes covered by his scattered hair.

“Th- thank you…” Alice stuttered in uncertainty and possibly, fear. Still, she tried her best to show her gratitude.

Id, focused solely on the book in his hand, chuckled and then… laughed.

~ xXx ~

The claymore struggled to keep control of the clash. The librarian somehow drew a stoker out from nowhere. Still, it was pretty much impossible for a mere iron stoker withstand the steel of her sword. “I might be mistaken… that stoker…” the half-breed warrior struggled to think but her contemplation was cut short with a powerful blunt force hit her in the gut. Her stance shriveled and she was forced to momentarily distance herself from her opponent.

The librarian stood silently, waiting for the claymore to bid her next move.

“Miss Cecily, please stop!” cried the little girl as she clung to her robes. “Sir Librarian did nothing wrong!”

“Stand back Alice, this man… no… this creature is dangerous,” Cecily presaged the little blonde, parting her wayward, braided locks as she did.

Alice knew what was coming. She knew what would happen if the Cecily would trespass against the librarian. Five years ago, she saw what the librarian was capable of and if she wanted Cecily’s life spared she knew what she had to do. Hastily, she darted out of the library in search of the direly needed status quo.

Cecily did not see this as an act to stop her; instead she assumed that the little girl had run off to save her own self. Nothing was left that could jeopardize her actions. She tapped her yoki, deforming her face and augmenting her strength. She took one huge step and in an instant, had herself swinging her blade towards the awakened being’s face. “He should be confused by my false yoki…” the braids thought. She thought she had him but despite her speed, he reflexively caught on to her attack and in one motion disarmed her by masterfully dislocating her wrist and elbow. Her eyes widened with such an unexpected turn of events. Did her enemy know her yoki was a fake or did he not know but had no fear of it? Leaving her body to instinct, Cecily drew out her concealed dagger and somehow managed to stab her opponent in the chest. The librarian did not flinch to the braids’ attack. Rather than do so, he tugged vehemently on the braids’ loose arm, pulling it far enough for him to steal her sword. Seeing her predicament, the silver-eyed warrior drew another dagger from her stash and slid it through her enemy’s ribs. The two struggled halfway through the entrance hall. Finally, Cecily jumped up and stomped on both her daggers delivering gashes fatal to any normal person to her enemy but doing so had helped sever her broken arm. The librarian was kicked towards the entrance while the claymore threw herself towards the atrium.

“Damn… he’s far stronger than I thought. He hasn’t even shown his true form yet,” Cecily thought, her mind overwhelmed by the librarian’s power. She placed her right hand over the place where her left arm once was, a gory mess.

“Vandal…” muttered the librarian as he pointed the stolen sword at the scattered books and the broken tables the braids was resting on. He then got into a strange stance, wielding the stolen blade behind him.

Not wanting to lose, Cecily gathered more of her yoki and attempted to back away as fast as she could but to no avail. The librarian swiftly delivered his blow and the braids was unable to escape.

“STOP!!!” screamed Alice as she came rushing in to stop the fight. In her arms was the status quo, Cecily’s saving grace.

“Tch…” the braids mumbled as blood spew out her mouth. Her own sword had pierced her but somehow it did not take her life. The steel somehow skimmed right in between her heart and lung, missing both vital organs completely. The same could not be said for her consciousness as it began to slip away along with her yoki.

Alice presented a book to the librarian and the librarian’s eyes fixated on it.

The librarian extracted the blade from Cecily. His wounds gushed, a river of blood carried out the daggers lodged in his chest. “…same mistake, the Surt error,” he said as he gently took the book from Alice but not before wiping his hands free of blood. “What are the conditions?” he asked with his usual cold timbre. There was no answer to be tarried for from the child. He read the little blonde’s face and he knew what he had to do.









Writer's Note: So ends Part 1 of 3. I'll now be starting my drafts for Part 2 Claymore Unwritten History: The Masquer which will center around the misadventures of Cecily the Sword Dance Masquer. If you have any rants about The Librarian, post them in Letters to Idelice. Thank you for reading... so long and goodnight... so long and goodnight.