(Pilot) Bear Knight and Shaman

AN: Next week the Volume 4 Bonus chapter!

As Juro made his way through the moonlit forest, the sounds of nature were all around him. The pine trees and earthy scent, the rustling of leaves and creaking of wood, all echoed around him. The trees, caught in the wind's grip, seemed to pulse with life.

The bearkin’s armor clinked with each step, the sharp sound piercing to his ears. Despite his lumbering stature, years of training had honed his movements to a predatory grace. He gazed through the narrow holes in his steel helmet, focusing more on the sounds and scents.

The villagers had made claims of strange lights and stranger sounds. But though he’d yet to see either, something felt off. He couldn’t quite put his claw on it, but instinct kept him on edge.

The forest became silent.

The swordmaster’s fur prickled at the eerie stillness.

As if the trees were holding their breath in anticipation.

He immediately stopped in his tracks. The visor on his helmet narrowed the world to a singular corridor of lights and growing shadows stretching infinitely ahead.

His ears perked, straining against the steel, trying to catch any sound other than the maddening beat of his heart. He inched his right hand to his sword, every muscle in his body tense. The helmet scratched as it turned slightly to the left, then the right.

With a forced slow breath, he clenched his heart until the drumming inside his chest turned into a steady beat. The tension melted, the grip on his sword was iron, but his arms were water waiting to flow.

A breeze rustled the forest.

“We must awaken the Dreamer.”

The whispering voice came from the left, towards the East. Was there where the monster awaited? Was it trying to lure him?

He grinned under his helm. Trap or not, the thing would meet its end soon.

Juro’s armor clanked in a rattling hurry. The swordmaster rushed in the voice’s direction with heightened speed. His claw remained firm on the handle of his sword, ready to unsheathe at a moment’s notice. The two holes in his helmet turned the world into a rush of stripes. Trees, shadows, and moonlight, the forest hampered his progress with bushes and thickets, even the casual small tree. But Juro had no concern for them, bulling through without care.

There was a lingering smell in the air, of ash and power. Signs of a spirit, then.

The swordmaster took three quick steps to stop, his armor clanking with the protective sound of steel as he turned his head in search of his prey.

The wind shifted, blowing from behind him, and it was growing stronger. He turned his other senses out in every direction.

“Hurry.”

The voice came from the north. And with its utterance, the wind shifted direction. The scent of lightning ached against his lungs. Juro’s jaw clenched and ears flattened against his head. A snarl lingered on the bearkin’s lips.

His boots kicked dirt and crushed dry twigs. The closer he got, the stronger the wind became, rattling the trees and whipping them into a frenzy. The swordmaster cut off his own cape to avoid the hindrance.

The forest groaned, the ground shaking with the power of a rumbling mountain. Flashes of fire and gold shone further ahead, vanishing between the trees in the ephemeral glow which turned the darkness of night into streaks of gold.

All at once, the tops of the trees burst into red flames.

Juro froze at the sight, feeling the spirit-heat wash against the parts of his fur that were exposed to the air. Fortunately, the cool steel that wrapped most of his body diffused the effects, defiant against the power that twisted the natural order beyond recognition. The red flames were running downwards, turning the trees into torches and the night into a horrid spectacle of macabre light.

He drew his sword, coating it and himself in his soul’s power, creating a greenish glow.

For a brief moment, Juro considered escape. This was a threat far beyond his expectations. He should call for reinforcements from the Order. But not stopping the threat now would doom the region. And if he couldn’t win… he hoped to at least be able to redirect its destruction towards less populated areas.

“Hurry, it is almost time.”

The heat grew stronger, and the blaze was spreading. The ground steamed and cracked under Juro’s feet, and the forest was withering under the fire. Each tree would become a torch of red light, bark and wood exploding in a rain of splinters and ash that would be whisked away by the wind.

The swordmaster pushed onwards, ignoring the fear that clenched at his heart.

Though the trees burned in bright red, the golden glow ahead turned a threatening blue. Juro had never seen spirit fire of that color, and merely looking at it was painful to his eyes. The fire extended into the sky, raging with such brilliance the night had turned to day; the shadows gone, leaving nothing but the flame.

The wind became a furious storm, sucking him towards the pillar of blue fire that was expanding and consuming the forest as it went.

But this went beyond a mere stormy wind. Even with Juro’s massive frame and strength, he could feel himself losing his footing. The swordmaster sank his blade into the ground, holding tight and looking upon the column of blue flames. What few trees had withstood the flames shattered and were sucked into the light, leaving nothing but ash and dust in their wake.

The spiritual fire burned hot enough even the steel of his armor had felt warm against his fur. Juro cursed, unable to step away, unable to do anything but hold on, pushing his soul through his blade just so it held fast.

The tower of blue light grew as it consumed everything within sight, the forest in front of him now gone and the light all he could see. Had he truly thought he could face whatever was causing this?

All around him, the world roared.

He screamed, clenching his eyes shut and bellowing the chants of the Ancients. But the flames and winds were louder, robbing him of his voice and leaving behind the ringing of the pillar of fire.

And just as fast as it had come, it was gone.

Juro’s body crumpled against the ground as the wind he’d been fighting against vanished. His ears rung against the sudden silence. His body ached against the lack of strain. His lungs struggled with panting breaths.

With his senses slowly coming back to him, the swordmaster grimaced at the state he was in. The steel glowed, and the green glow of his soul surrounding him strained to keep him from becoming too uncomfortable. Removing the armor was not an option. He could almost taste the spiritual heat in the air, so incandescent it would instantly burn his body to a crisp if not for the metal that defied the spirit’s abominable power.

He stood slowly, pushing his soul outwards to cool himself and take in his surroundings.

Behind him, what he could see of the forest was nothing but scorched earth, not a flame in sight, even the ash having been blown away in the wind.

In front of him, a sea of seething molten rock.

And upon its center, an island, housing a singular lush green tree.

“Come.”

The sea of bubbling magma parted to reveal a single path forward.

Once more, he looked at the forest and shook his head. This was not an evil he would turn a blind eye to. No matter how much his arms trembled, his grip on the forged steel would not falter.

And running away would put him at a disadvantage in the fight to come.

Juro looked down at his blade, slightly bent, but not broken. He hesitated, looking at the charred forest once more. With a growl, he pulled the blade out, clenching his teeth as he straightened his blade against the ground as best he could, ignoring the screeching complaint of the metal.

But it was better than going up against a spirit bare-pawed.

Thus he walked, following the path of stone.

The rush of his heartbeat and quickened breaths deafened the sound of his own footsteps. He was all too aware of the ease the spirit would have in killing him where he stood. It just needed to remove the path, and the magma would see to his demise. Juro’s mind whirled with the possibilities, wondering what kind of entity this was, how it had come to be, or how it had existed this close to civilization with none having detected it.

He reached the island, marveling at the lush green moss covering the ground, at the lone tree next to a pond that shimmered, reflecting the lava’s reddish light and casting the tree with a deathly glow. The swordmaster dared not set foot on the moss. However, even with the protection of steel, there were magics he had to abide by.

“I am called Juro. I do not seek peace.” He declared, denying hospitality.

Only then did he step into what was clearly the spirit’s domain, raising his sword in preparation.

The spirit was next to the pond. It was half over Juro’s already impressive height, yet slender like a reed that would bend over at the slightest breeze, with skin as pale as the moon. Its limbs were elongated, nearly touching the ground, with fingers crooked like branches. It wore flowing white robes that shimmered and shifted, as if they were made of mist or smoke.

Juro did not look upon the creature’s face. Even in his armor, a powerful enough spirit could use one’s eyes to bypass such defenses and entrap the mind of its victim.

“That is not your true name, child of bones.” Its voice crackled like a campfire, its hands pulling up to its body.

Why wasn’t it attacking? Why wasn’t this creature striking him down?

“If I gave it to you, you would use it against me.”

Juro tensed, tightening his grip on the bent blade. Should he charge and strike? Kick the moss up to present a distraction? His supplies had burned with the flames, all he could trust was the steel on his hands.

The spirit approached, its footsteps burned the moss in its wake, leaving a trail of blue flames. Juro froze, ready for the attack as the spirit got closer, waiting for his opportunity to strike before he was turned into a pile of slag and ash.

But the chance to attack never came, for the spirit crossed the distance faster than his mind could follow. All too suddenly, the spirit had grasped the edge of his blade with a hand that had eight fingers, each with many crooked knots and phalanxes. A shudder ran across the spirit’s body as its skin crackled, blackened, and flaked against the metal.

Juro roared, straining every muscle and pushing his body with his soul, yet unable to move the blade an inch.

“It is fortunate that you came. My time is nearing its end,” the spirit spoke, its soft voice overcoming his scream as the creature stepped forward.

It plunged the sword into its own chest.

All around them, the magma’s glow turned blue, then flickered, and died out. The island was plunged into darkness.

The only light was that of the spirit, the tall creature falling to its knees. “You must protect the Dreamer,” With the free hand, it took Juro’s helmet and pulled it off his head with a flick of the wrist, ignoring the injuries spreading through its own hand.

The spirit took Juro’s bearkin face to force him to look up, and though he tried to close his eyes, it was to no avail. His brown eyes meet the gold and blue fires the dying monster had instead of eyes. Any attempt to gather soul was shattered in the presence of the flame. It poured into him, through him, filling his every limb, seeping into his muscles and etching itself into his bones.

Yet it did not hurt. It was a deep warmth, a heat like a hearth that he knew, somehow, would never leave.

“I envy you,” it said through a mouth filled with rows upon rows of fangs, its body blackening. “At least…” it trailed, body flaking and crumbling. “… you have a real name.”

The blackness consumed the spirit, turning it to ash that was blown by the wind.

Juro collapsed, knees hitting the mossy ground as his body refused to move. The beastkin looked down at himself, still armored, still protected by steel. Yet different.

On his right hand lay the blade, now bone white, its edge wreathed in a blue fire that did not burn the moss.

And to his left, a figure, lying prone and unconscious.

A human.

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AN: This is meant to be a re-imagining/re-write of the story I made called "Not as it Seems" a few years ago.

Overall plot-line / summary being that the protagonist (the human) is the very same guy who created the setting. And now that the world's spirits are dying, they bring him in to solve the mess.

I'm trying to make it into something a bit more wholesome / positive than my usual stuff (especially necessary at this point in life).

Hope you guys enjoyed, give a heads up if you liked it!

I will probably have chapters ready to go a bit after I start Alchimia Rex's new volume.