Chapter 113 (Interlude 15) - Dreadborne Harbinger

The clang of steel echoed off the surrounding stone, followed by a scream cut abruptly short. Blood fanned in an arc across the packed dirt of the training ring, joining similar macabre patterns set into the churned ground. Chadwick stood panting, his chest rising and falling beneath a blood-flecked dueling tunic stitched with the mark of House Copperhand. Reaching down, he grasped the hilt of his sword that was buried in the ribs of a half-starved man whose face still bore the remains of a thief’s branding on one cheek. The man’s body slid off the blade with a wet sound, crumpling lifelessly to the dirt.

A human boy, no older than sixteen and wearing the uniform of one sworn to the Arena’s custodial ranks, rushed over from the wall, gave a shaky bow to Chadwick, then hurried to drag away the corpse with practiced, if nervous, efficiency. It was the sixth such body he had removed today.

“Bring out the next one,” Chadwick barked after the boy, swinging his sword in loose circles, scattering droplets of crimson through the air.

“Yes, Scion Copperhand!” the boy all but shouted, darting as quickly as he could with the corpse still in hand to the side door.

Chadwick strode back to the center of the training ring, now letting his sword hang loose in one hand, the other tightening into a fist as he stalked in slow circles, expression twisted in bitter rage. Despite the carnage strewn about — all that remained from the condemned criminals he had purchased with Coins of Service to practice his bladework and earn some experience — his irritation refused to die away.

“Worthless,” he muttered to himself, not bothering to wipe the blood from his face, even as it dripped down one cheek. “All of them worthless. Weak-blooded rats not even fit to bleed on my steel.”

Each of the corpses he had made today had netted him a small trickle of experience, but it was barely enough to edge him closer to his next level. The only real benefit of his bloodsport had been the venting.

He turned to face the other side of the training ring as the gate along that side opened to reveal two guards waiting beside a cage, their expressions neutral behind their helms. Inside, another prisoner, a gaunt woman with haunted eyes and shackled hands, shrank back as Chadwick looked her way.

“Two Coins of Service you were, woman,” Chadwick sneered, but she did not respond except to hunch over further, avoiding eye contact. “You better put up more of a fight than the last one.”

The guards said nothing as they unlocked the cage with slow, deliberate precision, and hauled the woman to her feet. She barely resisted. Her limbs moved like dry sticks, starved and stiff, but she had just enough strength to walk under her own power—if only barely. The rusted chains around her wrists clinked with every step as they marched her to the center of the training ring. Chadwick watched her approach with bored contempt, sword still loose in his grip.

She reached the center and stood there trembling, eyes downcast. Her shoulders twitched as if she wanted to speak… or maybe scream. But nothing came out.

Chadwick spat near her feet. “Give her a weapon.”

One of the guards tossed a dull shortsword at her feet. She stared at it like it might bite. For a moment, Chadwick thought she wouldn’t move at all. Then she bent, slowly, and lifted it with shaking fingers before facing him. Not in any proper stance. Not with any hint of training. Just a desperate, graceless grip of survival.

Still, it was more than the last few had managed.

Chadwick nodded. “That’s better. Now. Try not to die too fast.”

Then he made a half-hearted lunge.

She barely raised the blade before he slammed into her with the full weight of his body. Not his sword—just his shoulder. The impact cracked something in her ribs and sent her sprawling. Her breath left her in a sharp gasp, but she didn’t cry out.

He circled her, boots again kicking up blood and sand. “Get up,” he said softly. “Come on now. Make it worth the two Coins of Service I spent.”

She coughed, blood flecking her lips, but staggered to her knees. Then, with a sound between a groan and a sob, she forced herself upright again. The sword shook in her hands.

Chadwick struck again—this time with the flat of his blade. It whipped across her forearm and sent the sword spinning from her grip. She cried out now, finally, clutching the bruised limb, but didn’t fall. She turned her head, glaring at him, hate and terror burning together in her eyes. With a wordless scream, she lunged—not for the sword, but for him, hands clawing, teeth bared like an animal with nothing left.

Chadwick laughed.

He caught her wrists easily, twisted them until the bones ground together, then drove his knee into her gut hard enough to lift her from the ground. She crumpled, breathless, body curling inward.

Then he ended it.

One clean slash across the neck. Deep. Swift. Merciless.

Her body spasmed, blood fountaining, then collapsed back down in a heap.

“Worthless,” he growled again, frustration building to new heights. “All of them worthless.”

Before he could vent his rage at how short this latest fight had been, the side door opened again, the boy from before returning breathless. “Another…another batch is on the way, Scion Copperhand. The Coins of Service that you allocated have already been deducted.”

Chadwick didn’t respond as the servant resumed his position by the far wall. With at least several minutes to wait, he began pacing, mind returning to the source of his ire and the reason why even these fights were not as enjoyable as they usually were.

That Blacksword bastard.

Discreet surveillance. That had been the plan. Nothing overt. Just eyes. Observers. A soft shadow trailing the Blacksword’s movements, ready to report any deviation from their agreement. Anything that he might use against him should he make the wrong choice about staying at the Academy.

They’d lost him.

In Bastion.

The last thing they had reported was that the Blacksword and his damn bunnykin bodyguard had been traveling on foot towards the outlying districts of the city. Likely beyond as well, given where the spies he had hired had lost him. No trace of where he was going, though his money was on some Expeditionary Mission. Which meant he likely was trying to get materials or wealth to help him unlock a class. And that infuriated him more than anything. After he had been so magnanimous as to offer the agreement in the first place, too.

A slow clap echoed through the training ring, and Chadwick immediately gritted his teeth at the sound. It cut through his thoughts like a knife, and the sound of it was clearly not meant in praise but mockery.

It didn’t come from the guards. They remained motionless, flanking the now-empty cage like statues—stiff-backed, eyes averted, unwilling to draw attention from the noble still slick with blood. Nor did it come from the staff that remained mostly out of sight, all of whom knew better than to make noise in his presence unless directly spoken to.

A tall man stepped into view from the upper observation platform, descending a short flight of marble steps with measured grace. His training leathers were black with silver trim, immaculately clean, despite the grit and dust of the training ring. A half-mask of gleaming obsidian covered the lower half of his face, leaving only sharp cheekbones and glinting eyes exposed.

“Not bad, Scion Copperhand,” the man drawled, his tone smooth as velvet and twice as mocking. “Though I must admit… watching you butcher half-trained criminals and shackled fodder loses its novelty rather quickly.”

Chadwick turned, hand still clenched tightly around his blood-slick blade. His chest still rose and fell with the echoes of exertion, but his expression was cold at the unwanted interruption. He recognized the voice even before he processed the half-masked face. There was only one man in the employ of Scion Brightcoin who spoke with that precise blend of clipped refinement and studied disdain.

“Instructor Varn,” he said without bowing. While he respected the man for his skills in the art of violence, he never enjoyed any of the times Scion Brightcoin had forced him to train with him. Varn never lost. “Has Scion Brightcoin sent you to bring me to him? I could have sworn my next appointment with our lord wasn’t for another two days.”

“Yes, that is true, but that meeting is not why I am here,” Varn agreed, coming to a halt just outside the blood-darkened rim of the training ring. He clasped his hands behind his back, posture perfect, every inch of him the image of composed authority. “I’m here because Scion Brightcoin believes it is time for you to stop playing with scraps… and start planning your real debut.”

Chadwick raised a brow. Did that mean what he thought it meant? “You mean the potential duel with the Blacksword?”

“I mean the almost certain duel with Scion Blacksword,” Varn responded, his tone dipping into something far colder. “Our lord has assets of his own that have been… monitoring the situation you have entangled yourself in. While your hired help has lost track of Scion Blacksword, our lord’s own hired help has confirmed the class that Scion Blacksword is working towards. A Rare Class called Valiant Sunlord.” Varn snorted in contempt. “To think an Archducal heir would have fallen so low as to seek a Class less than Epic ranked. How House Blacksword has fallen.”

“I’m more than ready to face him,” Chadwick said. “Even if I don’t have a class of my own yet, I am confident in my skills and training. I will slaughter him.”

“Will you?” Varn tilted his head. “Perhaps. I will admit, you have some measure of skill. But that is why our lord sent me here. He would prefer that the duel to the death occur, and that there be no doubt as to the outcome. As such, we have a class that we think would both suit you well and ensure that the duel ends up being a… spectacle. ”

Chadwick had strength—raw, brutal strength. He had skill, honed over years of sparring and sanctioned slaughter. And he had drive. If Scion Brightcoin was offering a class, though… It was likely better than a class that he might attempt to track down himself. He well knew that the Central Archives only granted access to so many options, for all it was still an exceedingly impressive repository of Imperial knowledge.

Varn watched the thoughts flicker across the younger man’s face and gave the faintest nod of approval. “Which is why I’m here,” he said simply. He reached into a side satchel and withdrew a slim scroll case, the metal polished and gleaming. “For you to unlock a class.” He removed the scroll within, still sealed with the golden wax of House Brightcoin. The edges of the parchment shimmered faintly, warded against prying eyes.

Chadwick stepped forward, bloodlust momentarily forgotten, suspicion and hunger warring in his gaze. “This is…”

“A guide,” Varn said, “to unlocking a Rare Class tailored to you. One that goes beyond the Essence you recently unlocked to align with your ambition. And yes—your love of control. Of pain.”

Chadwick’s lips curled into a grin, then he bowed slightly, recognizing exactly what was being offered to him. “I’m honored Scion Brightcoin has taken the time to assist me with unlocking such a class, Instructor Varn.”

“As you should be,” Varn replied with a nod of his own, the half-mask hiding further expression. “Scion Brightcoin believes the Rare Class known as Crimson Reaver to be your best path forward. It is  based around Strength and the Essence of Blood. Ruthless. Efficient. It thrives on carnage—on domination of the battlefield through fear and raw destruction. As you unlock its abilities, you will receive benefits from killing, especially when your enemies are outnumbered, terrified, and weak.”

He glanced down at the corpses still cooling behind Chadwick.

“Which, as it turns out, you’ve been practicing all morning.”

Chadwick’s fingers delicately took the proffered scroll, then he looked up, eyes gleaming with the same bloodlust from his earlier fights. “And once I have unlocked it, I can count on support to prepare for the duel that Scion Brightcoin now wants to happen?”

Varn nodded. “Yes, it will be my job to help you prepare. House Brightcoin has already begun greasing the wheels to make sure that it will happen by the end of the year.”

Chadwick didn’t need to hear anything else. He would have been content with simply driving the Blacksword bastard from the Imperial Academy, but killing him was fine as well. Perhaps even a better option, as it would allow him to tie his fortunes more closely to Scion Brightcoin. Whose House was positioning for a final conflict with House Blacksword, if the whispers he had been hearing were true.

He turned the scroll over in his hand, then nodded once, sharp and decisive.

“I will begin hunting down the materials immediately.”

“You will have House Brightcoin’s assistance with that as well.” As Varn turned to leave, he paused. “Oh, and Chadwick?”

“Yes?”

“When the day comes that you face Scion Blacksword…” Varn looked over his shoulder. “My lord wants you to make sure it is a spectacle.”

As Varn departed, Chadwick turned back to the center of the training ring, though his mind was elsewhere. He could almost see the duel already. An arena packed with faculty and students. The banners of House Copperhand raised high behind him. That Blacksword bastard standing opposite in the ragged armor of his diminished House, fear on his face. That damned bunnykin behind him, watching from the stands in horror as the fight progressed.

He’d draw it out.

He’d humiliate him.

He’d carve him open for every slight. Every stare. Every time that Blacksword bastard had failed to flinch. Failed to bow.

He’d earn his kill.

Because House Blacksword didn’t belong here, in the Empire’s most sacred halls.

And Chadwick Copperhand was going to make sure everyone remembered what happened to those who resisted the tides of change. Who should have stayed relegated to the corpse heap of old history.

“Bring the next ones.”