Chapter 11

The two Rigar called up now were a bit better off. In fact, to Mona they even seemed familiar for some reason. The both of them had a bulkier frame and looked better fed than many present. At Rigar's shout, the two ran at each other, rather practiced given everything that happened so far.

The blows left a barrage of noises, as they rearranged themselves and did their best to block each others attacks. They adjusted quickly after seeing the first four get pancaked with the general's Aura method, and were doing their best to take each other down, but also maintain enough stamina to keep going further.

"That's right, those two were those fuckers who kept fighting in the mess hall!"

"You mean the two who kept grabbing bowls of mush before the time was halfway up?"

"Yes, those two! There were several of them, and it seems two of them were called on."

"Was this all planned? The guards didn't do a thing when they stole food, only when they broke bowls. After all, look up..."

Around Mona, others began to realize something of the current combatants. These were those food thieves! Every day or so, a few in the mess hall would break out into a fight, trying to take bowls of their mediocre sludge for themselves. Of course, as long as the fighters didn't go too far, and didn't break any of the wooden bowls Casado crafted, they could get away with their petty theft no problem. The guards simply watched, like they were in on it.

Were they? Did these guards get pre-selected by the nobles above too, to make sure that worthwhile captives would go into their hands? Mona wasn't sure how deeply it made sense to think about it. He didn't want to get caught in paranoia, but he felt there was more to it than that. Other than him, and those thieves, many of the prisoners around would likely struggle past 50 trades in a fight. Many would have to fall under Rigar's attacks.

They must be culling the numbers. The thought stole the breath from his body. He wasn't yet used to death, and these frequent occurrences were not helping him adjust one bit. He'd been a caged bird for too long, and the reality of the world was too much to handle. If it weren't for the Aurum Armor gliding in his mental space, he wondered if he would have already broken down. The piece glimmered every time he felt he was on the brink, soothing his nerves and bringing him back from the edge of his sanity.

The first combatant threw a set of jabs.

"Quadruple Claw!"

The feel of Wind Aura spread away from the attack, coming in four zephyrs that went flying at his opponent. The four jabs took on the image of four small eaglets as they made their way for the fighter just a few feet ahead.

"Wing Shroud."

Another spray of Wind Aura came, different this time, as the defender raised his arms like the wings of a bird, enclosing himself in a curtain of Wind Aura. The attack and defense of these techniques collided, leaving a mellow boom to fill the makeshift arena. Above, the nobles watching seemed to be pleased, and even that child watching was apparently cheering on the defender.

After a hundred or so more trades, the attacker collapsed to the ground. They really did exhaust all the energy they had, doing their best to look powerful. After all these people were captured by the Faulkners, it seemed a few like this were able to change their mindset quickly. These captives did their best to look desirable to the nobles above, hoping to avoid the role of bait and cannon fodder in Faulkner's military. After the fall of Steel, it was only a matter of time before the empire pointed its claws at the other nations of the Onas Continent.

The nobles above could be heard clapping, giving their thanks to Rigar for the nice little show. The general looked rather pleased himself; the rage from before had largely left his face. He had a few guards carry the prisoners behind him, and under the watching eyes of the prisoners waiting, the two were given a card each, before they were dismissed from the arena and making their way to the mess hall.

"Good, good. That was wonderful fighting. Maybe you aren't all trash after all. The nobles greatly enjoyed the last performance. You two, come here and begin."

Rigar pointed at two more combatants to come forward. And like before, these two were able to keep up, displaying a similar level of skill. Rigar and the nobles were pleased, and the two were guided to the back to receive cards, before going back to the mess hall.

This process continued for a while. Combatants would come up, fight each other the best they could with shabby skills, then get taken to the back to receive different colored cards before leaving. Mona didn't understand what the nobles could possibly enjoy in seeing starving war slaves duke it out with such a low level of skill, but no one would bother to answer such questions.

Another group failed in their bout, losing their remaining stamina a bit over half the time the others took. And was crunched into the ground. The smell of flesh, blood, and earth mixed and filled the arena. Rigar carried a dark expression as he simply pointed at two nearby guards to clean up the new mess. They did their task quickly, taking the biggest bits and disposing of them somewhere. However, the dust of their bones, left behind as it would take too much effort to clean so thoroughly, was still where they stood in the arena, and shone under the light of the afternoon sun. Rigar simply shook his head a few times, before glaring again at the prisoners remaining.

"It seems the more I have expectations, the more you find ways to disappoint me and our guests."

"Let's begin the next round of bouts. You two, come up here."

Rigar pointed to another fellow at the far left, and Mona. His time had come. Everyone around turned to look at Mona, whispers between their lips. Plenty spoke of his purple eyes, his pre-selected status, and the beaming looks of one noble lady looking down from the seer crystal. Mona didn't bother to see what expression his "buyer" had; he couldn't see anything detailed in the crystal, and he wanted to cast the idea of her existence out of his mind as much as he can.

Being owned wasn't something he wanted to fixate on.

As Mona stood in front of the prisoners, with all eyes on him and his opponent, it seemed like Rigar wanted to share a rare few words. But then the old general closed his mouth, and sat back into his seat. He took a chance to look at Mona and his opponent, before telling both to begin.

*****

The fight went about as well as Mona expected. The afternoon sun was baking his skin, and his body was shedding precious water and salt everywhere. His feet shifted, not just from the temporary dirt placed down for the arena, but also from all the remains that weren't scooped up properly. The mediocre shoes they were given were slowly being torn apart fiber by fiber, and he could feel it dig into his soles. But that didn't matter now. He waited for his opponent to dash over, keeping his arms ready.

"Steady Claw Strike."

The words came from his opponent, a short but bulky character. The gravelly words were pronounced carefully, as if saying them properly would confer power to the attack. The method was a simple punch, so there wasn't much to learn from it, beyond it being an uppercut from an odd angle. Mona simply had to tilt his head to dodge it, and had no trouble doing so.

With even mid-level Novice Aura, he could enhance his body to move as he wish. The attack flew past his head, bringing a shred of embarrassment to his enemy. Seems like the bulky man really practiced this method in his free time.

"Steady Claw Strike."

The man sent another attack, this time with his other arm. Just as before, the man missed by a fair bit, and felt even more self-conscious. For a moment, all that came were the same method.

"Steady Claw Strike."

"Steady Claw Strike!"

"Steady Claw.. Strike! Strike! Dammit!"

The guy just kept sending one uppercut after another, but none of them left a mark on the former noble. His purple pupils tracked the attacks just fine. Mona was keeping his distance, playing it smart and waiting to see if he had any other methods to attack with before he began.

Mona came into this fight expecting to get hit once or twice at least. He made sure to practice the page labelled "Dodge" in his rudimentary manual, but so far, it seems like his opponent was even more pathetic than him. Was he even using Aura? Yes, Mona could sense it through his own. So was his skill really that low? Was that bulk simply body weight?

His first impression was that this man had experience working in the field, but it seems the bulky man's body was more fat than muscle. He must have been quite the gourmet when the Steel Kingdom collapsed. That, or he just loved stuffing himself. Maybe he even lost more weight than Mona could see right now.

The bulk man began to heave. He was struggling to keep up with his stamina. He didn't want to get pancaked, but even the fear of death could only carry him so much at this point. Deep down the man cursed how he spent his free time, wanting to smack the food out of his previous self and force that younger him to train. But regret was regret; it didn't help now.

The nobles had fallen silent, much as the prisoners and guards in watch of this fight. Anyone available knew that Mona had been receiving special concessions, but did someone else stage this bout? It didn't make sense how someone could be this terrible in a fight. Everyone had been in a physical altercation at one point in their lives, but the short bulky man seemed like he was just learning to attack today. His body shuddered with each blow he tried to land on Mona.

He has more Aura than me, but he's still missing?

Mona slowed down his dodges, and began readying himself for an attack of his own. Rather than be on the defensive for the rest of the fight, he thought it would be worthwhile to try attacking himself. At least he could get some practice in, and try a few things.

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Of course, he didn't bother to shout the names of his attacks. That would give away his methods, and just looked amateurish. Maybe there was a method that gained power based on being shouted aloud, but it wasn't his so he didn't care. He ran up to his enemy and threw a punch.

It landed. The man stumbled a bit back, then began to massage the blow. It wasn't that hard, only about 20 percent of his strength, but the bulky guy still felt the need to rub his face. Mona shook his head inwardly; he knew this man was going to die. This was too low to meet Rigar's standards.

Sure enough, Mona could smell the faint trace of Earth Aura slowly permeate the air. He, the general, was getting ready to make another meat pancake for all to see. His disgust was at an all time high.

But Mona had other plans. He rushed in to try attacking the man further, preventing Rigar from using his Aura for a moment. Betting on his status, he thought he could use this chance to test the mysterious method from his history book. Yes, he did feel sympathy for the man before him, but he couldn't do anything besides fight here. And he didn't feel confident that the nobles peering at this match would pardon this guy of his weakness if he did speak up. Or what that could mean for him, beyond more attention from those prying eyes.

He stood in front of the man, throwing in a few other attacks. A jab, a palm, among other things from the manual. The bulky man couldn't dodge any of these attacks either, and Mona felt from seeing the man's eyes that the man already knew his fate. A trace of death lingered in the short man's pupils; he had already accepted what was coming.

After spending a bit of time camouflaging what was to come, Mona recited the method in his head, the one he had read thousands of times now. He could feel the Aura wisps in his Core gather, then travel from the reddish rib to his heart, to his arms, flowing down his lower arm to his palms. The sense of heat was growing in his palms, and as he got ready to attack the man in front of him, he could hear an ancient tongue utter words in his mind.

They were in a different language, and yet he understood them as well as his mother tongue.

Flame Art: Heat Emission!

The palm landed squarely on the chest of the bulky man, sending him flying a ways from before. The heat from Mona's palm cooked the man's flesh, making him let out two yelps of pain. One from his newly acquired burns, and another from when he hit the ground with a thump a fair distance away. If anyone was interested in checking the man's body, they would have seen a clear palm scorched into the man's flesh, right beneath the cooked prison garb he was wearing. The man grasped his chest, in a great deal of pain.

Mona felt a weariness that was new to him. His Aura felt somewhat depleted, and checking he could see a sizable amount was missing. At best, he could use this method 2 or 3 times before completely collapsing. While doing his best to maintain his balance, he used the rest of his mind to think.

Flame Art? What's an Art?

He never heard of this Flame Art, not here, in the library, or at the Aurum Estate. And what was that voice he heard from beyond the edge of time and existence? He looked at his own body, sensing the dispersing heat in his palm, and the rippling reddish hue on that lone rib right inside his chest. Inspired, he wanted to try again, but could only watch as Rigar stood up.

At first, he thought the general of the eagle heads would come up to him, but instead he made his way to the gasping man. Standing above the struggling body, his shadow blanketed the short figure rather easily, like an eagle above a bug. And like a bug, the bulky man was squeezed thin into a pancake. The weight of a thousand worlds came and went on his shoulders, reducing him to a disc of amalgamated flesh and bone. Strangely, he didn't seem to release much fluid, as if much of the water in his body had evaporated before being crushed.

Rigar paid it no mind however. He gestured for a few of the standing guards to clear what mess was left of the man, and then had Mona walk to the back like the others before him. Rigar returned to his chair, and as Mona took steps to the waiting staff he could hear Rigar order for two more combatants to move to the arena. The sounds of their clashes, better than Mona's bout, filled the silence from before.

His mind somewhat distracted by the sounds of fighting behind him, Mona was brought back by the guard in front. He seemed different than Cross, but looked oddly familiar at the same time? He had Cross' face and style of dress, but seemed a tad shorter, and more friendly. A twin? A brother? Cousin? His mind was blank.

"Hello, Purple Eyes. What's your name?"

Mona didn't offer it. It was the first time it was requested so far, which surprised him, but he didn't want to give any signs of who he really was. The base, the army of Faulkner, and anyone related at this point thought he was a merchant or merchant's son caught in the fall of Steel. Alphi help him if the men realized the heir of the Aurum Duchy was right here, standing alive and well. Without anything to go on with regards to his existence in the midst of chaos, he didn't want to give any clues who he was. So he stood there silent, appearing like a mute.

"...Ha, ha. Okay. Ignore what I said. Here's your card."

The man awkwardly tried to laugh off what just happened, and then gave Mona a golden card with the Faulkner insignia etched into the top.

"Congratulations. You've won the support of the nobles above, and so you qualified for a better test than the others. Train and practice well for your Trials. Your new master is thrilled from your success so far, and can't wait to... accept you into her estate. Be mindful and appreciate her generosity. You can go now."

Mona took a moment to look at the card again and processed what he heard. Gratitude for servitude? He felt nothing. And said nothing, as he left the guard staff behind. As Mona made his way to the exit, Cross appeared out of nowhere, a bit of interest in his eyes. But when Mona focused on him, the interest immediately disappeared and the man's glum face returned. Without saying a word, he guided Mona to the mess hall, a fair distance between them.

*****

Arriving, Mona could see a look of rare joy on the faces of those who came before him. They were sitting in front of three bowls, and unexpectedly they had actual food. Yes, real food. Food fit for a human being. The first had a bowl of some meat. The second a tossing of some roots. And the last had a steaming broth. While it was rather plain in appearance, compared to the buffet of gruel from days before, this was a very much approved change.

Cross let Mona walk himself into the line. Mona hadn't acted up throughout the days of guiding him, so he assumed the young man wouldn't do anything rash. Yes, Mona was his responsibility. But he felt that as long as he was watching from a distance, and Mona kept to his behavior these past few days, the general who gave him this task would be none the wiser to his lax approach. While he was supposed to keep a close eye on Mona, the young merchant looked and acted obediently, giving Cross the sense he didn't have to be as attentive as before.

Mona waited his place in line. While there were few combatants making it this far, seeing the numerous bowls involved it made sense the cooks had to take more time. One by one, at a slower pace, the line moved forward. And occasionally the happy yips of the prisoners in front of him when they got their share of proper food. Now it was Mona's turn to receive meals, and there he was, Casado.

To the cook's left and right were two familiar guards. Those two had been handing out meals the past few days while Casado was carving bowls. Mona's eyes stopped on the chef's hands, noticing the bandages.

"Oh, its you Purple Eyes! Congratulations on your success. Did you forget Casado? Here, take some extra in your meat bowl. Don't forget Casado."

The man then barked at the other two guards, hurrying them to fill the bowls. Mona had the three bowls shoved into his hands, before walking away to sit somewhere else. Casado's cheery demeanor quickly returned to sourness with the next prisoner; Mona wondered just how important that noble lady must be that even a chef on the war front was willing to pretend as bad as this. He sat down at a rather sparse table, making his way through the vegetables. After weeks of gruel, he couldn't just dive into protein without expecting trouble later.

While eating his meal, Mona could see the steady influx of other prisoners on their way to the arena. The fatigue on their faces noticeably decreased when they too noticed the three bowls of food. The line for meals never looked more proper than today, as each prisoner paced in place, ready to dive into a proper meal for once. The deaths in the arena seemed like it disappeared from the minds of most.

Except for a few. Somewhere behind Mona, he could hear whispers.

"...How many died?"

"Too many. Look down the guards are watching."

After a short pause, the whispers resumed.

"I can't remember how many days its been."

"Not just you. And I can't eat this food, after seeing those..."

"I know, I know, but we need this strength."

Mona didn't look back. He didn't want to alert the whispering captives he was listening, or let the guards know something was up. He held a sliver of meat between his fingers, his mind focused on the chatter behind him. He did his best not to attract Cross' attention.

"Is it settled?"

"Yes, those rascals agreed to help."

A third voice chimed in, wary. A heaviness in tone and words.

"Are we sure we can trust them?"

The first returned to talking.

"Better than the eagles."

"So when?"

The second, apparently the leader of this group.

"Soon."

The sounds of food being eaten followed. Mona really wanted to look back and memorize the faces of those talking, but with Cross watching him he couldn't make any sudden moves. He chewed on the sliver of meat and the information he received. A saltiness hit his tongue from the preserved meat.

Something is going to happen, soon. I wonder what.

Mona hadn't taken the chance to make talking friends in his time here. He usually kept to himself, but now he saw the cost of this behavior. He didn't have anyone to ask about what was going on. Or what was happening behind the scenes rather. Alone on his island, he was oblivious to the machinations around him.

The other captives were planning something. What it was, he wasn't sure. An escape? That fit the situation, but where to? They were high in the mountains, and many of the captives were largely commoners from regions foreign to the mountain range. The Faulkners made extra careful decisions to store captives far from their homes. At most, Mona knew the general geography of these peaks and valleys, but not enough to take part in an escape.

He shook his head. What were these ideas coming to him? He didn't know anyone, and who would take someone with a guard like Cross watching him all the time. Even if he had a slight reprieve now that Cross wasn't always close, he was still being tracked far too much. Then again, Mona didn't know all the things he didn't know either. Maybe the other prisoners had other circumstances...

He returned to his meal. The roots were good enough to eat, a nice crunch to them. The meat when taken with a sip of broth was almost divine. He felt every pore on his body scream in joy at receiving adequate food. The food came with a price of their own however. The deaths of other captives meant more for the living, and the nutritious meals were very likely due to the arrival of those Trials he heard of.

He didn't know what they are, or what he had to do. The Faulkner guards would likely explain it at the time of the event, but having information ahead of time wouldn't hurt. But that brought him back to square one. He couldn't talk or ask anyone.

I really put myself in a bind, didn't I?

Mona inwardly sighed. The food wasn't enough for the hunger creeping up on him. His body wanted more, but when he tried to go for seconds he was strangely refused. Usually copious food was available, but now they all received only one serving. He didn't think anything changed on his side; his "master" was pleased last he heard of her. Frustrating, that's all Mona could feel about the change. At that point, he looked around.

Sure enough, no one was stealing bowls today. That was odd. Usually at this moment there would be a fight, and several would be trying to grab at the food of others. Especially today where the food was more than just pot gruel, he expected the fights to increase, not disappear altogether. He tried to look for the familiar troublemakers, but he couldn't identify where they were sitting.

All his actions did was grab the attention of Cross. The guard came up to Mona, looked downward at him. His face was somber at ever, but that crossed set of eyebrows were a tad looser compared to before. Instead of a full frown, he looked simply bothered. Was he warming up to the young man?

"Are you done eating?"

Mona looked at the largely empty bowl of food. He resisted the urge of licking the bowl clean of the few drops of broth still visible. Mona didn't think it was right.

"Yes, I am."

Mona got up from his seat, leaving the bowls as before. Cross nodded, then began guiding his charge out of the mess hall.

Mona followed along, returning with Cross back to his cell. The last he heard of the mess hall was the whispers he had grown all too comfortable with hearing these past few days. He was "Purple Eyes" after all.