HE WAS Somehow awakened to the reality.
". . . But this is something abhorred to those of the Towers Yonder, Maze—the very root by which we are outcasts. We are misunderstood and wretched in their sight because we do not follow their ideals. . . "
A reality that had always been laid bare before him, a truth that required no eyes to see.
". . . Our group of Orphans was perhaps the most crowded — not that we outnumbered the other types of Children, but there were enough of us that we were never truly alone. All in all, it is a grand experience, though it is filled with discrimination. . ."
He pondered then, of what discrimination's skin looked like if it were flayed for the sake of revelation.
"The Camp will be a burden to you. Unlike any of us who had a pair or a group, you have none. No one will be there to stand by you, and . . . things will be rough. You can only strive to understand those children."
He felt the heavy weight of the burden that pressed upon the Orphans' shoulders.
In truth —
When he had asked this certain question, he possessed only a vague inkling.
"Why . . . are you telling me this now?"
But then he remembered a much more clearer hint that a Sibling, a senior, had given him.
"For you not to trust anyone in Yonder." Vaelstrom sighed, the burden heavy upon his shoulders. "We in Below do not wish to create any rifts. Whatever they did to our previous supposed siblings, we do not respond with malice or plots . . .
"There are times they are steps ahead, and times that we are, but either way, we have accepted that we are outcasts, and that they abhor our principles."
Vaelstrom looked up.
"Hey, we are more than lucky enough that we have you or anybody taken to Below. When we do so, we adhere to the saying: repay evil with kindness. They may try to tear us apart, but they won't take away what we have."
Death was their sentence in this Camp.
All along, they were never truly a part of this entire Ceremony.
This was the design by which they were to be torn asunder.
A life to be harvested, should they lack the caution required.
In truth, Maze understood now why their hints did not explicitly utter the word death, for fear of dispiriting a Fertile Orphan Child.
So when Athelstan had delivered another clue . . .
"As I have said, the library is free." Athelstan looked Maze in the eyes. "But your fate is not."
He was lost in the dark intentions of the Directors.
And at the moment . . .
A mountain-like monster emerged and overshadowed both the Children's small figures; the mountain almost covered the entire portion of the swamp where it showed itself. Its head was a wild, matted heap of red hay, swaying with the wind as a bloodred liquid dripped from its bulk. But it was the ear-wings that caused him to be shaken to the core. Those massive, ivory-white plumes that fanned out from the sides of its head. FLAP, FLAP! Within those feathers, wet, searching eyes gazed upon the feeble spectacles in front of it, as if they were but dust looking at a towering mountain.
"Do you recognize the one you have angered?" Athelstan pointed toward Maze slowly, even as the tentacles reached for her countenance from behind. "The Eidolon of the Swamp of Blood."
The guardian of the swamp loosed a guttural groan. From underneath, a tentacle emerged with a violent splash, snapping forward with a speed that defied its sluggish bulk. Splatter, splatter! It looked like a storm had came, but what dread it imposed to merely be seen as sanguine splattering soaking everything within reach. Another limb brushed a withering tree, and the bark instantly turned white as the entity sucked the moisture — the very life — out of the wood. It almost slithered a tentacle around the factionless lone Heir, until she disappeared like the wind and reappeared behind Maze, pushing him forward toward the reaching limb.
It was the second time the woman had thrust him into the face of danger!
As soon as his body was gripped by a tentacle, he almost screamed in pain, until he drifted his soul several meters away to the left and shipped a new form. He gasped, for he could still feel the phantom sensation of post-suffering. It was a terrifying experience. In turn, he also lost three leaves, deeply wounded by the Eidolon.
Clenching his jaw, Maze scanned for the woman and saw her on the other side upon a boat steering itself, standing as she waved her hand.
"If you wish to know more, I will try and bother you with secrets!" There was her hideous smirk that seemed to insult the very nature of Maze. "Before then, you must live!"
An Heir fond of play.
Perhaps, a pawn in a game that had been enduring since the first brick was laid.
GROAN! The ground trembled once more while there rained crimson in every direction, the slow approach of the Eidolon was fixated toward his direction. It flapped its wings, ascending higher every minute, and Maze could only flee toward the Door. In this dangerous play, would escape suffice? He might have to drift himself away.
He was about to bite his knuckles, but a tentacle snapped against his body and hurled him directly into the swamp!
It was so quick he could not seem to react.
It was a good thing it had not taken hold of him and sucked the life out of him.
Instead of the sanguine water greeting him, he was thrown into a boat, his impact causing the wood to crack. The bloodied water penetrated the fissures as Maze struggled to stand. Another tentacle reached for him, the sluggish frame of the Eidolon looming close.
Unsheathing his sword, he parried the tentacle, but the force flung him in another direction. With this bearable pain, Maze tried to drift his body and ship a new form, choosing a boat near to where he wished to remain. Maze noticed that merely two of its tentacles were the only ones that kept on lashing at him.
If there were more, it would be the death of him.
Even if it walked heavily and slowly, the tentacles were fast, agile, and strong. How could this Eidolon be defeated with such strength? Its behavior, its pattern, its full potential . . . all were vague. Especially as its only purpose seemed to be his destruction.
He was always unprepared as he was thrown into these situations. It was well that his essence was reserved. However, was it alone going to withstand such an enemy?
Something flickered in his eyes.
Gripping his sword, Maze had an idea.
Sensing the heavy thrum of his chest did he visit his Soul Tree, as he reached deep into its roots.
This time it was to merely borrow.
He could not afford the luxury of a full displacement.
Not yet.
Instead, he pulled the raw Essence into his marrow, feeling his muscles coil with strength. Every second he held this state, he could almost hear the faint rustle of a leaf withering and then dissipating into thin air. It was a slow, agonizing drain, a tax on his very existence.
GROAN!
A tentacle, thick as a tree trunk and slick with the blood of the swamp, whipped toward his head. Maze had not run. He planted his feet on the cracking wood of the boat and raised the sword.
Clang! The vibration traveled up his arms, rattling his teeth and threatening to shatter his grip. The force was immense, and even with his borrowed strength, he was skidding across the wet deck. He gritted his teeth, the cold metal of the blade biting into the fleshy limb of the Eidolon.
He waited for the recoil. The moment the tentacle retracted, Maze loosed a burst of agility, his feet light as a feather. He leaped from the sinking vessel while his silhouette appeared as a sharp line against the marmalade sky.
In mid-air, he spun, the sword trailing a faint, ghostly wake. This might be an art of refinement, as if within days given to him to train in the training hall, he had ways to refine his combat skills, although it might appear as rough around the edges. Thus, he landed on a nearby skiff, the wood grieving under the impact. Before he could steady his breath, two more limbs snapped from the bloodied water, flanking him.
He parried the first with a low sweep, the steel sparking against the entity's scales. The second he took on the flat of the blade, his body arching under the pressure. His heart hammered a frantic beat against his ribs.
Borrowing more speed, he became a blur of motion, leaping from boat to boat in as if crisscrossing a point of space from one to another. Each jump required a focused burst of Essence; each parry was a gamble against his own stamina. It deemed him as a shepherd trying to hold back a storm with a single crook.
Fortunately, the Eidolon was slow, as it was a sluggish mountain of red hay and white plumes, but its reach was absolute. It need not to move when its tentacles could map the entire swamp. Worse, it was now rising, its ivory ear-wings beating with a slow, powerful pace that carried it higher into the air.
Maze landed on a third boat, his boots slipping on the crimson mire that had pooled on the deck. He was running for his breath, the air in his lungs feeling like hot lead. The suffering he endured from earlier still shook him, flaring every time he twisted his frame to deflect a strike — SWISH!
He barely brought the sword up in time to deflect a vertical smash. The boat beneath him split in two, and he was forced to leap again, his muscles screaming in protest. The drain was constant. The leaves were no longer dissipating, as it was being deemed to be harvested by the very air he breathed.
As he looked up, a cold realization settled in his gut. Perhaps, in a one in a hundred chance, the head of red hay was the weak point. It was the only part of the beast that seemed to be, for if not, that would make the Eidolon indomitable. Yet, how could he prove his point?
It was floating mid-air, far beyond the reach of any jump. He could not fly, and every attempt to close the distance was met with a swift, punishing strike from the tentacles that seemed to map his every move. He was trapped on the surface while the predator stayed afloat the air.
By the time he reached a relatively stable barge near the center, Maze was trembling. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead, stinging his eyes beneath the blindfold. His grip on the sword was slick with his own perspiration and the spray of the swamp.
He stood hunched, his chest heaving as he stared up at the hovering ivory wings of the Eidolon.
He visited his Soul Tree in a fleeting second of silence.
Fifty.
Freaking fifty leaves left before he could be drained of all Essence.
He had burned through nearly thirty leaves in a matter of minutes just to stay whole. The weight of the struggle was beginning to tilt the scales against him. He was halfway to the void, and the Eidolon had yet to show a single mark of fatigue.
How in hell must he confront this monster face-to-face?
Just what did those Directors think of Orphans to be put in such deathly game . . .