"Faster!"
Zalarys slid down on the wet surface of the stone, his boots finding purchase as he launched himself forward with his sword turned inward, his face cool and composed as he drove a vicious upward slash toward Maria.
Maria raised her blade, redirecting the force of his strike and deflecting the blow, only to sidestep and use his own momentum against him, crouching and using the pommel of her sword to strike his gut, blasting him backward.
Zalarys's breathing quickened, his expression turning a bit irritated as he rolled away to avoid a crashing blow that was coming down on his face.
Gritting his teeth, he surged to his feet and dashed forward, lowering his sword and unleashing slash after slash toward her.
Barrages of strikes pushed her back, but she was older, heavier, her muscles refined by years of use, and she had more raw strength than he did. She turned sharply, gripped her blade with both hands and let his sword fall against hers, sparks biting the air as his dull edge skidded down her slender blade until it caught on her guard.
Using this opportunity, Maria let go of her sword, catching him off guard, only to snatch it with her other hand and slash upward with everything she had, sending him staggering back, and followed with a brutal kick to his diaphragm, causing his eyes to widen, saliva dripping from his lips as he felt his lungs burning and his breathing becoming ragged, crashing onto the stone floor.
"It's my victory, once again..." She smiled faintly, giving him her hand to help him stand.
Zalarys nodded, accepting her gesture and bowing, not allowing himself to remain bitter about the loss.
Without mistakes, we can't improve. So it's good to make mistakes. One loss against a great opponent can teach me more than any easy win against some random weaklings.
It could be said that as a warrior, he had become much better, not focusing on just hunting, traps, and poison.
Maria was a great mentor, her fighting style was graceful and frankly unpredictable, which allowed him to adapt in real time, to read rather than just react. By doing so, he was growing into a fighter who wouldn't be surprised by any fighting style, capable of remaining composed and analyzing enemies' battle arts in order to craft his own countering style.
"Your training isn't over yet, go."
"Yes, I'm aware." He sighed, using his sword as support and walking away from the training ground.
Approaching the dark gates, he pushed them open and stepped inside the darkness.
The only sounds that could be heard were hissing and crawling, the kind of sound that simply felt wrong and disturbing.
He placed the torch on the wall and glanced at the venomous serpents and insects, grabbing one of them and letting the red snake bite his arm.
This one's going to be annoying... he thought as he felt his vision growing blurry. Some other snakes bit him too, but he had already gotten used to them, so he ignored them, like they did when they figured out that he wasn't affected. It felt like he was their kin, which made the situation more tolerable for him.
Besides, snakes were charming, at least in his humble opinion, as he lay on the stone, foam bubbling from his mouth and leaking from his lips, sliding down his cheek and dripping onto the stone floor.
It was such a bizarre sensation, as if he had smoked the weed Corlys often enjoyed with his pipe.
He could move, but he could barely feel his own body. He could think, but he couldn't even say a word, and his stomach was churning, bringing him great discomfort. It wasn't even painful, but it was worse for him, the inability to feel his own body was irritating.
when will this be over... he thought, thinking about his plans. For now, his martial power was greater than it had been a month ago, and so was his poison resistance, as well as his understanding of various creatures and how to create traps to kill them.
Yes, he had already spent a month in this temple. He contacted Corlys before doing so and explained that he would be occupied.
He wasn't pleased with that, after all, the expedition was postponed. But he had some business to take care of in the Free Cities, so he might as well take care of that before going.
It wasn't like he could stop him anyway, with Murghagon by his side.
But none of them worried him. What he was concerned with was the ritual. To become a true hunter, one needed to perform a ritual, or you could say the last trial.
The first trial was the Reflectionless Abyss, the second was completing this brutal training, and the third was the ritual.
Of course, not everyone trained in the same way. A hunter's path was deeply rooted in individuality, to know yourself, the world, life, and death.
So each hunter was fundamentally different, sharing only their faith and common ideology.
To make it more understandable, it's like how people agree that killing innocent is bad or breaking vows isn't honorable.
Common sense for hunters, you could say.
Zalarys himself was both anxious and eager to perform the ritual, to finally be reborn as a true hunter.
At this point, every useless thought he had disappeared. Maybe the Abyss did that, or maybe his own mistakes taught him something, maybe he just grew tired of complaining and instead decided to take action.
I don't care... I will do whatever I want. I want to become a hunter, therefore I will. Whoever dares to get in my way will burn, as simple as that... he thought, feeling the effects of the venom slowly fading away, his fingers twitching and gradually, he could feel his body.
Standing up, he hit his forehead, feeling a bit disoriented but quickly snapped out of it.
What's next now... His left eye twitched, glancing at his sword, which would break soon. It wasn't of great quality anyway, it was just a training sword, so it was clear he needed something that would accompany him for life.
Nodding to himself, he left the underground chambers filled with venomous insects and snakes, which hunters that excelled at it used for traps.
Along the way, he noticed eight women, shrouded in dark robes, their faces hidden behind veils like Maria, only their eyes visible, with tattoos on some of their faces.
Maria had such a mark, hers was on her chest and shoulder. From what she told him, it was an image of the Faceless Man.
Saints of the Goddess... he thought, bowing as they passed, probably preparing for the ritual. A new hunter would be born soon.
For that, nine saints were necessary. And the last one was Maria herself. She was most likely already there.
From what he was told, after rebirth, you fundamentally change as an individual, the ritual revealing your truest self like a mirror. Hence the saying, know yourself, know the world, life, and death.
But that wasn't all. Like the priestesses of the Lord of Light who wield the power of prophecy and fire, hunters too were given gifts for their sacrifice by their Martyred Mother.
Though each gift was deeply rooted in their own individuality, so everyone's gift was different. And since magic was getting weaker day by day, so too was the might of their gifts.
Once Zalarys completed the ritual and received his gift, he would continue his journey. First Sothoryos, then Yi Ti, Asshai, and lastly the Shadow Lands... the edge of the known world... And from there, beyond what is known, straight into the unknown.
Letting out a sigh, he continued walking, and eventually he arrived at the area where the blacksmith stayed. They too were hunters, but they were old, and their time had already come.
Maria told him that they didn't want to become Lost, nor die uselessly, so they decided to become useful for the temple.
He still didn't know what the Lost were. But by the looks of it, it wasn't anything good. Some hunters chose to die before reaching that point, while some stopped hunting to avoid becoming Lost, working in the temple and giving it their aid.
Hmm... this blacksmith must be Arman. He can't be called the best, but he is one of the greats anyway... It's always good to see people with passion.
_____________________________
In the dark cave, lit only by torches, the old man was staring at the flames. Then he stood up and glanced at the broken sword in his hands with an expressionless face.
"I'm sorry, Irine... I've failed. I lost the sword and you too..." he thought and stood up, staring at the rope. He stepped onto the chair, grabbing the rough surface of the rope, but before he could kick the chair away and end it all, he heard a knock and the sound of his door creaking open.
"Excuse me, Elder Arman... I hope I'm not interrupting your work."
Arman remained motionless for some time, his old face filled with sorrow and exhaustion, but hearing a youthful voice brought something warm to his chest.
Closing his eyes, he wiped his tears away, one of them falling on his gray beard, and stepped down from the chair, quickly hiding the rope, not wanting the young man to see such a pathetic sight.
"Not at all... You may come..."
"You have my gratitude, Elder." Zalarys entered and bowed respectfully, his face cool and composed, his mismatched green and purple eyes deep and exotic, his pale skin and white-gold hair striking.
"What brought you to this dust-filled cave, my boy?" he asked, his voice deep and ancient, not because he was old, age had nothing to do with it. It was the kind of voice filled with exhaustion created by the harshness of life.
"I wish for you to forge a sword for me, Elder. Of course, if you agree to it. There won't be any greater honor than wielding the weapon of your creation." Zalarys showed his blade. It wasn't sharp anymore, its edge dull and a few cracks were noticeable as well, as if it was about to break.
Arman raised an eyebrow at that, his lost expression eventually softening into a warm smile.
O Mother... Did you send this boy so I wouldn't take my life... You know after Irine's death, I have nothing... If she wass alive, maybe I would have a son, nut now... I'm as useless as the sword in his hand...
"Why me, of all people?" he asked the boy, intrigued by why he decided to seek him out.
But the boy's blunt answer made him a bit baffled.
"Because you're the only available blacksmith, Elder..." Zalarys said with a straight face, but then he found himself rather rude, so he scratched the back of his head and added. "My apologies..."
"It's fine. A good hunter must use every available tool and take advantage of everything around him." He chuckled faintly, his wrinkled face brightening.
"Oh... Thank you for sharing your wisdom, Elder. But may I ask why this place looks so..." He looked around, staring at the mess, broken blades and spears lying around as if they were garbage.
"It's nothing to be concerned about... I've just failed." At that, Arman's expression was touched by sorrow, a sad smile appearing on his face.
But he didn't want to burden the young man with his problems, so he quickly added. "I will forge a sword for you."
"Really?" His composed expression brightened, looking a little childish.
"Yes... But I need materials to forge one for our little dragonrider, right?"
Zalarys nodded, he didn't want any normal sword. He decided to pursue greatness, so he would have a great sword... And the only one that could be called that was made of Valyrian steel.
But where could he find it?
His expression darkened slowly, looking down and contemplating what to do...
"Can you give me time, Elder?" he asked tentatively, his eyes hopeful, wondering if he would agree.
"Yes..."
Maybe... I still can do it. Maybe the Great Mother sent this boy to me for that exact reason...
This is my last chance, so I might as well pour my life into it... to forge a weapon worthy of being called...
The Destined Death.