Barracks 17 chapter3

Tell me what happened.

Arlak and Mirard stood in his office and proceeded to relay what had happened.

They added why they had chosen to do the things they did.

“So it ran when it saw you.”

The two boys nodded.

“The lone ones are rabid; they don’t retreat… There is a pack nearby.”

“Uhh.”

“It’s good you didn’t follow it into the woods. They are weak. I can trust seven of them to do the job, but Arlak couldn’t even advance. He is stubborn. Go. You have your orders.” He waved them away.

---

First, the death of one of the villagers, then a monster in the village—this didn’t seem good. With this, the guilds and orders would start moving.

Today, Arlak was on patrol duty with Abitha and Gereon. The werewolf had been the talk of the barracks both last night and in the early morning. After his conversation with the old knight, he went on patrol.

Abitha, the red-haired girl, kept her helm on as they walked. Her eyes darted this way and that.

Relax, nothing is going to attack us, he thought, and hoped so.

Her posture didn’t put him at ease. It was quiet, and the wind whispered, gliding over the yellow wheat grass of the farms.

The farmers were not out today.

They are probably talking to the mayor. Panicking, he thought. Not the best thing to do right now. He couldn’t stop them. He shrugged.

Gereon opened his mouth to say something, then closed it.

“Do you think the mayor will hire adventurers?”

“Probably.”

“They will need good adventurers. Werewolves hunt in packs.”

“Hmm, you’re right,” Abitha said, looking down as they walked.

“Do you think the captain could kill a werewolf?”

“Probably,” Arlak said again. “The man is a gold. I don’t even know what he’s fully capable of.”

“Which adventurer do you think they will get?”

“Not a Warden, that’s for sure,” Gereon said. “The Wardens are adventurers and mercenaries. The baron would rather lose the people in the villages nearby than pay for one of them.”

“The Wardens are too expensive. But I would like to meet one,” Abitha said.

Dream on, he thought, and watched as the old captain nodded while Elder Magdalena gave him a harsh talking-to.

It did not take long, and soon the old knight was walking their way.

Arlak watched the old man look around before he saw them.

He had that look—dull and tired.

His armour slid to a squeaking stop when he halted in front of them.

Arlak and the others straightened.

“You went to the inn last night.”

“Yes.”

“And you caused trouble.”

“We…” Gereon started. Harstad raised his hand.

“There are monsters in the woods. The last thing I need is trouble in the village.” He massaged his forehead.

Harstad remembered how the girl in the inn had yelled at him. She had even threatened to deprive him of morning ale.

“Where is Mirard?”

“At the barracks,” Arlak said.

“I will speak to him later.” He looked between the three. “You come with me.” He pointed at Arlak. “You two continue, circle around.”

Abitha and Gereon nodded.

Arlak watched as the old knight’s armour changed—from silver to reflective blue steel. The silver left the armour and morphed into a wand of steel with a small golden tip.

Everyone who reached gold could do some sort of magic.

Arlak touched his chest. Lightning, he remembered the flash.

“How’s your chest?”

“It’s fine. Healing well.”

“You should have expected it. You saw me weave gold the first time.”

“I will keep that in mind.”

Harstad nodded. He looked back at him and kept walking.

“Let’s keep going.”

The old knight branched from the road and entered the wheat farms.

Arlak followed behind until they came to a stop.

Harstad paused. He looked down. The wheat here was bent and broken.

Four animal-like prints stood out in the moist soil. The old man went down and touched the print.

Not too old, not too young, he thought. Perhaps eager for human flesh. It was curious.

“Hmm.”

“The werewolf?”

“Yes, it came through. Come.”

“Are we following it?”

Harstad raised his head and looked from right to left—from the village to the forest.

“No, we are patrolling. I need to know where the beast came from.”

“Then what?”

“I will search the woods.”

“Alone?”

“Uhh…” The old knight said, “Yes. If I don’t, the mayor may get himself killed.”

They walked until they reached the edge of the forest.

Harstad looked inside.

Nothing.

It took a minute, then he turned and walked away.

“We are leaving?” It came as a question.

“Yes, I will go in the evening.”

The old knight, for all he looked old, showed no fear.

He just had the eyes of a tired man.

Arlak remembered seeing men like him. They only protected the emperor and his relatives. They killed without blinking because killing was easy for them.

When they reached the road, they split up.

Arlak went back to join his patrol group. Harstad, on the other hand, made for the barracks.

---

When Arlak, Gereon, and Abitha returned to the barracks that evening, the knight captain was preparing.

Mirard and the others who had remained in the barracks were sprawled out in the sand.

They looked dead, bloody.

No—beaten. Tired.

The old knight had given them more of a beating.

More than even them.

“Did the captain do this to you?” Gereon laughed.

He helped Mirard off his back.

“Yes,” Serena answered, stretching and wincing at the pain in her arm.

Abitha helped her to her feet.

“You should have seen what the knight captain did to Mirard.”

“Gave him a beating?” Arlak guessed.

“He’s a Gold,” Mirard looked at Arlak.

“I warned him. Did he think I was jesting?”

Arlak rolled his eyes.

Mirard glared.

“I warned you,” Arlak said.

“So… did any of you advance?” Gereon asked, moving over to help Ovik.

Something crossed Mirard’s face, and he smiled.

Arlak’s face fell. That’s supposed to be me. Why him?

As Mirard looked up, Arlak’s face went taut.

Mirard willed his soul metal. His morph blade formed.

Mirard’s blade was a silvery-blue steel.

A few days ago, Mirard couldn’t even form the morph blade to full steel.

But now, he had advanced.

Ovik formed a shield, and Serena had a new chest plate.

“Yes, I’m at the third step of steel.”

“I advanced to the second step as well,” Ovik said, holding his ribs.

“My first breastplate schematic,” Serena muttered, remembering her bruised belly. The knight captain had hit her hard.

“Let’s go celebrate,” Mirard said, raising his sword.

He looked like a warrior from the old tales, a gleaming sword in the sunset.

Silver-blue steel mixing with golden evening light.

That night, after supper, Abitha advanced as well.

---

Two days later, Arlak, Gereon, and Nilri were on patrol together.

They had gone to the inn for breakfast, and unlike Mirard, Ferona had not given them a hard time.

Knight Captain Harstad had been gone for a day.

He had told the mayor he was going to the forest.

He had told the elders, and the village was calmer.

On patrol, however, the villagers were still wary.

Arlak had barely spoken.

He thought.

His mind wandered to reasons.

Why had he not advanced?

The air smelled wrong. Wretched.

He remembered his mother carrying him.

Flying.

The air then was fresh and sweet, reaching the back of his throat.

Was intent the problem? But his mother was a Valkyrie; it shouldn’t have been a problem.

Maybe the old knight was right.

“Do you think the baron will get one of those adventurers?” Gereon asked.

“Who knows,” Arlak answered.

Nilri looked at him.

She walked ahead of them, then turned, walking backwards.

“What is your plan after this?” she asked the two, her hands above her head.

He wanted to fly, but he didn’t say that.

Instead, he said,

“I don’t know. Probably go back to the capital of OldVarn—or become an adventurer.”

She lifted an eyebrow.

“An adventurer?” Gereon looked him up and down.

“An adventurer? Hmm. I want to stay in the army, protect the capital of OldVarn and its people.”

He looked up.

“What about you?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know yet,” she said.

In truth, she wanted to go back to the mountains and bring her family to safety.

She was from the mountains. She knew it. They knew it.

The patrol was turning out to be boring—or so they hoped.

From the bushes came a growl.

She didn’t see it, but the village folk ran into town.

The tall wheat bent, forming a broken path.

Something was crouched, moving toward them.

The bell rang.

The shadow in the wheat moved like a snake.

The wheat grass bent.

Whatever it was, it turned and moved toward the group.

On the roof of a house, a man waved frantically.

“Run! Run away!” He pointed toward the farm nearest the forest.

“What’s wrong with him?” Gereon asked, pointing.

“He looks scared,” Nilri said, turning.

Arlak was not like the other two.

He looked at the man.

There was fear in those eyes.

He looked around them.

In the distance, villagers were running away from the farms.

A nudge of fear. Worry.

Something’s—

“Morph Blade. Form.”

Soul metal rippled from his rings.

The creature leapt.

Golden-white gave way to a dark form.

He jumped and pulled Nilri aside.

His soul metal morphed.

Steel to grey iron to earth bronze—it covered his chest.

His morph blade gleamed a steely blue.

“What the fuck—”

“Oh fuck—”

The werewolf was back.

It blocked their path.

Its eyes were vengeful. It was out for blood.

Well, fuck. This day can’t get any worse, Arlak thought.

His eyes flicked to Nilri.

The creature lunged.

He was too late to react.

He swung his sword up.

Missed.

Gereon slammed into the creature with his shield, sending it back.

It growled.

It stepped forward. A chain of blue steel flew like a whip.

The creature snarled.

Nilri pulled her chain back, twirling it.

“Circle around it!”

Nilri moved to the right.

Gereon moved to the left.

The creature did not move.

“It has vengeance in its eyes.”

So you also think I am weak. Come on then.

He twirled his blade and shifted his stance.

Southern stance.

He visualised his core, then spun it.

Refining his soul metal.

Come, give me power. I will grind against you. I will not fall behind.

His eyes shifted to Gereon, then to Nilri.

The creature watched his eyes move.

It lunged.

Instead of coordinating and striking with the others, he lunged as well.

Beast against man.

---

Somewhere in the forest, a few hours ago.

He counted five. No—six.

Harstad looked around. It smelled like rotten flesh.

A dead deer carcass lay to the side.

Men or deer—they all smelled the same as they rotted.

He moved closer. His armour was woven of steel-silver alloy, his joints of softer metals—tin or copper.

One pound of gold was a hundred pounds of steel.

So he used half, creating the Oath Steel Knight Frame that built itself piece by piece around his body.

His armour looked like a second skin, thin and efficient.

He weaved a war axe in one hand and a kite shield in the other.

More steel, less silver.

A growl.

Unbothered, he strolled amidst the sleeping monsters.

The alpha, with dark fur, noticed him first. It sniffed the air, then stood on its hind legs as he walked out of hiding.

The others smelled it—soul metal.

They growled at the monstrous metal in their midst.

They circled, looking for angles of attack. Looking for weakness.

“Huh,” he mocked.

The first creature to attack was one of the smaller ones. A shield bash sent it rolling to the side.

He felt another biting his shoulder plate from behind.

He let go of his axe.

He reached back, grabbed the werewolf, lifted it, and threw it over his head.

His Oath Steel Armour flexed and tensed with his movements.

That was the thing about Cindros Frame Armour: it was one of the strongest schematic frames, and its use made you feel invincible.

“Don’t get carried away, Nils.”

He gestured, and his axe flew back to his hand.

He swung, decapitating the creature.

Five left.

He moved forward, his axe amputating the next eager werewolf.

And another.

Two dead.

Three left.

The alpha and one other jumped. He ducked.

The alpha passed overhead.

He slammed his kite shield into the other werewolf, pinned it to the rock, and swung his axe across its neck.

Everything paused.

Harstad Nils felt warm moisture in his helm.

His breathing echoed in his ears. He smelled iron—blood. Rot—of the dead. Yet the woods smelled greener than the dung-filled streets of any town.

The alpha howled. Harstad felt it in his ears, in the space around his helm, as it vibrated.

There was sorrow.

“Sorry. Uhh, but I have to do this.”

Reaching the realm of gold marked you as a master.

It meant you had magic.

The alpha growled and lunged at him.

He pointed his axe at the creature, and a flash came from within.

Harstad had woven half a pound of mage gold atop his axe.

Lightning struck the creature, sending it back.

It growled and jumped again, but its body spasmed.

He cut it down. It tried to bite him.

Another lightning bolt as he pointed.

As he killed it.

It whimpered.

See a man die many times. Kill enough men, and killing monsters becomes preferable.

One left.

He looked around, but the one who had attacked with dismay was nowhere to be found.

He turned, then in the direction it had run.

He followed it.

---

Arlak slammed straight into the beast.

His sword impaled the beast.

Thick fur—he felt it.

Nothing more.

Not deep enough to truly harm the beast.

The werewolf aimed to bite down on his face.

He shifted.

Teeth bit down on his shoulder, through his armour, through his chest plate.

His metal bent.

Soul pain.

Blood. Then a crack in his armour.

Nilri rushed into action.

Her chain moved like living metal. She weaved it to form a blade—steel, the Imperial Morph Blade schematic.

She stabbed and hacked at its hindquarters.

Gereon rushed in, stabbing the beast in its side.

“Let him go,” he growled.

Too shallow. Too shallow, she frowned. The beast wasn’t letting go.

Arlak, on the other hand, had other ideas.

He spun his core in life-and-death combat.

I need to advance.

He felt the beast’s maw let go.

It tried to leap back.

No, you don’t. He grabbed it by the fur.

He deformed his Imperial Blade, called it back, then formed it again.

This time, it sank horizontally into the beast’s side.

I have to kill it.

Gereon and Nilri looked at each other.

They looked at Arlak, holding on to the beast.

Now, instead of trying to pry the beast off Arlak, they attacked with a fervour to kill.

The beast tried to wrestle him off, but his boots dug into the earth.

The pain in his soul was like lightning.

The werewolf noticed this.

It was stuck. Held in place by the human. So it fought.

Arlak’s Aero Frame chest plate had one weakness.

It's back.

The creature tore through leather and skin.

The chest plate schematic was incomplete. It had gaps in its back.

It didn’t worry him most times—after all, if an opponent struck his back, it was game over, the end of the line.

The werewolf did not stab. It tore flesh with claws.

It tried to bend him, to break him, but he refused.

“Ahhh!” Arlak screamed.

He twisted the short sword, and the beast howled.

He couldn’t let go—couldn’t let it run, come back, or turn on the others.

“Kill it, kill it now!”

They stabbed and hacked, all the while Arlak held the werewolf.

In him, something shifted. He felt it.

A self-doubt: his chest plate had weaknesses. He was missing something.

Something to do with his intent. Perhaps he should give up.

Perhaps I should focus my intent on war—then this would be easy.

No. I can’t. I know it’s possible. She did it.

So he held on. Held the beast down. Held onto his intent.

His soul metal expanded. Then there was a bloom.

Across his chest piece and sword, his soul metal bloomed outward, forming uncontrollable shards and tendrils across all surfaces.

Second Step of Steel.

Then it solidified into more steel. But it wasn’t over.

It happened again, expanding across his back.

There was more steel suddenly. It slithered to his back.

His armour clicked, twisted, and locked.

Then he knew its name.

Aero Spine Mantle.

His back straightened. His grip tightened.

The wolf howled, then whimpered.

“Arlak!? Let go!” Nilri screamed, pulling the beast off him with her chain.

It fell to the ground, its legs and back a mess of blood and fur. Hacked and crippled.

The beast could not run. It could not stand on its hind legs.

Arlak moved forward, his core spinning.

Refining his soul metal.

It swung a lazy arm at him, but the chain held it back.

Nilri held one end, Gereon the other.

Arlak moved into the Southern Stance, cut the arm off—then the other.

He danced.

It tried to bite him, and he buried his sword in its mouth.

It was over.

He felt dizzy.

He looked at Nilri—she was covered in blood. He turned to Gereon—he was also covered in blood and fur.

“What?” he asked, “Steel too dull…” He began to say—

But stopped.

They all turned. The wheat grass was moving again.

Damn tall grass. Not again.

He held his sword at the ready.

The old knight had watched them fight the beast.

He had paused, seen how they handled it.

Harstad walked out of the tall grass, and for a moment, he saw fear in their eyes.

“Be at ease,” he raised his arm.

The squires relaxed.

And that night, Arlak dreamt of a new schematic.

And he advanced.