The
Martyr’s Ring – Continuous
The
duels do not stop. They blur together into a rhythm of steel,
shouts, and pain. One after another, cadets are called, descend,
fight, and leave, most limping, some carried, all shaken. Blood
darkens the dirt in uneven patches that never quite dry before more
is spilled over them. Armor dents. Bones crack. Screams cut short by
forfeiture codes or loss of breath.
Fear spreads faster than
blood.
Now that death has proven
itself real, most cadets break quickly. Hands go up at the first hard
blow. Weapons are dropped at the first slip. Pride dissolves in the
face of survival. The stands thin as bodies are dragged or guided
away toward the infirmary tents, white canvas already stained and
sagging under the weight of the day.
Lucille stays standing. She
watches every match. Every mistake. Every ending.
Two more cadets are hauled
from the ring, one clutching a shattered forearm, the other barely
conscious and then it happens again.
Two sharp pings.
Lucille flinches before she
realizes why.
Cain’s wristband lights
up beside her.
She grabs his hand
immediately, fingers tight around his palm. She looks up into his
silvery blue eyes, searching for something, fear, doubt, hesitation.
She finds none.
Cain smiles down at her,
soft and steady, like this is just another drill, another sparring
session under Korvin’s watchful eye. He squeezes her hand once,
grounding her.
“I’ll be fine,” he
says quietly.
Then he turns and steps
into the aisle, broad shoulders straight, back unbowed. Another cadet
moves at the same time, Sergio Larsen, towering even among the
Order’s standards, built like a walking battering ram.
They disappear beneath the
stands.
Minutes stretch thin.
When they emerge, the
contrast is immediate.
Cain Aurellius stands
six-foot-two, long-limbed and controlled, a longsword resting
comfortably in his hands. His armor fits him like it was grown there,
every plate aligned, every seal intact. His visor is down, but
Lucille knows his expression, focused, calm, present.
Sergio Larsen is
six-foot-six and massive, shoulders like stone blocks stacked
together. He carries two axes, thick-bladed and brutal, their edges
already nicked from prior use. His stance is wide, aggressive, weight
pitched forward like he intends to end this quickly.
They vault the fence.
The bell tolls.
Sergio charges immediately.
Axes swing in wide, vicious
arcs meant to overwhelm, to batter through guard and bone alike. Cain
gives ground, not retreating so much as yielding space, boots
sliding, blade moving with economy. Steel rings as Cain redirects
rather than meets force head-on, turning killing blows into glancing
ones, letting Sergio burn energy with every swing.
The pressure is relentless.
Cain absorbs it.
An axe clips his pauldron.
Another catches the edge of his sword, wrenching it sideways. Cain
lets the blade go rather than fight for it. The longsword hits the
dirt and stays there.
Gasps ripple through the
stands.
Unarmed, Cain steps in.
He catches Sergio’s wrist
mid-swing, twists sharply, using leverage instead of strength. The
axe falls. Cain shifts his weight, hooks a leg, and drives a shoulder
into Sergio’s chest, not to strike, but to off-balance.
They crash together.
Cain moves like water
through stone, hands finding joints, angles, weaknesses. He locks
Sergio’s elbow, rotates, steps through, and pulls.
There is a sound like wet
wood snapping.
Sergio screams.
The axe drops from his numb
fingers as his shoulder dislocates cleanly, violently. He collapses
to one knee, roaring in pain, his remaining arm flailing uselessly.
Cain releases him
immediately.
He steps back. Hands open.
No follow-up. No strike.
Sergio howls, clutching his
ruined shoulder, pain overriding pride. His wristband flashes.
Submission registered.
The bell tolls again.
Silence follows.
Cain’s chest rises and
falls slow and measured. His vitals scroll calmly across instructor
datapads, heart rate elevated but controlled, respiration steady, no
adrenaline spike past acceptable thresholds.
In the instructor stands,
there are no cheers. Only subtle nods. Data flags quietly.
Cain inclines his head once
toward his opponent, then turns away as medics rush in. He does not
watch Sergio scream. He does not watch them reset the joint.
He vaults the fence and
walks back beneath the stands, bloodless, composed.
Lucille finally exhales.
The Final Exam continues.
But now the instructors are watching Cain Aurellius very, very
closely.
The blood-soaked dirt of
the Martyr’s Ring gleams under the pale light as the next call
comes.
Two sharp pings ring out
almost simultaneously.
Seraphine Veyra and
Carolina Roman.
Lucille watches as the
girls move down into the preparation corridors, their boots echoing
against stone, armor clinking lightly. A few cadets whisper nervously
behind them, exchanging predictions and bets, though the sound
carries little weight now. Too much has already happened.
When they emerge, the
contrast is stark.
Seraphine Veyra is tall,
just reaching six feet, lithe and taut with muscle. Her armor hugs
her frame, each plate polished but smeared with scuff marks from
previous duels. A small, round shield rests on her left arm, short
sword in hand, blade narrow and gleaming. She steps into the ring
with the confidence of one who believes in her own control.
Carolina Roman is smaller,
five-foot-six, athletic, wiry, but noticeably thinner. Her movements
are quicker, lighter, almost predatory in their speed. A short sword
glints in her right hand, shield ready, body coiled like a spring.
The bell tolls.
Seraphine lunges
immediately, confident. Her strikes are practiced, measured, too
measured, too predictable. Carolina dances back, sidestepping,
letting Seraphine overcommit.
The first crack appears in
Seraphine’s composure when she stumbles slightly on uneven,
blood-slick dirt. She corrects quickly, but it’s enough for
Carolina to slip inside her guard and land a grazing strike across
Seraphine’s ribs. Pain blooms instantly. Seraphine gasps audibly,
face tightening.
Panic sets in.
Her footwork falters.
Movements that were once precise now carry desperation, too much
force, too little control. She attacks faster, harder, sloppily, her
shield up, but swinging wide, leaving gaps. Carolina, light and
calculating, uses each misstep, weaving around the strikes, landing
precise taps to ribs and shoulders.
A sharp thunk
echoes as Seraphine overextends on a lunge. Carolina’s shield
catches her mid-torso, sending her twisting, off-balance. She nearly
falls.
Seraphine fights back with
emotion rather than strategy. Her breath hitches. Her arms shake. The
ring, the blood, the eyes of cadets above, and the ghosts of previous
duels crowd her mind.
Carolina doesn’t relent.
A short, precise strike disarms Seraphine’s sword. Another shield
bash sends her sprawling.
Pinned to the dirt,
Seraphine struggles, chest heaving, eyes wide and furious,
humiliated. The instructor on the stand calls the submission.
Medics enter quickly,
dragging Seraphine from the ring. She resists briefly, a flare of
rage and pride in her eyes, but she is no match for trained hands.
As she is hauled away, the
lesson is clear: strength alone does not make a Praevectus. Control,
composure, and the ability to manage fear matter just as much.
Not everyone who wants it
can survive it.
The Martyr’s Ring
remains, bloodied and silent, waiting for the next call.
The
Martyr’s Ring – Continuous
The
stands are thinning. Cadets who once clamored beside her are
gone, either called into the ring or shuffled away in the aftermath
of broken bodies and shattered pride. Only a few remain, scattered,
whispering quietly, their eyes wide with disbelief or fear.
Marcus steps forward from
the row behind Lucille, crossing his burly arms over his chest. Pride
colors his expression, though it is tempered by the grim atmosphere
around them.
He glances down at her
briefly, green eyes meeting hers for a moment, then shifts his focus
back to the ring. His voice carries over the muted hum of the
remaining cadets.
“Three deaths already,”
he mutters, low, more to himself than her. “Can’t believe it.
Sims never capture how fast it happens in reality. One moment they’re
standing, the next…”
He lets the thought trail
off, letting the weight of it hang in the air.
Lucille nods once, silent,
shoulders tense. She doesn’t speak. Words feel hollow here. She
watches, eyes fixed on the blood-darkened arena floor, where the next
duel rages below.
Decimus, once beside
Marcus, now battles in the ring. Spear in hand, he keeps his distance
from the opponent, the longsword-wielding Aulus Patiens. Decimus’
movements are measured, precise, controlled aggression, every thrust
and sweep calculated. He’s already struck the other four times,
drawing thin streams of blood across Aulus’ armor and arms. Mud and
water churn beneath their boots, glistening with the red that has
become an almost constant companion in the ring.
Aulus refuses to yield. His
face beneath the visor is hidden, but every arc of his sword tells
the story: desperate, relentless, unwilling to stop despite the
injuries accumulating with every strike.
Decimus narrows his eyes,
assessing, calculating. He steps in, feints left, then swings the
shaft of the spear in a sharp, controlled arc. It connects with the
side of Aulus’ helm with a sickening crack. The force sends Aulus
stumbling, half-spinning, chest smashing into the mud.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
The spear presses lightly
against the side of his neck, a warning, not a kill.
“Stay down,” Decimus
commands, voice firm but not cruel. “Stay down or you’ll bleed
out.”
Aulus exhales raggedly,
trembling beneath the weight of defeat and the reality of survival.
He collapses fully into the mud, hands pressing against the wet dirt
to support himself. Pride fights against obedience, but he knows
better, he cannot risk pushing further.
Lucille watches the scene
unfold, the tension coiling in her chest.
Even now, victory carries
no joy. Only survival, fleeting and hard-won.
And somewhere in the
stands, Marcus just shakes his head, muttering under his breath,
“This… this is nothing like the drills. Nothing at all.”
The mud-slicked arena
quiets only for a heartbeat before the next sharp pings sound. Two
lights flash across the crowd.
Lucille’s wristband
ignites.
Her chest lifts
instinctively, a sharp inhale catching in her throat, not from fear,
but from anticipation.
Finally. Finally her
turn.
She has waited for this
moment, and it does not feel like a test or a spectacle. It feels
like coming home. Fighting is the only time the world narrows, the
only time her thoughts align with her body, her instincts, her very
soul. In the ring, she is herself. Nothing else exists.
Still, she does not move
immediately.
She lets the seconds
stretch, scanning the crowd, watching who has been called, who is
emerging from the crowd. Then she sees him.
Julianus Regillus.
Six-foot-seven, broad and
solid, just slightly heavier than athletic, a presence that makes the
ring seem smaller by contrast. She has glimpsed him around the
Academy, training in shadows or standing on the sidelines, but she
knows nothing of him, no drills, no duels, no reputation, no story to
guide her expectations.
Her mind clicks, sharp as
the steel lining the arena. A blank slate. Nothing to anticipate
but instinct. Good.
Marcus leans close, massive
frame slightly shadowing her from the crowd. His hand rests on her
shoulder, steady, grounding, almost protective. He smiles, teeth
catching the pale light, pride flickering in his gaze.
“Good luck,” he says
simply. “Kick his ass. Make him remember your name.”
Lucille blinks.
She had never received
encouragement like this from anyone aside from Cain, Captain Vale, or
Korvin. Classmates didn’t cheer for her, they didn’t root
for her. Not like this. Not with sincerity.
It is strange. Disorienting
even. Yet she senses no malice, no mockery, no hidden agenda. Only
honesty, only support.
Lucille exhales, small and
quiet, and offers him a soft, polite smile in return.
Then, without hesitation,
she turns away from the stands and steps toward the preparation room.
Every step carries purpose.
Every breath, a prelude to the storm awaiting her in the Martyr’s
Ring.
The dirt, the blood, the
fear, they are hers to meet. And she is ready.
Lucille steps into the
preparation room first, boots clattering faintly against the stone
floor. The air smells of sweat, oil, and polished steel, thick with
tension from the duels before.
Two older instructors are
already there, faces lined with years she has only glimpsed in
passing along the Academy corridors. They don’t speak much, just
gestures, directions, and practiced efficiency. One waves her over to
the armor stands, hands already moving to assess her posture and
grip.
“Step in,” he says,
voice calm but firm. “We’ll have you ready in moments.”
As the exoskeleton plates
are lifted, strapped, and locked into place, Lucille lets herself
focus. The chest plate settles over her torso with a familiar weight.
The arm and leg guards follow, each buckle clicking in place. She
feels the control returning, the rhythm she knows, the way her
movements align with the armor as if it were grown from her own
flesh.
Before she can finish
tightening her gauntlets, Julianus enters. His towering frame fills
the doorway, a grin spreading across his face as he looks down at
her.
“Domitian,” he says,
voice rich and confident, tilting his head slightly. “I’ll try
not to go too hard on you. We shouldn’t even be in the same match,
you’re way below my weight class.”
Lucille shrugs, calm,
unbothered, eyes on the plates as the instructors adjust her
shoulders.
“No one’s in my weight
class,” she says softly. Not rude. Just fact.
Julianus chuckles, a low,
resonant sound that fills the small room.
The instructors guide them
toward the weapons racks. Steel gleams under the overhead lights,
sharpened and polished, ready for whatever the Martyr’s Ring
demands.
Lucille’s hands find a
longsword, familiar and comforting, weight balanced perfectly in her
grip. She straps the diamond-shaped shield to her left arm, the cool
metal reassuring against her forearm.
Julianus, ever the showman,
picks a halberd. Long, cruelly elegant, the blade catching the light
as he lifts it and spins it idly in one hand. Lucille’s jaw
tightens ever so slightly, his weapon puts her on edge, a constant
reminder that this duel will not be simple.
Together, they move toward
the doorway. The sunlight pours in, hot and blinding after the
dimness of the preparation room. Dust swirls in the beams as they
step forward.
The arena waits.
Blood-slicked, sun-bleached, scarred from every duel that came
before.
Lucille inhales, letting
the warmth settle over her, letting it sharpen her focus. Every nerve
hums. Every muscle waits.
The sunlight strikes the
arena with harsh brilliance, glinting off bloodied dirt, the scuffed
exoskeletons, the scattered weapons of those who have gone before.
Lucille and Julianus split
in the center of the ring, feet planted, muscles coiled. Two meters
between them.
The instructor in the
stands intones their names, slow and deliberate.
“Lucille Domitian.
Julianus Regillus.”
The bell tolls.
And the duel begins.
Julianus moves first,
halberd sweeping in a horizontal arc that forces Lucille to pivot
sharply, shield up. The impact jars her arm, sending a tremor of pain
up her forearm, but she holds, bracing against the crushing weight of
the strike.
Each swing is deliberate,
predatory. He’s calm, almost bored, letting her test herself
against the reach of his weapon. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t make
a mistake.
Lucille presses forward,
the longsword in her hand a blur as she slashes, stabs, pivots, but
every strike is met with the halberd, tip angled, blade twisting,
forcing her back. Her shield absorbs a glancing blow that snaps her
shoulder backward, pain flaring, a sharp crack echoing in her ribs.
She swallows hard.
Julianus steps in again,
the haft of the halberd striking her shield-arm with a crushing thud.
Her elbow screams. Another blow lands to her shoulder, forcing her to
spin and absorb the strike through the metal of her armor. She
staggers slightly, breath ragged.
Every strike pushes her
back. Every block tests her endurance. The arena feels smaller now,
closing in with the weight of the halberd, the sunlight, the heat,
the blood, and the expectation.
Her muscles burn. Her lungs
draw fire. And yet… she keeps moving forward. Shield up. Sword
angled. Footsteps measured, despite the ache, despite the bruises and
the rising frustration.
Julianus smiles faintly,
watching, waiting, letting her throw herself against the wall of his
reach. Every calculated strike he lands leaves marks, bruises,
scratches, jolts of pain, but he does not overcommit. He does not
need to.
Lucille feels it, the first
stirrings of something dark and heavy beneath her ribs.
A fear, a fury, a focus
that is no longer just training.
Every block, every step
back, every strike met by the halberd, adds to it.
Her shield arm aches. Her
ribs are screaming. Her shoulder threatens to give beneath the weight
of repeated impacts.
And in that rising
crescendo of pain and frustration, something snaps.
Lucille pushes harder,
every step forward a declaration. Her strikes grow less conventional,
less measured, pulling from techniques she’s only dared to use in
training. Spins, feints, low sweeps, shield bashes mixed with blade
strikes, dangerous, unpredictable.
Julianus does not take the
bait… not yet. He is calm, measured, halberd sweeping with
precision. Each strike is calculated to punish, not maim. He
anticipates her charges, deflects her spins, sidesteps her lunges.
She presses into his reach, desperate to close the gap.
A few exchanges later, she
gets close enough. Her sword grazes the edge of his chest plate. A
thin spark of metal on metal, a fleeting contact. But skill and
experience win out, Julianus snaps her back with a swift, precise
push from the haft of the halberd.
Lucille snarls, lips
curling, eyes flashing with controlled fury. She recovers instantly,
lunging again. Julianus forces her to halt, shield raised just in
time to absorb the full impact of the halberd. The hooked blade snags
the rim of her shield, tearing her forward with the momentum. She
stumbles, catching herself on the edge of the shield, breath hissing
through clenched teeth.
But Lucille seizes the
moment. Weight pressing into the shield, hand gripping both the sword
and the mud, she bucks a boot forward. The heel slams into Julianus’
knee with bone-jarring impact.
He stumbles backward,
surprised, eyes widening at her audacity and speed.
Lucille does not hesitate.
She drives her sword into his side, shoulder first, and spins,
slamming the edge of the blade into his pauldron. Sparks fly from
metal on metal, a ringing chorus to the ferocity of her assault.
Julianus recovers quickly,
necessity forcing his body to obey. He cannot allow her to overwhelm
him. Using his mass and reach, he knees her in the side, forcing her
to stagger back, and presses the pommel of his halberd into her
midsection to hold her at bay.
Lucille charges again.
Julianus moves to counter, expecting another straightforward
flourish. She anticipates his counter, half-feints, spins, angle
changes, but this time she takes the hit.
The primary blade of the
halberd bites into her waist. Armor absorbs most of the force, but a
nip of steel slides past the edge, grazing her flesh. Pain blossoms
sharply, white-hot, stealing her breath for a fraction of a second.
Julianus freezes for a
heartbeat at the sight of the blood, eyes locking on hers. Grip firm
on the shaft of his weapon, he does not retreat.
Lucille pauses, sucking in
a ragged breath. Blood stings, but adrenaline and fury sharpen every
nerve. Her eyes narrow. She is far from finished.
Lucille grips the shaft
with her shield hand, muscles straining, teeth clenched. She pushes
her body forward. Pain flares as the sharp edge bites along her side,
scraping armor and flesh alike.
Julianus reacts instantly,
wrenching the halberd from her grasp. He does so effortlessly… and
desperately. The halberd swings wide to his side, leaving his arms
exposed, his centerline vulnerable.
Lucille slips into the gap
with lethal precision. She drives the pommel of her sword into his
waist, sending him staggering backward. She presses closer, up
against his armored frame, and lets the recoil carry her momentum.
Her wrist twists, the edge of her longsword slamming into his elbow.
His arm jerks upward, caught in the lock of her brutal improvisation.
Julianus attempts to
sidestep, pivoting with the halberd as he recovers, trying to regain
distance and control. But Lucille strikes from above, swinging with
all the force she can muster. The sword slips from her grip, bouncing
away in the mud. She lunges to snatch it, but the motion leaves her
open.
Julianus takes advantage,
the haft of the halberd slamming across her back, pushing her chest
into his. He twists, wrestling her into the mud with the weight of
his body and the leverage of the weapon.
They hit the muck hard.
Julianus straddles her hips, exoskeleton grinding against
exoskeleton. His halberd is gone, sunk into the churned mud. Her
sword is out of reach. Her shield, still strapped to her arm, now
feels like a leaden burden rather than a safeguard.
He punches her face shield,
the impact ringing through her skull. Pain explodes, but Lucille does
not falter. She kicks hard, grabs the combat knife at her belt, the
wolf’s head sigil glinting on the hilt, and drives it into
Julianus’ side.
He gasps, twisting,
grabbing her wrist as she pulls back for a second thrust. He pushes
the knife toward her own neck, a desperate reversal. His other hand
pins her shield to the ground, trying to control her leverage.
But Lucille is stronger
than anticipated. The exoskeleton amplifies her strength, every
muscle locked and loaded, every nerve ignited. She strains against
him, forcing the knife to remain angled at his side, not her throat.
Julianus growls, low and
dangerous. “Stop! Yield!”
Lucille snarls back. She
has no words. Her voice is swallowed by the storm of pain,
adrenaline, and blood. Every throb in her body, every pulse in her
veins, every breath drawn through clenched teeth fuels her fury.
She will not yield. Not
now. Not ever.
Julianus’ eyes flash with
panic for the first time. He pushes the knife closer to her throat,
trying to force submission. His grip is iron, his weight crushing,
but the exoskeleton beneath her muscles hums with controlled
strength.
For a heartbeat, time seems
to slow. Lucille pivots beneath him, twisting her body the best she
can while pinned. Her knife-arm drops, letting the blade crack
sharply against her chestplate. The sound is metallic, echoing in the
arena like a bell.
Julianus reacts, too slow.
His weight shifts, his balance faltering just enough. In that
fraction of a moment, Lucille drives her shield upward. He has only
the barest instant to make a choice: release the knife to stop her
shield, or relinquish control of her shield to maintain it.
He chooses wrong.
Lucille doesn’t aim to
strike with the shield. She uses it as leverage, a fulcrum. Julianus
leans into her momentum, enough to lift her, enough to let her slip
out from beneath him. She snakes upright, fingers gripping the ridge
of his pauldron for purchase.
Her other hand twists,
adjusting the angle of the knife against his frame, the blade riding
along the armor where it meets flesh. The motion is instinctive,
almost mechanical, muscle memory honed by years of training,
sharpened now by rage and the searing of the scar of Valroth Kyr
beneath her skin.
The knife plunges a second
time, beneath the chestplate, into the soft tissue of his side.
Julianus stumbles, his control slipping further. Panic gleams in his
eyes. He reaches to pull the blade free, to regain dominance.
Lucille drives him off,
wrenching the knife free. Her arm moves of its own accord, guided by
some deeper, darker instinct she does not name. Her body twists, the
scar along her left forearm burning hotter, searing through muscle
and bone like fire.
And before she realizes,
without thought, without calculation, the knife plunges a third time,
clean, brutal, into the side of Julianus’ neck.
His eyes go wide. Blood
spills, a dark ribbon across the mud. He chokes, gasps, tries to find
purchase, but there is nothing left. The arena goes still. The wind,
the sun, the screams of prior duels, they all fade.
Lucille’s chest heaves.
Her blade shakes in her hand, slick with blood. Her body hums with
adrenaline, pain, and the unrelenting fire of the scar that has
chosen her.
Julianus collapses, his
body pitching forward, lifeless, mud and blood mingling beneath him.
The Martyr’s Ring is
silent. Cadets frozen mid-breath, eyes wide behind blood-streaked
visors. Even the instructors, Korvin, Renn, Vale, watch without
comment, side by side in the stands. None of them are surprised.
Years of teaching Lucille, of pushing her limits, have shown them
exactly what she is capable of. The results are brutal, precise,
undeniable.
After a long beat, the
announcer’s voice cuts through the quiet. Measured, controlled:
“The match has concluded.”
Medics surge into the
arena. Two carry a stretcher, already moving toward Julianus. A third
steps toward Lucille, cautious. She does not lower her knife, does
not blink. Her fingers are white beneath the gauntlets, gripping the
hilt as if the metal were part of her hand.
She stares down at
Julianus’ lifeless body. Her eyes widen behind her visor, but not
in horror. Shock, yes, but not for the taking of life. For the
exhilaration it brings. Her pulse races with adrenaline, her lungs
burn with exertion. Alive. She feels more herself than she has in
years.
There is no sorrow. No
shame. No remorse.
The medic holds a hand out,
slow, careful. He knows adrenaline keeps fighters in this headspace
longer than reason allows. He has pulled cadets off the battlefield
today who clung to weapons far too tightly. He waits for her to
recognize him, to make the first move.
Her head snaps toward him,
eyes locking with his. And then she exhales. Slowly at first, then in
a ragged gust. Her grip loosens. Her posture straightens, if only a
fraction. Enough for the medic to step closer, to begin assessing her
arms, shoulders, and the small nicks the halberd and mud inflicted.
Julianus is carried out on
the stretcher, his halberd left behind, mud-streaked and bloodied.
Lucille follows, guided gently by the medic, the knife now safely
sheathed at her belt. The two move together toward the infirmary
tent, the heavy air of the arena pressing down behind them.
