Judgement Blood: A Celestial's Vendetta

'Argh, Goddamit.'

Ilyas buried his masked face in his hands and decided to brood for a few minutes in silence. Even the GentlePug grew concerned, as it seemed to him that the masked, disturbing face was suddenly unconscious. 

But no, Ilyas was merely mourning his situation. 

'There aren't any viable cities, and the only one left on this damned continent is awaiting rescue?! What kind of horrible situation is this?! How bad of an omen was my eighteenth birthday, Goddamit?!'

The GentlePug finally said, "Uh, good sir, are you alright?" 

Ilyas looked up at him for a moment, huffed, then returned to the embrace of his weak hands to sulk some more. "I'm fine, Mr. GentlePug, it's just that... It's not the best situation to be in, clearly." 

"I do understand, yes. But if it's any consolation, our situation isn't as tragic. Hadrian Silversun is our head, and that Gentleman knows what he's doing. Quite the persona if I do say so myself. With him, many of us are confident that Marianne will hold until the Mathesonians arrive."

Ilyas's eyes flickered, and he jerked his head up excitedly to GentlePug, "Oh really?! Is he a strong fella?"

The GentlePug snorted a laugh, then smiled crookedly as if he were about to compliment himself. "Well, he is only the strongest we have, good sir! Or the only Congruent on this Celest-Forsaken continent that isn't a vile Salivite. The man is a thing of fables! He has a sound mind, and an unwavering spirit, and he never failed to show those primates, as you say, consequences."

While singing Hadrian's praises, the GentlePug's whole countenance changed, becoming restless and fervent. His eyes sparkled with reverence and gratefulness.

It was contagious. 

Ilyas, who was down in the dumps mere seconds ago, found himself sharing in the GentlePug's adoration. 

They were like Ilyas and Ray when they were children in the refectory, and Ray, having just gotten his hands on the new issue before Ilyas, was telling him about Alexander's heroic stand against the instigators.

"Let me tell you, good sir, I was once assigned to a Procession that was attacked in Arya Town. Luckily, Silversun was in the area attending to some matter of his own, and when he was alerted to the attack, he taught those Salivites a lesson they never forgot. I saw it with my own two eyes, good sir, five well-fed Salivites surrounded him, but, forgive my language, the bastards only heard him laugh at his own joke before losing their lives. Three hundred refugees joined the Retreat.

Reminiscing about that incident seemed to reignite the astonishment in GentlePug's eyes. "That man isn't just a 'strong' fella, there are plenty of those. That person is a great man! Now those, good sir, those are a precious scarcity."

Ilyas let out a sigh of relief, "Oh, great! I gotta tell you, GentlePug sir, you had me scared out of my mind for a few minutes there. I thought we would have to fend for ourselves like the Spartans or something."

The GentlePug raised an eyebrow at the mention of that name, but seemed to shrug it off. "Well, even so, don't get too certain now, silly man, our situation remains dire nonetheless."

The GentlePug started gathering his accessories: Binoculars, a strange red Compass, a Map, a Notepad, a Pencil, and a silver Pocket Watch. "We have already wasted too much time, good sir, so it is best if we start moving. I am certain you will have many more questions, and I am happy to answer them. However, as I mentioned earlier, Salivitian scouts will pass through here soon, so we'd better not dillydally!" 

Ilyas shivered at their mention and began forcing his body to move. Albeit still in unbearable yet tolerable pain, his body had finally regained enough feeling for him to be able to carry himself. 

The GentlePug hefted the bag of tomatoes over his shoulder, sniffed, frowned, then gave Ilyas a concerned look. "I will take a look ahead and make sure our immediate path is clear. Your situation demands so, at least."

Ilyas nodded. "Thank you, sir," he muttered.

The GentlePug moved ahead, leaving Ilyas with a myriad of thoughts. But the one that took the centre stage was:

'What the hell is a Congruent?'

His seemingly kind rescuer said that this Hadrian fella was the only Congruent on their side against the Salivitians.

'Is it one of those mutations the GentlPug talked about? It must be! What else could it be?'

But he couldn't ask his companion. It would only raise more suspicions about his origin. His tattered jumpsuit raised enough frowns, but being oblivious to something the GentlePug mentioned so naturally would surely put him in a tricky spot.

'Man, this Hadrian guy sounds a lot like Alexander. I wonder if he looks like him, too? Will I even get to see him?'

Ilyas remained thoughtfully still for a moment, then rubbed his head anxiously. 

'Agh! I don't know! I'll just follow GentlePug to Marianne and see from there. Is the atmosphere pure there? Could I finally take this ugly thing off?'

Marianne.

From there, he could find his way to one of the cities in the Mathesonian Empire and settle permanently. Then, after securing a Personal Task, or whatever they call those on the surface, he could inquire about this 'Mercia' girl his father had told him about.

'Or maybe she is my path to acquiring a Personal Task?'

Well, that would have to be focused on later when he was in the sanctity of civilisation. 

'Yes. Yes, that's settled then! Things could turn out great after all. I just need to keep my spirits up!'

Many questions remained, however.

Which continent was he on?

What were the Mathesonian Empire and the Sycrusian Empire, and their... everything?

Was his father's injection a cultural thing on the surface?

How far did the world develop after that war that devastated the planet?

And much more. Ilyas was a Dweller for all his life and knew nothing about anything regarding the surface, so it was only natural for him to need to know the most basic things.

But that was the problem, asking about the basic things is the biggest giveaway! 

So sadly, he couldn't satisfy his curiosity without revealing himself to GentlePug; he would have to be patient with his questions. 

Suddenly, Ilyas found himself grimacing while sniffing around him. Something smelled bad—something close, and... personal.

'Ah Goddamit! I stink!'

Indeed. He and his tattered jumpsuit had been through a lot.

Too much, really.

Four days had passed since his horrible fight with Benjamin, and since then, his whole body has been festering in blood and sweat under the heat of the sun.

Fortunately, there was a river nearby, but he would have to ask GentlePug about the right time for a wash. Even if the Salivites caught them, being attacked naked was not the way Ilyas imagined he'd go. 

A rustle nearby startled him, but only for a moment before GentlePug appeared between two trees with a smile and a Paw's up. 

Ilyas groaned and cursed as he struggled to his feet. His head pulsated with decaying pain, and his lungs wheezed, begging him to remain stationary. Luckily, he couldn't feel the fist that he broke on Ben's skull yet.

There was no time to waste if they wanted to get to Marianne without their limbs being on the dinner table of some deranged family. He had to suck in his pain and push forward.

He staggered to GentlePug's side, groaning nonstop. His companion watched him concernedly, but made sure to keep his pity veiled.

"Is this Hadrian fella also a fine GentlePug like yourself?" Ilyas barely managed to ask as they started to walk along the riverbank downstream.

The GentlePug cocked his head at him, surprised by the question, then laughed. "Oh no! Not at all! What a funny thing to ask! No, good sir, he is a human. You seem to be confused about my nature. Not to pat myself on the back, but I am a rare species. You must be from the very south if you aren't familiar with us. I'm sorry to say, but I made that assumption when you said those hurtful words to me. Is my assumption correct, good sir? Oh, and how could I forget, I would also like to know your name if that's okay with you."

Ilyas looked at him, smiled, then said, "Yes. I am from the south, and my name is Ilyas."

Ilyas hadn't introduced himself to someone new in a long time, and doing so without his anxiety attacking him brought about a pretty jolly feeling. Of course, he wasn't about to tell the GentlePug he was a Dweller, so his assumption will do for now. 

But Ilyas did feel quite regretful about shooting off their companionship with a lie. 

'Too bad. I gotta learn.'

The GentlePug squinted thoughtfully for a few seconds, then turned to Ilyas with a smile. "I never heard such a name before. A strange man, in a strange attire, and a strange name. I am growing more curious about you with every second, good sir Ilyas."

Ilyas had a proud smile on his face behind that mask. "It makes me happy that you find me interesting... Wait, can I ask for your name as well, GentlePug sir?"

The GentlePug nodded firmly. "Cenric. Yours truly has been named by his honourable mother, rest her soul, Cenric Kerkley."

"That's a nice name, Cenric. But what is Kerkley for?"

Cenric was perplexed by that question, but at this point, he merely shrugged the peculiarity off and said, "Well, that is a surname. A family name. I'm certain you're an honourable man yourself, but you should find yourself a good one if you want to attain a life beyond the south."

Ilyas nodded. "Noted. So, where are we going now? What is the current situation with the Retreat?"

His words seemed to unknowingly permeate the air with some sombre, dreadful uncertainty. It coated Cenric quite well, as he frowned and stared at the ground, concerned.

A silence stretched between them before Cenric finally cleared his throat and said, "Well... I delayed my report to Retreat Command by four days, so they probably presumed my death. The Procession I was assigned to, if all was well by the grace of the Celests, had probably reached Pelton Valley. Our only option, therefore, is to rendezvous with the next Procession passing through this region... Ah, we must find their scout then."

Ilyas was following along intently, trying to comprehend the whole image from the few words he was hearing. Maybe he couldn't get direct answers to his questions, but picking up on hints here and there would serve him well. "Why don't we just find the Procession itself?"

The GentlePug chuckled, "It's quite far, and only the scouts know the location and bearings of their Procession, good sir. I know mine is in Peyton Valley, at the moment, according to their schedule and the Crimson Compass in my possession. However, I haven't a clue about the route and the schedule of the Twentieth."

'Crimson Compass?'

The GentlePug thought for a moment before adding:

"The only reason I'm here is to monitor the Salivitian tribe in this region. At any moment, they could gather their forces and march toward the Procession. Who will warn them then? I'm a Western scout, you see? The next Procession must have its own Western scout, who'd be keeping an eye on the nearby vile place. The tribe is north of here, so from there, we can accompany their scout northwest to their Procession."

Ilyas remained still, then asked, "But how are we supposed to find their scout if even the Salivitians can't find them? Isn't a scout supposed to be discreet?"

"Well, of course, they are! But have you forgotten that I am an exceptional scout myself? The only way to find a scout is to be one." 

Ilyas thought about that for a moment, then nodded firmly. "Ah. That makes sense."

They walked in silence for a few seconds before Ilyas finally mustered enough courage, cleared his throat, and said, "Uhm, Mr. Cenric, sir, do you mind if we stop for a few minutes so that I can wash myself in-"

"-Please do," The GentlePug awkwardly finished his sentence. He sniffed uncomfortably and pretended to ponder the trees.

Ilyas swallowed his embarrassment, slipped out of his jumpsuit, and cautiously descended his frail, bloodied body down the bank and into the river.