Judgement Blood: A Celestial's Vendetta

Step, thrust, step.

Slash, step, spin, slash.

Thrust, spin, slash. 

Twirl and step. 

After gaining a few notes from Alexander, Ilyas went about his first Twinblade training session at the edge of the glade.

As he had expected-

'This... this hurts so bad! Ah, damn you, liver, shut up! You, too, arm! And Goddammit, fist, it's been more than a week now, grow up!

Every single part of his body protested this preposterous idea of his. But boohoo, they'd have to deal with it!

Because it's do or die! 

'... and it's cool...'

But that's only a bonus!

The dance replayed with all its tragic beauty in his mind, and he scrutinised every inch of movement in the legs and their torsos. That brief altercation with Rye also served to guide him on how to hold the thing with his hands.

Given that the weapon was heavy and large, and with the seamless dance in mind, Ilyas determined that to wield the thing most efficiently, maintaining momentum was key.

If one strike misses, he must lead the momentum to the next most efficient and deadly strike without straining his body against its flow too much. 

He remembered how Rye guided his Twinblade from that missed attack into that damning downstrike without too much effort, all by forcing his body to dance with the blade. 

Step.

Step.

Twirl.

Duck.

Halt.

Ilyas forcefully planted his Twinblade in the ground and knelt over for another short break. His stamina was abysmal. He couldn't last even a minute before his chest burned, and his heart panged. 

Gosh, he could almost retch!

But the memory of his recent fights was still too vivid and painful. Only that forced Ilyas to put his hands on the oak, and burn once again.

'One last time for the night. Come on, Ilyas, just like Alexander did it, you can do it too.' 

The Wasteland Crusader really did help. 

***

Surprisingly, Henry was the first to wake up.

Ilyas opened his eyes to see him standing at the edge of the glade, stretching his body as much as his wounds would allow. It would be a lie to say that Ilyas's ego didn't take a hit, considering he's a self-proclaimed breakfast warrior.

'Pfft, what would Henry know about the struggles of being on the front lines, anyway?'

"Morning," Henry said to him over his shoulder. Quite the upgrade from his previous self. 

"Good morning to you, too."

The sun was still rising, painting the far horizon between the trees peach and amber, and imbuing the sky directly above with a solemn deep blue. 

'Ah, great, it never gets old.' 

Ilyas pondered it all while taking as many deep breaths as he could. The nostalgic and heavenly pure smell of early morning was a pleasant surprise when he first experienced it. One of many things that made him regret his upbringing in the Vault.

"When do they usually wake up?" Henry asked, gesturing to Cenric and Alexander sleeping gracelessly near the campfire as if they had been fighting in their sleep. Alexander was even drooling and making strange choking noises amidst his snoring. 

Ilyas shrugged. "Maybe in another thirty minutes or so, I have no clue."

Henry nodded. His face was impassive and resolved. "I say we prepare breakfast, then."

'This may be the most I've ever heard him talk at once.'

Ilyas nodded and went to retrieve the food sacks. 

By the time Alexander and Cenric woke up in a bitter mood, a humble breakfast was almost prepared.

Alexander wiped the drool from his face and made his way to the bushes for a leak, frustratingly mumbling to himself something about 'too many men'. 

Cenric went the opposite side, embarrassed beyond himself at his state in front of others.

"How was your training last night?" Alexander asked while they sat around the fire, eating breakfast. 

Cenric seemed interested too, but Henry was lost pondering the thicket.

"It was fine... No, actually, it sucked. It hurt. It hurt like crazy. At one point, I was sure my heart would stop working."

Cenric and Alexander nodded in shared sympathy. 

"Indeed. It's a demanding chore, good sir. But a rewarding one, nonetheless."

Alexander swallowed, then added, "Those tutors who had the honour of training me were quite harsh, I must say, so I very much understand your struggle."

Then, as if stumbling on an idea, Alexander looked around frantically, then stood up and went to the edge of the glade. "It is also imperative that your body is conditioned to an adequate degree." 

Alexander assumed a push-up position, then said, his face red, his forehead vein popping. "A warrior, for example, must at least perform a hundred continuous push-ups." 

...

"Thirty-four..."

Thirty-five...

"Thirty..."

Ilyas, Cenric, and Henry were sitting around Alexander, watching him with distant eyes. Each seemed to be lost in their own thoughts.

Alexander, meanwhile, groaned:

"Thiry-nine..."

"Fo-Fort-Forty-"

He slumped to the ground, unable to finish. 

He then sat up, adjusting his creased collar, his face red from strain or embarrassment. "Well, you see, the wounds and the lack of, er, sustenance...uhhh. No, I mean our circumstances are quite uh..."

Eventually, Cenric jolted back to him, and said, "Oh, you are finished? Well, I guess a hundred isn't so impressive in the grand scheme of things, but still, impressive for an unbecoming Young Lord like you."

Alexander frowned, then, after realising their reverie, he coughed awkwardly. "Ah..."

For the first time, he couldn't find a comeback for Cenric. 

***

"Huh. I can see the sky more often," Ilyas pointed out as they continued their march north.

The trees, too, were getting smaller and more normal?

Cenric chuckled to himself and muttered, "Finally." He turned to Ilyas. "Well, of course they are, good sir, we must be very close to Peyton Valley by now. I'd say a few hours, and we're finally relieved from this horrid forest."

"I must say," Alexander joined. "Our travel was much faster than I expected. The Sanguinsiser truly is a miracle worker. How's your liver, Ilyas?"

Ilyas raised his black buttoned shirt to reveal his gaunt frame. The patch was still there, only slightly pink, covering the point where he was skewered. They all peered at it with interest. Henry, too, bent down for a look.

Ilyas felt incredibly uncomfortable at that. 

"Hm... Can't discern much from this," Alexander said.

Cenric tilted his head up at Ilyas and asked, "How do you feel?"

Ilyas shrugged. "It hurts, but it's that pain that you get used to because it's always there, you know. Although I have to say, I am feeling a bit of a fever coming up."

Alexander sighed despondently. "I had a feeling that'd be the case. We must reach the Procession with haste, then."

Ilyas adjusted his shirt, and they continued. 

"By the way, how many people are there in the Twentieth?" Ilyas asked.

"The last time I was with them, they were around... A hundred and twenty thousand or so."

Ilyas almost tripped. "Wha- What!"