CHAPTER 89: BEFORE THE MISSION

Charon’s days began with aches and ended with bruises. The mornings were claimed by Wallflower and her relentless drills, the afternoons by the Stadia’s unforgiving pit, and the evenings by quiet conversations with Emerius, both of them hunched over old texts and stranger questions.

Wallflower rarely greeted him. The moment he arrived, it was the next lesson.

Balance, form, and transitions between swings. Parrying from awkward angles. Learning when to commit and when to wait patiently. She used words like "efficiency" and "adaptability" religiously, hoping to drill them into his head.

Her eyes judged him before her voice ever did, which annoyed him to no end.

By the final day before the mission, he could spin the scythe around his back and catch it in stride. That earned a nod.

It also earned him the "pleasure" of her fighting back even harder.

"You keep trying to push power into every strike."

She told him after a particularly lopsided spar.

"That’s not how scythes win fights. They manipulate, they guide, and they punish mistakes. Yours is just loud."

He grunted back while catching his breath.

"I’m just trying to end things quickly!"

She shook her head.

"That is a poor vision of combat. You must be prepared for it to last hours if it must. To rush it is to invite death."

Between bouts, he found himself alone in the training hall more often. Practicing footwork, polishing the scythe’s curve, even rehearsing disarming techniques that Wallflower had taught him against a metal dummy

He named it Phillip.

Phillip took quite the beating.

The fights in the Stadia came next. Four per hour, like clockwork. He weaved in his new skills at every chance, fighting alongside his summons and allowing them to complement him

The audience loved it, chanting the name Jester when he was both in and out of the arena.

He washed it off that night in a shallow tub, staring at the floor as water turned gray around him.

By the sixth match, he had a sizable reputation. Not the strongest, nor the flashiest, but still something dangerous. The announcer started giving him longer intros.

He started to hear his name whispered when he walked to the apartment or to the Stadia, often accompanied by various other fighters they hoped to see him face.

He didn’t know how to feel about that.

’I’m becoming something of a hero, but I’m not quite there yet.’

At night, he’d return to Emerius’s room. The door was always open. Sometimes the tall boy would be reading, other times copying notes. Scrolls, books, holo-pads.

All of it arranged in meticulous clusters, like pieces of a larger puzzle only he could see, despite the numerous attempts Charon made to make sense of it all.

What made it harder was how often it changed. He would leave for twenty minutes, only to return to a different maze altogether.

One evening, Charon brought up something he had been wondering about while tenderly wrapping a cut on his arm from a fight. He had been slow, a dagger managing to slice around his wrist.

"This spy, what do you think the High Elders did with him? Is he even alive?"

Emerius didn’t look up.

"I doubt it. They undoubtedly have powerful mind mages far stronger than Red. They most likely learned all they could and executed him soon after."

They had spent the last week cross-referencing locations, the names the spy had muttered, notes from the history books, and even old maps of the River Acheron.

Those were the most difficult, with faded borders and strange mountain ranges that no longer existed. Annie occasionally came by to help with this part, her knowledge unquestionable.

Emerius pointed to a passage that mentioned a place called Itrik, described as a meeting point for many nations. According to Annie, however, it was now buried under a mountain of ash, and the existence of any structures was only referenced in these specific books.

Charon tapped the page.

"All of these must be real. They reference each other through the books, even when it’s from another author. They also follow modern features, like craters and natural disasters."

Emerius leaned forward and saw what he was referring to. It was a city in one of the history books with a modern map Annie provided layered above it. The map depicted it as a hole caused by a massive spell-gone-wrong.

"They line up perfectly."

Charon nodded.

"Dozens of cities are like that, as well as other points of interest. Destroyed, removed from the realm entirely, and covered up with these events."

Emerius’ brow furrowed.

"But why? Why would someone go to all that effort?"

That was the tricky part, yet he had a theory all the same, mostly deriving from his talk with the leader of the High Elders.

"The civil war between the Animancers. I think they wanted to make sure they couldn’t return by removing anything they could have connections to. If the war drags on too long, we might find another way out at one of the spots. An overlooked part, perhaps, or a buried section of a city."

The next morning, Wallflower nearly dislocated his shoulder in a lesson about counter-leverage.

"Too stiff."

Charon rubbed the point of impact with a wince.

"I was thinking."

"Then think faster."

He kept track of bruises by color. Purple meant new. Yellow meant old. Red meant he had messed up badly.

His ribs were a painting.

Still, he stood a little straighter and held the scythe with a little more grace.

During one match in the Stadia, he disarmed a man in full armor using nothing but footwork and a sharp pivot. It was so fast that even the announcer sounded surprised.

Later that night, Emerius brought out a new book. This one lacked a title.

"I think this was personal. A diary."

Charon frowned.

"Who writes a thousand-page diary?"

"Someone trying not to be forgotten."

They worked through the passages together, the archaic form of writing difficult to decipher. Emerius was naturally better at it, although he credited that to the old books his father made him read.

The book held everything. Snippets of philosophy, vague descriptions of rituals and spells, even the dreams the author had, filled with burning trees and black suns. One entry mentioned a girl with silver eyes who could see the future.

’Gods, what was this realm like back then to give the Animancers such imaginations?’

Sometimes the duo argued about various interpretations of events. Sometimes they sat in silence. Sometimes, they questioned what the point of studying this even was when the goal was to return to the Noctis Vrex.

The night before the mission, they decided to order food. It was from a fancy place Liam recommended, with the claim that "It’s so good it’d make a rich man slobber like a dog!"

’With a review like that, how could we pass it up?’

Charon leaned back on his chair as he sipped the noodle broth, his eyes twinkling in delight at the flavorful liquid.

’I’ll find a way to repay Liam one of these days. I think my tongue just discovered what happiness is, or maybe I did. Perhaps both.’

Emerius had only finished part of his, instead throwing himself at the diary. Of all the books they had read, that proved to be his favorite.

Charon didn’t begrudge him. If he was being honest, it was his favorite, too, as the author mentioned soul magic a few times.

It was always vague and fleeting, as if he were breaking some sort of law to write it at all, but tidbits were slipped in.

The author seemed to be progressing down an "archetype," something he remembered the High Elder mentioning.

’The warrior, which was about attacking, the healer which was about, well, healing, and the commander, which was about leading an army of souls. At the time, I thought I was the commander, which still holds true.’

The author was clearly a warrior, alluding to how he had learned a new way to refine souls into a powerful beam of energy. Although it was of little use to him now, Charon appreciated the affirmation about his element.

’I’m not the first one, which means there will be more information out there. I can learn how to advance more.’

It was something he learned from Emerius; information leading to advancement. In recent days, the blonde swordsman had become increasingly upset at his lack of shadow instruction.

"I need my tomes if I am to further my abilities. My father will be shocked at me coming here, yet that will not absolve me of neglecting my training. He will expect more from me."

Familiar with the concept of disappointing your superior, something he learned from the Mistress’ punishments, Charon empathized with him and promised to see if they could find some around the city.

That would have to wait until after the mission, however, as it was almost too soon by the time it was upon them.