Battlefield of the Gods

His blood was rushing through his ears as he lightly panted, sweat dripping from his brow as he peered through his visor. Three men, the first had a pair of daggers, the second man had a greatsword in a wide stance, and the last man was standing more towards the back, arrow nocked as he stood ready to draw. He could feel his breath ragged from their previous onslaught of blows as his hands clutched the long sword precariously, eyes darting back and forth as he watched to see which would make the next move. Thats when the dagger wielder stepped forward, the wooshing sound of wind following quickly.

With a speed that eyes could hardly follow, the man with daggers danced about as he closed the gap between the boy and himself. Like a wolf baring its fangs, the man bore down with an arching downward swing, determined to bypass the boys guard. Light glinted off the boys sword, momentarily blinding the man with daggers as a blow met his gut, the blunt of the sword knocking him back. The mans defeat didn seem to shock the others as the man with the greatsword stepped past his comrade; his posture seemed unbreakable as he strode toward the boy. With a shakey inhale, the boy sucked in a breath in preparation, grey eyes wearily glancing between his two opponents.

The Great Sword wielder raised his weapon above his head as he prepared a mighty blow, allowing his sword to be taken by gravity before enforcing the swing with his strength. The boy knew his weapon wouldn survive the impact if he allowed contact with opposing brute force; a smirk crossed his lips as he raised the blade. With a seemingly perfect side step, the boy had managed to deflect the strike off his blade and send the blow to the ground beside him. Before the man could draw himself back for another swing, the swords pommel was driven into his chin, causing him to lose consciousness as his breath weakly escaped him before a grunt followed.

As the man fell like a stone, the boy barely had time to breathe as an arrow narrowly missed his head, sparking off his helm as if a warning to stay focused, for the fight had yet to be won. With deft speed, the boy took off, charging his opponent as he pulled back another nocked arrow in preparation. The archer was about five meters from where the boy originally stood as he closed the gap, two meters before another arrow was sent sailing towards him. Quick on his feet, the boy dripped down, rolling himself forward to dodge the arrow as it sailed over him. With a stumble, the boy regained his footing as his pace faltered.

Another two meters closed as the archer was ready to let another arrow lose. Yet, this projectile was different, seemingly shined with an almost translucent blue energy, with no arrow to be seen within the shaped energy. The energy was let loose with a loud boom as it sped toward its target. The boy thought this was the end as everything seemingly faded from around him, a void swallowing him as only himself and the bolt of energy was left. He could hear his heart as he watched this mass of energy approach him slowly as the boy swore he was dead.

”Wyll, still your heart and follow the silver thread. For it shall lead your blade. ”

A mysterious voice called out to Wyll; the voice was deep and firm as a thread of ethereal silver met the edge of his blade, tenderly splitting as Wyll watched. With a breath, his resolve was strengthened, blade following the thread of silver as he began severing it, following it perfectly as he brought his sword from his hip into a diagonal slash. The world returned as the archer watched in awe, seeing his attack split in two and his armor split open from the swing as he fell back. The archer was out as applause and cheers quickly followed, the gathering crowd cheering for their own as a rugged man approached.

A man with a patchy mess of facial hair, sandy blonde hair, and blue eyes made his way to Wyll, clapping firmly and loudly as he laughed heartily. He wore a mess of furs and leather armor, standing at a little more than two meters tall and built like a fortress wall. Like a boulder rolling down a mountain, the man crashed into Wyll, scooping him up in his arms and tightly hugging him. The metal helm was quick to come undone as the large man squeezed, a mess of steel blue hair cut short coming into view, the well-defined jaw yet soft cheeks of the victors face welcoming the warmth of the sun. Wyll grunted as the air was forced from his lungs, receiving an infamous hug from Gaemo the Bear as his bones cracked and spine popped.

”Did everyone see that?! Ma boy here, not yet even a Wielder, was able to take out two Commons and an Uncommon! A natural-born fighter, sure to make us all proud! Three cheers for Wyll of the Purple Dragoons! ”

The crowd cheered as Gaemo loosened his grip on Wyll, placing him on the ground; he let out a sigh of relief before handing his sword back to its proper Wielder. The medics dragged his three sparring partners off to be tended to as everyone cheered and congratulated Wyll on his victory. As the sun began to set and the meals were served, everyone happily ate of the feast as good tidings were upon them as Wyll was to undergo an exam with the Church tomorrow in a nearby town. All were excited to learn what the prodigy of the Purple Dragoons would get in terms of a Weapon. Wyll was nervous as he mentally went over what he had learned.

Their rarity rankings spoke for themselves. Common, Uncommon, Rare, and Epic. These four were the ones that most people got though it was only once or twice a year that an Epic made an appearance. After those four, there were what were defined as the Heirloom Rarities, these weapons boasting incredible power that was leaps and bounds stronger than the first four. Each rarity ranking was a gap alone, but the Heirlooms were something hardly seen. Heroic, Legendary, Mythic, and the fabled First-Forged. The First Forged were said to be the original bases for all the current weapons; the scriptures of the Church of the Smiths Forge supposedly talk about when the creator of the Weapons, The Blacksmith, made them in a time of chaos.

The only thing Wyll knew about the Blacksmith was they originally made the Weapons, bestowing them on mortals as a gift of power. The Blacksmith is the only one capable of making weapons. These Weapons turned the tides of wars, made kingdoms, destroyed kingdoms, and turned the world on its head. The catch was that not anyone could pick up a Weapon and use its latent powers; the Weapons chose their Wielder. Wielders were potent even if they held a common weapon, capable of quickly holding their own, but the higher the rarity, the stronger the power of the Wielder.

The Rite of Armament was when the Church would gather promising candidates that they felt were capable of bonding with a Weapon and becoming a Wielder; some years ago, Wyll had impressed a priest of the Church on the field of battle while wielding a Weapon of an ally. Wyll is, after all, a member of a well-known band of mercenaries known as the Purple Dragoons, a fighting force capable of devastating the battlefield as well as some of the best-trained battle medics in Vileres.

Wyll had gotten lost in thought, his food going cold as he nervously gulped and pushed his plate away as his stomach seemed to churn in anticipation for the coming ceremonies. He swiftly took his leave and went to his tent, flopping onto the mess of furs as exhaustion seized him and sleep encompassed his mind.