The Rising Fist Saga

Genevieve watched as the strange islander dramatically knelt, waiting for his death. There was nothing she could do for him, her powers were long spent hundreds of years ago, and the shreds she maintains are for a much greater purpose.

She could comfort him in his last moments. Usually, people don like to die alone, and this one, if nothing else, is lonely. However, she knows a death promise is being made when she sees it, herself being a witness to her own first-hand account. Another spirit joining her on her island might not be bad after all. Fury would appreciate the new soul.

The man has a much darker skin tone than the humans she used to interact with. His dark wavy hair, empty green eyes, and skin tone indicate he was from an island tribe. That could explain how he ended up here. In her records about people, islanders were notorious for being where they shouldn be.

The mans appearance was a great mystery to Genevieve. This island of hers has been empty of people for almost a century. Then one day, he appears. On top of that, her shadow fog has started to recede. Perhaps they are connected, perhaps not, she contemplated.

How the man endured such an extended beating is quite telling. Sure they are low-ranked monsters, but the man by her readings is also low-ranked. And even if he was stronger, his enemies had the numbers. His death was only a matter of time. Watching him struggle and embrace death when victory was close was almost inspiring.

Acceptance isn weakness.

Ironically, the scorpion gear that helped keep him alive for so long was probably also the reason for his death. Scorpions can be a sensitive bunch when it comes to the dead.

Bored of her island and nothing pressing on her to do anything … ever, Genevieve watched the man breathe his last dying on his knees. Hopefully, her new fellow spirit walking friend will be a kind one. Who knows, maybe with enough time, which she isn sure she has anymore, she can convince him to drop whatever revenge he holds in his heart that is keeping his spirit here.

***

Well… Im not dead yet. Might as well be. Can do anything in this broken state. I can even open my good eye. Thats the problem with dying. You never know which breath is going to be your last. By my count, I have had several last breaths already. Pain from the poison and the injuries grow unbearable. I breathe in deep, thinking death will finally take me. Then I breathe in again, enduring more pain, somehow not obtaining the sweet escape.

Here it is, thinking this next gasp of air will be my last. This is my moment to step into the next part of life. Whatever that be. Perhaps Ill become nothing, just a speck in the vast void. My mind goes blank, everything is dark, and a cool chill rushes through my body. Finally, peace from my torment.

Waking up not dead can be somewhat frustrating. Still not dead, in a world of pain, and unable to do anything, I ready myself for the last breath one more time. This one is it. This one feels different from the rest.

Pain.

Last breath.

Then blackness.

***

It is remarkable how long the man dragged out his death. He certainly has a flair for dramatics. Gasping for air, blacking out, then gasping for more air, all while kneeling. When Genevieve thought he was indeed dead, he would breathe.

She took pity on the man. He was in a desperate state; death would be a mercy, yet it keeps stringing him along. At this point, as unlikely as it seems, she will be more shocked if he actually does die.

Having spent enough time watching the drifter fight for his life against the desert monsters and, well…death, Genevieve finally turned her back on the man.

For the first time in years, the Lycan has business to attend to, and she isn missing out on it. If the lone spirit has to traverse the planes alone for a little bit, he will be fine. She can throw him a welcome to the life outside of life party later. Of course, that is if he dies.

Travel as a spirit is Genevieves favorite part about being a spirit walker. Blinking around her island is still a pleasure even after all these years. She calls herself a spirit walker when there is never any walking that she does.

Spirit traveler would be more appropriate. However, she didn create the system and its naming conventions, so she isn going to argue. Spirit walker did have a good ring to it, much smoother than spirit traveler.

With a thought, she traveled many miles and found herself at the foggy borders, where land meets the sea. In the thick of her shadow fog, she could already tell her barrier was diminishing.

Years of solitude fabricated by herself will soon be interrupted. Once the shadow diminishes, Genevieves island will be back on the maps.

People will come, the horde will return, and her people will be at risk again. To be certain, Genevieve travels to the major coasts in every direction. As this is her only order of business, she will be thorough.

Every border is the same. Genevieves ritual is running out of power, whether it is near the sandy beaches, rocky cliffs, swampy inlets, or forest coves. She is running out of time. Her people, long lost, are running out of time.

Finished with her inspections, Genevieve pictures the dying man in an attempt to travel back to him. Usually, it only takes thought, and her spirit arrives precisely where she focuses.

It doesn work.

Focusing on a destination near the man also proves to be unsuccessful.

The spirit walker thinks of her cave, knowing that she will arrive back in her home.

Nothing.

This is not good. The thought runs through Genevieves mind several times.

Thinking of a closer destination, Genevieve closes her eyes. She reinforces her thoughts with her will, traveling the three miles to her intended destination.

This is not good at all. I am running out of time. Worry, like an estranged friend, makes its way back to her mind.

***

Surprisingly when I come back to myself from the void, I can open my eyes. Though somehow, I am in the middle of a war.

For a brief moment, I think I am still battling the monsters that chased me from the desert.

My eyes clear, and I realize that this is strangely different. Packed in an unfamiliar forest, people are fighting by my side. Unfamiliar friends are dying by my side. Trees reverberate the shouts of the wounded and dying. Powers are thrown about wildly.

Trees are destroyed, allowing the trapped screams to escape, only to be replaced by crushing noises from wooden golems. Massive explosions of ice and fire reign down on the golems. Boulders are being blown in the wind mixed with bright light flashes amplified by lightning strikes.

The forest takes the brunt of the attacks as it is used as a resource for battle, and what isn in use is set ablaze. Soon the crowded forest becomes nothing more than an open battlefield on a hillside.

Smoke burns my eyes. My emotions are that of panic and anger at the unknown enemy, and my body is sore, most likely broken. Everything feels so natural, yet I can believe what I am seeing or experiencing.

Adrenaline pumps through my veins. I need to survive this. I have to get up…when did I get knocked down? More explosions, constant shouting of orders and threats, and worst of all, the shrieking cries of pain and despair.

I can no longer see the chaos, only hear evidence of it as a blanket of blackness replaces the violence.

Silence.

A battlefield once filled with horrors of power is now a dark, peaceful night. Casting its borrowed light, the moon highlights the aftermath of the brutal battle. Faint wisps of death linger. The calm air does nothing to dispose of the foul odors as if wanting nothing to do with the slaughter.

There is no sound. No cries for help or even rasping breaths of survival. Even the crickets are refusing to play their songs.

No, there is none of that.

All there is death. I am surrounded by it.

I try to move, but I can . Instead, I am to lay with the dead. Who were they? Fellow-Soldiers? Friends? Family?

I struggle some more to move. Pulling within myself, I draw whatever power I have and force it into my arms. For a moment, nothing happens. Then within a blink, the bodies around me dissipate.

What once was solid masses of people now is a stream of pale gray mana swirling in the air. With each rotation, the mana draws closer and closer to my prone body. As the pale mist encloses, it becomes harder and harder to breathe.

I try to resist, to do anything, even just move. Still nothing. I want nothing to do with this foreign energy encircling me, but I am as helpless as the companions once by my side.

Once again, I focus on the power within me, but this time I push out with all my might, desperately trying to will the death away.

For a moment, I think that it is working when the pale gray mana stops circling. Then instantly, it encloses all around. The dense mana restricts my breathing completely. Suffocating, I offer little resistance when death converges all at once, shooting into my chest.

I wake up in a panicked sweat as a gasping-gurgling yell escapes. Im struggling for air. The awful awakening process stretches on for too long. Finally, breathing comes easily and rapidly. It takes another moment before my breaths become normal.

That was horrific.

Fortunately, it was only just a dream. Unfortunately, death can be a real damnable experience if I am putting things politely.

Relaxing my body, I control my breathing and scan my surroundings, only to find that I still can . My eye is still swollen shut, and the other, whether it is swollen or not, is not responding.

Severe aching pains can be felt in my knees from the prolonged kneeling. Whoever decided that dying on my knees was a good idea is an idiot.

Stupid scorpions. I mentally curse.

Pain from the poison is no longer present, and the pain from my other injuries is more manageable, which I conclude is a win. My most considerable relief comes when I can control my body enough to fall over and give my knees a much-needed break.

Resting on my side, I fall back asleep.

Sunlight beaming through the trees causes me to wake however long it is later. Sleep has done much to improve my current situation.

My one good eye can now open. I can feel the wounds covering my body have recovered to a degree. Best of all, I have gained limited movement, which I take advantage of and slowly arrange my body in a more comfortable lying position.

Pine and aspen trees intermixed with desert shrubberies are scattered, and smaller greenery covers the sandy dirt around me.

Most noticeable is the smell. Fresh scents from the pine trees and various life forms in the desert crowd my senses.

Laying about in silence, I find myself relieved, to my surprise, to still be alive and to finally be out of the desert!

Shade shifts from one spot to the next as I continue to bask in the pleasant atmosphere. Eventually, I will get up and do whatever it is that needs to get done. For now, I allow myself to rest.

There is a good chance I was in and out of sleep. In my blank restful state, the surrounding tree shade has shifted drastically, and while it is not dark yet, it is definitely at the latter end of the day. Warm air is transitioning into its cooler stage.

Rest has done my body good; my senses are more alert than they were, and my body feels like it will respond to most of my commands.

Continuing to rest, it is only when I make out the faint sound of running water amidst the forests natural noises that I put my body movement to the test.

Since death won accept me, I guess I will struggle to live a little longer.

Survive just to spite of the exclusive club called death. That is a noble cause I can get behind.

Achingly, I pull my body from the ground and am standing, if only barely. If water is nearby, I will crawl towards it if I need to. Parched lips have been joined by dry lungs causing me to cough uncontrollably from time to time.

Before I leave, I spend a moment examining my resting spot. Roughly thirty feet surrounding me, there is no life. There is nothing. It looks like everything but me was dissolved into nothingness, wiped from existence. Even the weapons and armor I used are gone.

Once again, I am practically naked and stranded, thank goodness for invincible underwear. Trudging through the desert and, now forest, with an exposed schlong sounds like a personal hell.

Oof. Thinking of the ticks and parasites that would target my goods gives me uncomfortable chills.

Nothing else that I want to do in this spot, I make my way towards the sound of water. Five hundred hard-fought yards later, the landscape has abandoned all desert affiliations. Semi-sandy terrain is now loose dirt and rock.

Forest trees are densely packed, combined with the thick ground vegetation that forces me to wind my way through the woods towards the stream. It feels like Ive stepped into a whole new world.

Gone is the constant beating of the sun. Solid ground gives more resistance, making walking much more effortless. The tradeoff being the ground is littered with sticks and pines that are more than willing to pierce my bare feet.

Overall Im happy to be out of the desert and nearing water.

Crashing sounds of water colliding into rocks grow louder and louder as I get closer. Finally, I step through the dense foliage to see a river cutting through the forest. From side to side, the river looks at least twenty feet wide, flowing from north to south.

Slightly north of where I am standing, the river splits, one section taking a direction more west towards that mountain and the other staying with its northern route.

Wasting no time, I step past the rocky shore and eagerly plunge into the cool refreshing water. Skin and lips feel like they are desperately absorbing the water as I submerge myself repeatedly. It is risky. However, having just circulated poison as if it were blood, I don fear the risk and drink deeply from the cool water. Sitting to soak in the river, I feel refreshed, and though it is most likely in my head, it feels like my body is mending back together.

For the moment, I feel good. My body is functioning, my mind is clear, and my soul is still…wait a minute! Responding to my shock, my relaxed body jolts upright and stiffens. Something has definitely changed to my core. Paying no mind to the river that barrels around me, I deeply examine my soul.

Sweet mother of fatherless batzards! Death, the pale mana, had its way with me. Next to the dull core, my second layer is now filled with pale gray mana. What once was empty like the remaining seven layers is now a death core.

I have no idea how to use it, but that doesn matter. I have it! I can access it. Now it makes sense why my wounds aren as nasty as they should be, or it sort of makes sense. Pale mana is giving me power at the very moment as it ever so slightly provides energy for my body to function.

Do I feel violated that the pale mana bound one of my cores without my invitation? Yup.

Am I going to take advantage of my new source of power? Absolutely.

The only way to accept a mockery of a gift is to take it with a heavy dose of gratitude.

Turning my attention back to my core, I can feel the pale mana violently thrashing around in a circular pattern inside its core. The power of death is now a part of me.

It isn the densest core. I feel that my second layer still has ample room for the pale energy. Most likely due to its infant development. On top of that, death did not fill up the rest of my cores. Not that I am complaining.

If I still have seven empty cores, could I bind them to other mana sources? Thinking of more possibilities, I am incredibly grateful death did not claim more layers. At the same time, I am perplexed the mana didn try to expand. It seems like death would especially considering its forceful approach.

Although it is getting late, the excitement from my new energy has left me in a tireless state. Continuing to focus on the pale core, I feel the intensity circling around as if there were a hurricane locked inside a small pocket of my chest.

I focus hard on the mana, trying to condense the core tighter as if I am using another muscle. The death resists initially, but as I concentrate, I can will the mana into a tighter ball. I hold the packed power as long as I can, and then when the strain becomes too much, I slowly release the power letting the mana fill the core.

Giving myself a moment to breathe, I then begin the cycle anew.

Immersed in learning about the mana, a couple of hours slip by. The sun has gone down, and my cold, shivering body is demanding I leave the river.

However, the foreign energy begins to feel familiar. I can quickly hone in on the mana, which immediately condenses upon my command.

Familiarity established, it is time to try and harness the power.

I begin condensing and expanding the mana within my core, losing myself in the process once more. As I release the power, I attempt to will the mana to flow from my soul and through my body.

Nothing happens. The mana is still trapped in the core.

I try the same technique three more times. Each attempt is met with failure.

I am grasping at straws. I feel like I am working off a faded memory, but the details are not lining up. Luckily, I have been gifted with an unconquerable spirit and refuse to let a few failed attempts discourage me. I am close to being able to actually wield the power the mana brings.

Five variations of made-up mana cycling later, and I still haven gotten the power through my core yet.

I tried focusing on a small section of the core to ease that through my body. After that, I try condensing the core as tight as possible and pushing all the mana out at once. Then I do the same thing, this time only focusing on a tiny section of the condensed power.

Nothing.

Since there is no time like the present to give up on a cause, and I am probably suffering from exposure, I throw up my hands and surrender.

The thing about being unconquerable is knowing when to quit before you lose.

Satisfied with the flow of thought, I exit the river on the east side and begin setting up a fire.