The Legend of Randidly Ghosthound

DiOrtho settled into a meditative position in the small dirt clearing at the center of the bamboo forest. There was enough space here that the light arrived normally in this spot, although the rainstorm meant that the ambiance was gloomy anyway.

He faced away from the path he had taken to get here, so all he saw was the bamboo reaching toward the sky. The rain had intensified, starting to wash the rest of the mud off of DiOrtho’s leather armor, but he didn’t pay that any mind. Instead, he focused on finding that necessary emotional state to allow his Perception to spread out over the bamboo forest to its limits.

It was difficult to ignore that surly urge to break and tear in DiOrtho’s heart. And perhaps if someone was watching, he would not have been able to do it. During his earlier visits to the bamboo forest, he had even been tempted to rush out amongst the bamboo and tear it to shreds. Now, Overseer Helen’s sneer as she told him not to burn it down taunted him. The bamboo was a reinforced variety of the plant, fed on Head Drill Sergeant Ghosthound’s energy, but DiOrtho still believed it would be possible.

But he didn’t. He breathed. Through his teeth in a hiss, but he simply breathed.

As the wind picked up, the rain slanted sideways as it passed through the bamboo and landed more directly on DiOrtho. He closed his eyes. The sounds of the tall shoots of bamboo creaking and groaning filled his whole perception. His chaotic and violent thoughts were gradually rubbed away by the natural sounds of the surroundings.

Congratulations! Your Skill Metal Horror’s Discernment (Ru) has grown to level 222!

Each stalk of bamboo was about six meters high. Despite that impressive height, when the wind pressed down on the bamboo, it freely allowed itself to bend farther than DiOrtho reckoned was possible. It was a robust and flexible material that had some magical property of isolating sounds and sensations.

Or maybe I’ve just been beaten so much I’m becoming dumb… DiOrtho lampooned.

Yet that thought was a distraction too. DiOrtho released another breath. His heart rate was gradually calming down. His senses expanded. The cool kisses of the raindrops became a part of him, a part of the greater bamboo forest around him. When it rustled, he rustled. He leaned as one more stalk of bamboo.

The whole experience of the bamboo forest had struck him as rather pointless at first. But then, during one of the rare lectures the Overseers conducted on the subject of images, Overseer Muareth brought up something very interesting. That there were two discrete entities that were present in the bamboo forest that were also present in an image: the collective and the individual.

The collective moved with the wind, but the individual lengths of bamboo each possessed their own singular movements as part of that collective.

Partially it was circumstance; some of the bamboo was simply screened from the worst of the wind by its fellows. So while its neighbors might shake and shiver underneath the assault of the wind and the slanted rain, its movements were exceptionally mild.

Partially it was a result of the history of each bamboo stalk. When was it born? How much strain had it endured? Was it able to obtain enough water through its roots? Was it often exposed to wind? These questions left tiny differences in the resilience of the material, which led to different outcomes underneath the same wind. Over the stretch of history… an individual bamboo chute quickly diverged from its fellows.

The wind began to pick up, even as the rain began to slow. The rustling grew louder. DiOrtho’s senses carefully followed several individual movements in the surroundings. Everything moved individual, yet became a part of the seamless whole.

Congratulations! Your Skill Metal Horror’s Discernment (Ru) has grown to Level 223!

In terms of images, what this meant is that an image should never just be thought of as a blanket to cover Skills. It was not a rubber stamp to be slapped on every attack. Images were comprised of key characteristics that involved the various portions of someone’s image. So when DiOrtho now used certain images, he would focus on and empower aspects of his image that were specifically related to the effect that he wanted. That concentrated focus would give him a slight edge. But over time, it also would mean that he would grow more familiar with the various characteristics he possessed.

He would live in the individual portions of his image as they were used. Through that usage, they could grow strong. But the first step was witnessing and acknowledging how the whole and the collective couldn’t be separated.

DiOrtho breathed in and then breathed out. Gradually, as his mind reached the proper outlook, he shifted his attention to his own image. The wind began to fade. Seconds stuck to each other, leading inevitably into the next, ferrying DiOrtho along into the future.

About a half-hour after he had entered into the bamboo forest, the cleansing wave of energy from the Central Bell restored DiOrtho’s flagging mind. Sighing, he stopped the work on his image. Although it restored him to his peak mental state, it also knocked him out of the proper perspective to continue refining his image. With his sharper senses, he stood up and stretched. And he would have sat back down to continue meditating on the details of his own image, but he noticed a maroon shadow in the sky.

Overseer Helen was summoning them. Her oppressive image looked coldly down over the training area.

DiOrtho Vant pressed his lips together. He was sorely tempted to pretend he had been so deep in his meditative trance that he had missed the obvious summons. Overseer Helen had that unfortunate knack of being able to see through his lies, but his refusal to come when called was just one more tactic in a whole slew of mental guerilla warfare.

However, DiOrtho spat to the side and then began the winding walk outside of the bamboo forest. Rather than being afraid of being punished, his primary motivation was that he was afraid of missing a demonstration by the Ghosthound.

Damnit, I need to find a way to earn a Darkstar coin… DiOrtho punched his fists together with enough force that one of his knuckles cracked. Not that he believed he had reached the same amount of power as the Ghosthound. But DiOrtho was confident that he was more capable than the fool-dog Vizzeret. And without experiencing that gap himself… even if it was painful… he would not be satisfied.

Unfortunately for him, it quickly became clear that today wouldn’t be another Head Drill Sergeant Ghosthound demonstration. Two large signs had been erected in the central area, outside the ring of individual training capsules. Most of the recruits were gathered around the signs and talking quietly to each other, but what really clued DiOrtho to the fact that this display would be disappointing was Overseer Helen’s expression.

As soon as he walked over, she beamed over toward DiOrtho with a wide smile. She beckoned him over. Seeing her motions, the other recruits took some steps backward. “Ah, good. Recruit Vant. Just the man I was waiting for. These will be your new squad assignments. Please, feel free to shut the fuck up, even if you have any questions. These decisions are final until the next skirmish.”

Even worse, DiOrtho could feel that Helen’s words brought everyone elses’ gazes to him; they knew that Overseer Helen was making an example of him. His face flushed and his ram horns throbbed. They always had to fucking target him…

There was nothing DiOrtho hated more than being stared at.

With a heavy heart, he suppressed his urge to rip a weapon out of his body and sever a few limbs to really give these worthless losers something to look at. But he managed to wrangle his emotions and looked up at the list Squads.

Of the ten squads listed, DiOrtho Vant was not one of the large names listed at the top of any, as a squad captain. He began to chew on the inside of his left cheek to keep his face expressionless.

When he noticed that he was in the Squad underneath the bastard Raymund Ballast, the Vulpine whose image was comically feeble and ineffective, DiOrtho Vant began to grind his cheek into a gory pulp. Over the past five days, Ballast’s standing in the ranks had taken a nosedive. His improvement was practically nonexistent.

But with Overseer Helen right there, seemingly gloating at being able to find new ways of torturing him, he wouldn’t let himself appear weak. Not with all of these pathetic wastes of space watching the whole interaction. So despite the blood in his mouth, DiOrtho just shrugged and said, “How exciting.”

Then he turned around and walked away, widely furious at how little control he felt like he had over his own life. Finally, he managed to pry his jaws open and release the unlucky bit of his cheeks that he had been mashing for a little over thirty seconds. That’s just the way it is. People with power abuse that power. People without power can only blame themselves for being weak…

His skin began to itch; his image naturally wanted to erupt with different weapons through his muscles and skin so he could make this place a field of blood. But as soon as that impulse arrived, it fizzled and died. What it left in its place was a dull and frustrated ache. Even at the speed he was improving, it wasn’t enough. Currently, he was simply too weak.

DiOrtho’s feet naturally carried him East, heading for his shelter and garden. But that choice of destination struck DiOrtho as unsatisfying. Unlike his gradual acceptance of the bamboo forest, he was continually bewildered by the requirement that the recruits garden during their free time. When only a few ugly brown leaves had popped out of his garden plot, DiOrtho had completely given up.

After all, failing in this area would bring in into the Ghosthound’s sphere of attention. And then…

Well, DiOrtho didn’t know.

Rather than going back to his own area, DiOrtho simply began to wander through the spacious residential area. The residences were generally twenty to thirty meters from each other, so DiOrtho could easily avoid encountering anyone. In addition, the thin mist that was a constant presence in the residential area further added to this sense of isolation. It was easy to feel like he was the only person in the surrounding-

“Ah… Mister Vant. I believe it is best we come to an understanding.”

DiOrtho’s teeth once more snapped shut around that bit of torn flesh in his cheek. He wheeled around, finding himself face to face with Raymund Ballast. Immediately, he was angry that this fuck had followed him, that DiOrtho had been so distracted he hadn’t noticed, and that this weak piece of shit was taller than him. His skin once again itched, and this time DiOrtho completely planned on teaching his ‘squad leader’ a lesson.

A lesson he would carve into the fox’s body with the sharp end of a blade.

“Ar….arrooooo…!”

But just as he was about to attack, a strange noise from a nearby residence stalled DiOrtho’s momentum. The very small part of his brain that could control his emotions reined in the radiating aggression that he was releasing. Instead, DiOrtho glared sideways toward a rather sizable dwelling some distance from their current position, where the noise originated.

DiOrtho’s eye twitched. And why the hell does it have to be such a nice looking house?!?!

After casting another sizzling dagger of a look toward Ballast, DiOrtho walked stealthily forward across the soft ground toward the house. He hesitated at first, but Raymund Ballast eventually followed. The two moved through the grass until they had a better view of the dwelling, which continued to infuriate DiOrtho with its obvious workmanship.

There were three tall pillars along a veranda, with a swinging door leading to a rather spacious interior. Somehow, the bamboo of the exterior seemed to have a strange shine, like the owner had spent time polishing it.

Yet when he saw the easily recognizable form of Vizzeret napping outside of the dwelling, DiOrtho felt a vein in his temple throb. How the hell did this fuckign mutt build this house with its paws?!?

“...stupid dog…” Ballast muttered with obvious distaste.

DiOrtho’s lips twitched. Some of his earlier antagonism gradually receded, watching the sleeping dog’s leg twitch. “I bet it’s dreaming of a fucking bone.”

“I bet it’s dreaming of having real hands,” Ballast countered, raising his own limbs in mockery of the grey dog's inferior form.

At least for now, DiOrtho decided not to kill his squad leader. It would, after all, be too easy for the crime to be traced back to him. Especially so hot off of the announcement of the squads.

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