The Legend of Randidly Ghosthound

In the small break before the last batch of enemy recruits arrived, DiOrtho Vant frowned across the sundered ground of the canyon toward their approaching foes. He tilted his head to the side. “You feel that arrogant reaction as they look at us?”

Next to him, Raymund Ballast nodded. They had spent so much time together running away from the fearful specter that was Vualla that they often understood each other implicitly. “...humiliation. Those warriors earnestly believe we have humiliated them by demonstrating our own fighting prowess. And more than us… they think that the Head Drill Sergeant has humiliated them and their masters purposefully. They feel compelled to make a statement by slaughtering us.”

“Taking it up the line, that fuck Commandant Wick has humiliated them,” DiOrtho spat to the side. “I don’t like this feeling in the air. It’s turning way too bloody.”

“The true worrisome fact is that they are much stronger than those that came before,” Raymund observed. DiOrtho nodded and toyed with the ring on his left hand. Without giving the Head Drill Sergeant’s group much time to recover their breath, their opponents came steadily forward.

Their break was over.

Charlotte released another pulse of her Primal Force image, but it was clear she was already exhausted by the long slog of fighting that had led them here. Besides, she only could mimic the rejuvenating force of Yggdrasil, not completely display its power. Although their Stamina kept being refilled, it was the mental exhaustion from the consistent use of images that was beginning to accumulate.

At the same time, this tiredness almost increased the cohesion of the elite group. For good or for ill, this was the sort of scenario they were most familiar with due to the Overseers training. When they could barely think was when the true difficulty always began during their sessions underneath Helen.

Where their thoughts might tire, their instincts would not..

The foxman narrowed his eyes as he looked out toward the surging forces of their enemy. DiOrtho remained crouching as their Squad slowly formed up around them. And beyond that, the other Squads slowly fell into a loose formation where they would be able to support each other.

DiOrtho didn’t bother to respond to that. The foxman had always been way too pessimistic. DiOrtho slowly stood, still spinning his ring on his left hand around his finger. These enemies moved quietly, professionally, as they approached. There was no shouting or yelling, no taunts or bravado.

They were trained killers, here to do their work. Of all their training, this was the closest the elites had ever been to an actual battlefield. Everyone tightened their grips on their weapons and lowered their stances.

The two sides smashed together, the formations of both churning like hungry machines seeking to devour one another. The elite group gave ground and flattened their lines while the attackers simply overwhelmed them with numbers. Both sides flared their images, resulting in a tenuous balance of power in the area. The attackers probably could have broken through the images defenses in the front and achieved dominance, but DiOrtho didn’t miss the watchful eyes that went to the back of the elite formation, where Raymund Ballast stood watching.

The Vulpine became a counterweight. He gave them just enough pause that they seemed to want to drag him out without playing all their cards. Which meant that this battle would become one of attrition.

Still, DiOrtho quickly landed on the conclusion that the elite group would be pushed to breaking first. Several lighting fast exchanges were happening every second and it did not go well for their side. True, they still held physical superiority due to their hellish three months of training, but the difference with this newer group was much less decisive. In addition, these opponents were all veterans of prior combat. Their muscle memory of life or death combat gave them a half step in bridging the distance between their physical gifts.

With the addition of their superior numbers, it was more than enough to begin to break down the elite group’s squad-based tactics. The Squad Leaders of each Squad had to handle more and more pressure, as they became the only individuals with enough power to inflict serious blows on their foes. Small wounds became medium wounds, which became large wounds.

The pace was quickly becoming unsustainable.

Vizzeret Clamman spurted blood from his body with every movement. His breaths were shuddering gasps. Kallum Xeruth’s skin was even more bloodless than usual, as his quick and misleading movements possessing a smaller and smaller space for him to move as he was hemmed in. Charlotte Wick was impaled by a lance in her left shoulder, earning a growl and spin that shattered the weapon and knocked three attackers backward. But her arm curled weakly against her side.

Their opponent’s pounced forward, smelling blood.

DiOrtho cracked his neck. “My turn, I suppose.”

Raymund’s tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth. “Be careful. An overwhelming offensive now might-”

But Raymund’s words were cut off as DiOrtho spat out a “Fuck” and accelerated forward. Out of the crowd of pressing bodies that were all lashing out at the elite group, a woman with short grey hair shot forward. Charlotte Wick was the target and jerked around at a speed that showed her previous stiffness hadn’t been entirely honest. But to this woman, the deceit mattered not at all.

She pulled a massive hammer off of her shoulder and swung the weapon in a swift arc toward Charlotte. The Primal Force raised its head and roared, but the woman with short grey hair conjured a grey specter of death that suppressed the exhausted Primal Force. With her image crumbling, Charlotte desperately raised her arms to block the blow.

DiOrtho saw the bear woman’s shoulder shatter and accelerated forward. Behind him, a clicking metal demon ripped through space and arrived at their plane of existence with a caustic pollution belching out of its mouth. Its chest was assembled from blood-covered brass gears and its limbs were rusted blades. Above its head floated a rotating black cube.

The Machine Horror screeched and shredded the specter of death in front of it, sending the woman stumbling as she dashed after the crumpled form of Charlotte. But before DiOrtho could take advantage of the weakness, around fifty of the enemies moved forward to suppress him. Their images moved in tandem and thick, bleached bones shot up to hem in DiOrtho’s movements.

His eyes burned as he glowered around at these foes. “You think this is enough? Fuck, treating me like common trash.”

With a hum, the mass of seemingly meaningless cords and rusted metal bars on the Machine Horror’s back sprung into motion. Shuddering, those pieces stretched outward until they formed a pair of tattered, upside-down metal wings. Just as quickly, two more pairs of upside-down wings stretched farther down the Machine Horror’s back. Space around the Machine Horror began to ripple with the faintest sense of true divinity.

The ancient god that DiOrtho had once imagined was now real and furious. When he stepped forward, DiOrtho had to carefully control himself not to slaughter the other recruits with the force of his charge. He felt their images tear slightly from his ferocity, but believed it was a fitting punishment. Besides, his wife wasn’t here to nag him about being too forceful. The bone prison fractured and fell away as the creator’s collapsed with blood leaking from their ears and noses.

But while he was distracted, the woman had shot forward. She thrust her hammer straight outward like a spear, collapsing Charlotte’s chest with the heavy blow. The bear closed her eyes in pain, her image dissipating. A vine snaked out and wrapped around Charlotte’s waist; she had been defeated and the Ghosthound was removing her from contention.

DiOrtho grimaced. Without Charlotte to assist with their recovery, their formation would soon buckle, even if he and Raymund mobilized themselves.

But to his surprise, this wasn’t the end. The grey specter of death shimmered next to the rapidly retreating form of Charlotte and the grey-haired woman suddenly was there, her hammer raised above her head. She brought a blow down toward the defenseless Charlotte, where it was blocked by six thick roots that spun together and batted the attack away.

But the woman dissipated again, appearing once more next to Charlotte. This time, she thrust her heavy hammer directly toward the back of Charlotte’s skull-

“Hey.”

Crack!

“Do you have a fucking deathwish?”

The entire battle stilled as the Ghosthound was suddenly there, holding the shattered wrist of the grey-haired woman. His eyes were so bright that DiOrtho could barely look at him. The grey-haired woman whimpered as strange, ethereal flames sprung out of the Head Drill Sergeant’s skin. Meanwhile, her skin began to black and blister. Somehow, the air in the surrounding space started to swirl inward toward the Ghosthound. He became the focal point on which everything hinged.

“If you want to die, you should have just said so.” The Ghosthound continued. He continued twisting the woman's arm until her legs collapsed out from under her. Then he began to pull on the arm, as though he were curious about the outcome. He didn’t even seem to be trying; not a single bit of definition could be seen on his muscles. He was a child pinning a spider to the ground. That was the absolute difference in their existences. “You had defeated her and I was removing her from the battle. You went for the killing blow after I blocked you. I can only assume that means you’ve made peace with your fate.”

“H-H-H-Head D-Drill Sergeant G-G-Ghosthound!” Suddenly another dozen Drill Sergeants arrived on the scene, a full second behind the Head Drill Sergeant. “Cease this at once! How dare you intervene in the Challenge! I will-”

The Ghosthound looked up with disinterest. He continued pulling on the woman’s arm; DiOrtho could see the joint of her shoulder collapse and the muscles begin to tear. The skin of her forearm continued to burn away. Ashes began to drift down from the portions the Ghosthound was touching. “You appointed me as referee. She attacked with intent to kill, despite the fact her foe was already defeated. Or do you mean to tell me that your recruits weren’t under strict orders not to kill…?”

“That… that is…” The Drill Sergeant that had first spoken hesitated.

Another stepped forward, this time with a harder cast to his eyes. “You go too far, Military Dog.”

DiOrtho felt chills running through his body as he saw the Ghosthound calmly smile over at the Drill Sergeant who challenged him. He had never seen the expression on the Ghosthound’s face before, but it was one he had the utmost familiarity with: that ancient being that recruited DiOrtho only smiled so sweetly before going on a rampage.

DiOrtho glanced over his shoulder at Raymund, who met his eyes; once again, they were thinking the same thing.

“To so casually move a blade to take the life of an ally… she needs to be punished.” The Ghosthound said lightly. He began to twist the arm. His gaze drifted over to the recruits not in the elite squad, who currently were glaring at him with obvious hatred. Their desire to return this humiliation was palpable.

The Ghosthound barred his teeth. “After I finish here, you kids can continue with your games.”

“If you do not release her…” The second Drill Sergeant stepped forward. A rumbling force was rising in his body. The madness in the Ghosthound’s expression grew sharper. His smile widened, releasing even more pressure into the surrounding space.

DiOrtho could see that the woman the Ghosthound held couldn’t even breathe from the weight of his presence. Carbonized flesh drifted down onto the ground beneath her.

Most people present might not recognize the change, but suddenly these individuals were no longer themselves, but representatives of the factions behind them. Military High Command grinned over at the furious Nexus Labor Council. The bad blood between them bubbled and seethed.

DiOrtho could see that the Ghosthound had completely lost his temper when they tried to attack Charlotte and wasn’t willing to back down. Meanwhile, the other side had been waiting for a chance to prove themselves and discredit the Head Drill Sergeant.

Into that space, Raymund Ballast stepped. No one noticed him as he reached out once, twice, three times. Only on the third grab did he manage to steal a portion of that horrifying pressure the Ghosthound released, and DiOrtho didn’t miss the way that Raymund immediately put his grabbing arm behind his back; the act of taking had somehow shattered the bones of his forearm.

But when the pressure eased, everyone looked at Raymund. With his tongue lolling outside of his mouth, the Vulpine grinned. “The elite squad concedes the Challenge. We are very thankful for the veterans’ assistance in teaching us a final lesson before the deployment. Which means we have no more reason to waste time here, correct, Head Drill Sergeant?”

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