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The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/arekban on 2024-07-03 01:47:34+00:00.

Synopsis: Markus is summoned from Earth by evil beings looking for a ‘weak and primitive’ creature to use as sacrificial entertainment. What they got instead was a human. Immediately after arriving, Markus awakens to an ability so rare, so powerful that it makes every god on Firrelia desperate to recruit him as their new champion.

Learning to control his innate mastery over mana, Markus will devour the very essence of any monster, demon, or god that dares get in his way, determined to never lose his freedom again.

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“Blunt my weapon.”

Cyrus took Markus’ glaive and put a protective sheen of magic over the blade in the same way he just had his own sword and hand axe.

“You ready?” Cyrus asked, raising his blade, preparing to touch it against Markus’.

Markus didn’t respond. He only advanced, thrusting his glaive forwards so suddenly that Cyrus had to jerk his arms upwards in order to block the strike, the weapon smashing off the side of his axe-head.

Cyrus immediately punished the attack, shoving the weapon to the side and moving in with a flourish to strike at Markus’ shoulder, but his blade missed its mark as the metal handle of Markus’ glaive was smashed straight into his chin, forcing him to grit his teeth as he stumbled ahead, instantly bringing both weapons into a defensive stance as his head rattled.

“You okay?” Markus asked, and Cyrus only nodded.

Five more thrusts followed, each slightly faster than the last, building in momentum and speed even as Cyrus deflected one after the other.

It was uncanny. Markus had never been like this before, not even days ago. His movements were still somewhat sloppy, but they were faster, notably so, to the point that Cyrus could feel himself sweating as he attempted to weave his two weapons together in a fast enough rhythm to block the mounting series of strikes assailing him.

He couldn’t take Markus too lightly. He’d get dropped on his back if he fought defensively this whole time. This wasn’t the same boy he’d been forced to duel with for Maesha’s amusement only a short time before, this was a real fighter. Not by experience, or even by technique, but by power, by determination, and by heart, he dwarfed any amateur Cyrus had ever met before.

Still, his movements became predictable after a time, enough so that Cyrus was able to smash his sword against the blade hard and disorient him, then follow up with a sweeping leg to take both his ankles out.

As Markus fell, a small hill of brown earth formed on the ground beneath him, slanting, allowing him to roll out of the way before Cyrus could pin a blade to his neck. He scrambled away a fair distance, then, as soon as he was back on his feet, leapt at Cyrus with such speed and intensity that he resembled a jaguar more than he did a human.

Cyrus brought up both of his weapons in a cross to block Markus’ swing. His weight and his pressure, the strength of his blade, the power he sent coursing through it as his weapon glowed a electric white-blue, all of it was enough to put strain on Cyrus, enough that the muscles of his arms rippled and flexed with tension as he attempted to stop his enemy from breaking through.

They were deadlocked for a short while, but summoning his own strength, Cyrus managed to shove Markus away from him, pushing with sword and axe both to dislodge him and then driving his shoulder directly into Markus’ chest.

He went sailing back almost ten feet, clattering against the ground, no spell to absorb the impact this time.

“You okay?” Cyrus asked.

Markus said nothing.

He raised an eyebrow as he approached. Perhaps he had hit him a touch too hard.

When he stood only five feet from Markus, the floor beneath him turned to ice, and he immediately almost slipped over.

Markus was back in a sitting position already, swinging his glaive at Cyrus’ feet and attempting to knock him off balance. One swing, a second, and a thrust to Cyrus’ knee caused him to raise his arms just to stay on balance, and the moment he exposed himself like that, even for a second, Markus attempted to kick out his legs from under him, Cyrus barely managing to jump past Markus’ attack and only just sticking the landing without toppling over.

And now Markus was standing once more, assaulting him repeatedly, his strikes having reached a point where they belaboured Cyrus each time he attempted to deflect them, where he had to put actual energy into keeping Markus from breaking through, as all the while his legs worked overtime to keep him on balance against the slippery surface below.

“You’re. Still. Holding. Back!” Markus struck between each word, enunciating his frustrations with the clash of steel on steel, pulling back his weapon and immediately striking in a threefold motion that hit the exact same part of his sword each time, making it so hot to the touch that Cyrus struggled not to drop it.

Cyrus bellowed in Markus’ face, disorienting him with the sound, then swung his axe directly at the man’s side, striking him straight on, causing him to crumple in on himself. Recognising an advantage, Cyrus prepared another attack, but this time, despite striking the same part of his opponent’s body, Markus weathered the strike and took it like it was almost nothing, remaining strong and firm as he absorbed the blow, then following up with a headbutt that flew right at Cryus’ jaw.

“Ow!”

“Argh!”

Cyrus stepped back a few paces, head ringing, dropping his weapons and spitting a little blood onto the floor. Meanwhile, Markus stood and clutched his head, looking as if he were about to fall over.

“Jesus, are you made of literal fucking steel?”

“Orc bodies are rather hardy,” Cyrus said, running his tongue along his teeth between words, tasting copper. “That fucking hurt my tusks, though. Getting hit like that is rather jarring.”

“I think I did more damage to myself…” Markus pushed the handle of his weapon down, using it as a walking stick as he stumbled over to the bench. “I’m dizzy. Gimme two minutes.”

“Alright…”

Markus sat in silence for the next minute or so, casting some kind of red glowing spell on himself, targeting his head and chest. His aura was likely the result of [Meditation], but it might’ve been something more that Cyrus didn’t quite recognise. Either way, before long, Markus was standing and walking straight back over to the sparring ring, shoulders set, head held high.

“Let’s go again.”

“Are you sure?” Cyrus asked, staring at him, tilting his head as he looked him over. He wasn’t usually so quiet, nor so serious. He felt somewhere between a vacant soul and a rabid dog, and the duality only became apparent once he’d started fighting.

That and when he was questioned.

“I said, let’s go again. I’m ready. Don’t hold back on me this time, either.”

“Wait,” Cyrus said, grabbing up his weapons and standing a distance away. “How did you get so much stronger in such a small amount of time? You’re five times the warrior you were only days ago.”

“I let a bunch of assholes push me to the brink of death,” Markus said. His eyes were cold. “And if it means getting out of this place, I’ll do that shit a hundred more times. Now fight me.”

///

Markus stared down Cyrus as he approached, feeling his glaive burn hot in his hands with the energy that flowed through it, his malichor a bright red against the white-blue spirit energy he allowed to flow through it, a mesh of colours that swirled and pulsed with his menacing aura.

He’d already pulled out every non-lethal move in his arsenal, and it hadn’t been enough. His Malichor Frenzy was maxed out, and even with the Control buffs he’d received, even with his enhanced Agility and Strength and all of his spells, he still wasn’t able to break through Cyrus’ defenses, not enough to do anything meaningful to him.

Even the weakest disciple of a god was still a god’s disciple, Markus could see that now.

And still he wanted Cyrus to come at him with everything he had. Part of it was determination, an innate desire to overcome this massive obstacle that sat right before him, a representation of the power he’d have to eclipse if he wanted to escape this hell.

And part of him just wanted to fucking fight. To hit and be hit. To forget the bullshit and engage in the thrill and carnage of battle. To lose himself in the fate he’d consigned himself to when he’d rejected Drathok, Randall, Maxen, Serena… when he’d rejected Serena. When he’d told himself he couldn’t trust.

When he’d told himself that this was his path forwards.

If this was his path, he wanted to fight for it with everything he fucking had. He wanted to prove he’d made the right choice.

When Markus and Cyrus next clashed, it wasn’t like fighting the same orc. He was faster, more decisive, more lethal. Time and time again he sent Markus crashing to the floor, and time and time again Markus scratched and clawed and grappled his way back to his feet. He didn’t permit himself to lose, even when he lost. He didn’t allow himself to quit, even when his body gave up on him. He didn’t accept his defeat, even when the pressure to even hold his weapon aloft was too much for his tired arms.

He simply poured more mana into his weapon, focussed his meditation on his great…

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