"I should be exiting Baska soon."

Erebus said, taking steps against the ground and moving towards the outskirts. Then, he heard a noise, his ruptured ribs kept him slow on the turn around and before seeing the figure of the shadow approaching. A large and powerful object hit his head. He was knocked out and he fell into a dream state. He remembered both of his opponents, however instead of himself fighting the two. A thin, red, but tall devil fought instead. He was terrifying-- with the cries of a dying animal, he made easy lunges around the field, like a deranged monster... The representation must have been of himself, he concluded.

Then it all phased away and he stood before his guild-mate Irony. Only instead of complimenting him, she was calling him names. Pressing his buttons by instating that a non-magic mage could never hope to win a fight. That he was utterly nothing compared to them... All of his hopes to free his sisters, all of his hope to go down in history... His entire ambition to defeat magic users... Decimated. The irony was that Irony was also a magicless mage, something that was pretty relevant. But more importantly that this was the opposite message she attempted leaving in him; however his own thick skull saw it much like the way it was in the dream.

He was losing his mind... The scariest part of the dream was that he couldn't stop trying to run her down, even from his third person perspective. There was not a lick of cowardice in him anymore. Battle had molded him into a beast too. Much like Maarschalk, only less as blessed by the heavens and genetics alike. He didn't have the body, the skill, or the magic to be on that man's level. Not yet... But someday... He swore he'd defeat every-- and any-- mage that stepped foot in front of him.


The boy's eyes' peeled open and there he lie against a tree, in the hilly outskirts of Oak Town. The moonlight peered over his face and he couldn't recall travelling here, or sitting down to nap. All he remembered was trying to leave Baska. Weird. The boy thought, moving a hand to his head, rubbing his forehead. The sting from it left him forgetting most of his damaged body. To the side of him he noticed a letter on top of his sword and satchel. "The hell?" He thought out-loud, reaching to grab it and reap it's message.

"I have seen you fight in the Martial Arts tournament, you have potential. The lust for battle and the thirst for blood, it can be found, but not in that sword you're carrying with you. If you wish to become stronger, break the weapon and with that also leave behind the thoughts of wielding weapons. I shall seek you when you are ready."

The message clearly detailed of someone reaching out to Erebus. The thought of ever losing to another man still sent the boy into an annoyed expression too-- deep animosity. Failures were his primary dislike after all, no one liked losing. However, for Cassiel, that distaste was improved tenfold. But on top of that, his true fears lied in remaining at the bottom. Weapons were the only thing he had up to this point; could he really just cast them away? The thought of being unable to wield a sword ever again really did bother him. He spent quite a while practicing it on the ark, but some undisclosed character wanted him to leave it behind? Abandoning it now could mean he'd never excel to the max of his capabilities... But losing this opportunity could mean the same.

Erebus hunted the page for a name again. Still though, no sender was left there for him to know. It was do or die. How bad does the onyx-haired boy really want this? He leaned his head back against the wood. Clenching the sword to the right of his body. A valiant protection, but one that could be holding him back. Breathing inwards-- Erebus stood on his feet. He unsheathed the sword and looked between it's glistening bronze, and the oak tree.

"What am I doing... This is so desperate."

The dark adventurer muttered, as he began swinging the blade into the tree, ripping his bandages along the way, blood and stitches tore open. Yet still he pressed... With every swing, the hunger in his eyes grew. The bloodlust, the lust for power intensified. There was nothing to turn back too, only a forward to tread through. He breathed in deeply.

Watching the freshly kept blade dull, and the metal dent. He made grunts nonchalantly, but sweat built around his eyebrows. He fought the gravity around his arm, the sting from his ribs, and the depletion of strength relieve his body. Though, a warrior like him denied slowing down. The sword snapped. and he fell to his knees against the baseline of the Oak Tree. He was out of stamina, Strategist needed to rest his muscles.

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