The clacking of wood against wood echoed through the misty mountains as the sun slowly made its way over the horizon. Though irregular in its rhythm, the distinct, resonant note was common enough that not even the birds were startled. They sat idly in the trees, watching with their beady black eyes as the silly bee-men engaged in their morning ritual.

It was clearly a waste of energy, the sort of act carried out by fools. But each day without fail, they would meet in the usual arena and smash their sticks together. If one was to ask the various jays, gulls, and pigeons who engaged in the observation, they would likely proclaim that the activity served no purpose. But for the people who wielded the weapons, there was little else that could have meant more. For every single disciple had explicitly sought out the Vestudian school in hopes of mastering its art.

Their former acquaintances often labeled them fools for even thinking to attempt it, and rightfully so. For each student present, there were another hundred buried prior to arriving before its gates. Few even believed that the temple truly existed. If not for the odd occasion that was a disciple's departure, it would certainly have been treated as but another legend. After all, the temple's location was equally perilous and ever-changing. It was strapped to a particular large vlasch, one that had decided to abscond its home to wander the distant lands.

The only rule it had was to avoid any locations where mana was thin. It effectively walked along the leylines, snacking upon their energy as it went from place to place.

Sometimes, it would seek the water and subject the students to training without air. On other occasions, it would return to its home and feast upon the monsters therein. Though its species was inferior, the vlasch itself was unrivaled. Perhaps, had it remained, it might have been granted a crown. But it rarely stayed for long. Every time it ate its fill, it would go back out into the world and venture wherever it wished.

But if it were so often on the move and so rarely in the Langgbjerns, why then, might one ask, was its presence largely undetected? The answer to that lay with the very same unique mutation that had awarded it with its mountainous size to begin with. It could meld with the very leylines it parasitized and travel between the different points that caught its interest. Curiously, everything on its back would accompany it for the ride, be it monsters, birds, or martial artists.

That was precisely why Grandmaster Vestudian had chosen it as his home. The old thorae had never quite wanted any disciples. Hell, he hadn't even wanted his martial art to live on; he'd always expected it to die with his bloodline—with him as its final inheritor.

After all, the Vestudian Spear Arts, as they were known to those who studied them, had only appeared in the system after his first disciple watched for long enough to learn the movements that the grandmaster practiced on the odd occasion. Originally, they were known as the Royal Thoraen Spear Arts, practiced primarily by the crown's protectors.

They too belonged to a lineage, one that walked beside the royal family's and provided each potential heir with a full set of guardians. They were trained from birth, put through the harshest of tests and forced to learn the most ridiculous techniques to ensure that they would become the mightiest of all. No expense was spared, not in their education, nor the quality of their equipment. And yet, despite acquiring a class with nearly twice the standard multipliers, the whole royal guard had fallen apart when faced with just two fighters.

Vestudian was one of the few lucky enough to survive. He wasn't quite as devastated as the other two, both of whom had immediately committed suicide upon recognizing the extent of their failure, but neither did he feel the drive to pursue revenge. Hence, he'd sought the legendary roaming mountain, often listed in thoraen myths, and built himself a home.

He didn't quite understand why anyone would bother seeking his instruction. His first couple disciples had simply begged for it without offering much in the way of explanation, and he had never asked.

It was only when the sixth arrived and explained the circumstances that he found the faintest hint of confidence.

The then-lieutenant general Virillius Augustus had personally stated that the royal thoraen guard was one of the greatest threats he'd ever encountered. It was a claim that immediately drove Vestudian to laughter. Him and his second, the magical curse rabbit, had completely obliterated their lines despite being a full ascension down. To imagine that he was threatened at all was nothing short of absurd.

Still, the old bee-ogre was proud, proud enough to give up on sulking and commit to teaching his students.

That was some eight hundred years prior.

Vestudian had been a strict teacher ever since. And though the birds never quite understood, he knew that his disciples fought each morning because they knew that it was the best way to train. The grandmaster himself didn't participate in the fighting. He simply walked around the many haphazard rings with his hands resting behind his back as he watched the battles unfold.

He made note of each student's weaknesses and deficiencies, but he didn't bother speaking them aloud. That was a task for the regular masters, all nine of whom had been training with him ever since they first enrolled. He didn't quite understand exactly why they stayed. They'd acquired the martial art that they had so desired, and by all means, they should have ventured back into the world and returned to whatever it was that had driven them to seek power in the first place.

But they remained regardless. They aided him in teaching, using the student's growth to examine and further their own. It wasn't like the grandmaster didn't understand. Their techniques weren't exactly perfect, but neither were his. There were a few key differences between the martial arts he practiced and those that he'd hammered into his body, just as how each particular student would have to make the techniques their own and twist them to function for the specifics of their form. And in fact, it was precisely that which made a disciple a master.

The grandmaster sighed. It was practically a given, a conclusion as clear as a midsummer day. And yet, it went unseen. So many of the students rejected the natural tendencies wrought by their particular biology and sought to reproduce his techniques exactly as they were shown even though it meant standing against the school's central tenets—the Royal Thoraen Spear Arts were centered around the idea of fluid movement. Sure, the forms featured a set of specific techniques, but it wasn't like emulating them was the be all or end all. Case in point, it made no sense for the student with an extra pair of arms to limit themselves to the same number of spears used by everyone else, nor was there any reason for the moron without a stinger to expect to hold his balance in all the usual poses.

It wasn't like they were new to combat—even the weakest disciple was upwards of level five hundred. They should have been able to understand that they would never truly grow if they stuck strictly to the trodden path.

Of course, there was such a thing as being too free. To find the perfect example thereof, one only needed to look towards the door.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

The bee-ogre beside slept with his spears cradled between his arms, their jagged tips hovering right beside his face. He would probably remove his own head or at least rip his skin apart if he fell the wrong way or found himself on the wrong end of a collision. Of course, foolish as he was, he would make no such mistake. For despite his chronic laziness, he remained one of the temple's most capable.

His state was, frankly, disappointing. He likely would have surpassed even the grandmaster himself had he even the faintest hint of motivation. Alas, he spent his days lazing about, accomplishing next to nothing.

With such a difference in approaches, one might have expected for the man to be scorned, treated by his peers with ridicule and left to be socially outcast. And perhaps, there was some of that at first, but any such treatment was long in the past.

Even the grandmaster had grown fond of the man and his eccentric behaviour, though he would never admit it. If anything, he feigned annoyance just to keep up appearances. On some days, he would go as far as kicking him awake, and though he contemplated doing just that, he quickly changed his mind. He didn't have the time to waste on any such shenanigans. At least not when they had a guest inbound.

He could sense the person in question as they slowly made their way up the mountain. The vlasch that carried them shook in its boots with every step the visitor took. The birds silenced their beaks, and the undergrowth stifled its breath. It was like the whole world was turned mute, leaving only the temple astir.

In and of itself, that was hardly abnormal. Not all of the students sought the temple with the best of intentions. Some approached hoping to crush it so that they could claim that it was they who were the mightiest of warriors. But even then, there were a few key differences.

With them, the mountain never trembled.

Vestudian himself could feel it in his bones. The intruder had him in a deathgrip already. It was almost exactly the same way he had felt when everything fell apart. Shaking his head, the old bee-ogre walked out the door with a spear as his cane and looked down the path that led up the mountain.

He wasn't the only one to have noticed the odd situation. A few of the masters whispered among themselves before joining him by the entrance. They watched in perfect silence, never once saying a word even as the bushes began to stir. It started with one wolf emerging, followed by two, three, five, and so on and so forth, until a mountain's worth of hunters was gathered in the space around them.

They raised their snouts in time and howled, calling out to the heavens as their leader finally made his entrance.

His shape differed drastically from that of his servants. He was much smaller, standing at maybe half the length and a quarter of the height. Technically, he wasn't even a real wolf. It was much more accurate to describe him as a common house dog, specifically one belonging to the miniature dachshund breed. It looked absolutely ridiculous, like a chicken amidst a flock of eagles. And yet it stood prouder than all the others, a smug smirk on its face all the while.

One of the masters, a particularly bulky thorae with a distinct, yellow colouration, relaxed as he spotted the pet, but a kick from the grandmaster had him back on guard.

"Good morning," said the dog, in perfectly fluent Marish.

"What do you want?" Vestudian leaned forward, entrusting his weight to his cane as he twisted his lips into a scowl.

"Just a bit of a chat, really," said the pupper. "Nothing too insidious."

"We lost the whole royal guard, the last time you said that."

"Well, yeah. I told you that you'd die if you didn't retreat. Not my fault you chose not to listen."

"You said that fully knowing we would never stand down," muttered Vestudian. "Your words did nothing but sow the seed of doubt."

The dog shrugged. "Wouldn't have made a difference. He would've killed you just as easily whether you believed me or not."

"Still."

The grandmaster's words earned him a series of curious looks. He'd never talked much about the past.

"Either way, this is a rare chance for you to redeem yourselves." The tiny wolf twisted his lips into a grin. "Y'know, maybe not shit the bed for once."

Narrowing his eyes, the grandmaster drew both the spears on his back and lowered his stance, prompting the dog to break into laughter.

"Relax. I'm being every bit as serious as I was last time. Hell, I'm even doing you a favour, seeing as how you clearly haven't heard."

"Heard what?"

"They've invoked the ancient rite. Cadria will be settling a war by proxy. There'll be seven duels in all, with Valencia as the stage for a good old dose of chaos."

"You want us to take part?" asked the grandmaster.

"Yeah. Send your best, fight for Cadria, and prove your worth." The whole pack broke into a series of hyena-like cackles as the individual creatures faded away. Ten, twenty, a hundred at a time, they turned to dust and vanished, leaving no opportunity for the grandmaster to speak his response.

"...Who was that?" The man who'd inappropriately relaxed was the first to speak. "Sounded like you knew him."

"I did, once," said Vestudian. He paused for a second to look at his hands. His poor, trembling hands. "Matters of his identity aside, we should consider his words."

The masters exchanged glances. They knew better than to question their teacher's judgement, but the whole sequence of events had left them bewildered.

"He said we should send our best, right?" Another master, a petite female with a particularly sharp stinger, crossed her arms and leaned on one of the temple's pillars. It didn't take long for the others to follow her gaze and look expectantly at the grandmaster, but he simply closed his eyes and brought his hand to his chin.

"What are you looking at him for?" When the silence was finally broken, it wasn't by him, but by one of the taller, thinner men. "We all know it's gotta be me, right?" The lanky warrior's name was Catus of Revma, and he was the second to seek the grandmaster's teachings. Despite his frame, he was known for his overwhelming strength and precision.

"You?" A particularly bulky thorae with a bright red headband cocked a brow. "Why the hell would we pick you!?"

"I'm clearly the strongest," he said. "As far as duels go, I've got the best track record among us."

"That's only because of your level," said one of the shorter, fatter females. "You're the only one over nine hundred, and when you win, it's by abusing your ridiculous speed. My techniques are far better polished. I should be the one to go."

"You can't swing a spear to save your life!" cried the master with seven wings. "Hell, I'd bet you can't even beat a goddamn herring!"

"Oh, fuck you! At least I can lift half a million pounds, unlike your weak ass!"

And so the floodgates were broken, completely blown apart. The masters started shouting louder and louder, with each declaring themselves as the most suitable candidate. It almost looked like the argument was about to degenerate into a full on brawl, but a loud clack had them all silenced.

"What are you morons even saying!?" shouted a taller, bespeckled female. "The grandmaster should obviously be the one to go!"

Her argument was sound. All of a sudden, everyone shut their mouths and turned their gazes upon their teacher, but all he did was shake his head.

"I've already decided." He turned his gaze on the man still sleeping by the door. "Berius will go."

"Berius!?" cried the yellow bee-ogre. "Why Berius!? He's lazier than a sloth!"

The grandmaster sighed. "Because Berius is the only one of you to have bested me in a duel."

The words were spoken with a frown. He almost hated to admit it, but even at only level six hundred, Berius was the best among them.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.