The Wolf, The Lion, And The Maiden Fair-Chapter 2

AGE WARNING:

This work is one of dark nature. If you're below the age of 16, then you're better off reading something else. I don't profess to follow my country's rules where only foreigners like G.R.R Martin and Miura Kentaro can write dark fiction. At the same time, my responsibility to restrain myself doesn't mean sensitive people won't be offended. I'm a storyteller, but I'm not an activist. For every Meghan Markle, there is a Dazai Osamu.

Chapter 1

A Requiem From Winter Past

The Wolf, Lion, And Maiden Fair

(Written by Cocteau L'Enfant Naturel)

Chapter 2-The Lion And His Dream

"A dream is made of two things: The sweetest nectar and the most bitter truth."

~Araea eos Clochneid

)0(

Rias Morris is annoyed, a shout as loud as a lion's roar sending a jolt through his heart and into the head. While everybody was sound asleep, the most incredible idiot alive shattered their peace. A forceful grip pulls the dreamer off his bed, his object of wrath sprawled face-first on the wooden floor. Greeted by sapphire eyes wide open, every recruit sends his glowering regard to a sandy blond of average looks.

"Erm... it's a dream, no?"

Cairos Ryvers gives a sheepish grin, his brown shorts and a white collarless shirt mirroring what the rest are wearing.

"You're having a nightmare," snaps his closest friend with a growl and grimace, his fiery hair mirroring anger. "To be straight, I don't give a flying shit on why you're screaming like someone shafted by a ten-foot pole. But don't wake us up for the love of the Holy Quintet!"

"Did I scream that loud, Marv?"

Cairos's question becomes the fuel feeding a simmering fire of annoyance, his hand running through his cropped sandy blonde hair.

"If a mutt can't bark, it ain't one." snarls Marvus Creek, his hands seizing Cairos by the front of his shirt, "You better pray our bunk officers won't end up hearing a stuck pig screaming. Ever wondered how the gods judge an annoying moron?"

Cairos feels like a swine ready for slaughter for the first time since he accidentally punched a parishioner years ago. An image conjured itself into his mind. A morbid picture looms, a macabre portrait of countless knives stuck in his body playing games with him. For some reason, castration feels like a better option.

"I get the picture."

"The picture of a stuck pig."

With a retort, the redhead cursed with a history of being an accomplice in every misdemeanour mouths a silent prayer for a miracle. Despite being one to scoff at the idea of divine intervention, Marvus already accepted this as the only solution to Cairos's buffoonery.

"Why are all of you standing here?"

A question hollered cuts swiftly into every listener's ears, its impact a beacon of warning. Fifteen lads hastily stand in ranks of three before their bunk officer, his sturdy frame decked in padded armour.

“Marvus Creek and Cairos Ryvers! Why are you not standing at attention?"

"Sorry, Sir! We're way too engrossed in teaching our friend how civilisation works."

Grett Mains shakes his head in amusement, for taking charge of the infamous Fifth Unit is either the greatest joke or the cruellest jest. While troublemakers belong to the minority in any army, seasons in the military taught the brunette fighter how to be a pragmatist. A few rotten apples are enough to spoil a crateful, let alone a unit of living absurdities among an army.

"You're crazy beyond cure, Marv! Why mention civi..."

A slap across the head cuts off Cairos's response as Marvus is in no mood for mercy.

"Shut up! You'll get us all shafted."

Delivering a wry smile conceived by well-humoured nature, Grett Mains doesn't have to be a genius to know the answer. Cairos Ryvers has developed a notorious reputation ever since he assaulted a judge and an acquitted rapist on the same day, his weapon of choice an iron stick grabbed from gods-know-where.

"It's only natural for people to have nightmares."

Exaggeratedly clearing his throat, Grett continues his speech.

"But no more heroics! The Fifth Unit's reputation isn't everybody's fault. Still, I also know beating up rapists and authority figures is a matter of choice. Understand me, lads?"

The youths under his charge sing a song of relief inside, the jaws of Seven Infernos finally giving up the chase. One dumb moment could have shafted them ten times over, each individual making a mental note to buy himself a carving knife lest an idiot decides to do something shocking again.

"Listen up! With all things said, prepare yourselves for the roll call. Dawn is nearing. May the roar be with us! Understand?"

With his proclamation done, a grinning Grett Mains sweeps a right hand dramatically across.

"Yes, Sir!"

Grett leaves the bunk as vigour makes its premature entrance, every resident's need for slumber gone. Random chatter soon supplants every pair of tired eyes without exception.

"It's good to have nice bloke Grett as our bunk chief. Luckier than me playing buff poker with those idiots from Welos."

"You hypocrite. When was the last time a cretin beat up an intelligent person from Welos or Thebis?"

"Last week? Or was that last month? You need to tell me, Marv."

"Cairos Ryvers, I swear you're asking for…"

Before Marvus can finish voicing his thoughts, the morning bell tolls. Anticipation washes over Cairos, his passionate grin worn like a badge of pride. The sandy blond cracks his knuckles, inner fire coursing inside. He spent four rigorous seasons at the Mesatos Academy. The life he badly wants begins its path. This is the prologue to a hero's tale, the beginning of a story. The bathhouse is to be his next destination, the banner of Lionian Brethren emblazoned inside his mind and heart.

)0(

Breakfast is a fare of bread and cheese. Officers and recruits dine alike, their seats placed side by side. Regulars steer clear from such practice, for this is an act earning scorn. They call it a rarity, an insult to the military. The Lionian Brethren would have none of it, their penchant for causing the occasional trouble always appreciated by the smallborn. Arrests begetting only confinement worth a week or two, the situation used to be worse until the Senate approved new laws prohibiting vigilantism. Peddlers of rumours whisper the Emperor is unwilling to rein them in, a laughable tale since Antios III is known as the Iron Yew for his impartiality. No matter what, they belong to the smallborn more than any other Hallenian. Status and rank can burn in the Seven Infernos for all they care. Their motto would always stay unchanged, an obnoxious insult to the rich and elite: Shaft the status. Shaft the money. Shaft the kings.

"Not bad at all. Given I've tasted shit before."

With a quip and an off-tune whistle, Cairos's plate is cleared and returned.

"This isn't Thebis, where not even the Holy Quintet know what their cooks are smoking before lighting the stove," chuckles Marvus, his foul mood dissipated. "There's a bit of time before we gear up, so why not a little bant?"

"I agree. Beater and..."

Cairos Ryvers promptly receives his due for outspoken enthusiasm, a punch across the back of the skull his reward.

)0(

"Are you thinking with your arse?" snaps a wrathful Marvus, his red hair ruffled in frustration. "Who told you to out ourselves? Do you even know what that nickname means?"

"Calm down, Marv!"

"I suspect the only way for me to do that is to roast you alive. I know Cairos Ryvers is Beater, but are you so obsessed with letting the entire Teslon know my nickname?"

"Erm… yes? You're good at pleasing girls. And Elys is one."

"You should've accepted Adarl's request for marriage when you got the chance. Shaft her, and at least you won't leave this world pathetically. A right shame she made that offer when we're too young to beat people up since she went missing after you probably said something dumb."

"Adarl?"

"Yes, Adarl. Anything wrong with my cold-hard truth?"

With eyebrows raised and a question asked, Marvus' annoyance increases an irritated tone.

"That pretty serving girl at Uncle Chard's inn?"

"Not just an ordinary idiot, huh?" sighs the redhead, exasperation wearing him down like an insatiable lover. "You blind arsehole, which Adarl are we talking about? Yes, I did see that beautiful girl. Slim, but pity she got a small stack."

"Well, that's Adarl."

"Are we talking about the same person, you retarded bastard? You better don't tell me a different Adarl took your virginity."

No sooner a sardonic barb left his lips, shock dawns upon Marvus Creek. Realisation seizes him, a gaping look revealing something he'd rather die than admit to. If there's a unique trait in Adarl everyone knows, it'd be a mole below her eye as if it's more of a teardrop than a birthmark.

"Wait a holy moment. Please don't tell me…"

"I was about to tell you I saw her last month during our final trench leave!" grins Cairos with a victor's look, his mischievous smile feeding the redhead a massive slice of humiliation. "Can you believe she recognised me first?"

I must be hearing things. I must be hearing things. Seriously, that stick-thin ugly duckling Adarl?

"Oh, and one more thing, Marv. I didn't shaft her. Not in the past and not recently. Her father would have hanged me for that."

)0(

The Empire's underbelly is never for the weak and ignorant. There are always more than a few dark corners and alleys as ominousness casts itself over every lane. Many robbers lie in wait while smugglers haggle brazenly with buyers. No tavern is a stranger to the darkest sins. Fittingly so for a place known as a nether district where money, power, and the ruthless speak the loudest.

"So, how's the business?"

No woman should ever be comfortable before lecherous leers, yet not a finger is laid on Adarl Tayne. Unlike its counterparts, the Coral Sea would not hesitate to throw out patrons guilty of starting fights or deeds ten times worse. Tales of barmaids raped are commonplace, its keeper uninterested in trouble.

"Closing by autumn. It's a good thing I was informed before you decided to risk your body."

Why Lukas Broun would ever wind down a successful business is anyone's guess, for the Coral Sea's intolerance towards lawlessness is always the most attractive draw. Not every patron has the hobby of strangling his neighbour, for violence is only enjoyable to those not at the receiving end.

"Tell me what you know about Cairos," says Adarl as she sips her drink, an offer of hospitality on the house. The brandy served is no ordinary grade, for her discerning taste recognises it as a Histalonian craft. Assuming Lukas was truthful in claiming legality, only the gods knew how he managed to secure his stock constantly. Not all things expensive are good, but at least a good drink is bound to cost significantly more.

"Me? Why always me? You should be asking those more righteous than a knave."

"I just need to know what happened between you four seasons ago."

"Let me assure you Cairos is my friend," answers Lukas, a smirk and wagging finger taunting Adarl. "Unless he desires it, I won't get him into trouble. Let alone myself."

"I heard that place was where the village of Redcart used to be. He could have asked Marv along, but he didn't."

Adarl's reply and expression tell the same tale. There are things the willowy brunette has to know. She witnessed before another Cairos Ryvers: Someone resembling an animal of justice instead of that clueless boy holding her heart captive long ago.

Lukas starts laughing aloud, the attractive lad courting more frustration from an equally beautiful lass.

"Which means he trusts me more than his best friend? It's good that Marvus Creek isn't around to hear you say that. He'd pick a fight with me. That one may be a decent brawler, but he's too honourable to understand you win fights through a knife in the gut."

"Marv injured himself."

Her composure fraying faster than an arrow loosed, Adarl is in no mood for pointless talk.

"An amusing accident involving a tree. Marv shouldn't have done something stupid to impress Elys," replies Lukas, his mirth the answer to Adarl's retort. "She'd still warm his bed willingly for the night, idiocy or no idiocy."

For the Holy Quintet's sake, tell me what's going on back then!

"Cairos wanted to confront his past. A past which he has no idea about."

Visage turning sombre with a sigh, Lukas leans against a shelf of liquor bottles.

"But if he can't..."

Dismissive wave cutting off words of concern, Lukas caresses Adarl's chin to her disgust. She has never taken a liking to Lukas Broun, her disdain having nothing to do with his preference towards men. He is always one step ahead of the rest, his hand never revealed until the time comes. The owner of Coral Sea is a master plotter. And Adarl holds no love for tricksters and swindlers after the manner of her cousin's suicide.

"Everyone has a past. You too, Adarl Tayne. Remember random boys taunting how stick-thin and ugly you are? You have truly blossomed. Apart from your breasts, of course. That's a compliment, not an insult. There's no such thing as perfect beauty."

"I don't see the relevance," says Adarl, her frustration snapping at its target.

"Yes, there is. Some choose to forget. Others choose not to let go. We're all like that. Such is why you choose to love a man regardless of whether he loves you back."

Chagrin consumes Adarl, her palm ready to strike. However, Lukas grips her wrist before the slap begins its descent, his deceptive strength forcing her to give up.

"Then there's our common friend forced to forget and cursed with the urge not to let go."

Lukas releases Adarl's hand as he finishes his statement, his confidence in her not retaliating justified.

"Did you two discover anything?"

With a curt reply, Adarl concedes defeat. Then her eyes stray towards a male patron, a grinning sober man attempting to force himself on one of the serving girls.

"Nothing."

Without warning, Lukas strides towards the offender with a dagger drawn. A left-handed grip grabs the fool by his face, a knife swiftly buried into the neck.

"My work is never done. Can someone please take out the rubbish?"

Returning to Adarl's view, Lukas tosses another knife upwards and catches it by the tip.

"I have nothing against excited men, but not in my backyard. So where did we stop?"

With those words, he plunges the blade against the counter table.

"You didn't ask why I'm interested in Cairos's past."

A question posed masking the intent to test, Lukas nevertheless detects Adarl's move.

"That's because I don't care who he marries so long she can keep an eye on him. I owe him a debt, but I don't expect myself to be worthy of repaying that lion of a man."

"What debt?"

"Does it matter? We don't share the same bed, but I know the two of you will. Mind you, my informants are everywhere."

)0(

"You can't touch me! I am under protection!"

 Cairos didn't blink in front of someone clearly in hysteria. Whether an acquitted rapist should be protected wasn't his business. The sandy blond went to the Imperial Zoo once, the thought of someone feeding this dastardly dog to a hungry beast an entertaining notion.

"Stop it, Cairos. Bastard's not worth your time."

"Well, he's not worth yours as well, Brouno."

If there's anything he understood, it would be those self-murmured words. If he wanted something done, he'd get it done. If someone could get away with rape and branding a witness a lying whoreson, this witness could also get away with what he's about to do.

"Cairos, you hear me? Do it and the law will go after you!"

Getting sick and tired of people telling him about the law, the being of wrath wondered what the good old days were like before he was born. The fact of changes was undeniable, but it didn't mean people shouldn't be tossed into the River Tes so long no one stepped forward. Marvus was yelling for nothing. Lukas' advice wouldn't work a shit. Cairos took down a self-righteous judge less than a day ago, for the worth of integrity was never something to the arrogant.

"The law protects me!"

Those words were undoubtedly the most laughable jest Cairos had heard. Was it the law of the gods or the law of men? Cairos Ryvers was not religious, maybe even someone who never believed in higher powers in the first place. Questioning the existence of deities was always a pain in the arse, the sandy blond concluding time wasted on something without an answer is time better spent elsewhere.

"Tell me... tell me how many girls you have shafted."

The scoundrel's face froze on the spot, a sight worth more than a sea of precious gems.

"How many?"

Anger boiled inside Cairos as he interrogated a criminal, for the enforcer understood only the rights and wrongs in their purest forms. If that fellow believed what he did was funny, it meant a real comedy was about to be shown. The falling iron rod clanging on the ground, Cairos's gesture was not of mercy. Given a choice, he'd prefer murder. But there's a promise he must fulfil with Irlia. Hence, he couldn't risk it all just because of an injustice served.

"Well, you know what people say about retribution?"

If Cairos must recall any lesson learnt from his uncle, it'd be that righteousness is a god who always wins. He rued not making a wager with Marvus Creek and Lukas Broun, for he was sure this person would be rendered impotent by the end of everything. Forcing the legs open, Cairos was more than prepared to stamp a foot down to the crotch.

"No!"

Seeing an arsehole scream was one thing, but watching him black out was priceless. The best part of his life was this. Given a choice, Cairos Ryvers wouldn't trade this moment for anything else apart from Irlia's hand in marriage.

"Oh my gods! Parkyns' lad killed him!"

"Pah, that son of a hundred-year bitch! Who cares?"

Even though there was no way to prove it, maybe the gods were real. Cairos did not know the two old men, but the meaning behind an approving grin said it all. A strong hand gripped his shoulder, relief overtaking Cairos upon knowing who.

"Moron! What if you killed him? Trading a scum for jail? Who's your classroom teacher?"

"It's not as if he's dead. So keep calm, Marv. It's the end."

Cairos lied, for it's not the end. He would throw that lawbreaker down a dried well. Either that or permanent impotence would be the verdict. Then there's still the iron stick pilfered from his uncle's forge.

"No, Cairos. That's enough! More of it, and he will die."

Lukas' rebuke held Cairos in his place. It was the ability to reason and win that made it possible. Marvus was far less an idiot than Cairos, a fact all acknowledged. But if someone could convince another that what's dead was alive and what's alive was a goner, no one could do so like Lukas Broun. The brunette then smiled as if something good was happening or already happened.

"Guess he lost control of his bladder."

"So how are you going to clear up our retarded friend's mess, Luk?" queried Marvus, his question marked by a shrug. "First the judge, now him. I don't mean the pissing part, by the way."

"I'll make sure he lives. And while I'm at it, staying noiseless as well."

)0(

"So how fared your source of information?"

There is no difference between days ago and now. The attractive elf's silvery blond hair remains slicked back and tied. Elongated ears flippantly caressed, this is a figure of unflappable confidence and eerie calm. A maroon doublet is worn over a white shirt and secured by a silken sash. Trousers of linen and leather shoes complete the look.

If there is anyone Adarl detests most in dealing with, it's never Lukas Broun. At least he has a predictability, namely his friendship with Cairos. This other individual is a different kind of monster altogether, for his emerald eyes never betray a trace of emotions while smiling like a cunning rogue. Before their first meeting, Adarl already knew how elves looked. Hauntingly fair and aloof, each always places a hand on the handle of a weapon as a show of force. No one tried asking them the manner of their business. Such has been the fear they commanded. More often than not, a passing banter involving elven women would result in a life mysteriously gone. The speaker's tongue would go missing again, a dagger wedged between the victim's shoulder blades.

"I have a request for you, my fair lady. In return, I will tell you something you want."

Edeaux eos Nimhein seized the initiative, his negotiation style unbecoming of the Homm'Nua. They prefer the direct approach, their pride a stumbling block. He introduced himself as a seafaring merchant from Histalonia, his words not entirely false. His past was in Croiduns, home to his people. But his present is now in a land of money, status, and power. A place of skulduggery with no reprieve for the weak and tardy is where he belongs.

"I know you desire a certain man. I also feel the same for another. My informant told me both parties know each other as friends. Please check on him. Ask away any questions in your mind before him, and I shall see that a fitting reward for your efforts."

"He's fine," says Adarl, her wary brown eyes focusing on the surroundings. Knowing anyone capable of preventing deplorable men from doing their worst can easily be the same kind of brute, any assumption of a Histalonian keeping his end of the bargain holds no meaning. After all, she knows what kind of nightmare the Island of Dreams is. No one laid a hand on her back then as Lukas was sighted waiting for her. Something wasn't right with the situation, for Lukas warned her not to trust a snake while escorting her through the nether region. When questioned, he murmured about choosing between an adder's venom and a viper's poison.

"Why should I give you a new home in one of my many bordellos? You are a fine maiden, but I have a better one in mind. Here in Teslon, no less. No offence intended towards your bosom."

Edeaux's smirk never loses its curve, his relaxed posture one of a feline waiting to pounce.

"Fine then. As promised…"

Laughter from the elf interrupts Adarl's words, his reply cutting short her statement.

"There is a hidden orphanage in the ruins of Redcart. Hidden because a forest now stands where a boy's lost childhood used to live. A small patch of land from my best of knowledge, no more than a few acres by my estimation."

"They say it's haunted."

The speaker is not Adarl, the voice all too familiar to both listeners. A slim figure dressed in bartender's garb greets them both, his androgynous features bringing slow applause from Edeaux.

"Ah, all hail the one whom I brought up."

"Spare me your greeting, Serpent. Adarl, please leave here at once."

Lukas' blue eyes of anger catch Adarl off guard. The daughter of Chard Tayne knows trouble is nearing. As she turns her back on the two, Edeaux's message manages to reach her ears, the clarity akin to a king's herald announcing his liege's coming.

"Seeing a red-haired maiden or her dark brooding knight means you are on the right path. Make sure the damsel is Ciras and her guardian Kain."

)0(

What in the Seven Infernos?

This dream again?

How many times I've been through this?

I'm standing in the middle of this blizzard again. Everyone is dead. Some look familiar, but I don't know who. The rest are just strangers. There's this girl with her head cut off. The colour of her hair is like the reddish snow.

Do I know her?

"Can you keep up with me?"

I hate that voice without knowing why. His emotionless tone makes me feel like punching him.

Part of myself says this fellow is responsible, but the greater half of me denies it. Like always, he's dressed in dark green and a brown leather vest. Grey gloves reach below his elbows, and his boots are knee-high. Then there's this bloodstained sword in his hand and a grey cloak flapping wildly towards one side.

My legs feel numb even though I don't feel the cold. My vision is blurring without the pain. My joints are already stiff, but my fists remain clenched.

"Can you keep up with me?"

Yet the same old question from the same old arsehole. A fire flares up inside. Its warmth rouses me. Its presence reminds me of something which I can't remember. Bloody Seven Infernos, returning to Redcart really made me and Brouno look like a pair of running idiots going after a prize that wasn't there.

Sky blue eyes, long ears, and brown skin is a look I'll never forget. His hair is short and parted to the side, but the rest of his face remains hazy. You better try keeping up with me instead, bastard!

I start running after him. There's no way I will lose. There's no way I can lose to him! I can surely keep up with him. I will do so!

)0(

Glossary

Holy Quintet: The collective name of the gods of the Causaceans' official religion. There are five of them: the Father, the Planter, the Warrior, the Learner, and the Juror.

Welos, Thebis, Mesatos, Teslon: Four of the ten northern regions of the Hallenian Empire.

Lionian Brethren: The only militia officially recognised by the Empire's central government based in the northern regions and restricted within the boundaries.

Bant: An informal word for banter.

Shaft: An informal term for having sex.

Trench leave: Any period of rest given to members of the military.

Imperial Zoo: One of the numerous parks in the Hallenian Empire where animals and birds are held in captivity for people's viewing purposes.

River Tes: A major river in the northern regions irrigating the lands of Teslon, Thebis, and Welos.

Made in Japan instead of America+some stuff on A Requiem From Winter Past

It's been quite an eventful fortnight or so, isn't it? Here in Singapore, we have events involving guys from both ends of the political divide. Further away from home but closer to the globe, we have the fallout caused by the Barbie movie and 1975 pulling off its very own 1945. Someone mentioned 1975's Oppenheimer as a "white saviour complex". I've already spoken my piece on the messiah complex issue, so I won't repeat myself like a burung kakak tua. However, that moment reminded me of three scenes in FF14 where the Dark Knight job questline is concerned and possibly the most heartbreaking part of Heavensward MSQ.

At the same time, I decided to add some guitarwork done by Soken "he doesn't own SoftBank" Masayoshi since Matty "people are probably calling him a heel now" Healy can play the guitar.

Barbie and A Requiem From Winter Past

It's weird to see what a single blockbuster movie can do for my motivation. So long story short, Barbie has managed to nuke the box office like an Oppenheimer. At the same time, however, criticism came up through the likes of Ben "Jewish, but not from Nebraska" Shapiro and Piers "leftists are probably calling him a piehole now" Morgan. I don't like what I'm seeing here. The attitude displayed reminded me why I was right in saying I'd take my work to Japan if I wanted to get it published. It's not about the argument. It's the attitude. While one may say the other side shouldn't flare up, the question is whether one thing should justify another.

Of course, this comes to the question of storytelling. I didn't watch the movie, and I don't intend to. If there's a movie worth my time in the cinema, it'd be Miyazaki "not from Miyazaki" Hayao's latest work. While it'd only be fair to see The Boy and the Heron to be aired in Singapore, I understand that the world isn't always fair. It's possible the argument of merit would win. But the argument of pragmatism may well be stronger.

Now back to the Barbie (not to be confused with the Malay word for swine). I did go through some of the stuff being said about the portrayal of Ken. For others like me, it can be a legitimate source of depression because it makes one wonder if Alexander Anderson has officially become the monster Alucard is. While I won't recommend Hellsing to others if they can't handle it, the story and characters strongly resemble our world today. To put it in a juvenile manner, it's 404 God Not Found. Thankfully, my mental fortitude is closer to Emiya Kiritsugu than the average Singaporean.

Personally, I don't like the idea of me entering a meltdown. I've seen that happening to others from the left and right. At best, it's not pretty. At worst, it's hypocritical. I don't know how many political pundits can be storytellers, but I know I'm one myself. I mean being a storyteller instead of a political pundit. I don't do the latter because I don't want to die early.

This comes to me looking back at how I did Chapter 2. If others have a problem with what I write, that's because my storytelling brain functions like a Japanese.

It's okay if I'm Japanese. The problem is, I'm not Japanese unless proven otherwise. But facial features-wise, I don't look Chinese. I look more like a Japanese, although I can't say how much. My nose actually looks like a weird mix of Asian and Caucasian if you're to ask me, while my oval facial shape could either resemble a Japanese or Slav. As for my lip volume, I used to think it didn't look Japanese until I noticed it looked similar to a Japanese Youtuber named Shogo. And no, my facial features look nothing like my parents or relatives. My sister is the one who looked the part, not me.

I will only send my work to a local publisher if there's a market for local dark fantasy writers. That genre is exclusively for foreigners. As for the West, I don't want to choose between headbutting the publisher and bending over backwards. The only place for me to go is Japan. But it's not as if my biological dad is a big name in Japan and that he's prepared to acknowledge me in the near future. That'd be weirder than a Japanese guy learning Chinese despite having no use for it in future endeavours (I don't want to speculate whether such a person exists).

Closer to what I'm writing, I'm planning specific naming changes. The places in Hallenia would have a more robust Greek feel. To do this, I had to google Greek city names, both major and minor. Whether I will add a Roman touch remains to be seen due to actual history. As for the characters' names, I may consider whether I can create a closer Anglo-Greek feel. Yes, I know that sounds as weird as the idea of me getting a girlfriend.

The Wolf, The Lion, and The Maiden Fair-Chapter 1

AGE WARNING:

This work is one of dark nature. If you're below the age of 16, then you're better off reading something else. I don't profess to follow my country's rules where only foreigners like G.R.R Martin and Miura Kentaro can write dark fiction. At the same time, my responsibility to restrain myself doesn't mean sensitive people won't be offended. I'm a storyteller, but I'm not an activist. For every Meghan Markle, there is a Dazai Osamu.

A Requiem From Winter Past

The Wolf, Lion, And The Maiden Fair

(Written by Cocteau L'Enfant Naturel)

 

Chapter 1-The Wolf And His Answer

"A wolf knows best every man."

~A common sellsword saying

 

)0(

The merchant caravan attacked hours earlier was doomed to a sure voyage, its journey pointing towards rape, murder, and despair. They were nothing more than fodder for the strong, a sea of blood with severed heads, torn limbs, and enslaved women defiled.

All knew this foulest profession to be notorious for their raids, a people cursed without value. Cowardice was their sole merit, a statement nothing more than slander. A rally in numbers always worked, but only if their backs were against the wall. Such was a brigand's pride.

If baleful leers and lustful loins were his people's finest weapons, this was because these damned ones deserved it. Treachery befell them, an unjust society driving them to be monsters. Eye for eye and tooth for tooth, it's a cowardly deed and an act of treason to leave their whores untouched. Bandits were never short on female companions, yet nothing satisfied the males more than slavery and breaking their captives' resolve. A swig of childsbane forced down the throats of these privileged bitches meant more wealth from the south entering their pockets, for a barren harlot would create fewer problems instead of more.

Then that thrice-damned demon appeared before him and his brothers, a plaything and a sheep wandering towards the doors of an abattoir. Flay him, roast him, feed him to the beasts, and give his entrails to the birds.

Weapons flashed with blood spilt, a steely storm accompanying the slaughter. Forty men armed to the teeth against a lone intruder, a victor left standing tall. Eyes of scarlet red revealed a living deity named Death, a monster old wives' tales whispered to be a uladh. It had to be so, for why else would he be capable of terrifying feats befitting a demon?

The unbridled power and absolute chaos were the true meaning of terror, a rampaging force leaving a trail of blood and guts in its wake. Fear annihilated Adril's mind, a question as plain as life and demise asked.

Flight or fight?

Adril chose flight.

)0(

Petals of white swirl above a lone figure seated on a rock, his cerulean gaze cast onto the sight below. In his hand is an elven sabre, the blade sheathed and rested upon his shoulder. An everlasting breeze caresses his long hair of snow, his coat of dark and blue billowing. He is lean in form yet muscular, and his fair elven features contradict the fact that he is not. The full moon is a portrait worthy of astonishment, a sphere of azure blue hanging on the evening wall. A tranquil lake is ever before it, a mirror below a hillock of green. It is a world beyond that which the living tread, a realm where order holds absolute sway.

From men to beasts and back again,

A place both primal and tamed.

Ruins were rebuilt and ruined again.

From one end to the other, the cycle stays.

Such is the verdict Iel proclaimed to the world, poetry pronounced without disdain or judgemental glee. The fate of living mortals is no different from unliving ore. It is a crucible of dross burnt and metals forged, where gold and silver last only a while. Even time shall melt even the finest steel, a force ensuring the destroyed never returns. There is no meaning in things, no eternal purpose in this world.

The Lake of Swords reveals what he wants to see and know. A scene of slaughter and rape unveiled, neither righteous repulse nor sadistic joy enters his heart. Each visage is two-thirds a man and one-third a beast, perpetrator or victim. It is not those who are nothing more than bestial husks of their former selves he is interested in, but a monster that is the Chaos Incarnate himself.

The moon takes on a crimson shade, Iel's object of interest entering the scene. Then from lighter red, it swiftly deepens into a bloody hue. Iel counts the current victims lucky, for there are always those who lived long enough to see evils worse than the first.

)0(

Every nocturnal life senses the heavy breathing, their sights staying clear from the running knave. Beasts and birds ignore panic and fear, for life is worth more than running things. Utterly shaken by that uladh, Adril curses the day he did something stupid.

Why did he take the dare? Why did he attempt the first strike?

"Danger passed already… danger passed already..."

As his stamina collapses, Adril pauses to draw a breath. It is one of relief, a moment of respite. The monstrous spectre still looms large in his mind, but at least part of himself has returned. Safety should be sure by now with whatever distance covered far enough for comfort.

Adril's lethargy warps into anger, a barrage of vulgarities unleashed. Why did he have to suffer this way? First, poverty. Then, ridicule. And now, a uladh which his granny always used as a moral weapon whenever he groped a girl.

Adril knows there's a time for curses and another time for seeking allies. Peering to his left, a trail of red smoke reaching the sky means one thing: This is no travellers' camp but an encampment fortified by those like him. Adril will tell them what happened. Surely his brothers and sisters will take up arms. If forty fighters weren't enough, then at least a hundred more can do the job. To the Seven Infernos with uladhs!

A rustling sound sows terror inside Adril, his heart racing like a wild saddleless horse he once rode during a dare. Chilling fear seeps into his spine, an inner excruciation countless times worse than before. Ultimately, the only sight greeting him is a fox pursuing its prey.

"Stupid rabbit and dumb fox. Why don't you make love instead?"

Five parts annoyed and five parts inflamed with lust, Adril makes up his mind to vent his anger on any unfortunate village girl he sees. Drinking, killing, and shafting is the life of every powerful individual. Self-revelry abruptly gives in to fear, its grip a wolf sinking its fangs into an unlucky prey's jugular.

Adril slowly turns around, his heart galloping faster than its previous race. The inevitable heralds its arrival, a hooded figure in full view. Crimson eyes tainted with murderous intent reciprocate a horrified stare, merciless steel slicing into his chest. Tendrils of blue coursing along the blade, a searing pain explodes from within. Darkness reigns as king, a blanket of black consuming Adril's final spark of life.

)0(

Modest to many but famous in every bounty hunter's eyes, this is the reputation given to the city of Lindes. Situated at the tip of a peninsula known as Eagle's Horn, it is protected partly by the much-respected Lionian Brethren. Not because of capability but their smallborn status, they are called heroes by many and lowly dreamers by others. The land resembles a raptor's head, but its hook does not curve downward. A falcon soaring above would perceive something else shaped like a horn, hence its name. The Hallenian Empire had seen its fair share of external foes, for the continent of Causacea was not immune to turmoil. While peace has prevailed for countless years since the Treaty of Deis brokered by the Holy City's founder, bandit raids still occur now and then. Disgruntled with authority, attacks against more secluded settlements have invoked an organised military's wrath. There are rumours of demons ravaging innocent folk, whispers rife that their only sin was trying to earn a simple living. The Hallenian dream has always been a solid rock for society despite undercurrents of chaos or perhaps because of them. In times of fortune, meritocracy is the motivation, the right every citizen deserves. Should the woe of conflict arrive, this is a bastion of hope and an altar of prayers seeking a hero. They say such an ideal is fair and flawless, which is how the Hallenians prosper. Their riches surpass that of Teutonia to the west, and their dignity is never inferior to the Slarvs riding their steeds in the north.

Midsummer sends its greetings, a month's worth of fest and zest reaches the halfway mark. To the folks of today, it is summer. Before those of the past, its name was Samh. In Aeravor's eyes, it is nothing more than a page in his drifting years. Children frolicking in shallow pools means nothing to him, womenfolk indulging in idle gossip a mere insignificance. Metallic songs ring aloud from every smith's hammer's swing, no heed paid to the sound of anvils struck. Occasional sightings of the enigmatic elves go unquestioned by prudent folks, his urge to cause trouble nevertheless suppressed. He sees a Histalonian merchant peddling guns and gunpowder, past dealings with an unpleasant schemer coming to mind. How something potentially dangerous like this is allowed unchecked, Aeravor answers with a derisive snort. If someone receives a pellet between the eyes, it's none of his business. Should an idiot try it on him, someone will die. And it won't be Aeravor himself.

His hand rests upon the pommel of a longsword sheathed. The Edge of Answerer is his solace, prayer, and song in a world without gods. He despises a settled life, innocuous greetings a nuisance. All he wants is a bulging purse and enjoyment, be they whores or a nice warm meal with ale as heartening as the finest wine. Slung over the shoulder is a bundle of white. It is his prize, a trophy secured by merit. Three days he spent lying in wait, a still form shielded by the trees.

His silent walk continues as the sellsword ignores glances cast his way. Attention straying neither to the left nor right, a single-storey building finally emerges. Copper bells announce news of a visitor, creaking message uttered from a wooden door plastered with mould. Shedding his cowl, Aeravor gains the attention of a bespectacled elderly man. As a reward, the mercenary receives a gaping yawn.

"Taking or ending?"

The aged clerk glares at Aeravor. Satisfaction warms Aeravor's heart, for pushing up another person's glasses has served its purpose well. Every bounty hunter understands this question: To take is to kill. To end is to get paid. As he is about to disclose his answer, a whim enters Aeravor's mind. Knowing himself, Aeravor promptly leashed the predator inside. The useless old donkey is lucky, for Aeravor chooses not to stab someone whose face matches a mule.

"Ending."

"Evidence? Target?"

"Marks Brekker."

Flinging the gruesome package unceremoniously onto the desk, an embalmed head bearing shock and terror greets the astonished clerk.

"That's our man alright," grins the old man, a wry face and an impressed whistle paying final respects. His retorted question is now forgotten, compliments playing the usurper. "I thought that pretty boy was extremely dangerous even though he still looks like the bitches he shafted. Did you dress as one to stab him?"

"Heard of the Wildebrand and what we do best?"

"Hunting random prey, striking from behind, and killing them in the sneakiest way possible. Can I assume that's what you did instead?"

"From the front with his pants down. A pity I failed to impress that pretty young thing." quips the rugged warrior with an emotionless sigh, the back of his head scratched absently. "Ample stack, but no ample compensation. A shame she ran off before she was impressed."

"Nice jest, brown man. You remind me of my youth. You're not going to be popular with the ladies, but the Holy Quintet be damned if you're no whore bait."

Chortling and yellowed teeth bared, the clerk's sincere praise goes to deaf ears.

"By the way, what's your name?"

Asking for names is separate from the protocol in the bounty-hunting business. Doing so is asking to die, for those who live by the sword can quickly feel threatened. Injuries and worse can easily happen, for life by the sword is living in a suit of armour. Such is the unspoken rule.

"Aeravor. Thanks for wasting my time."

"You don't look natural. Aeravor."

"Money or your life."

Aeravor starts tracing vulgar words on the desk, his scowl staring at the person seated. Far from being enraged by flippant remarks, the sellsword merely desires to get out of an annoying situation involving an equally irritating man.

"You don't have to be a grumbler like the rest. You're still young. And I believe you're in serious need of a whore. Maybe one who looks like the pretty little thing you saved from that Marks."

Puffing his cheeks, the clerk tosses onto Aeravor's opened palm a leather pouch brimming with crowns. Stashing away his well-earned keep, Aeravor slams the door shut. The resultant boom reverberates in a bemused man's ears, a good-humoured smile displayed.

Guess an elven bloke did shaft a Tamurian. But brown skin, long ears, and sharp features don't seem right with that white hair.

)0(

Devouring a hearty meal of grilled beef and creamy corn soup, Aeravor casually tosses a gold coin at a waiting boy's feet. Ignoring persistent thanks from someone no different from a dog, the Wildebrand continues enjoying his meal. Either weeks or months had passed since Aeravor last savoured a decent fare, the handsome bounty worth the excruciating wait. How long did he have to hide undetected? Despite his identity as a Relentless One, a people no stranger to strength and fortitude, three days felt like three years to him. He recalls that annoying woman of a mentor, her lectures telling him how members of the pack should live. No need for good food, excellent ale, and fine whores to survive. But no one mentioned the merits of hedonism. Alandra was a prude, a fact likely not to change. Remembering the moment he claimed his kill, Aeravor revels in the most pleasing image: His prey's final look. The more others understand what it means to die, the more they will try to escape from oblivion's maw. The humour hailed from an act of denial tickles the sellsword. Why run away from the inevitable if one cannot avoid the truth?

"Never a hero and never will be. You remind me of a friend."

Aeravor's appetite vanishes as anger engulfs him. Judgmental glares from patrons and passers-by are nothing as he turns his back, incessant swearing caused by a wooden stool exiting from the window. Lost to the grave and time, the man who taught him how to be a Wildebrand remains an undesirable phantom appearing at unwanted moments.

)0(

A life defined by the sword and purse is never good. Still, it's nothing compared to the ignominy of being eaten by a bear because of fatigue. And Aeravor has heard of such tales to his laughter. To the Relentless Ones, what is due to nurture becomes a matter of nature. Physical fortitude beyond measure is what they possess, but having a natural mind of steel is the one thing separating him from the rest. Aeravor had banished the unpleasant memories immediately after leaving the tavern with a sullen mood traded for a whistling tune. Smiling in public has disadvantages, but no one is insane enough to challenge a person armed with a sword. Life would be better if only the Horde of Redmarsch could be like them. Three-tenths of the reward for whatever information provided was a piss poor deal. A tenth would make more sense. Alas, a terrible deal remained better than no deal. Intelligence is their strength, the reason behind their status as one-third of the Confederation of Swords. In an industry prizing reliability over might, reversing the order is known to get many a moron killed.

"At least they told me where that arsehole might strike."

No sooner than Aeravor's lips murmuring his appreciation, the back of a woman greets his mind. Today is not a good day, and the soldier of fortune is no stranger to a better yesterday. Ji'Yon's song echoes inside a lone wolf's heart, its lyrics driving a sharp wedge within his head.

"First day, the children all are dancing."

"The life in every womb begetting innocence fading."

Damning past sears him like a withered tree ignited. Aeravor lashes out in rage. A whimper follows a bark as he satiates his anger by kicking a stray dog's jaw. Had that thing tried biting back, the alley wall would have been painted red and with splattered parts. Misfortune never discriminates. People and animals are equal before a cosmic force of cruelty. Then a commotion greets his ears, the noise irritating him.

"Whatcha lookin' at? Ne'er see som'un killin' befah’?”

"Murderers, all these people!"

"Do something!"

"You do so then!"

"O' Father above, smite these bloodthirsty men in Your anger!"

Apathy is no different from taking a life, for cowards and the murderous are two scoundrels from the same mother. Treating the scene with contempt, Aeravor knows no one is better than the other. He'd like to be everybody's friend if cheap words can solve every evil. Something latches onto his shoulder as the Wildebrand saunters past children wailing over a dead woman.

"Hay 'u! Talkin' tu u!"

"Want to swallow a sword?"

Vexation briefly replaced by smug satisfaction, Aeravor savours a triumph of cutting wit. An inebriated mongrel is barking at a sober wolf. There can only be one ending for idiocy.

“U got gutz, 'uh? Lemme tell u wat 'appen tu peepez lik' u. See dat byotch o'er dere?”

Bellowing like a frothing swine, a burly man's wild gestures managed to part a crowd seized by fear. The dead never bothered Aeravor since he learnt how to kill, let alone a couple of bawling runts.

“See dat, 'uh? Dat kan bee 'u nex!”

Proving himself an annoying son of a bitch insulting the wrong enemy, Aeravor chooses not to betray a spark of burning wrath against an intoxicated whoreson. Why should he concern himself with pointless things? People die, let alone this reeking drunk. Invasive stench unable to repulse him, the Relentless One's life is of icy steel. If no one kills that fool today, he will still feed the worms at the appointed hour.

"I don't give a damn about you, what you've done, or what whore you prefer. Just drop your pants and pleasure yourself in front of them instead," growls Aeravor, a snarling visage exposed by a reckless hand pulling down his hood. Formalities done with an obscene gesture shown, he shoves the dishevelled scoundrel with surprising force.

“U dar tu tern 'ur bak on mee? Dy lik' ah dawg!"

A dirge sings its tune reserved for the living dead, Aeravor's inner world sending its regards to the individual who now owns it. It is a realm of the fiercest blizzard and a frozen lake, its wintry sky punctuated by a howl accompanying the full azure moon.

The Edge of Answerer leaves its scabbard, tendrils of blue reaching from the crosspiece to the tip. Revelling in the sight of crimson red staining his victim's shirt, the Relentless One dealt his first card of the day. All it took was a simple thrust, the need to extend his arm never there. Twirling his weapon, its weight, balance, and crackling sound reinvigorate the gleeful beast inside. An impaled man already booted to the ground, the victor's scorn is spat onto his fallen foe.

"Fuzzy ape."

A gloved finger beckoning, Aeravor taunts the remaining quartet.

"I don't always kill shit. But when I do, I ensure it's a job done."

"U basterd! U gott'us on'tu ya nao!"

The Relentless One's senses opened to the surroundings, his next victim a lunging thug. A flick of steel answers muddled anger possessing bloodshot eyes, the swing of an axe deflected. One step aside, Aeravor's parry was only an arrogant show. With the enemy's attack nullified, a broad slash cuts across the throat. Both hands holding the Edge of Answerer after the deed, the Wildebrand prepares to raise his momentum. Jewels of azure blue narrow against two halfwits as Aeravor exposes his back to a broadsword swung by a deceptively wiry man. Two dead, three alive, and five bodies shall adorn the ground.

With two glyphs etched inside the mind, Aeravor triggers an unseen force. His left limb stretched out for a quarry's blade, blunt force akin to a rock hitting sodden ground greets a grinning Aeravor. The shocked fool gapes wide-eyed, a gloved hand stopping his metal blade like a wooden stick.

"A simple trick. A hard left hand."

One stride forward, a brutal kick against the knee floors a helpless prey. Aeravor detects his accomplices circling behind, for never a myth is a hunter's sixth sense. Contemplating another pointless show of thaumaturgy, the Wildebrand decides against it. Bored with a game of blood, the Relentless One whispers to himself enough is enough. Windpipe severed by a mortal blow, his fluid stroke is as swift as lightning. Aeravor turns around sharply as the remaining duo root themselves to the ground. It is not some sorcery gripping them but a maniacal glint burning bright within sky-blue eyes. The suffocating aura is all-powerful, a stranglehold akin to a predator fastening its jaws against a person's neck. Seizing an advantage proffered by fear, Aeravor casually lops off his victims' heads. Two kills for the price of one single slash.

"Lions! The Lionians are coming!"

Leather boots thundering forth, Aeravor finds it amusing none is left behind to watch the show. A phalanx of clowns greets his view, lowered spears spoiling for a fight drawing a sneer. These so-called "lions" are nothing more than mewling cats to the grown-up women from the Ionchis. He fought alongside the finest in this tactic before, they being the second third of the Confederation.

Murderous whims begetting more trouble than expected, Aeravor never batted an eyelid. He could have used the Shroud to mask his form, for this is how his kind moves about. Not undetected but under the guise of illusion. Most choose the visage of a Homm'Terr due to their vast numbers from the west to east and south. The fewer rest wear the mask of a Homm'Nua, the Relentless Ones' history with the elves a potential stumbling stone. Aeravor has always scoffed at the notion of using it. Let pragmatism be damned, for he is his own man. Let others call him an arrogant bastard if they want. Wildebrands value what is practical over all else, the chief reason for a revered status as masters of survival. The Relentless Ones do not concern themselves with pointless things, their lives revolving only around hunting demons. Aeravor is both and neither, a wolf part of his kind but not his pack.

Retaining a vicious grin as he prepares to correct his mistake, the Wildebrand pays no heed as a pompous moron opens his mouth. Two glyphs appear in his mind again, with the second rune identical to the previously used one. A gentle breeze touches the soldiers. Then a whirlwind roars. Fury tears into every man clad in mail, a force of nature uprooting them from the cobblestone soil. Wails of terror and words of cursing are the music to Aeravor's ears, his laughter resembling the howling of a wolf haunting the sky.

The storm finally ceases its rampage, every man's broken frame a beggar for mercy. Then one of them stands up. Be it his body a witness to many battles or his god's name being Luck, neither matters. The former means said deity has finally deserted its worshipper. The latter proves that no gods exist in this world.

"Any last wishes and last words?"

With a question asked and mockery sneered, the Edge of Answerer begins its descent.

)0(

"Not human... you monster…"

Recalling these final words, Aeravor finds it amusing to agree with the fodder. For no reason, Aeravor attempts to remember his name. Regardless of the answer, there can be only one ending for stupid people baring their arms against someone like him. Rightfully called the Wolves of Gastony after the Teutonian fief granted to them, they are called Monsters of the Gods despite being hailed as friends of High King Edmurd I. The least amongst them can easily slaughter a fully armoured knight. The better ones within a pack can take on two scores of mercenaries. No goat deserves the right to lower its horns and paw the ground, for no prey should ever see a predator as anything less than its executioner.

Looking up from beneath the sky cloaked in black, Aeravor knows this as the most beautiful scenery. The crickets are his bards as a wolf's mournful howl wolf resonates across the vast uncovered plateau. It is a song of solitude, a symphony of comfort. Perching nearby are a couple of owls, morsels of roasted game tossed at them. Aeravor closes his eyes, reprieve beckoning in the form of rest.

The night is lovely and full of glimmering stars, the moon crimson and blue in his dream. Sleep is something his brethren scorn as meaningless, but slumber to him means so much more. Darkness claims him like a mother embracing her child, an inner peace washes over him like an infant kept warm during winter's harshest hour.

)0(

Glossary

Childsbane: A poisonous plant used to make potions for abortion purposes while at the same time making the imbiber barren. A common tactic for slavers where selling female captives for a higher price is involved as brothel owners viewed pregnancy as an unwanted complication.

Uladh: A wraithlike demon which is said to haunt the forests and slay any life in its path.

Smallborn: A term referring to commoners.

Stack: A slang for a woman's breasts.

Brown man: A racist term referring to a person's skin colour. Variations of this term include black man/woman and yellow man/woman.

Crowns: These are coins made from a gold-based alloy. In the three-tier Hallenian currency system, crowns are of the highest. The other two would be quarts (made from a silver-based alloy) and pence (made from copper).

Tamurian: A human race with physical features including black hair and brown complexion.

 

Homm'Terr: The standard racial term used for humans during the Age of Renown. However, its usage ceased after the First Races retreated from the current world.

 

Homm'Nua: The standard racial term used for elves. In the current Age of Mortals, elves still primarily use it.

Gastony: The name of a fief in Teutonia bordering the Hallenian Empire to the east and Slarvea to the north.

Made in Japan instead of America: Carrie, Taro, and why Star Awards 2023 was related to post-Shadowbringers

Clearly, I'm a henjin. While not on the 2B backside incident level, I'm still a henjin. While I've wanted to do another FF14 post involving the likes of Vauthry, Emet Selch, and Elidibus, I decided to put my plan on the back burner. This is where the henjin part comes in:

I'm not a fan of local shows, but I did know at least a thing or two about this year's Star Awards. During this year's Easter, I was weirdly inspired by Carrie "not Stephen King's muse" Wong. Not her dress but her speech. I'm 100% convinced Miss Wong knows nothing about FF14, let alone Shadowbringers. But having completed the YoRHa: Dark Apocalypse alliance raids and The Sorrow of Werlyt storyline, the part on regret and self-hate triggered a desire to write this post.

Before I begin, allow me to point out the obvious. YoRHa: Dark Apocalypse was a crossover storyline done by Yoko "he's another kind of Ultraman" Taro. This guy is a sadist. Let me tell you why: If you want to reach the good ending of NieR: Automata, you must torture yourself by getting Ending A to Ending D. Anything done by Ultraman Taro is bound to be terribly dark. I can only give Miss Wong (not that she'd notice anyway) this advice: Do NOT touch anything created by Ultraman Taro. Drakengard will scar you and NieR will traumatise you.

YoRHa: Dark Apocalypse-Could it be better?

I wouldn't be surprised if this has always been the number one question FF14 fans ask themselves. There's clearly a special relationship between Ultraman Taro and Square Enix. This extended to FF14 since the NieR crossover is now a permanent fixture. Whether you want to torture yourself by learning the mechanics of the YoRHa alliance raids is optional, in case you're wondering. Personally, playing this game on PC actually gave me a massive handicap. I've seen gameplay videos on YouTube. Playing the game on PS4/5 would give the gamer a tactical advantage via a higher camera zoom. Playing FF14 on PC means I benefit from faster execution, but that's all. That's actually worth nothing unless I know and memorise the mechanics. In terms of learning, playing on a console has a clear advantage. As a result, my focus has to cover both my group mates' positioning and the mechanics. Playing Tower at Paradigm's Breach for the first time was particularly draining. I had to overload my brain at certain moments to the point where it just blanked out. As a result, I could only follow my alliance's movements while functioning at 30% efficiency during those times. I really have to respect the Japanese players. Every one of them knew what had to be done. And they did so flawlessly. This is not to say that Japanese people are more intelligent than the rest of the world. Instead, it's the product of a pro-collective society compared to the pro-individual values in the West. Oh, and one more thing: Do NOT play this raid if you have epilepsy or any similar condition.

On the storyline, I'm now on my way to finishing it. It will take a few more weeks due to the weeklies needed. The good thing about reading up on other people's constructive criticism is that it gives me a better understanding of what I'm dealing with. The internet is full of bashing and self-righteous intellectuals, so it's down to knowing where to look. The difference between a fan and a stan lies in objectivity. A true fan is capable of being objective. Stans are not. Fans care about the series, but stans only care about worshipping the series. It's like getting a girlfriend or boyfriend. You'd want someone who cares, not the overly-attached girlfriend meme.

The YoRHa alliance raid storyline does offer a plot involving significant stakes. This isn't a case of Russia invading Ukraine but rather an otherwordly force out to destroy the First. Sadly, however, there were notable plotholes unaccounted for. There are two ways to explain this:

1. The developers were rushing the job so badly that it ended up worse than Lyse's character development in Stormblood.

2. This might be Ultraman Taro planning the next NieR game. Knowing how much of a henjin he is, it could be tomorrow or 35 years later.

Before I continue, please be warned: SPOILERS AHEAD FOR THOSE WHO HAVE YET TO START THE STORYLINE OR FINISH IT.

 

There are actually two prominent plotholes left unresolved. The first is the role of the Seed of Resurrection/Destruction, otherwise known as a Bone Casket. While also a plot device in the first Drakengard game, its role in Ending E resulted in the cold hard truth: Death to Mankind. When you think about it, this actually made YoRHa's lie of "Glory to Mankind" a twisted joke. In fact, the storyline of NieR: Replicant/Gestalt was about humanity's chances of revival instead of whether it's still around.

 

In the YoRHa: Dark Apocalypse storyline, however, the Bone Casket doubled up as a gateway between different worlds. It's weird because that's not what we saw in Drakengard's Ending E. Due to the revelation happening during the Tower at Paradigm's Breach raid, there's little to no time to explain what was happening with that giant white ball. We only knew that the worlds of FF14 and NieR were implied to be part of a massive universe. Then we come to the second plothole.

 

Anogg, what can I say about her apart from the fact that the real deal was already dead? Like the Bone Casket responsible for her existence, she's a total enigma. Before 2P's revealed betrayal, there was a moment of disturbing glee from her. But after the events in the Puppets' Bunker, she returned as someone sincerely wishing to help. How are we going to make sense of two contradicting details? This reminds me of a scene in Stormblood where Yotsuyu taunted Gosetesu during his imprisonment at Isari by stating his guilt in killing his fellow Domans. Gosetsu admitted to it. So how should we view this first moment of storytelling paradox? This was likely Yotsuyu using figures of speech to guilt-trip Gosetsu because he had a hand in the failed Doman rebellion (i.e. he fought against the Garleans instead of for them). As a result, many Domans died. The word traitor was just that: A figure of speech.

 

In Anogg's case, there's no figure of speech. A contradictory display is a contradictory display. But what if there was a conflict between two personalities? Remember that this wasn't the real Anogg. She's merely a product of a plot device responsible for monsters and monstrosities. However, the Anogg clone likely inherited the memories of the real one. If so, then a conflict between two personalities would be possible. More than that, however, this would be what one would call the duality of good and evil. There's an excellent reason behind my ability to make fun of myself by calling myself an incel. When I saw the likes of Elliot Rodger, I was reminded of what I could have been. But yet, his path was never to be mine.

For Anogg, was it likely the good that was the original's memories triumphed over the evil from the Seed of Destruction? If so, then when was the tipping point? The only conjecture I can come up with is the aftermath of Komra's destruction, where her overbearing sense of guilt fueled what was good to overcome what was evil. At the risk of sounding like a logical jerk, Anogg did play a crucial part in 2P's act of mass destruction. However, it was also clear that 2P was manipulating the chess pieces leaving others none the wiser. Why did Anogg feel guilty? Because she cared. Why did she care? Because the deceased Anogg's memories were the foundation of the current Anogg's life. Guilt is not a bad thing per se. It allows the sinner to be humane and proves beyond a doubt that we care for what is right and those around us. In fact, the absence of guilt caused atrocities like the Holocaust and Pol Pot's killing fields.

 

This comes to the question of whether the second Anogg could be seen as the real one. I believe the answer is yes. Her birth might be artificial, but there's nothing fake about the life she had and the identity she carried. It's like being an adopted child where your adoptive mother named you after an unborn life lost to miscarriage. Would this make your identity fake? If I were to realise that's how I ended up in my current family, my answer would be a resounding no.

A/N: No, I do not know Carrie Wong and Yoko Taro. The only reason I name-dropped them is that I'm a certified henjin. That's all to it.

Made in Japan instead of America (finally at Shadowbringers)

Finally, I'm here. Shadowbringers, aka the penultimate chapter to the Finale of Light and Darkness arc (I made that up myself). Before I continue, I'm going to up a few videos.

So why am I upping the ending song for Crazy Rich Asians and the theme song for Shadowbringers? The reason is straightforward: When it comes to great storytelling, is Crazy Rich Asians your highest bar? The hype was undeniably real. From Kevin "unrelated to Guan Yu unless proven by science" Kwan being part of ACS to criticism of factuality about the Singaporean society, CRA indeed propelled Singapore to the international stage. I'm willing to acknowledge Kevin's success, ACS or no ACS. But objectively speaking, it'd take an idiot to believe anything from Hollywood or any other fictional work elsewhere.

I still remember going to the cinema to watch CRA with some churchmates. In fact, it was Thory Doridori who suggested it. Frontline Bro was also there, along with Ryan and my cousin KJ. While I was caught up in the hype, being emotionally defective meant I couldn't connect with the plot and characters. Fast forward to a few weeks ago, and Shadowbringers did what CRA could never do: Triggering the feelings of this emotionally defective person. To set the record straight, it's not that CRA needs to be better. It's just that Shadowbringers is way too good.

Progress thus far

I've cleared Holminster Switch, Dohn Mheg, The Dancing Plague, The Qitana Ravel, and Malikah's Well. At the same time, I've finished the physical DPS role questline (thanks, Road to 80). I can only say history had never been so wonderfully taught in the classroom. Holminster Switch was a culture shock, but it was easy once I knew how specific mechanics functioned. There's only this much I can zoom the camera height, so the trial-and-error aspect was there. For The Dancing Plague, the only tricky part was the Frost Runes mechanic. Dohn Mheg was the easiest, while The Qitana Ravel was effectively another Dun Scaith where the first boss was concerned. Malikah's Well? Let's say it's a fun dungeon to run on Duty Support.

As a DPS specialist (unless proven otherwise by the Dark Knight and Astrologian jobs), Duty Support greatly helps the learning process. If there's anything I've learnt via Duty Support and had to relearn no thanks to zero Duty Support in Stormblood MSQ dungeons, tracking the NPC allies' movements is the best way to learn. I'd pick the latter if forced to choose between attacking from the rear alone and forming a double-flanking team with Alisaie. Failure to do just that cost me extra time in clearing Holminster. Running any of the Shadowbringers dungeons as a tank would surely cost a few #respawnlol moments due to a lack of experience and an abundance of nerves.

On a side note, I prefer Urianger as my Duty Support healer over Alphinaud due to Astrologian bias.

Going close to the ground

There's something about the storytelling in Shadowbringers. This differs from your grandfather's Mediacorp story because people tend to die or lose something. The positivity movement of today can only be justified by the knowledge that the world is anything but positive. Of course, whether proponents of positive thought are willing to acknowledge the truth is another matter altogether. The plot hit me harder, starting from the aftermath of When It Rains. People always say it's better to save a few than none. While this is the truth, we must understand there are two sides to a coin. People die when you're unable to save them. That's the cold hard truth in Shadowbringers. Eventually, the only way to remain sane is to either become numb or not forget these words, "For those we have lost. For those we can yet save". This was also why there's significance behind dialogue option 2 when Fordola questioned why the WoL could still stand firm despite loss and betrayal. It's not just a textbook answer but, more importantly, a reminder to self. Suppose anything grants the Warrior of Light/Darkness a mental resilience no Singaporean can ever have. In that case, it's never qualifications but rather a conviction.

Going through the events in Twine was an incredibly emotional ride. This was due to Magnus' backstory and Minfilia's struggles. In Magnus' case, I felt for him despite not having the same experience. It might be easy for others to judge him for being emo. That's until we realised that we didn't have the manner of his loss. As for Minfilia, her view that she's an unwanted life struck me. The reason is that this was how I spent my life during my schooling years. Seeing Urainger being there for her made me realise two things:

1. I didn't have an Urianger by my side back then.

2. This meant being able to pull through in life was nothing less than a miracle.

The irony of light and darkness

FF14 does have a clear humanist message, and it doesn't get any clearer in Shadowbringers. As an evangelical, there are things that I'm afraid I have to disagree with. However, there are also things resonating deeply with me. As someone who is no stranger to dealing with works like Berserk, Attack on Titans, Hellsing, and Tokyo Ghoul in one way or another, I've learnt to understand that storytelling is a product of human beings and dealing with it is no different from dealing with fellow human beings. Idealism dictates it's possible to have a human relationship where things are 100% agreeable. Unfortunately, this brand of idealism doesn't exist. Period. In one sense, I'm a realist. At the same time, one could call me a libertarian. However, I believe in personal responsibility and that people aren't a race of saints.

 

This part isn't about what I disagree with (and trust me when I say dealing with disagreements is a significant part of living life as a human being). Instead, it's about my view on the symbolism of Light and Darkness in Shadowbringers.

 

It's effortless to say Light is evil and Darkness is good. But if we're to see things objectively, the problem was down to the scales of balance tipped towards Light instead of Darkness. Hypothetically, the exact extent of disaster would have happened had Darkness prevailed over Light. We have to know this before embarking on some modern-day Crusade.

Irony. Why did I say the Light and Darkness concept in Shadowbringers is ironic? This goes back to how the Flood of Light happened in the First. Remember the Ascians who made it possible? They're symbolised by Darkness, and not even once were they associated with Light. Secondly, it wasn't an Oracle of Darkness who protected Novrandt from the Light but rather an Oracle of Light. Seeing multiple versions of Minfilia battling sin-eaters wasn't a case of fighting fire with fire. It's irony.

 

So how do I see Ardbert's role as a Warrior of Darkness in this? Before I continue, let me point out that the WoL in Shadowbringers is effectively another Ardbert. Like Ardbert was the WoD in the Source, the WoL is the WoD in the First. The only difference is what they're doing in their respective WoD roles. Interestingly, Ardbert first appeared in a shroud of Darkness. It was only in Crystarium that he was covered in Light. The tragedy of Ardbert and his fellow Warriors of Light was never about what they did wrong. Instead, it was what Ardbert said in post-Heavensward: We did everything right. The cause of the tragedy befalling the First was this: They did everything right. While one could argue it was because of the Ascians, it's still a terrible irony in a certain way. You tried to do the right thing, you did the right thing, and that's how and why the world was screwed a million times over.

 

So what must Ardbert do to set things right? Yep, you guessed it. Doing the right thing. This comes to a question I believe the likes of Ryan, Frontline Bro, Ms Tang, and Ms Leong wouldn't ask: Is life full of ironies? I didn't say life is ironic, but this question is interesting.

 

Before I end this post, allow me to share this awesome song.