Electi (discontinued)

Capitulum 1

There was another thunderstorm. It was ruthless, unforgiving, but it was uncertain whether it was real this time or conjured. Although it was raging-bringing winds from all corners of the earth, blowing loudly-there was no rain. Not even a drop.

They stood in the storm, soldiers in training. They weren't bothered by the noise, they didn't move an inch. They were fully aware the wind was strong enough to lift one off the ground, but they stood, not moving an inch. Not because it was physically possible, but because that is what the Just do.

Their instructor was as ruthless as the storm, quiet as the sea on a calm day. The thing about the Just is that they never stalled or evaded an accusation. Their instructor proved it by shouting, "I'm training you to be killers. Unhesitant. Precise."

A student at the far end of the horizontal queue took a deep breath.

The instructor continued, "As Just, we have to fight to the death. Never concede to defeat." He walked in front of them, male and female alike. "Because we're just doesn't mean we're weak. You see," he bellowed over the storm, "we're not just the good guys. We're the strong guys. And we don't give up because it's not in our blood. You hear me?"

The students hollered an enthusiastic war cry, but briefly. The instructor nodded. "Behind each of you is a weapon with which you will channel your inner potentia. You will pick a sparring partner. If you have none, then I become yours."

For all their tough faces and actions, no student wanted to fight the instructor. So they scampered about like little mice, picking the least powerful of the lot.

The student at the far end picked up a golden staff and nodded in satisfaction. But before he could pick a partner, they were all paired up. One by one, they left his view so he could come face to face with his partner; the instructor.

The instructor signalled him to come over with a quick tilt of his head. "All right, Just. Take position." There were thirty-one students on the field, so they made sixteen groups, including the instructor. "Begin," he commanded, his eyes on his sparring partner.

The student wasn't dumb. He knew there was no way to survive a match with the captain of the guards of Probus and the third chairperson in the seat of the Council for bravery and warfare.

He took the offensive and the instructor took the defense, fighting with a staff of his own. He tried to attack the instructor's head, but his move was blocked. He tried again with much more force than before, but got the same result.

Frankly tired of playing games, the instructor twisted his staff and a sharp blade ejected from the top. Believing that it was a similar staff, the student copied the move but was met with cold disappointment.

The instructor rounded in on him and slashed his leg, weakening his stance. Seeing his window of opportunity, the instructor struck, taking the offensive while his student was left to block the attacks. He moved backward with every blow dealt on him, his injury burning like hell.

"You have potential, Number 31. But you must never back down," the instructor yelled. He turned his staff and hit his student in the face. At this point, a few of the others had stopped fighting to watch the instructor severely punish his student.

The student's staff flew out of his hands when the instructor knocked it out with his blade. "When life hits you in the face," the instructor continued, "you get back up. It never matters what happens, you always. Get. Back. Up."

His blade came down heavily on the student's head. Weaponless, he caught the blade in his gloved hands to avoid it from coming in contact with his face. The instructor pulled his blade out and duplicated himself. He and his clones incessantly hit the student with their individual staffs.