Chapter Eight

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For many moments, allowing his recruits to stand and wait for his order, as the other Legionnaires used the time to work and become more proficient; this San carelessly stopped the progression of his troops. Looking up and down the line, measuring whom would be a difficult match for Pligal, San measured each of his Legionnaires in turn. Dorn, standing strong, taller than the lot, San eyed him up and down.

"Yessss. He may do." He thought to himself with his orbs as slits.

"Two and four!" He commanded the troops to marshal.

Dorn and Pligal stepped onto the battleground to their left while leaving the line, both pivoting on their right heel turning towards San. Rapidly, they moved to the center where San stood. Awaiting orders to begin the duel, standing rigidly as their bodies moved on their own, responsive to the continual commands over time.

Letting out a deep breath, with it, his heightened abilities left. Feeling normal again, his mind muddled, not continually analyzing the situation. Feeling blank, he blinked his orbs in confusion. With no extra energy filling his muscles, he remained rigid while he awaited orders from San as heavy fatigue crashed over him.

"Where did it go? Has the Terra God forsaken me?" Pligal thought to himself.

His body trembling slightly as an animal shaking off the cold of day, Pligal shifted in place. San stared at him quizzically as Pligal's thorax expanded shallowly. Blinking away a need to fall into the death state, fatigue ravishing him, his thoughts slowed as if they were weighted down by ten Erons traversing a heavy muck field.

Pligal's colors grew lighter, his luminescence weakly flickering. Barely visible in the light of day, San smiled exposing his razor-sharp teeth as he witnessed this. Delighting in witnessing weakness in the young Legionnaire, quickly he gave the order to begin the sparring match. By raising a single talon, the match started.

Lumbering into position, slowly turning to face Dorn, Pligal's body begged for release. Dorn already moved to face him, patiently awaited. Nearly a full head above Pligal, Dorn gazed down with his onyx orbs at his competitor.

"He isn't the same. His former power has diminished." Dorn thought to himself. "He looks on the cusp of the death state. His scales look pitiful."

Once Pligal moved into place, San mercilessly dropped his talon indicating to the Legionnaires to start attacking. Inside his thorax, Pligal's life pump pulsated violently. His orbs flickered, incredibly heavy. Grabbing his staff, simply pushing softly against Pligal's thorax, Dorn measured his strength against the weakened comrade as Pligal crumbled, the contents of his many stomachs spewing forth onto the training site.

Laughing viciously as the rest of the Legionnaires and their Sans watched in silence, San reveled in Pligal's feebleness. Clearly not the same warrior they just witnessed, many wondered where his prodigious skill and strength vanished to. Now a husk of his former quality they quickly turned their back on him continuing their training.

San watched their interest wane with pleasure. Waving his talon to signal Dorn as the victor, San walked towards Pligal's ragged body. Still convulsing with the stomach contents ejecting from his body. San stepped on his thorax, gloating in his victory as he kicked Pligal's weak from towards the edge of the ring. Rolling easily towards Findel's rigid pose. Glancing downward towards Pligal before returning his gaze upward, Findel quickly attempted to avoid San's wrath by remaining rigid.

"Pick him up filth and take him to the infirmary!" San shouted towards Findel.

Inwardly, groaning before complying, the sick mere spittle at this point, Findel complied. Clinging to his own staff fiercely, amidst the weakening, aside from the hard kick rolling him away, he clung. Findel pulled Pligal over his shoulders. Folding him in towards his abdomen, he quickly scurried off towards the center the training area, the area containing the medical center. Dorn watched disappointed, yet as respectful as ever towards Pligal. He bested San, someone who Dorn would have difficulty defeating, all with ease.

"What's under your scales?" Dorn mused to himself. "Who are you, really?"

The sounds of training quickly amped up again. San continued to laugh contemptuously while reveling in the weakness of his trainee. Next time, he would humiliate him in front of the whole legion.

"I will show no mercy." San thought to himself. "The boy mocked me in front of my kin. I will destroy him completely."

Coming outside of his revelry, San noticed that his group watched him. Dorn eyed him completely, not backing down as his orbs met San's. Outwardly, Dorn's defiance toward San, the lack of respect he held for their San, their instructor, evidenced on his face, in his posture.

"This one too? I'll be quick to teach him a lesson." San thought to himself.

"Everyone else! Get in here. All of you will face him alone." San said holding out a single talon pointing his recruits toward Dorn.

Remaining calm at this summons, rather, puffing himself up, calculating how to deal with these five on his own, not having the prodigious skill, he witnessed in Pligal, yet he held other tools, Dorn remained calm as he analyzed. Easily counted as a brilliant eron due to his size, not many taking the time to understand this individual holding abnormally dynamic cognitive functions, his mind far superior to his clan the Guile. Able to surmise the weakness of his foes quickly, many times, without physical interventions, Dorn's ability to calculate the best course of action remained his own power.

Circling his group of recruits, his orbs shooting at different directions, calmly awaiting their attacks, Dorn calculated the potential attacks. Watching, needing to regain his position of power, of influence over his Legionnaires, San patiently remained vigilant. Choosing to punish all of the men together, pitting the strongest against the whole, San, born Zilterra of Tremedes after the Terra God, the smallest San in the Legion was small even as a youth.

His lifebringers, the matriarch and patriarch of his clan, pondered if they should destroy him, such a frail creature, feebly held in the matriarch's talons as her grip tightened. However, as the sixth son, he was placed in the legion under the guise of being the seventh. The one taking his place appeared much stronger than this hatchling, which could not yet walk. Forging his documents for Zilterra to join instead of his brother, their loss significantly diminished with him.

Much like many of the seventh sons in a land of Duidon, this planet, these individuals remained discarded, thrown as rubbish in the fields. Zilterra lived outside the home, a small tent fashioned, one, whose responsibility lay solely in his care.

Quickly learning the to adapt in order to survive, Zilterra scavenged old discarded garbs in his neighbor's territory. Piece by piece, his shelter grew. With modest protection from the elements, he survived until the cycle of collection. The time in which the seventh sons, of age, gathered to become members of the Legion.

During the gathering, local points established throughout the tribal regions for accountability as well as efficiency. The queue to enter remained long. Zilterra stood quietly among a sea of young ones frightened to leave. Clutching his falsified documents establishing his identity, his lifebringers orbed each other. Perplexed by their offspring's stoicism, they silently regarded him. At last, it was Zilterra's turn. He stepped forward thrusting his documents forward and booming his name.

"Zilterra of Tremedes!"

The figure behind the desk silently orbed him for many moments. Standing, he opened his arms and let his light flicker excitedly.

"This is exactly the kind of Eron that will go far in the Legion!" The official said.

Keeping his face free of emotion while many turned their heads staring hard at the commotion, Zilterra remained rigid, in place. Quickly looking away after seeing the small Eron, may felt someone of his stature would amount to nothing, their attention switching to their own familial concerns.

The Legionnaire collector grabbed Zilterra's documents handing him a small fragment containing a list documenting the items needed for his new life. Stationed directly behind the collector a room containing piles of the initial issue items of the Legion sat in neat heaps.

Quickly looking down at the contents of the list, Zilterra moved aside the collector towards the room without hesitation. With his head high, he moved forward, ignoring the commotion or attempts to grasp him, leaving his old life and edging towards his new world.

Amazement dawned on him after finishing the session. His living quarters proved far superior to anything he ever had. The ability to have his own pit for the death state as well as extensive nourishment multiple times a day. Compared to his old life, this was heaven. Each staff training session as well as sparring, left him hungry for more. The hard conditioning allowed Zilterra to focus his rage. The rage which developed after learning his deplorable living conditions were not common.

Pushing himself to harness his rage in his new career, Zilterra of Tremedes grew in quickness as well as strength. Graduating, Baron Richtol regarded his strength as well as viciousness, allowing him to work in his office until he was able to attain the rank of San.

The day Zilterra became San, was glorious to him, every day before it a step towards his new path. Having trouble containing his lighting mechanism, it pulsed softly before throbbing to an invisible melody.

"At last, others will feel my plight. As I rip out their being and replace it with my own image. They will be mine forever." The newly ranked San smiled viciously as he thought to himself, his pointed teeth lingered over his rough lips.

His mind passing through these thoughts as he watched the battle unfold, flashes of memories broke through his observation as if inundated by wave after wave of memories. Shaking them away, he watched as Dorn struggled to keep the five at bay while obtaining many blows.

The five huffed and heaved regaining their breath. Dorn, too much for any one of them, with his strength and intellect. Together, they stumbled and argued amongst each other as to who would attack first. Fortunately, for Dorn, this left many openings.

Disregarding the formal stances, Dorn attacked as he saw fit. Calculating the easiest way to make each of them fall, using their own balance against them, tripping many while attacking others with his powerful legs and arms.

Two stuck in the center of their abdomen, doubled over in pain as one hit by Dorn's own staff dropped downward. The other unfortunately behind Dorn as one of the remaining four attempted to thrust his staff into Dorn. Spinning simultaneously while grabbing his foe's staff, he directed it to the one behind him as it hit him in a loud thwack. Joining his comrade, he groaned loudly at the pain building in his abdomen.

Dorn's bioluminescence flickered wildly throughout his limbs, using every bit of strength to overcome his current foes. His thoughts slowed as the battle progressed, moment after moment, with each strike, block, or parry, Dorn's body lamented the battle. The fatigue he felt now felt cumbersome. His thorax expanded and contracted quickly as a balloon while the large arms holding his staff shook in spasm.

Thwack! A staff swept under Dorn's forearm. Pulling his arm forward causing his grip to loosen slightly. An overhead attack caused his talons to release his staff. Another circled around behind Dorn to strike his knees. The large Eron buckled as his vision doubled, his mind foggy, his staff loosed from his grip.

Groaning inwardly, he accurately said aloud, "I'm finished." as the last blow came down upon his head to bring the death state.

Blackness enveloped him as San motioned for them to continue with their abuse. Continuing beating for many moments, the soft thuds of their strong blows upon Dorn's body cut through the training ground. Yet again, attention focused upon San's recruits.

Queyan, the Baron's aide, watch the spectacle unfold before him. With milky onyx orbs, he observed the carnage wrought by the San known and Zilterra. Silently watching as Pligal peaked, then deflated into weakness. Never in is prodigious cycles, had he witnessed such a spectacle.

Worry not sink in as Pligal would be cared for spectacularly. What piqued his interest more than the Pligal was the large unconscious Legionnaire that lay in the dirt while staffs pounded upon his scales. His movements were uncommon, yet they kept the other five at bay, while carefully injuring a few.

"This creature is cunning." Queyan thought allowed. "Perhaps he can be improved upon." He thought to himself.

Shuffling forward to meet San, painstakingly, he moved. His joints aching with each movement. The stiffness of elder bones, not abating, finally reaching San, he called out to him.

"San!" He called out, his voice barely audible.

Keeping his back turned to the Baron's aide, the beckoning lost in the wind and sound of staff clanging upon staff. Breathing in deeply, closing his orbs, concentrating his light to his voice box as it excitedly shifted throughout his throat, the old aide boomed, "SAN ZILTERRA!"

Pulsing through the training yards, everyone stopped and looked around towards the voice. This form of communication generally relegated for lifebringers addressing their own kin, San pivoted around too fast losing his balance slightly. Steadying himself, he saw none other than the Baron's aide in front of him as his orbs went wide in amazement. Quickly scurrying forward, he met the aide at the edge of the training site.

"Yes?" He said bowing his head in respect.

"Bring that one to the Patchers." The name for the medical unit workers. "He looks like he needs it. Also, have the two he defeated sent as well. "As for you, report to the Baron's office in as soon as you see to your recruits."

Looking up confused and worried, watching as Queyan shuffled towards the edge of the training site, carefully San observed for any tell in the order to see the Baron. Moving out of Zilterra's field of vision leaving the San dumbfounded, Queyan continued slowly making his departure. 

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