What was a saint?

Lucian thought it was a false title. He'd never entreated gods or offered his life to them in the slightest, he was merely chosen and plucked up by one, forced into submission in a manner of speaking. Presented with two choices, to either die or be given a chance to go on living, and back then he'd still had some things he wanted to do. Even to this very day, he didn't give a single shit about religion or living the life of a paladin. Aotrom was nice like that, the Sunhammer, asking for very little and offering less.

That title was all a fabrication of the church in their greed and entitlement to put claim on his power. He could command then, sure enough – but Lucian was no saint. He was a killer and a predator who had prowled a hundred battlefields to reach the position he now held. It hadn't been the gods that had given him this strength. It was he, and he alone, who had seen it done. Only at the end when he'd been so near true death had Aotrom come for him, making him greater than the 'hero' he'd been. There were rules, ceilings on how far a man was allowed to go before he became a threat to those who skulked and plotted in the darkness.

They called him 'scourge' back then, an adventurer. Slayer of armies, monsters, it didn't matter who they were, only that they needed killing. The kijin had come, and taken his heart from him, and Lucian had killed them all. When the primus' were silent, he'd been the one to win that war – and he'd never been credited with his victory. But it was of no concern to him, fame had soured over time and now he'd have preferred to be left alone to his own distractions.

He wasn't the strongest being on the continent. Primus' aside, there were others. Like him, they did not participate in foolish games like this. They were hermits, living on the fringes of society and rarely acting unless absolutely necessary. Hero, saint, champion, chosen. Hell, primus.

All lies. Little identifiers to give context, no different than calling a man a 'baron' or 'commoner' – they were all the same. Just men. They only varied in the shackles put on them by gods, the way, the clans, or the watchers. Everything in this world was controlled by something else, the food chain that existed in all things whether it be the wild or high society. Get too powerful, without a guarantor? You'd be killed, Lucian had been – and he'd refused servitude to a dozen gods before Aotrom had made his offer. Otherwise, he'd gladly have died spitting on the 'divines' that stood idle while those horned wretched butchered his family and friends.

Lucian's entire life had been a lie, but it was an easy one to tell. Faith was a powerful thing and it united men in a way that nothing else ever would. Men could starve, die of thirst, live their entire lives without feeling the flesh of another – and many did these things on purpose. Faith was stronger than human compulsion, the strength of belief was so often underrepresented.

Stronger than the animal instinct that predicated all mortal beings. By a long shot. Instinct was base, a worm had instinct, but faith was transcendent beyond any sort of common sense.

Lucian had seen it. Watched on as men threw themselves on spikes, howling to one god or another in their pursuit of that faith.

A blind obsession to be noticed by gods that had never deigned to care about them in the first place, yet feasted on it all the same. He'd begged, and been shown a single sliver of a vision. His village had been slaughtered, his friends and family died, and they'd never come to save him. Not until he was of a true purpose to them had he heard their voices, and all he'd given them was a red smile and a very particular finger. A little spit for good measure, that's what they deserved.

Lucian didn't hate the gods, in fact he loved Aotrom, but it was true that they were cruel and not always deserving of worship – which he did not participate in either. And perhaps they had a right to be cruel. He wasn't of the ecclesiarchy. With that being said, if given the power, he'd kill most of them – if not all. He'd dreamed of that once, but had eventually accepted it for what it was.

He saw the benefits religion had and knew it was necessary. And now he was above worship, Aotrom didn't require it, and never asked for anything either, not ever. For a time, this had left him lost and confused, without purpose, until he'd challenged Dorian Longinus and been struck down as easily as he'd just done to the boy Tyr.

Tyr lost. Because he had no faith. No clear faith in anything, not even himself, and that's why he would never win against someone like the sword saint. Lucian had faith. Not in the gods, but in the future of man, and in himself. He had always been true to his purpose and had never lost sight of that, even if his motivations were... Questionable, at least back then. Scourge, butcher, profaner, he'd always found it quite ironic how the only man to kill a Pope of the ecclesiarchy was eventually made a saint. What a bizarre world, he'd marched right into the Vatican and beaten that prick to death and nobody had done anything about it.

“Good fight.” Lucian said, making his way out of the arena. He knew full well that he'd 'lose' by official regulation if he departed. Allowing Tyr in this arena in the first place was a blatant violation of the rules... Or perhaps not, there wasn't anything saying a being that regenerated from all wounds was specifically barred from competition. But Lucian would not torture and abuse him. Healing factors were a well documented occurrence, normally in monsters – but living things still felt pain.

He balked at what Tyr must be feeling. The pile of undulating flesh that used to be him, at least. That's why he'd gone for the nerves first, but it didn't look to be helping much.

He looked down in grim surprise as something grabbed at his ankle. A bare hand with no body attached to it, squeezing at his greaves. It was almost comical, that. But there was challenge in it, and it made Lucian proud of this boy he did not know. This was the way of a man, death was not the end for their race – though he'd only come to know that after he was claimed. To fight on long after rational thinking would demand one surrender was sacred, the struggle that dominated all things was the only holy thing in this forsaken universe.

He'd intended to forfeit, but Tyr would not let him. Demanding a continuance of their challenge, even if he could not speak the necessary words, radiating intent through the spira. Brave, foolhardy and proud as young boys and men often were, Lucian mulched the hand next without a single movement visible. A whispered apology on his lips, one that he genuinely felt. And that incensed Tyr yet further, Lucian could feel it. The sword saint had become so strong that he respected very few people, this boy was no exception, he was too weak to enjoy fighting beyond the novelty of his spirit. Like a puppy, something easily broken, cute, but not worth much more than that.

This repeated itself far longer than Lucian would consider a normal amount of obstinacy, but Tyr... Or rather the pile of flesh again, would always get in his way. In truth, the saint could simply leave faster than Tyr could reincorporate, but again...

A life lived so long became incredibly boring, and he'd always looked highly on those who challenged, whether they knew they'd win or not. What was a 'poor' boy Lucian felt nothing but pity for might be worthy of some respect, after all, if only for his stubborn heart. “You are a very interesting young man.”

“I'm not done yet, don't turn your back on me.” Tyr warbled out of the half-mouth that occupied the wax-melt looking remains of his face. It was a wonder he could make anything more than an agonized groan, the state he was in. Dust, flesh, enough of a body to move – and dust again. Lucian was too strong, enough to have a decent spar with a primus – his 'adept' powers were enough to carve new rivers from the ground. The boy had to know this, and yet he continued. Continued to challenge the sword saint, the man who killed wyrms and monsters of all stripe with a single swing until even that had gotten exhausting. “I'm going to crush you in full view of the gods and spit on your broken body. I'll send you to them, and you can make them aware that I am coming for them, too.”

Lucian watched on impassively as he continued to project the fake fight the crowd must be seeing now from an illusion artifact he kept on his person at all times. Against regulation, but he'd never come to win – and he'd like to see a referee hop down here and try to correct him. It was a flawed thing, and would eventually loop – but it served his purposes. What the crowd was seeing was nothing more than a duel of swords with the rare flare of magic after Tyr's fifth or sixth attempt to stop him. There were children in the crowd who did not need to see such brutality in motion. Lucian forced, in a manner of speaking, to torture this blameless child.

“Why?” Lucian, one of those golden eyebrows arched, genuinely curious. “Why go this far? You can't win. If it wasn't me, Haran or Oresund – whoever makes it out of the other side of the bracket will beat you. Both teams are too good, and as I understand it – you are well acquainted with several members of both remaining squads. Doesn't this... Hurt?”

“Pain is temporary.” Tyr moaned. “Victory is forever. I will win.”

“You can't, kid, stubbornness has its place but this is vile.” Lucian said, mulching him for what felt like the thirtieth time. Tyr wasn't just stubborn, he was either blind or... Or something Lucian couldn't understand. His 'counter' was a very obvious ability after so many repetitions. Anything he was hit with that couldn't overwhelm his arcanum would be returned with extra force. It wasn't his only ability, either – just the most literal in function. It made him practically invincible among the other saints that he'd met in his life, it was one of the most unfair adeptus he'd ever heard of. At no point had he used even a hundredth of his strength, ensuring that Tyr was essentially doing all of this to himself.

He had to admit that seeing the rumored 'immortal one eyed white wolf bastard prince Asmon's butcher meat man infinity' or whatever ridiculous sobriquet they gave him in action was entertaining. Lucian had never seen regeneration like this even from the slimes so common in Varia.

Most curiously, he didn't understand how it worked in the slightest. Regeneration was usually a result of anima, but Tyr's anima only ever remained still, in place when it shouldn't have been. Through any sort of magical detection, he'd always appear whole, standing there in the spira and revealed in human form.

Something else was responsible for the actual healing, all it did was hold his parts together into a specific shape. Like a template he would always eventually return to, his soul of sorts remaining whole even when his body was broken.

“Why?” Tyr asked. He was whole again, but not attacking immediately for once. “Why can I never win?”

“From what I've heard, you've won plenty of fair fights. For your age, and position, you are better than I was when I was that young.” Lucian replied with a shrug. “As for why you cannot win against me...” He paused, thinking of the right words to use. “Let me ask you this, what are you fighting for?”

“What am I fighting for...?” Tyr asked – before being mulched again without warning, and Lucian repeated himself.

“You fight for nothing and nobody, only your vain pride and ego, not even for survival. Your motives are predicated on whimsy and you have no substance as a man. Only as strong as you've become thus far because you got lucky. Time and time again. I have not followed your path – but I am sure that is it. I have met many like you in my time and I know you better than you know yourself. You have no ambition beyond winning out of selfish want. There isn't an ounce of need to you.”

Tyr rose again, and Lucian slammed what little bit of his blade had left the sheathe into him, before pulling it again from his hip. The boy was rattled and angry, caught between rage at being insulted out of the blue like that and his mind whirring to come up with a rebuttal that couldn't possibly exist. Lucian was right. “You are a beast, a mutt that will never win a fight of significance because you've never had to truly struggle. You've never felt real loss, so selfish and that is your weakness. A life of privilege and gifts you do not deserve has made you weak, and I will beat that into you before I leave here today. I will not be party to a risen primus as pathetic as you, be at ease, for I am a patient mentor.”

A shadow passed over Tyr's face, relaxing his body. Lucian was absolutely right. What did he fight for? He didn't have any motivation to be here on this world, not truly.

His motivation before had been to avenge his mother, to grow strong enough to live, and then it had been to kill Hastur. Which was no real goal at all. Tyr still intended to keep to his promise and erase that rat from the face of this earth, but what else? He had thought that he had become more than a creature of revenge, but that wasn't true.

His plans beyond that... There were none, living an insignificant life and walking about doing nothing with any real purpose, just stumbling into events and fighting out of pride or an arrogant insistence that he needed to be there. And most times, he'd been totally worthless besides the odd contrivance or assist from another force.

No, this was self deprecation. Tyr had won many victories, but he just couldn't seem to see himself in that light. How could he? A primus was supposed to be more impressive than that. If it was Iscari, he'd have managed better – and this kind of incessant comparison to others was a weakness he needed to shed.

“What do you fight for?” Tyr asked, wishing he'd asked any of his mentors that question. All that he'd seen and done, and he had yet to realize the full scope of symbolism or significance in action. The reason why monks and paladins lived the way they did, their price for otherworldly power. But Tyr did nothing special in particular.

He just... Existed. He'd grown stronger, but he'd only achieved a real breakthrough once, when fighting in the astral space to summon that horn. An artifact of some sort that nearly killed him in the process, again because the mycelians had kept him whole and aided him in what way they could.

“I fought for my sister, once.” Lucian had a faint smile on his lips, memories from long before Tyr had ever been born shining in his eyes. “My family lived on the border, on the southeastern edge of Varia, near what is now called Saorsa and that great jungle the ashkaari hail from. Back when the space between borders was occupied by the kijin nomads. The horn wars, they called them. I fought to protect the village, and I failed. She was the only one left, so I fought to protect her – and I failed again. So I made the safety of all the people my motivation. And I got my wish, when we subjugated the kijin and purged their chieftains from the face of the earth. Slaughtered the beastkin warbands and brought peace back to the region. Perhaps my only success. All of that for a people that practically erased my name from the history books and allowed the wars we fought in to become a myth, white washing the rest. And yet I still love them, and will continue to endeavor to keep them safe.”

“What came next?” Tyr asked. It was a simple but sad story. Clear allusion to the fact that Lucian had lost everyone he'd ever loved and been left stranded and alone. Once the revenge was completed, Tyr knew how that must've felt. But Lucian had found something else to keep him going, though. Tyr wanted to know what that thing was.

Lucian shrugged. “Here I am. No stronger than I was two centuries ago, only much older and perhaps a little wiser. Ambitions are not eternal, they die like everything else. But I had a cause, stakes, and the will to see them through. And luck, a lot of it, just like you. I ask again, what do you fight for?”

“I...” Tyr stammered, he... “I don't know. Nothing? The fun of it? What do you expect me to--”

Lucian blurred forward, finally moving at a pace that matched his ability. Slamming the butt of his sheathed sword into Tyr's midriff with enough force to bore a hole straight through him. “What do you fight for!? Show me your beating heart!”