Gilbert and I circle each other warily. Our swords gleam like the fangs of serpents, each awaiting the perfect moment to strike.

The so-called 'showcase of abilities' is taking place in the duelling field, located in the inner ring. The noblemen form a neat circle around us, already placing bets on the possible outcome. Out of the corner of my eye, Father watches, expression closed.

My grip on the hilt of my sword tightens. I cannot lose.

My opponent makes the first move, as he usually does, taking a swipe at my right arm. I jump back easily, knowing that it isn't meant to inflict any damage. In fact, we'd decided that we would just stage a duel, with no real harm intended. What the king wants is what he gets—a show.

He goes on the offensive, launching a volley of strikes and stabs in rapid succession. They are easy to predict; I parry or dodge them with relative ease.

Until he feigns right, then strikes at my left.

I didn't see it coming. His sword grazes my shoulder, drawing a pool of blood. Gilbert looks startled by his own action; he staggers back with widening eyes.

I glare at him. How does he know that that's my weak spot?

While I was still under the supervision of Sir Thrall, I'd accidentally twisted my left shoulder one day, while trying to show off my manoeuvres with a poleaxe to my father. The result? An alarming disability for the following two months, and a long-lasting fear of getting my shoulder injured once more. I've always played it subtly so that other squires won't notice my slowed reflex.

But now I've been found out. By Gilbert, no less. Strange. He never slows down to analyse his opponent during a fight, opting to charge straight on with brute strength.

I don't show my irritation—perhaps it was truly an accident—and recover quickly, slashing lazily at my opponent's torso. His sword meets mine in a silver flash, sending both of us flying backwards. I reposition myself in a heavy, defensive stance, sword raised to meet any oncoming attacks. Gilbert, surprisingly, uses the momentum from the clash to whirl around.

Before attempting a stab at my shoulder with frighteningly fast footwork.

I try to parry his sword away. Somehow, Gilbert has gotten much faster. I barely scratch the edge of his blade when my shoulder flares up in agony.

I give a laboured snort. Gilbert immediately retreats, ripping his blade out of my shoulder. He gives a horrified stare as I let loose a piercing howl of defiance.

Controlling my breathing, I try to calm my shaken nerves. I meet Gilbert's brittle gaze with a level glance, ignoring the throbbing pain at my shoulder. If he wants to fight dirty, then so will I.

I run through the past duels I had with him in my head, trying to pinpoint his areas of weakness. Unfortunately, none comes to mind. Could it be...? I mutter a feverish prayer to my patron. If he wants me to defeat his rival's empowered Champion, then he has to provide me with some assistance.

We circle each other once more; I seize the opportunity to study him. A new countenance seems to transform Gilbert—he's too confident, even for him. His pupils are dilated, the light of his irises a thin gold ring around them; his face is set in a determined, crazed expression; his muscles are tense, ready to spring. He adopts a stance with his feet spread wide apart, one foot in front of the other. His upper body faces sideways, making it much harder for me to land a clean hit on him. A clever trick.

But it's one that doesn't belong to him.

He shifts his right foot. An image flashes before my eyes—he is charging forward, striking my knees with furious strength. His speed is blinding, and I won't be able to block it—

I blink. There he is, still in front of me, preparing to launch his attack.

Gilbert leaps forward, charging at me like a lightning bolt. He aims for my knees, about to strike—

Instinct from the vision guides me. My sword swings down in time to fight the blow. However, surprise at my own movement leaves me open, to which Gilbert uses to his advantage by slamming the flat of his blade onto my left arm.

I leap backwards to see the damage I had sustained. Besides a prolonged bleeding, there are bruises marking the injured tissues. I decide to completely ignore the wounds I've taken and focus solely on the duel.

Unlike before, his eyes have an unyielding quality, replacing the boyish fear he had just now. With a shrill cry, he raises his sword like a lance. His feet pushes him off the ground—

Another vision hits. This time, Gilbert misses me. On purpose. Before he pivots and attacks from behind.

It all passes in a blink of an eye. Literally. Once more, I'm abruptly thrust back into reality, into the sight of Gilbert making a feeble attempt to stab me, missing my body by two inches. Behind me, I hear the crunch of his boot as he wheels around. I automatically turn to face him, swinging my blade upwards in a diagonal arc.

The steely clang rings in my ears long after I've withdrawn my sword.

We stand our ground, expressions fierce, challenging the other to back down. It feels as though a new spirit has entered my body, providing a limitless spring of strength and knowledge. My veins feel hot and cold at the same time, yet my mind remains sharp and clear.

With a roar, we attack at the same time. Dodge. Parry. Swing. The movements come instinctively to me as visions continue to flood my mind, lending me beast-like agility and immense strength.

Gilbert too, seems to have a new surge of energy rushing through him. His pace is faster, his blows stronger, his body more flexible—his manoeuvers more versatile. I manage to land a few cuts on him, but so does he. I take these blows with no visible disappointment, learning more and more about my opponent. The swords clash every few seconds, silver dragons intertwined in a dangerous acrobatic performance. A flight of death.

Gilbert swings his sword in a wide, slashing arc. I see it before it happens; I step forward with a slash of my own. The blades are about to collide...

"Stop!"

The order comes out just as soon as our blades are locked in an 'X', the vibrations chilling me from head to toe. I hold my position, which is similar to Gilbert's—body leaning forwards, arms trembling with effort, teeth gnashed in frustration.

"I said stop."

The king's voice is laced with a hard edge, compelling me to withdraw myself. Gilbert does the same, giving me a nod as I do so. My muscles are burning. The spirit that had entered me has abandoned me just as suddenly, leaving me to deal with the aftereffects of adrenaline.

I hadn't felt like myself just now.

A slow, deliberate clapping of hands sounds from the king. The noblemen take after his example in polite pursuit. Only Father refrains from doing so; he stands slightly apart from the group.

Good, I can almost hear him say. But not good enough.

"Impressive display of abilities, Champions," says King Terrell.

We bow towards him.

"Unfortunately, I am unable to compare the duel with your usual performance," he adds. "So do both of you feel anything different?"

Although the question comes off lightly, I can see that a lot is hanging on our answers.

Gilbert decides to go first. "I – I'm not sure how, but I can't remember anything, sire," he offers. He actually looks confused.

I look at him with interest.

A new glint comes into King Terrell's eyes. "Is that so?" Gilbert nods. Well, this is certainly an easy way to escape interrogation. Now he's leaving me to explain my visions, the nature of which I don't quite understand. The king turns to me; I maintain a neutral expression. "What about you, Squire Rutherland?"

My mind searches for the right words to accurately depict my thoughts. After a moment's pause, I start to speak, "I have visions."

This piques his interest. "Visions of what sort?"

I frown uncertainly. "They tell me my opponent's next move, whether they would feign right and strike left, or if they would go for a stab at my chest. They tell me where to move next, and how to plan my next moves." When the king remains silent, I begin to fluster. "I'm sorry, sire. What I said didn't help at all—"

"Squire Rutherland, this is excellent news." King Terrell cuts me off with a wave of his hand. "Do not apologise."

He turns towards the noblemen, who are watching our exchange like a pack of nervous rats. "Lords and barons, you have just witnessed an impressive display of abilities by our Champions." He puts a hand to his heart. "I believe that the Pietists have graced us with these two remarkable young men to deliver us from evil, no matter from the sinful nature of men or from supernatural sources. I believe with all of my being that they will not fail us." His hand extends upwards, towards Heaven. "My men, do you have faith?"

Imitating their ruler, the noblemen raise their right hand towards the sky, crying, "Faith in the Pietists! Victory to us!" The mantra of the Board of Noblemen.

The roars begins to die out as blood pounds in my head. My body feels hot and cold all over again. My vision dims...

"Constantine?" Gilbert's voice seems to have a liquid quality, as though I am ducking underwater as he speaks. I press my fingers against my temples, massaging them, hoping that the pain in my head will slowly ebb away. It doesn't. "Constantine?" Gilbert repeats my name. Panic fills his voice.

"I'm fine," I growl, pushing away his extended hand. Unwillingly, I stumble and clutch at Gilbert's tunic in a feeble attempt for support. "I'm fine," I repeat.

Darkness swallows me whole.

******

My breath is heavy and ragged; my eyelids open with reluctance.

I prop myself upright and observe my surroundings. There's nothing to be seen, just darkness. I wave my fingers experimentally, searching for any obstructing objects. Nothing. I try blinking—perhaps my eyes haven't quite adjusted to the lighting—in futile attempt.

Shakily, I crawl onto my feet. It feels odd. Although I am evidently able to find my footing, I feel as though I am standing on air, its undercurrents swift and undeterred by my presence. I give an inward groan.

Surely this isn't another vision?

"Yes, Constantine. This is a vision."

The voice echoes about me, the same one I heard while I was being Marked. I certainly didn't expect to encounter it twice in the same day. My muscles tense. What does it want from me? Instinctively, I reach towards my waist, where my sword should be in its sheath. My fingers only close around air.

"Who are you?" I demand, trying to restrain myself from cursing for a lack of a weapon.

Something begins to materialise before me. It is of a vaguely masculine shape. Other than that though, its features are indiscernible; only swirling patches of grey mist give it volume. I ready myself for a fight, glaring at the figure as it makes my way towards me.

"I know your true identity," it says.

In shock, I stagger backwards. I want to run away. However, my legs don't obey my orders, remaining planted in their position. "Who are you?" I ask with less conviction than before.

If it has a mouth, it would smile. "It is difficult to explain here, child. Another time."

I grow angry. "You brought me here to tell me that it's difficult to introduce yourself?" It doesn't reply. "You pulled me into this – this vision, didn't you?"

"That is true," it replies, faint pride ringing in its undertones. "You are truly a child of Pst. Bronicus."

"You said that you know my true identity," I say suspiciously. "What do you mean, exactly?"

The figure pauses a little before proceeding. "I know that you are not a boy."

Despite the cold chill creeping over me, I manage to keep my voice steady: "And what does that mean?"

"I think you know the answer."

My lips go dry.

It knows.

"Who are you?" I scream, releasing some of my tension. Once more, it remains unmoved by my question, the wisps unmoving in the darkness. With a wild cry, I charge at it. The figure disappears before me in a greyish blur. I throttle through the figure, my body slamming into nothing but icy air. Wheeling around, I see that it has materialised once more, in the exact same spot it stood moments earlier.

"Control your rage, child," it says placidly.

I don't want to heed its orders. I want to shriek and cry and stamp my foot, anything to release my fear and frustration. Yet I'm compelled to take in deep, gasping breaths, calming myself. When I have completely cooled down, I feel as though a strange, warming presence has left me.

"Much better now, right?"

I nod my head. My mind feels a good deal better. Everything seems clearer, despite the fact that everything is obscured in darkness.

"Good. Now onto your question – who am I? I will not answer that, as I am sure that you will soon be able to deduce my identity."

I open my mouth to protest. No words come out. My mouth opens and closes like a fish's.

"So I will now tell you the real purpose of this vision," it says. Its voice is no longer soothing. More like a battle-weary general dishing out orders to foot soldiers.

"As you already know, a ghost army is on its way to destroy life itself. Only you have the power to stop it."

I cannot help my stare. "The Oriental Continents weren't trying to deprive us of our resources?" I squawk.

"Heavens, no. They were telling the truth—Pietists preserve their souls. The ghost army is real enough. And it's coming for you."

"Assuming that what you say is the truth, will the others even believe me?"

"That is for them to decide. For now, you have a far larger responsibility than forcing fickle mortals to see the truth—you have to defeat the ghost army." It pauses, waiting for my answer expectantly.

The ghost army is real...The figure definitely didn't sound like it was jesting. I bite my lower lip. Can I trust it though? After all, this may just be another result of my imagination. I decide to play along with it for a while. "But I'm the Child of Doom. It's possible that it is I who has brought this calamity upon us."

"That's where your problem lies." I'd been looking at my feet all this while. At his words, I raise my head to meet where its face should be. "You believe yourself to be unworthy, to be a bad omen to the world. Until you embrace your true identity, your assumptions are what you will be."

"I know who I am, and accept it."

"Accepting and embracing are two very different words, Constantine. Acceptance does not necessarily mean embrace, but to embrace, means to accept."

My head swirls with the figure's metaphors, struggling to take it all in. It sounds so serious—too serious for its words to be taken lightly. No, this is not a hallucination. This is real. Very, very real. Everything—its words, the ghost army, my role in all this.

And it's terrifying me.

"Granted, it will be a little confusing at first. Once you grasp the meaning of my words though, it will all be clear to you."

"You're not helping." Its last sentence has only worsened my addled state of mind.

"No matter. My point is, I am here to guide towards your destiny as Saviour."

I look at it with scepticism. "If I am truly a Saviour, then why doesn't anyone sing my praises as the Spawn of the Devil?" I say mockingly.

"That's because you haven't earned it."

I bite my tongue.

"I am here to help you understand the nature of your abilities, as well as to guide and groom you into a true Champion of Pst. Bronicus."

"What if I don't want your help?"

"You cannot refuse it. Your predecessors have undergone the same trials, and so will you."

"But I am an abomination of the Ancient Religion!" I bark. "I am supposed to be vile in the eyes of the Pietists! How can I be a fully-fledged Champion if Pst. Bronicus himself does not lend me support?"

"He has already lent you his support, Constantine, in more ways than one," it says gently.

I decide not to argue with the creature. If anything, it is too intelligent for words.

"Back to the main topic. I am here to help you learn of your abilities. I understand that you are now searching for records of your predecessors. While this may occasionally provide valuable information, you'll find that these visions you experience are actually of more use to you."

"How exactly are you going to help me?"

"Through visions, of course." His tone implies that my intelligence level is of an inferior quality compared to his.

"So you're going to pull me into visions without any forewarning?" I take its silence as a 'yes'. "But – you can't! What am I supposed to do when I collapse in the middle of daily duties? Anyone can just strip me in attempt to cool me off and unveil my true identity!"

"That will be the very first thing you will learn through these sessions," it says, the voice strangely tuned, like jagged splinters slicing my eardrums. "Learn how to control the visions, or else you will be controlled."

The grey mists begin to dissipate. I desperately begin to claw at it, as if I could put the figure back together. "Wait! But I know so little, and how am I supposed to—"

My sentence is cut off with a loud bang. The explosion seems to tear my body apart. I feel my being slowly drifting away...

*******

Dedicated to a-dora-ble for being such an adorable reader! If you're up for hardcore action, daring heists and lots and lots of Spanish cursing, then you'll definitely be sucked in by 'Deadly Secrets'!

Anyway, tell me what you think of this chapter. Whether it's good, bad or mediocre. Oh, and don't forget to vote!

Manuscript - A compilation of all the Pietists' legends, rites as well as orders bestowed upon mortals.