3

For several years now, Jackson had played the role of the clan’s guardian. It wasn’t one he had chosen himself, but it was one he accepted without complaint. After all, what choice did he have?

With his power, and the curse that bound it to him, he had to keep fighting something... anything, or anyone. If he didn’t, it would take over his body and feed its own hunger on the lives around him. He had experienced this before.

Jackson sighed and shifted his weight, standing at his position on the guard tower at the edge of the clan’s encampment. The red sand of the Heite Mesa stretched out in a wide expanse under him, a familiar scenery of rocks, cliffs, and dry shrubs that he must have carefully examined every inch of by now.

It was the middle of the day, but the unusually overcast skies blocked out all the sunlight. Hopefully this meant there would be rain soon, but it still made for a gloomy atmosphere.

With how familiar he was with this part of the landscape, no significant changes went without Jackson’s notice. The slowly shifting and bulging mound in the sand that had started moving towards the camp’s gate was definitely a significant change.

Jackson hopped down from the guard tower, taking the fifteen foot drop easily in stride, and drew his sword. The surface of its blade shimmered black for a moment, as if lit by some kind of unnatural light, then settled.

Just as anticipated, the sand mound started to rise up. It was difficult to tell whether the creature was one that hid underground, or if it formed its body from the sand itself, but the end result was the same: standing before Jackson was a Sand Gome.

It was a large, round creature with stubby but powerful legs, and massive jaws that it used for biting through any living creature it could find. The whole thing was made of hardened sand, with loose grains dripping from it like liquid with every movement it made. The deep holes of its eyes glowed with an internal yellow light, a characteristic feature of magically animated natural constructs like this one.

Jackson wasted no time. Without moving a step, he swung his sword through the air, and a dark flash struck the Gome from a distance instantly, sending it reeling. It groaned and worked its jaws as it regained its balance, looking about as aggravated as a pile of sand could, and charged forward.

Jackson kept up the assault, moving his blade through the air in a flurry of metal, each swing accompanied by another black flash. The Gome didn’t slow down, ignoring the chunks of its body being broken off more frequently by the second. It opened its jagged, sandstone jaws in preparation to finally silence this pest.

Little did that creature know, Jackson and his blade were a lot more powerful up close.

Without flinching, he drew the blade back and landed a heavy strike just as the creature was within chomping distance. With a harsh metallic keening noise, the already cracked body of the unsuspecting creature was destroyed, broken into two large crumbling chunks that fell in different directions.

Simple enough, as always. However, Jackson couldn’t feel any satisfaction from the victory. Just because he was given strength didn’t mean he enjoyed fighting, quite the opposite, in fact. The expectations of the other members of the clan weighed on him; they expected him to ward off monsters and marauders without fail, as he always did.

If he had the freedom to choose, he would have taken a different lifestyle. Perhaps one where he had more time to spare for the books, which he could currently only read for an hour or two a day. This brutish job just wasn’t his style…

Suddenly, he jumped with a start as a hand clapped down on his shoulder. “Stylish and strong as always, Jackson!” complimented a cheerful voice from beside him.

He hadn’t noticed Rowan’s approach, but there he was now, congratulating him in his usual boisterous way. “I was only doing the bare minimum,” Jackson responded curtly.

“Bare minimum, huh? C’mon, don’t say stuff like that, you’re gonna make the people weaker than you feel bad!” Rowan’s voice remained cheerful, and he didn’t drop his wide grin, but there was the faintest hint of an edge to his voice… or maybe Jackson was only hearing things.

Rowan’s shaggy and bright crimson hair stood out a lot among the people of the clan, especially when contrasted against Jackson’s pale blue. Usually, brightly colored hair was said to be a sign of high innate magical potential, but if this man had any he had certainly never shown it yet.

Rowan and Jackson were about the same age, and grew up in huts right next to each other for their whole lives. They naturally became fast friends, despite the fact that they quarreled often.

All this said, however, the two of them had stopped spending nearly as much time together after the fateful event that had bound the strange and shadowy curse to Jackson’s very being. They could no longer have any more of their friendly sparring matches, because the gap in their strength had suddenly become so large, but Rowan wasn’t one to give up so easily.

Even as Jackson was forced to keep fighting and taking the lives of monsters to stay sane, Rowan kept training, and occasionally visited him at his post to support him in his own awkward way.

As the two of them chatted for a while—though it was mostly Rowan doing the talking—Jackson remained vigilant. It was a good thing, too, because the sand around them had started to shift once again. “Here’s a chance to prove yourself again, if you want,” Jackson said, stopping Rowan short mid-sentence.

Rowan simply grinned again, and drew his weapon.