"THAT'S MY GODSON!"
The words hit Deacon's ears at the same time a pair of hands like iron clamps seized his shoulders and hauled him up off the ground and into the air, where he began to shake him like he was some prized fish.
For an agonizing period, all Deacon could do was strengthen his stomach to prevent himself from vomiting out his organs as his stomach lurched with every shake. The sudden, violent motion made everything blur together; room, confetti, pain, just a whirl of motion and nausea, which, with the blood that had seeped into his eyes, did not help, along with Bjorn's booming, joyful cheers.
The world lurched once and then steadied as his pupils adjusted, and through the haze and the exhaustion and the ringing in his skull, the face in front of him finally clicked into place.
"Uncle… Bjorn?" Deacon confusedly croaked out. What was he doing here?
"That's right, boy," Bjorn laughed aloud as he set him back on his feet, but kept one steadying hand clamped to his shoulder just in case Deacon's knees decided to quit on him, and looked him over with unrestrained pride.
And when his gaze reached Deacon's eyes and saw that his previous dark eyes had become the color of a campfire's flame and the pupils had narrowed into slits, the corners of Bjorn's mouth curled even more upwards, pushing the three claw-marked scars on his face even further back.
"You're just full of surprises, huh?" Bjorn said softly as his own green eyes shimmered before the shape of his pupils began to thin and elongate until they matched Deacon's narrow slit eyes.
Deacon blinked slowly, registering that his uncle's eyes had slit into the shape of a cat's.
"What… happened to your eyes?" he asked, the words catching and stumbling on their way out of his mouth as he was now beginning to catch up with the concussion that his adrenaline rush was hiding from him.
Bjorn let out a short snort at that. "They've always been like this," he said, a rough laugh under his breath. "Same as yours."
Deacon's brows furrowed because he knew that wasn't true; he'd seen his own eyes; they were normal black eyes – just as they've always been.
Bjorn's hand moved to ruffle his hair like he always did, except the moment his palm brushed the back of Deacon's skull, Bjorn froze. Pulling his hand back from Deacon's hair, he saw that his entire palm was covered in warm blood.
He looked at his hand, then at the back of Deacon's head, then at the streaks of blood running down Deacon's spine and soaking into the remains of his ruined chestpiece along with the many dark purple bruises that covered the visible part of his torso.
Bjorn exhaled through his nose, then turned towards the far wall — the same section of wall that Deacon had originally noticed shimmering earlier with the help of his newly crafted bracelet. Looking at it now, he saw that it was untouched by the destruction of him being tossed around like a bouncing ball.
"Come on," Bjorn said as he began making his way towards the shimmering blue wall. "We'll talk while we get you put back together."
And without waiting to see if Deacon followed, Bjorn walked straight toward the wall and passed through it without even causing a ripple – confirming that his initial thoughts of it being an illusory wall were true.
Deacon stared after him, gripping the Serpent Pendant hard enough that the edges cut deeper into his palm before he stepped forward and passed through the wall.
The illusion's surface parted around him like cold mist, not unlike the sensation of stepping through Door 7-C—the entrance to his Class Chamber. The moment he crossed the threshold, the air changed. It was cleaner, softer, with none of the burnt stone, blood, or sweat-thick heat of the trial room.
Deacon found himself standing in what looked like a lounge with an open kitchen — a far cry from where he'd been a heartbeat ago, and his mind lagged behind.
A wide open space stretched ahead of him, littered with couches and beanbags that told him it was quite lived in, judging by the scuff marks on some of the leather and the wall behind the couches, and in the far-left corner. In the middle of the left side of the space, a holo-table was still active, projecting the destroyed trial room with flakes of confetti still hovering in the air.
Bjorn's voice came from just off to the side, "Boy, you had everyone here sweating when after you entered the trial room you almost immediately bee-lined to the illusionary wall we had set up and walked in on us," he said, and Deacon didn't have to look to confirm that the scattered placement of chairs and the three half-drunk glasses sitting near the holo-table meant Bjorn hadn't been alone while watching, meaning there had been spectators.
Walking further in, his feet began dragging against the floor now that the crash was setting in, and the exhaustion that had been delayed by his spike of adrenaline that came with him fighting against whoever it was that he fought.
"Come here," Bjorn said, and the tone left no room for argument, not that Deacon had the energy to try anyway. Bjorn had already pulled out one of the barstools near the holo table and placed it closer to him, and held out a tray with a tub of Medicinal Salve, two rolls of bandages, and a single red pill with his other hand.
As Deacon sank onto the stool, a low groan slipped out of him and his eyes shut for half a second — only for the sharp snap of fingers right beside his ear to drag them back open.
"Oi. No sleeping yet," Bjorn said in a firm tone. "You've got a concussion. If you fall asleep now, it'll fuck you up."
Wordlessly nodding to his uncle, Deacon let out another sigh as he reached for the Chestpiece of the Barbarian — or what was left of it. He began peeling it off, and immediately felt just how much of his dried blood had glued the hide and fur, and just how much it was going to be a pain in the ass to get rid of.
Well, this'll wake me up, he mused to himself darkly as he began to tug away harder, ripping it away in one quick pull, letting only a faint hiss slip through his teeth as patches of skin came up with it.
When the chestpiece finally came free, Bjorn crouched beside him and was just about to cast a spell onto Deacon, but Deacon was a step ahead of him.
With a roll of his shoulders, Deacon cast Cleanse on himself, causing all the grime and dried blood on him and what was left of his gear that was on his person to vanish – disinfecting himself and allowing his uncle to get started with patching him up.
"Atta boy," Bjorn said as he popped open the lid of the Medicinal Salve and began applying it across the bruises that took up his entire torso. "You did well in the fight. Held up your own against your senior's skills and ego."
"I'm proud of you," Deacon heard from his uncle as he thought back to the final few minutes of the fight.
His thumb brushed across the serpent's metal etching, tracing every groove and hairline crack that he could see.
Bjorn saw where he was looking, and his smile slowly faded as he applied a heavy amount of salve onto Deacon's now dark purple abdomen. "I'll go get it fixed for you after we finish here," he said, voice lower now, lacking the earlier booming triumph.
Deacon's grip tightened once around the pendant again before he forced his hand to relax, in fear that he might worsen the cracks.
He nodded and lowered his head a little, staying still as Bjorn set the tub of salve on the counter and picked up a wet cloth. The cloth was cool when it touched the back of his scalp, wiping away the blood that had been trailing down his neck, before Bjorn shifted to start wrapping gauze around Deacon's ribs.
The silence that settled between them wasn't awkward — just heavy. The kind of quiet you get when there's too much to talk about, and neither of you wants to break the silence.
"Who was watching with you?" Deacon asked after a moment. The question didn't come from curiosity so much as the fact that it had been sitting there in his head the entire time; ever since he'd seen the overturned chairs and half-finished glasses by the holo-table.
Bjorn didn't answer right away — not because he was avoiding it, but because he was tilting Deacon's head forward, fingers parting his hair to expose the gash. The salve stung sharply when it hit, a bright, biting pain that ran across his scalp and down his spine.
Deacon's shoulders twitched, jaw tightening, until the burn dulled into a cold, distant throb.
"Your fellow Blades," Bjorn answered, finally. "Nora and Finn." He didn't bother dressing it up with introductions or explanations, because Deacon would end up getting to know them sooner or later. "Nora was the one who made the Flesh Puppet you fought, while Finn was the one controlling it. They left after you killed the thing — Nora went back to her lab to do whatever it is she does when left unsupervised, and Finn stormed off because you managed to beat his ass in skill alone."
"Flesh Puppet?" Deacon repeated, the term sitting oddly in his mouth. His mind was still sluggish, hazy around the edges, but he'd heard something close enough to it before, and his thoughts moved toward it automatically. "Don't you mean Flesh Golem? I fought a couple on Floor Two. But they weren't—" he paused, mouth thinning faintly as he remembered how he killed Flesh Golems on Floor Two, the Goth Mommy Floor. "—they weren't like this. At all."
Bjorn gave a low grunt of amusement — not mean-spirited, just confirming. "And how did you find those ones compared to the one you just defeated?" he asked as he shifted behind Deacon, his hands hovering for a moment before pressing firmly along the ridge of Deacon's shoulder blade to apply salve there as well.
"They only looked like the people they were copying," Deacon said, trying to keep his voice level even as the salve made his spine twitch. "They just spammed the skills and techniques of the people they copied, but they didn't know how or when to properly apply them… The one I just defeated wasn't like them at all."
"Mm," Bjorn exhaled, his tone carrying approval. "Correctamundo," he said, giving a pointed glance over his shoulder to the holo-table where the image of the limb-severed corpse still lay, "that right there is what we called a Flesh Puppet – something entirely different than a Flesh Golem."
He dipped his head slightly as he continued. "Difference being tha' Golems are alive by System standards. They've got a soul tethered, just like you, me, and everyone else here. When you kill one, the System acknowledges the kill, gives you XP for killing it. They, flesh puppets, are bodies just like that of a homunculus, a body without a soul. As such, they don't give System Notifications when killed because, as far as the Tower is concerned, you didn't kill anything."
Bjorn finished the last of the salve, put the lid back on the tin, and began wrapping the bandages around Deacon's ribs, working with practiced efficiency.
Deacon absorbed the explanation, his jaw tightening faintly as the healing salve began its work and the deeper aches in his muscles started to settle.
"There's a lot about this place that you're only going to learn up here," Bjorn said after a moment, securing the final knot and moving to wrap Deacon's left shoulder. "Most of the stuff that you learned below in the academy is half-cocked and practically the bare minimum – both due to System limitations on the Lower Floors and by propaganda." He pulled the bandage taut, not enough to hurt, but enough that it made Deacon furrow his brows briefly. "But, now that you're part of my Knight Order and are able to climb the Tower, I can begin teaching you in full with the five months we have."
"Your Order?" Deacon repeated.
Bjorn barked a laugh so sudden and rough it sounded like metal being struck. "Fucking hell, Deke— you're more exhausted than I thought," he said, shaking his head once as if to clear smoke before reaching for something on the tray he'd set aside earlier. He held out the small red pill between two fingers. "Here, take this Blood Pill."
Deacon blinked once, trying to place the pill's color, and failed. "What—"
Bjorn rolled right over him with the explanation, because he'd clearly anticipated the confusion. "Don't worry, it works on us. I had an alchemist friend use my blood as the base so your body recognizes it and synthesizes it properly. It won't be like those other ones you took when you still thought you were human. This one'll work as intended. And," he added, almost as an afterthought, "it'll wake you up like you just drank a mega-mug of coffee."
Deacon didn't question further; he didn't have the energy to, if he was being honest, and just popped the pill into his mouth and swallowed it.
The effects hit like a hammer to the sternum.
He felt it start in his chest, a warm weight spreading through his bloodstream as if fresh blood was being pushed into every vein at once.
Just after, he could hear his heart beat, once, then again, before settling into a loud, driving rhythm he could hear in his ears – like a stampede of horses, he mused to himself.
"…that's better," Deacon exhaled, the words leaving him slow as his head cleared, not all at once, but enough that the haze receded and his senses returned to him properly for the first time since the fight.
Bjorn nodded once with a small, satisfied grin as he circled Deacon, checking that none of the bandages were spotting with red — which would have meant he had either missed a cut or under-salved a bruise.
When he was satisfied, he leaned back against the edge of the holo-table, arms crossed, the projection of the trial room casting a faint blue flicker over the scars across his jaw and left cheek.
"I am," he said simply, "the Grandmaster of the Sovereign Blades."
Deacon stared at him, not because he didn't believe it, but because suddenly far too much of his life made sense and yet still felt unreal. "Really. You're not bullshitting me?" he asked, voice still rough but now more alert than before.
Bjorn snorted, amused. "I'm not."
"I mean," Deacon continued, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the Serpent Pendant, "I suspected you were connected to the Sovereign Blades, with the way you kept pushing me to train with multiple weapons. Pushed me to keep pushing myself to my limits with how fluid I can be in transitioning from weapon to weapon. I thought maybe you served with them as another Blade. Not…" he gestured vaguely at him, "not as its Grandmaster."
"It's the truth," Bjorn said, and the way he said it wasn't prideful — it was just fact.
Deacon's expression shifted, excitement flickering into something softer for a brief second before Bjorn's face changed, something pulling across it like a shadow that stretched from behind his eyes rather than across the skin.
His gaze lingered on Deacon's face.
"…you remind me so much of your mother and father," Bjorn said, and the tone of his voice stripped the room bare of the earlier levity, leaving a heavy wave of nostalgia roll off of him.
Deacon glanced down, just for a moment, the pendant warm against his palm, his thumb pressing into the groove where the metal had cracked.
"Why?" he asked, voice low now, not rough with exhaustion but something heavier. "Why do you think they abandoned me?"
Bjorn remained quiet and stared at Deacon for a long moment before pushing himself off the holo-table and dragging a second stool forward to sit in front of him, their knees nearly touching.
"They didn't want to," Bjorn said, and there was no hesitation there, no wavering. "Gods, it killed them to do it. But they didn't have a choice."
"Things back then weren't good…" He exhaled slowly, gaze dropping to the floor, jaw tensing once before he looked back at Deacon's slit-orange eyes. "… Hell, they still aren't," he chuckled humorlessly.
"What things?" Deacon asked, and Bjorn didn't respond.
"Uncle Bjorn." Deacon pushed. "You said the next time we saw each other, you'd tell me. This is next time."
Bjorn's jaw shifted once, a small, reluctant movement, before he let out a slow breath through his nose. "Me and my big mouth," he muttered silently to himself.
"It started right around when you were born," he said.
His eyes met Deacon's directly.
"Three hundred and twelve years ago."
End of Act I