Metrics Of Ragnarok

Small Preparations

It didn't have anything to do with the preparations; it had to do with something greater.

Atlas blinked to ensure that he wasn't seeing through the lens of sleep deprivation. He wasn't.

A few metres away, certain patches of snow looked less bright, like the beams of light couldn't shower upon it adequately enough.

He had seen this phenomenon before, and after that, he saw the death of over four thousand men.

"Good morning, lieutenant," said Kael, passing by.

He had always been quick to accept Atlas' presence, no matter how awkward and secluded it tends to become over Logs.

"Morning," Atlas replied, bitterness underneath the greeting.

Kael was his cousin, although not biologically, since he had been adopted by Atlas' uncle when he was six.

Six was a long time ago, and Kael didn't remember him from that past.

In less than twenty-four hours, the MacMillan would put their expertise to the test, so now was a perfect time to prep his fighting gear and unwind his muscles with a dull spar.

The wooden plate that had been shattered by the MacMillan was now in pristine condition.

'Well, probably not pristine. Nothing is.'

One would go into the back of his fishnet vest, and another in the front.

His other equipment was pretty much the same, so he decided he had had enough of organising stuff and left it for a random kingdom guard to do.

He walked towards the sparring Xhosa, and they stopped and saluted slightly. He nodded.

"Anyone want to spar with me? Spartan's rules."

A kingdom guard expressed interest almost immediately. They hadn't seen him survive the past blizzard all night, so they still assumed that he was a lieutenant by favouritism.

Atlas chuckled inwardly as he wordlessly invited the guard to the centre of the human circle that had grown twice as dense since he entered.

The guard was a corporal, as his fishnet vest denoted by its silver markings, and he was almost a head taller than Atlas, with a lot of exposed muscles. He was the epitome of a prime build, and it explained why he thought he could defeat Atlas in hand-to-hand combat.

Atlas was quite happy. If he made his win look effortless, he would gain his lost reputation again, among the kingdom guards too.

And if he died tomorrow, he would lose it all again.

A spar by Spartan's rules was quite simple. Two opponents would enter a circle they could not leave, with either spears and shields or bare-handed, and fight till one opponent had his back hit the ground. There were no submissions or restrictions as to where they could be hit, just this one regulation.

They both took stances. Atlas looked aloof and calm, and so did the guard's own, although the latter's was a facade.

"Commence!" said Matthew with as much guttural pressure as he could muster.

The guard rushed forward with tightened fists, swinging for Atlas' side.

This was a common tactic used in the Spartans' game, aiming to damage the opponent's pivot, so in the event of falling, they wouldn't be able to switch from back to chest.

Atlas blocked, plunging his elbow down to meet at the point of impact, as he planted his farther foot firmly to prevent himself from skidding.

The strike left the guard open for a quick counter, but he didn't take it. He would show some mercy to disgrace the corporal.

The guard reset, throwing his fist even faster at Atlas' head. Atlas ducked and pounded against his elbow as the man swung by, paralysing his arm for a moment.

Before the moment was up, Atlas bridged the short distance and shot his arm forward like a loaded spring released, smashing into the guard's side.

The corporal staggered. His smirk turned into a worried twitch, but it was too late to retreat. The only way to leave was to fall on his back, and he refused to voluntarily inflict disgrace upon himself.

He rushed forward again, having his left hand hover around his chest to protect from counters, but the unfamiliar stance lowered the force his punch came with, and Atlas was able to catch it, albeit with both hands.

He dragged the corporal close and threw him over his back with fluidity.

The guard twisted midair and landed partly straight, with wobbling balance. Before he got hold of himself, Atlas kicked forward, striking his kneecap to the left.

He attempted to distance himself, but the dislocation forced him to be unable to, dropping him to one knee.

Now Atlas was taller than he was.

Atlas watched and waited for the guard to try to rise to his feet and fail. That wasn't a good sign, but he didn't care.

Most likely this man would not be involved in the battle with the MacMillan tomorrow, so Atlas had no qualms about making him bedridden for a week, for the disrespect in his actions.

He took a bouncing step back and threw a kick just as he landed, so quickly that the guard was unable to even attempt the block.

Atlas' boot smashed him across his face, shifting his nose by maybe two centimetres.

He fell, but on his side.

"Get up," Atlas said, dryly.

The corporal nodded and pushed, climbing the cold air to his feet. He had already lost, but he couldn't lose his masculine pride too.

He looked up and met Atlas' boot to his face, pushing his neck thirty degrees out of the upright position.

He capitalised on the momentum, pushing back into a cartwheel and stretching his leg out in hopes of connecting with Atlas' jaw.

Atlas nimbly skipped back, dodging the attempt and amusedly watching the guard fall face flat.

But the fun was over; people needed to get back to their tasks.

He grabbed the guard and struggled inwardly to raise him and make it look effortless, then he launched his knee at the corporal's gut.

The muscles would tighten immediately after as they struggled to deal with the pain, and during that period, Atlas flipped him over and let his back land on the ground.

Silence filled the circle, broken by the harsh breezes.

"... good spar. I'll speak to Achilles on your behalf about a little promotion."

Of course it was sarcasm, and it worked perfectly. Everyone– that was a kingdom guard– was looking at him with shock as he left the circle.

Even the Xhosa members acknowledged, although they had expected nothing less from someone that Achilles had endorsed.

He walked away and prepared his mind for tomorrow, a day that was coming all too soon...

***

Gerrard shifted his position a bit and stared from his iron mark for a second longer.

"No movement, lieutenant."

Atlas winced...