Faith is Earned 2, page 1
Faith is Earned
Book 2
Nemo Blanc
Copyright © 2025 Nemo Blanc
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN-13: 9781234567890
ISBN-10: 1477123456
Cover design by: Art Painter
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Books In This Series
Books By This Author
Chapter 1
The colosseum shimmered as the morning light poured through the gauze of layered enchantments, each hue drifting and dissolving in slow kaleidoscopic veils, pinks fading to golds, violets to blue smoke, until nothing could be seen clearly unless you looked with stillness in your bones. The obsidian floor, matte and rippled like dark ash cooled by centuries, had been divided into five radiant sectors, each bordered by a banner color and the slow glow of glyphs that pulsed beneath the surface like molten veins. Here, too many magics had lived and died; the ground itself remembered every oath, every scream.
Behind velvet-roped archways, the competitors waited, each group marked by a single band of cloth wound tight around biceps or armor straps. Crimson. Sapphire. Emerald. Umber. Pearl. The colors pulsed once in the morning haze, then went still.
Luke stood silent as he tightened the last strap of his chainmail. It didn’t gleam anymore; the polish had worn away through training and prayer and pain, until the metal caught only enough light to show its use. A faint trail of incense lingered on it. It wasn’t from sanctity, but from memory, from the moments before morning when he’d knelt alone and whispered for clarity in place of victory. Beside him, Clef spun one baton through his fingers, adjusting the angle of a sash that never stayed centered no matter how often he twisted it. His other hand was already tapping rhythms into the air, the start of music no one else could hear. The air between them held the kind of stillness you don’t notice until it ends.
Above them, Lessie appeared, rising, drawn upward by the prism-stage at the colosseum’s heart. Its corners cut light into segments, shimmering as if reality had been hung from threads of spellwork. Her golden tassel cloak rippled in long gestures behind her as she raised a single hand and summoned silence, command through presence alone. Around the arena, voices stilled, then breath, then even the murmur of Faith.
Behind her, five illusory pyres flared into being, each a tongue of fire the size of a tree, shaped into faceless warriors bearing different weapons. They were still, but they burned with the suggestion of movement. Lessie didn’t look at them. Her eyes swept the crowd, the fighters, the sky, and then, in a voice loud enough to touch bone, she spoke.
“Five groups, chosen by draw, twenty in each. You know the rules, one hour and then that’s it. When the bell tolls again, the fight is over. If you are still standing, your group still stands. If not, you’re done. Only the three groups with the most left standing advance, no second chances, no appeals.”
She was acting tough now, part and parcel of a referee, so different than before.
“There are no walls to separate you. The entire arena is yours. Fight where you wish, ally if you dare, but know this. Friendship, here, can be advantage or downfall.”
She flicked her fingers and one drop of light fell from the tip and burst into a wave that washed outward through the entire floor, striking each armband and causing it to glow. Red. Blue. Green. Brown. White.
“Know your allies and know yourself.”
Then, with the final rise of her voice, sharp as a bell made of stormlight.
“Champions. Step forward into history.”
And the banners fell.
Group 1 stepped first, disciplined, quiet, every spear held in identical formation and Luke could see which Faith composed the majority of that group. Xot led them, but he didn’t look to the crowd, their chants being for more than show. They moved as though the fight had already begun.
Group 2 followed, less solemn, more sinew than metal. The warriors bore scars like scripture and moved with an elegance born of too much war, too little time. Masha walked at their center, two blades across her back, but her eyes were only for the sand.
Group 3 entered without pageantry. Luke took the lead, Clef half a step behind. Their companions, a mismatched set of half-faithful and wandering believers, walked as if unsure whether they’d been chosen or sentenced. One bore a staff that trembled slightly as he walked. One whispered prayers to a name a bit weird, judging by the looks they were receiving.
I have the worst fucking luck.
Group 4 came next, clinical, eyes always moving. They spoke in half-gestures and mirrored movements, bows already half-drawn, one tactical-looking [Mage] trailing glyphs with his fingers as he walked. They too looked less at their opponents and more at angles of combat.
Group 5 brought noise. Roars, jeers, half-fighting among themselves as they stepped onto the field. One man threw an axe straight into the air and caught it on his shoulder with a howl. A woman spat fire. Whether it was Skill or Spell, no one asked.
The gong didn’t ring so much as vibrate through every inch of the colosseum, shaking light from the glyphs and sand from the upper walls. In its echo, the arena exploded.
Group 1 drove forward, curving wide around the outer edge, spears raised in perfect arcs. They met Group 5 halfway. For a moment it looked like madness, axes spinning, fire crackling along gauntlets, but the spears didn’t stop. They moved like a tide, precise, timed, driving into the heart of chaos with all the cold conviction of trained devotion. Flames shattered on their wall, roars became choked gurgles and group 5 began falling piece by piece, every wild swing caught in a spearpoint net.
At least Xot looks like he’s enjoying himself.
Near the center, Group 2 met Group 4 in a dance too fast for most to track. Arrows arced in patterns above the battlefield, raining light with tips that sparked fire on contact. Group 2 didn’t dodge, they flowed. Masha’s circle split and twisted, dodging three bolts with one ripple of motion, then sliding in close. Blades met bows. The Tactics Faith, Luke realized, [Mage] threw a glyph outward, a burst of blinding light that staggered three fighters, but Masha didn’t flinch. She spun low and flung her javelin at the sound of the spell. It caught the glyph-slinger in the shoulder and then her second blade was in her hand.
Group 4 began to fracture.
Luke watched from across the battlefield, his eyes noting the closest threat, but flicking to the patterns. Done with his first fight, Xot and his own advanced again and he saw him cutting down a fury-slick brute with one upward strike. Saw Masha twirl through a trio of foes and leave them gasping. Saw his own group, Group 3, holding too close, too tense. They had no formation, only instinct. Still, he moved to the front.
I can’t allow them to get knocked out. If they lose, I lose.
One of the fighters beside him raised a hand in prayer. Another clenched a hilt. Clef, two steps to the left, grinned like a lunatic and stepped into the path of a charging [Sword Singer]. His body twisted once, faked a stumble, then dropped low and let the twin blades swing wide before he rose into a headbutt and jabbed with the blunt end of a baton. The sword dancer reeled, fell, tried to rise, and Clef kicked sand in his face before ducking away.
Laughter rippled through their group. Then came the charge.
From Group 4’s edge, a [Flame Arrow] traced the air. Luke stepped forward and summoned his shield, a beam of light shaped by Faith. It bloomed into being just in time to catch the blast. A soft roar. The shield flickered, dimmed, and held.
Clef darted past him, throwing barbs behind like flower petals. Taunts, challenges.
“Is this all you got, dickheads? Or are you saving your strength for when your [Priests] take you in for a ‘private confession’ ?”
The next strike came from the side, a curved blade that missed Clef’s chest by an inch before he twisted backward in a spiral of improbability. One fighter cursed. Another tried to follow and was gone when Luke stepped forward with sword drawn and the divine edge of a [Holy Strike] marked the air.
They held.
Neither perfectly, nor gracefully, but it seemed no one considered them real threats and they were safe for now. Long enough for the scoreboard to flicker to life.
Floating abov
1st – 17
2nd – 18
3rd – 12
4th – 14
5th – 0
Luke exhaled.
Group 5 had been obliterated. Group 1 and 2 were dominant, but his friends…
Are they my friends?
His friends were there. Group 3, his, stood only barely ahead of 4th and that margin would not last.
He could feel the shift in the air. The way the other group, the one just behind, was turning toward them. They wouldn’t attack the strongest, they’d try to eliminate the weakest of the remaining.
“They’ll come for us.”
Clef had already seen it. His arm slung around Luke’s shoulder, eyes sparkling.
“Then we make them fight for it.”
“No. Not with this lot. If we fight, we lose, but…”
He looked toward the edge of the arena, toward where Xot and Masha were beginning to turn from the last fallen bodies and look toward the next phase of the war.
“We don’t have to be the ones fighting? Think we can rile them up a bit?”
“Awww. I thought you’d never ask.”
“COWARDS!”
His Skill flared to life as he roared and even Clef flinched from the sudden turn, from tactical to raging.
“You chase the dying because you couldn’t stand against the strong! Is this the way of your Gods? Is this measure of your FAITH?!”
The words shattered the moment like a bell tolling through glass. [Basic Oratory] surged in his chest, a golden undertone threading through the vowels, binding every eye to him and Luke thought his phrasing might have even made use of his Preaching Skill.
He pointed at the fourth group’s charge, then swept his sword in a half-circle, flames beginning to stir faintly along the blade’s edge. He knew his Skills were being worked to their limit, as he saw in his peripheral view the others in his group standing straighter, a bit of righteous rage entering their spines.
We’re all Faithful here. About time you remembered that.
“You think us broken? You think we’ll kneel? Well, come, then. Break your teeth on the remnants.”
Some of the third group rallied. Not all, but a few stood, shields raised. A blade gleamed. There was the briefest resistance. It wouldn’t last, but Luke didn’t care and he whispered to his friend.
“Clef.”
“Showtime.”
Clef stepped forward as if he’d just tripped. He fell forward, rolled, and popped back up with a smirk. His batons spun as he took one, two steps forward and began yelling.
Well, more than yelling. [Trash Talk]. Divine-grade mockery.
“I spy with my little eye… a bunch of dicks. Yes, you too ladies, you’re like, dicks in spirit. Kind of like how your Gods are only Gods in name. I mean, it’s not my fault I got more hair on my legs than you do on your balls, but man, look at that moustache! Nah, not you man, the lady to your right.”
For a moment, they just stared. Perhaps unbelieving that someone would turn a fight into… whatever this was. But Clef’s faith-mates, up in the stands, started laughing as one, jeering. And that made the insulted truly start to burn on the inside.
“Hey, hey guys, you know how your Gods got made? Panitheos forgot to pull out.”
The effect was immediate. A few of the advancing fourth-group fighters snarled and charged harder, and Luke motioned to the others in his group to go back and be prepared to leg it. Clef’s words didn’t just sting, they cracked the edge of restraint like a hammer on old ice.
Then came the light.
Luke stepped forward and his blade caught the sun. [Radiant Cuts] activated and a line of glowing heat slashed outward, skimming across the shoulder of their first opponent. The man flinched, even though the wound wasn’t deep. Light pulsed in the shallow burn, smoldering.
The man flinched and squared up, preparing for a one-on-one. The others behind him were spreading out, readying themselves. Luke gave them his most superior look. And waved.
“Now!”
He shouted again and this time he grabbed Clef by the shoulder.
They ran, his group-mates running before him and Luke had a hard time yelling out instructions since he also had to half-drag the currently laughing-his-ass-off satyr.
He did manage to guide them straight through the gap left by the fifth group’s earlier slaughter. Smoke still drifted from burned flags and a cracked helm lay embedded in the dirt like a warning. Luke leapt over it, while Clef vaulted clean over a shattered axe-haft, kicking off it mid-air with a flamboyant flourish.
“Dude, did you see their faces?”
“Yes, now hurry up.”
“Spoilsport.”
They ducked and twisted between the broken remnants of the fifth group, half their warriors now groaning on the ground or missing limbs. Xot’s group had done the damage, a spearwall of crimson had moved like a storm, dispassionate and final.
Luke reached them first, Xot’s line only a few meters away. One of the crimson fighters, a tall beastkin with blood still dripping from his curved horns, stepped to block them.
Xot stepped forward, eyes sharp. He didn’t speak, but he did move his hand once. The minotaur stepped in front and made room for them.
Masha’s group was next. Their line wasn’t a wall, it was a circle. Loose, fluid, the edges glimmered with glyphs painted into leather and skin. Her warriors breathed in rhythm, discipline already being their bread and butter. Dance-like.
They couldn’t have known each other before now, couldn’t they?
She’s such a fine battle leader.
An arrow hissed from the side.
Luke raised his off-hand and [Shield of Faith] sparked into being. The arrow curved off course, striking a stone column and shattering, the ripple of golden energy fading in waves.
Masha stood at the rear, arms crossed, gaze sharp. She watched them as they passed, but Luke didn’t slow. He looked at her quickly and saw her give him the smallest nod.
Then they were through.
Behind them, the fourth group surged. A man, rage burning in his throat, pointed his bow forward and barked a wordless command. Ten fighters remained, but all of them followed.
Luke hit the rise between the two leading groups, just ahead of the columns that framed the final battle space.
He jumped and landed on a raised stone meant for banners and spun, sword aloft. His body shone, as he activated [Minor Blessing: Radiance]. Light poured from his skin, from the etchings on his sword, from the faint white aura left behind his steps.
The fighters around him, those in group one and group two, hesitated. Just for a moment, but it was enough. Xot and Masha taking informal leadership roles through sheer force of personality helped, but then again, that had always been the plan.
“Look upon them!”
His voice thundered, shaped by [Basic Oratory] once more.
“They chase the wounded and attack the weakest. Should it have been called strategy, I would have understood it, but it is simple bullying. Faithful of war have forgotten combat and remember only the joy of squabble. Is this what the art of martial prowess has been reduced to? Targeting the weak? Are these truly the Faithful of Gods worth following?”
Luke was bullshitting like never before. He would have done the exact same thing, but he couldn’t just admit that. And it was working, but it needed more, it needed a final push, as he saw Masha glance at Xot, but neither moved yet.
Clef walked calmly past Luke’s pedestal and turned to face the oncoming fourth group. He spun a baton lazily once, then caught it and pointed with exaggerated politeness.
“You suck, your Gods suck and you probably suck at sucking too. Let’s get ‘em!”
That sealed it.
Xot gave a single, sharp nod and his line moved. Spears descended in perfect timing, fanning outward like a divine blade. Masha’s group surged forward, laughter and battle-craze mixing in their war cries.
The fourth group didn’t break at first, to their merit.
They fought and one aimed a shot for Luke, but Luke twisted, body flickering sideways in a blur of speed. [Quick Step]. The arrow missed.
Luke dropped from the pedestal and charged.
The nearest fourth-group fighter raised a blade, as Luke’s own lit with a brief pulse. [Holy Strike] landed, hard, fast, burning. The man dropped his weapon and fell.
