Eon: Time Soldier

The Past, Present and Future have crashed together in a chaotic tangle of time and space. Our world is called Eon, no longer the Earth that the we once knew. In the midst of it all, wizards, warriors, and worgans hold a deadly tournament of magic, blood, and weaponry to determine the strongest Time Soldier every three years.


2. Tournament

Sleek was breathless, his lungs searing from the burning sunlight that pounded the dry, caked ground of the arena. It was open air, so the atmosphere threatened to burn at anytime, piercing into Sleek's olive skin. His hair was matted with sweat, but he wasn't going to give up so easily. The worgan on the other side of the arena was observing him, its attentive eyes scanning the boy that lay, worn out, on the sandy ground.

Sleek scowled. He didn't have enough energy to stand up, the previous attack had left him stunned from the waist down. He looked around, sweat dripping from the ends of his matted hair. The crowd was tensed, on the edge of their seats just waiting for the worgan to obliterate him. The air hummed.

The worgan was taking steady steps back towards him, and Sleek's mind raced for an answer. Anything that could prevent him from being scorched meat. The sword he had used for fighting was flung far towards another corner of the hexagonal arena, and Sleek knew he didn't have any chance of getting it at this point.

There was only one thing left to do.

He tried to ignore the searing pain on his back, the terrible ache that was urging his mind to give up and Sleek breathed. Deep. The dry air filled his lungs and he forced his eyes close, using only his ears to track the progress of the worgan approaching him.

One. Click. Two. Click. Three. Click. Four. Click. Five. Click.

There was a soft mechanical hum as the worgan's weapon fired up, the small blaster that was installed into its wrist area. Sleek's fist tightened until his nails dug into his skin, close to drawing blood. The familiar tingle ran down Sleek's spine, a sudden chill from the burning air.


The laser hummed, the sound building up as the worgan raised its weapon, aiming it at the boy's head.


Sleek's eyelids jerked apart just as the click sounded and he flung his arm out, splaying his fingers so that the palm faced the worgan. For a moment Sleek was afraid that it hadn't worked, that he would die like this, in the barren arena, hundreds of eyes mocking his weakness.

Then it happened.

The bullet slowed against an invisible force, gravity seeming to form a dome around the tip was almost touching Sleek's open palm. It seemed to be suspended in midair, then it wavered and fell to the ground, the deadly force gone from the object. It lay on the ground, useless, a mere piece of metal.

The worgan's glowing eyes stared emotionless at the bullet, then it cocked it head, raising its unnerving gaze at Sleek. It started to speak as Sleek tightened his fist again at the worgan, feeling the phantom sensation of the neck. The worgan was lifted off the ground, its limbs jerking as its system was being torn apart by sheer force. Its mechanical voice still audible as its last words repeated on a loop. With a burst of energy Sleek closed his fist completely, watching as the worgan reacted, its head popping off its neck hinge as the rest of the body fell to the sandy ground, creating a puff of the unpleasant sand.

The crowd was silent. Then a single clap.
And the audience cheered.

Even as Sleek strode out of the arena and back into the shade of the exit compound, the worgan's words rang in his mind.

You are still not victorious, wizard.

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