Selta Bloodline and The living tank

In the heart of a vast, misty forest, the dawn light filtered through the towering trees, casting long, golden shadows on the forest floor. Cavanaught and his three brothers—Roderic, Belmar, and Thorne—walked side by side, their massive great swords strapped across their backs. They were a formidable sight: four young men, each as tall and broad-shouldered as the next, their muscles honed by years of training. Today, however, they were not hunting or training. They were here to enjoy the serenity of nature, the scent of damp earth, and the songs of the birds in the canopy above.

Cavanaught, at seventeen, was the youngest but perhaps the most reflective of the group. His gaze swept across the forest with a quiet reverence, savoring the peaceful morning. The four brothers shared an unspoken bond, born not just of family but of something far deeper—something in their blood.

The Selta bloodline.

Their father had been a legendary warrior, blessed with the power of the Selta blood, a gift—and a curse—of ancient origins. It made them more than human. As their rage grew, so too did their strength, their senses, and their resilience. When they fought together, it was as if their minds were one, each brother anticipating the others’ moves, moving with seamless precision. But for all the power their bloodline granted, only one among them would fully inherit it. The others would live in its shadow.

As they walked, the ground trembled beneath their feet, a faint rumbling that caused the birds to fall silent and the wind to still. Thorne, the eldest of the brothers, paused, his hand instinctively gripping the hilt of his sword.

"Something's coming," he murmured, his voice low but tense.

Suddenly, from the depths of the forest, a monstrous figure emerged—a towering beast of steel and fury. It stood three times taller than Cavanaught, its body gleaming like polished iron under the morning sun. It was the Steel Bull, a creature of legend. Its horns, long and razor-sharp, jutted forward as it snorted, steam billowing from its nostrils. Though the Steel Bull was known to be a rare and reluctant attacker, they had wandered too close to its territory, and now it felt threatened.

The ground shook as the bull pawed the earth, its glowing red eyes locking onto the brothers.

"Steel Bull," Roderic whispered, his voice laced with awe and dread. "It takes an army to bring one down."

But the Selta blood burned within them, and fear was not in their nature. Without a word, the brothers unsheathed their great swords in perfect unison, the metal singing as it slid free. They spread out, forming a loose circle around the beast, each brother's face set in calm determination, their rage tightly controlled beneath their skin.

Cavanaught's heart raced, but his face remained calm. He could feel the Selta power stirring, his muscles tightening with raw strength. His brothers, too, were ready, their minds in perfect sync with his. Together, they would fight as one.

The Steel Bull roared and charged, its massive hooves tearing into the earth as it lunged at Cavanaught. In a blur of movement, he sidestepped, his sword flashing as it struck the bull’s armored hide. The impact reverberated through his arms, but the blade did not penetrate. The steel hide was as tough as they had feared.

"Go for the legs!" Belmar shouted, leaping to the side and driving his sword downward. The brothers converged, their massive swords cutting through the air with precision and force. Each strike was aimed with deadly purpose, exploiting every weakness in the bull's defense.

For hours, they fought. The bull thrashed and charged, its fury unchecked, but the Selta blood gave the brothers the endurance and strength to match it. With each passing moment, their rage grew, fueling their power. And yet, their faces remained calm, their emotions hidden beneath the surface.

Finally, with a mighty swing of his sword, Thorne brought his blade down on the Steel Bull’s exposed neck. The enchanted metal cut deep, and the beast let out one final, thunderous roar before collapsing to the ground with a tremor that shook the forest.

Breathing heavily, Cavanaught wiped the sweat from his brow. The Steel Bull was dead.

The brothers stood around the fallen creature, its massive form gleaming in the dappled sunlight. Its meat, hide, and bones were valuable beyond measure, enough to make any man rich. But wealth had never been their goal. They were already rich beyond need, their family’s fortune secure. Still, the thrill of the battle and the honor of the hunt had brought them something far more valuable: the proof of their strength, their bond, and the power of the Selta blood that coursed through their veins.

"Shall we try the meat?" Belmar grinned, nudging Cavanaught. "Might as well see what all the fuss is about."

Cavanaught laughed, his mood lightening. "Why not? After a fight like that, we’ve earned it."

And so, they began to carve the Steel Bull, knowing that while its parts could fetch a fortune, they would keep the hide and meat for themselves—a trophy of a victory that would become yet another legend of the Selta bloodline.

After a long and thrilling night in the forest, the four brothers awoke to the crisp morning air. The remnants of the Steel Bull lay nearby, its meat roasted to perfection over their campfire, a meal like no other. They had feasted, laughed, and celebrated their victory deep into the night. But now, with the sun rising, it was time to head back.

Cavanaught and his brothers packed up camp, slinging their great swords across their backs once more. They set off toward the city, walking side by side, their conversation light and filled with fond memories of their shared journey. The city wasn’t far, a half-day’s walk through the forest and past the rolling hills. When they arrived, they spent the afternoon together, visiting familiar haunts, exchanging stories, and enjoying the rare moment of brotherhood.

Yet, as always, the pull of solitude soon set in. It was a trait of the Selta bloodline, the need to be alone, to reflect and to grow stronger in isolation. One by one, the brothers parted ways. Roderic headed for the eastern barracks, where he trained knights in the art of swordsmanship. Belmar wandered toward the quiet, secluded libraries where his love of ancient texts consumed his time. Thorne disappeared without a word, as was his way, his path always a mystery, even to his brothers.

Cavanaught, however, knew exactly where he needed to be.

He made his way back to Selta territory, a region known for its towering bastion, an awe-inspiring structure that seemed to pierce the heavens. The bastion was surrounded by a sprawling village, filled with homes, forges, training grounds, and schools. This was not just any territory—it was a place where swordsmanship, magic, and knowledge were taught at the highest level. It was here that his father, Blindtor, ran the prestigious Selta Academy, the very heart of their bloodline’s legacy.

The academy was the primary source of their family’s wealth and influence, drawing students from across the land to learn from the best. Blindtor, once a fearsome warrior in his own right, now presided over the academy as its headmaster. His reputation alone brought hundreds of students each year, eager to learn the ways of the Selta bloodline, even though few could ever hope to match its full power.

Cavanaught entered the bastion, its towering walls casting long shadows over him. The halls were familiar, the echoes of steel against steel from the training grounds ringing in the distance. He made his way to his father’s office, where Blindtor often sat surrounded by maps, ancient scrolls, and the academy’s meticulous records.

Pushing open the door, Cavanaught found Blindtor seated at his desk, reviewing what appeared to be the academy’s latest admissions.

Blindtor glanced up and smiled warmly. “Welcome back, Cavanaught.”

“I’m back, Father,” Cavanaught said with a slight bow.

“Did anything of interest happen on your journey?” Blindtor asked, leaning back in his chair, his sharp eyes studying his son with curiosity.

Cavanaught recounted the tale of the Steel Bull, describing the battle in vivid detail. Blindtor listened in silence, his smile growing as the story unfolded.

"That’s my boy," Blindtor said, pride in his voice when the story ended. “A rare feat indeed. Few can claim to have slain a Steel Bull, and fewer still with the ease you and your brothers did.”

Cavanaught felt the warmth of his father’s praise settle over him like a cloak. It wasn’t often that Blindtor expressed such open admiration, and it felt good to hear.

After leaving his father’s office, Cavanaught sought out his closest friend, Aiden. Aiden was a towering figure, even taller and more muscular than Cavanaught, his size a testament to years of rigorous training. The two had been friends for as long as Cavanaught could remember, and despite their differences, they had always shared a mutual respect and understanding.

Cavanaught found Aiden in the training yard, as usual, lifting a massive stone weight over his head with ease. His muscles rippled with every movement, and Cavanaught couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy. Though he was strong—exceptionally so—his leaner frame was a source of frustration. He had always admired Aiden’s bulk and often wondered how he could achieve it for himself.

“Aiden!” Cavanaught called out, waving.

Aiden set down the weight and grinned, walking over to greet his friend. “Back already? How was the trip?”

Cavanaught launched into the tale of the Steel Bull, recounting every detail as Aiden listened with wide eyes and a smile of admiration. When he finished, Aiden clapped him on the back.

“Impressive, as always,” Aiden said. “But you look like you could use some meat on those bones. You’re still too lean.”

“I’ve told you before,” Cavanaught chuckled, “I’m trying to get bigger, but no matter what I do, I can’t seem to bulk up like you.”

Aiden shook his head. “It’s not that you’re not trying hard enough. It’s your low body fat. You’ve got the strength—you just carry it differently. But if you’re serious about training, I’ll help you. We’ll start today.”

Cavanaught smiled. “That’s exactly what I need.”

Together, they spent the rest of the day in the training yard, pushing each other to the limit, their friendship and rivalry fueling their efforts. Cavanaught admired Aiden’s size and power, but he also knew that his own strength was something else entirely—something tied to the Selta bloodline.

For now, though, the bond of brotherhood and friendship was all he needed.

Aiden's journey began in the harshest way possible. At the tender age of ten, he had no parents, no family, and no place to call home. He was sold into slavery, a common fate for many orphaned children, but his life took an even darker turn when he was purchased by a man who trained young boys to fight in brutal arenas for entertainment.

The man who bought Aiden wasn't cruel in the traditional sense, but he saw Aiden as little more than a tool—a future fighter who could bring him glory and wealth. Aiden was thrust into the world of swordsmanship with barely any idea of what was happening. His days were filled with grueling training sessions, wielding a sword that felt far too large for his small frame. But Aiden had no choice but to endure. He was not alone, though. Among the other slaves, there were fighters who had been in the arena for years, veterans of the brutal battles, and they treated Aiden with kindness. They were his only solace in a life filled with violence. They trained with him, taught him techniques, and looked out for him as best they could.

When it came time for Aiden's first battle, he was terrified. His opponent was a twenty-two-year-old man, a newcomer to the arena but still much older and more experienced than Aiden. The fight was short. Aiden was swiftly defeated, his small body no match for the strength and skill of the man. He was left bloodied and bruised, his wounds deep enough to leave scars. It was a harsh introduction to the life of an arena fighter.

Among the fighters in Aiden’s group was a man named Devyn, a towering champion who seemed almost invincible. Devyn was legendary in the arena, a fighter who had never lost. He was strong, fast, and fought with the precision of a seasoned warrior. Aiden looked up to him, not just because of his skills but because Devyn always had a calm, confident demeanor. He rarely spoke, but when he did, his words carried weight. He treated the younger fighters with respect, and in Aiden's eyes, he was a hero.

One day, Aiden found himself teamed up with Devyn and another fighter in a team battle. Their opponents were seasoned fighters, but Devyn took them down with ease, as though he were a one-man army. Aiden was in awe, watching Devyn move through the fight like a force of nature. It was the first time Aiden truly understood what it meant to be a warrior. He promised himself that one day, he would fight like Devyn.

For half a year, Aiden trained relentlessly. He learned to wield his sword with more skill and precision. With each battle, he grew stronger and more confident, slowly climbing his way up the ranks. He even learned how to fight beasts, like lions, wolves, and bears. But one day, something changed.

It was a team battle again, and this time, Aiden and Devyn faced off against a creature far beyond anything Aiden had ever seen before—a wolf known as Manace. It wasn’t just a beast; it was a terror. Manace was unlike any other wolf in the arena, a creature of terrifying intelligence and strength, its eyes glowing with a menacing, otherworldly light.

The battle was fierce from the start. Aiden and the other fighter were quickly overpowered, the wolf’s claws and fangs tearing through them with brutal efficiency. Aiden fell, severely injured, struggling to stand, but he couldn’t summon the strength to continue. He lay there, watching as Devyn fought the wolf alone. Devyn, as always, stood his ground, fighting with the skill and precision that had made him a legend. But Manace was different. The wolf was relentless, its attacks quick and vicious.

For thirteen long minutes, Devyn held his ground. But in the end, even he couldn’t withstand the wolf’s power. The wolf struck a final, devastating blow, and Devyn fell to the ground, blood pouring from his wounds. Aiden could only watch, helpless, as his hero bled out before him. When it was over, and the wolf had retreated, Aiden stared at Devyn’s lifeless body for what felt like an eternity, tears streaming down his face. Devyn, the unbeatable champion, was dead.

The death of Devyn marked the beginning of the end for Aiden's owner. The arena fighters began to suffer mysterious illnesses, their strength fading. Rumors of sabotage spread through the arena camps—poison, betrayal, and dark dealings that would eventually lead to the owner’s downfall. Soon, the man who had bought and trained Aiden was bankrupt, his fighters either dead, sick, or gone.

At fourteen, Aiden saw no future in the arena. He escaped, running as far as his legs could carry him, leaving the world of blood and steel behind. He wandered for hours, stumbling through forests and fields, trying to put as much distance between himself and his old life as possible. But he had nowhere to go. He was a runaway slave, and if caught, he would face a terrible punishment.

It was during this aimless wandering that he first met Cavanaught. Deep in the forest, Aiden stumbled upon a boy his own age. Cavanaught was different—his cold, emotionless expression stood in stark contrast to Aiden’s desperation. Aiden tried to talk to him, but Cavanaught remained silent, barely acknowledging his presence.

Undeterred, Aiden told him his story—the brutal life of the arena, his fights, his victories, and the loss of his mentor, Devyn. After a while, Cavanaught finally spoke, his voice cold but not unkind.

“So you fought in the arena? That’s cool.”

Aiden, relieved that Cavanaught had finally broken his silence, asked for help. He had no home, no family, and nowhere to go. To his surprise, Cavanaught agreed to help him. He brought Aiden back to the Selta territory and introduced him to his father, Blindtor, who, after hearing Aiden’s story, granted him shelter and protection.

From that day forward, Aiden and Cavanaught became close friends. They trained together, sharing a bond forged in battle and hardship. When they both turned fifteen, they entered the Selta Academy together, where Aiden discovered that while he was skilled with a sword, he truly excelled when wielding a large shield alongside it. The shield became his signature, allowing him to defend and strike with equal precision.

And so, Aiden’s path was set, not as a slave or an arena fighter, but as a warrior of the Selta Academy, standing by the side of his friend, Cavanaught.

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