Jim the Groundskeeper [Original Fantasy]

[Metel_Pen]

Emile hit the ground hard, the impact rattling his bones. He rolled, dust pluming up around him, and came up into a crouch with his palms already coated in grit. Sweat stung his eyes, though the fight hadn't even begun. His heart pounded so hard it drowned out the roar of the crowd above.

Immediately, the golem's head jerked toward him. Not a slow turn, not a lazy mechanical sweep — a snap. Sudden. Precise. Its burning red eyes locked on him like twin searchlights cutting through the dust.

Emile's stomach twisted into knots.

Right. What did Jim say?

His mind scrambled, spitting out fragments of advice like frightened birds bursting from a hedge: Keep moving. Watch the ground. Watch the golem. Don't stop. Don't get caught.

He bolted left, boots slipping on the packed dirt, arms pumping for balance. The golem didn't move. Not its arms, not its legs — but its head tracked him perfectly, turning smooth as oil to follow.

Emile's breath caught. Okay. Weird. But maybe it was slow to start? Maybe it only struck once you closed the gap?

He cut right, zigzagging across the pit, dust spraying from his boots. Still nothing. No swing, no lunge. Just those eyes, glowing like embers in a furnace, following him with eerie calm.

He slowed, blinking sweat out of his eyes.

What the hell is going on?

Jim had said it would charge. Had said to "lead it on a merry dance," tire it out, then leg it for the exit. That had been the plan. But this? This thing was waiting.

He paced sideways, feinting left then back right. The golem's head followed, mist curling lazily from its eyes, but its body stayed rooted. Like a statue. Like bait.

Am I doing something wrong?

He jogged the other way, faster now. Still nothing. No roar, no rush of clay and stone. Just watching. Waiting.

"I'm just… running around like a right twat," Emile muttered under his breath, chest heaving. "Any second now, it's gonna lunge and knock me flat like a sodding cork."

The pit felt smaller with every step, the high stone walls pressing in, the heat from the crowd above pressing down. His lungs burned. The golem hadn't taken a single stride, but Emile could feel it on his skin. The weight of its stare. Heavy. Suffocating.

He slowed again, boots dragging, and locked eyes with it.

It hadn't moved. Not fully. But with its arms hanging loose, its massive shoulders hunched, and that vile mist curling from its face, it didn't look like an opponent anymore. It looked like a trap.

A wall of clay and hate, daring him to make the first mistake.

Then his gaze caught on something. A gap. Small, but real. Between its legs — narrow, low, maybe enough. Just maybe.

His stomach turned over.

Alright. New plan.

He crouched, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, trying to summon the courage. Jim's voice echoed in his head: If you go, lad, you don't stop. You don't flinch. You just go.

"Okay… okay," he whispered, teeth clenched. "Fast and low."

He launched forward, boots hammering the dirt in a dead sprint.

The roar of the crowd blurred into silence as his focus tunneled on that narrow space. He dropped low, sliding hard, arms tucked, body angled—

The golem moved.

It came alive with terrifying speed. Not a slow mechanical lurch, but a predator's strike. Its entire frame twisted, red mist pouring from its sockets, and its massive arm swung down in a brutal arc.

"—Oh crap!"

Emile twisted mid-slide, momentum dragging him sideways, dirt and grit tearing at his clothes. The golem's fist smashed into the earth behind him with a sound like thunder, cracking the ground where his spine would've been if he'd been a heartbeat slower.

He rolled, scrambled on hands and knees, and staggered back to his feet. His chest burned, lungs screaming for air, eyes wide with panic.

And out of the corner of his vision, he saw it.

The golem was moving.

Fast. Too fast.

It was already swinging again, faster this time — a low, sweeping strike that could've taken his legs off clean at the knees. Emile leapt backward, boots skidding, his arms flailing for balance. The golem's massive forearm cut through the space where he'd stood a heartbeat ago, and the whoosh of displaced air slapped his skin hard enough to sting.

Shit shit shit, it's faster now!

The golem's torso twisted, runes across its shoulders pulsing crimson, and it swung a third time. Even faster.

The blow missed by inches, but Emile felt the pressure of it. The ground quivered under the weight of its strike, a ripple running through the dirt like an earthquake. Every punch carried enough force to pulp a man where he stood. This wasn't just clay animated by spellwork. No. This thing was angry. Fueled by something darker.

He stumbled back, desperate to create space, lungs dragging ragged air. Jim's voice thundered in his memory: Lead it away. Pull it to the edge, then run for the gap.

"Alright, alright!" Emile wheezed, veering toward the pit's perimeter. He waved his arms wildly, shouting at the top of his lungs.

"Come on, you oversized garden ornament! Over here!"

The golem didn't take the bait.

It didn't lumber after him like Jim said it should. Instead, it simply turned — slow, deliberate — always keeping itself planted between Emile and the exit.

It knows.

The realisation froze his blood. It's not just following me. It's thinking. It's… waiting.

His stomach lurched. He wasn't being tested. He was being hunted.

He staggered, chest heaving, boots grinding dust as he tried to circle again—

Then he heard it.

A heavy thud behind him.

Another figure dropping into the pit.

---

He spun, blinking sweat and grit from his eyes.

Maizel.

She landed light as a feather, her robes flowing like water, her stride already purposeful. Her face was unreadable — no panic, no hesitation, only that cold precision she carried like armour.

Emile's heart kicked. What is she doing?!

She was closer to the exit, well behind the golem. If it was going to target anyone, it should've been her. Logic demanded it.

But it didn't.

The golem's head snapped away from her, those red eyes blazing brighter, mist spilling like blood from a wound. And then — it charged.

At Emile.

What?!

It moved with terrifying intent, like it had made a choice. Not random. Not blind. A decision.

With a roar of stone grinding on stone, it raised its colossal arm and brought it crashing down.

The blow hit the dirt with the weight of a collapsing tower.

BOOM.

The shockwave blasted outward, a storm of dirt and broken stone that slammed into Emile's chest like a cannon. He was hurled back, flat on his spine, the breath blasted from his lungs. Dust blinded him, clogged his throat. He gagged, gasped, clawed at his face, wiping furiously, blindly.

All he could hear were the footsteps.

Thunderous. Relentless. Getting closer.

Closer.

He blinked. Rubbed. Everything was blur and sting—

And then, through the haze, he saw it.

The golem. Towering above him. Its fist rising again, higher, ready to descend like a guillotine.

Emile scrambled backward on hands and heels — and hit cold stone. The pit wall. Hard. Unyielding.

Nowhere to run.

Nowhere to dodge.

His chest heaved. His arms shot up instinctively, pathetic defence against something that could crush him like glass.

And then—

BOOM.

A blinding flash. A sickening crunch. And sudden, absolute silence.

Dust whipped past him in a sudden blast of wind, hot and choking. The ground trembled again — not from a strike, not from a fist, but from something deeper. A collapse.

Emile blinked through the grit, chest heaving, until the haze thinned enough for him to see.

The golem was down.

Flat on its back.

Its head was gone — blown clean off, shattered chunks of clay still raining down in dull thuds across the arena floor. The torso twitched once, runes flickering like dying coals, then went still.

Smoke curled in the air above the ruin. Not grey. Not black. Purple. A haze that shimmered faintly before thinning into nothing.

Emile turned toward the source.

Maizel.

She stood calm and composed, one hand still outstretched, the last wisps of violet energy curling lazily from her fingers like steam off quenched metal. Her eyes found his through the settling dust. Cool. Unreadable. Razor sharp.

She gave the smallest nod. Barely a dip of her chin.

Then — without a word — she turned on her heel and sprinted straight through the exit, robes snapping behind her.

Emile just stared after her.

Stunned. Filthy. Heart pounding. Still alive.

What the hell just happened?

Slowly, his gaze drifted upward toward the observation platform.

Jim stood there, coat snapping in the wind, his face twisted into raw confusion. Brows knotted, jaw set — a man staring at a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

Then Jim's eyes locked with Emile's. And the confusion vanished, replaced by urgency.

He started mouthing something. Hard, sharp movements of his lips.

Emile squinted, trying to make it out.

Jim repeated it, slower this time, stabbing a finger toward the open gate.

Go through the…

Emile blinked.

Then it clicked.

"Go through the fucking exit!"

He staggered to his feet, groaning with every motion, his body sore and battered but unbroken.

And then he ran.

 

[Simonbob]

..... Interesting.

This Maizel is dangerous, yes. But if she's a cultist, why show it off? Just to kill in the contest? But she didn't, and even saved Emile.


So, I don't think she's a cultist. She's something else.

 

[Metel_Pen]

Jim watched as Emile disappeared through the exit — battered, limping, filthy… but alive.

For a moment, his breath caught in his chest. Relief loosened the knot in his gut. Pride flared — sharp and unbidden. And underneath it all… something else.

She saved him.

Jim's eyes slid back to where the golem lay. A crumpled, headless heap of clay and stone, still steaming faintly, the last traces of corrupted heat leaking into the air.

Why?

His jaw clenched. That question, like so many these days, had no easy answer.

Why in the fuck did she save him?

It didn't add up. None of it did.

From the beginning, Maizel had been too clean. Too polished. Her movements precise, her words measured. Always in control. Always one step ahead — or at least looking like it. And now this? Dropping into the pit like a shadow, blasting the head off a corrupted golem without a flinch or a grunt?

And that smoke. That purple haze. That wasn't beginner spellwork. That was sharp. Refined. Lethal.

No panic. No warning. No wind-up. Just one perfect strike and done.

She wasn't a novice. Not even close.

Jim had seen battle magisters before — real ones. Hardened bastards who'd cut their teeth on front lines, their nerves tempered by fire and death. Even they didn't move like that.

She was something else.

But what?

Jim rubbed at his beard, eyes narrowing. The Umbar theory? Maybe. Maybe not. The way the golem ignored her, like it knew exactly who not to cross… that stank of command. Of leash and handler. But then — why save the boy?

If she was Umbar, why drag Emile out of the fire?
And if she wasn't… then what the hell was she doing here at all?

His teeth ground together. Every question led to another. Every thread frayed into more knots. And Jim was tired of questions.

He turned from the balcony at last, coat flapping hard in the rising wind.

First things first.

He needed to see the lad.

Jim found him in the winners' tent.

The place was thick with noise and sweat, forty-odd students crammed inside, most of them bandaged, bruised, or dazed. Some clutched wrapped ankles or cradled splinted arms, their faces pale with exhaustion. Others just sat staring, hollow-eyed, the shock not yet burned out of them.

But they were alive.

All of them.

Jim had checked. Properly. He'd walked the rows, leaned over the healers' shoulders, demanded answers. No deaths. No ruined bodies. A few broken bones, a handful of deep cuts, a dislocation here and there — but nothing final. Nothing a healer or time couldn't mend.

For once, the academy's bloodletting hadn't taken a life.

Jim let himself feel it. Pride. Not just for Emile, but for every one of the kids who'd walked out instead of being carried. Just this once, he allowed it.

Then he saw him.

Emile sat off to the side, alone, shoulders slouched, hands dangling loose between his knees. His hair was matted with sweat and dust, his knuckles raw. He looked small. But breathing.

Jim crossed the floor, boots heavy on the canvas beneath, and stopped in front of him.

"How ya farein', lad?" he asked, his voice low.

Emile looked up. For a heartbeat, his eyes were empty — the thousand-yard stare of someone still trapped in the echo of what just happened. Jim knew that look too well. He'd worn it himself, once.

Then, slowly, something flickered back behind the boy's gaze. He blinked, straightened a little, and forced a tired smile.

"I'm okay," he said softly. "Just… a bit of a long night."

"Aye," Jim muttered, folding his arms across his chest. "You've earned one."

He hesitated, then added in his usual rough edge, "Tell ya what. Time for another lesson."

Emile's brow furrowed, but the smile lingered. "Another one?"

"Rest," Jim said firmly. "Lesson is — you need it. You need to eat, and you need to sleep. I know your mind's racing, buzzin' with it all. But even just lying down, letting the weight off your bones… it helps. Believe me."

The boy nodded, slow but sure, that faint spark of trust still alive between them.

"Right," Jim said, turning slightly toward the boy. "Once you've eaten, you come find me. We'll talk."

He started to step away, then stopped.

"And Emile?"

"Yeah?"

"You did good."

He didn't wait for a reply. He didn't need one. He just walked out, coat catching the breeze as he pushed through the tent flap.

The sunlight hit him — sharp, hot, blinding. And almost immediately, so did someone else. Jim nearly collided with a wall of smug wrapped in black fabric.

Professor Elmsley.

The man's pristine robes didn't have a speck of dust on them. His hair was slicked back as though he hadn't so much as broken a sweat, and his face wore that same permanent sneer Jim had always wanted to slap clean off.

"Mind yourself," Elmsley said, sniffing, as though Jim had tracked manure onto his precious floor.

Jim let out a low, dry laugh. "Look who's talkin'."

The professor's eyes narrowed. "I assume you're checking in on your little stray?"

Jim didn't blink. "Don't worry — your pet made it through."

"So did yours," Elmsley replied smoothly, one brow arching. "Though… by the skin of his teeth. And, if rumours are to be believed… with help."

The smirk that followed was sharp enough to draw blood. Jim's fists twitched at his sides.

He chuckled once — hollow as a coffin — and stepped in, close enough for Elmsley to smell the whiskey still lingering on his coat. The professor tensed, shoulders stiffening.

Jim's voice dropped, gravel and steel in equal measure.

"If I find out you've got anything to do with what's going on here — the golem, the sabotage, the lad's name on the list — I won't waste time with questions."

He leaned in, his scarred forehead almost brushing Elmsley's.

"I'll gut you myself."

Before Elmsley could muster a retort, Jim snapped forward.

CRACK.

The headbutt landed square on the bridge of the nose. A sickening crunch followed by a strangled yelp. Elmsley reeled, clutching his face, blood seeping fast between his fingers.

Jim turned on his heel without another glance, coat swaying with the motion.

He had someone else to find.

The academy doors groaned open under his hand. Inside, silence.

Everyone was still up at the arena, buzzing over blood and glory, riding the high of survival. Down here, the school felt abandoned — an empty shell of stone and dust. The torches along the walls flickered low, their light weak, as if the place itself was tired.

Jim's boots echoed as he stepped in, but his ears weren't listening for voices. He was hunting something else.

Mud.

His eyes dropped to the flagstones. Worn smooth in places, scuffed in others. And then — there. Small boot prints. Still damp. Heading toward the library wing.

Got you.

He followed the trail with slow, steady steps, shoulders tense, eyes flicking over every shadow. The deeper he went, the quieter it grew. The kind of quiet that made a man feel like the walls were leaning in, listening.

The first library room he checked was dark. Shelves silent, the air stale.

The second was the same.

The third, though—

Light.

A faint golden glow spilling under the crack in the door.

Jim's jaw flexed. No point checking the handle. No one in this gods-forsaken place locked a bloody thing. Arrogance disguised as trust.

He pushed the door open with deliberate care, the hinges whispering a soft protest.

And there she was.

Maizel.

Sitting behind the librarian's desk like she owned it. Posture straight, hands folded neatly over a stack of tomes. Like she'd been reading for leisure instead of blowing the head off a corrupted golem less than an hour ago.

Jim stepped inside, slow and heavy. One step. Another.

"Me and you," he said, voice low but carrying, a weight behind every syllable.

"We need to have a proper chat."

 

[Yeetboi]

Ooohhh, an interrogation. I love those.
Also, good on Jim for breaking that Ponce Elmsley's nose, I think Elmsley should thank him. It's a marked improvement for his face.

 

[Simonbob]

I kinda want Elmsley to complain, only to be told "He didn't kill you, so he's not too upset, so relax."