The doorway seemed to shudder as he stepped through, recognizing the presence of something antithetical to it. A shadow stretched across the room, narrowing until it was absorbed into Jorhan’s body. The light spilled in from behind him, luminous in its promise of searing retribution.
His every step was judgment, arrogant in its assumption of greater things.
A hush fell over the crowd of worshipers, thousands strong, a drop of silence in a bustling city.
Awaiting judgment.
Jorhan had not come to sightsee. Indeed, the city of Micheal no longer held anything worth seeing. Merely remnants of what was. Of the men and women that had once strode these streets. Each a world unto themselves. How it should be.
Jorhan had grown up listening to these stories. Stories of mad conquerors and transcendent martyrs. Insane prophets and mighty kings. He had been told the story of his ancestor, told the truth of my actions, as Angelica had seen them that day, and bestowed with the king of blades.
God Slayer.
He set forth into the world, excited to meet the paragons of humanity. Excited to challenge himself and step onto the greater stage.
That excitement had lasted all of a week.
The paragons he had set out to find were nowhere to be found. In their place he found a bunch of sniveling, WEAK, COWARDS, begging so-called ‘gods’ to take their pain.
In the present, a child began to cry.
No matter where he looked, all he found were shattered husks of people, hollowed out by life itself. Or as he saw it, hollowed out by me.
The world was once brilliant, passionate, GOLD. Now it was cold unfeeling iron. Dull and lifeless.
He raged.
The child’s crying stopped.
Raged at the things he would never see. Raged that he had been born too late. Raged at me for my presumed role. Raged at the world for losing its shine.
Finally, on a cold winter night, he had come to a simple conclusion.
In front of him, a keeling giant had clutched an ever-burning flame, sustained by the power of its myth. Even long after his death, Spartan’s flame of hope still burned. But on that night, Jorhan had observed it flicker in the snowy wind, a shadow of the raging pyre it once was.
Jorhan had gazed at it with a sense of profound sadness,
“I’m sorry” he had said, “That the world has fallen to this.”
Sadness turned to steel.
“I will fix it.”
He had turned away, speaking words that would change history,
“The world was once gold. It can be gold once more.”
The night had welcomed him into its cold embrace, snow swallowing his indistinct form.
In the church of Me, the high priest stepped forward,
“W..What do you want?” he stuttered.
“Is this how the church treats its guests?” Jorhan replied.
The man seemed taken aback, before taking a deep breath. I could feel him drawing upon his god, not me but rather the religion's idea of me, taking a deep drink from that well of conceptual power. Immediately, he straightened up, composure returning to his frame.
Jorhan felt it as well, flickers of rage appearing in his heart as a man dared to draw on false power in front of his very eyes.
“My apologies, honored guest, would you require help with anything?” the priest asked, as composed as could be.
Jorhan snorted,
“The Archbishop. Bring me the Archbishop. I have a matter of great importance to discuss with him”
The priest looked faintly suspicious,
“And what business is that?” he questioned.
“Discourse on the nature of god”
A hint of anger flashed over the priest's face, a flicker of discontent at Jorhan’s arrogance.
“The nature of God is not a simple topic, and the Archbishop is not someone just anyone can meet. Do you have… proof?”
Jorhan looked around at the finery that surrounded him. A dome that reached into the far heavens, inscribed with delicate patterns of gold and silver. Grand stone walls, carved with intricate reliefs of divine beings accomplishing impossible tasks. Flickering light danced across the walls, shrouding the church in comforting darkness, a promise of greater things hiding in the soft shadows. Altogether it was a masterpiece of human ingenuity, a shrine to their endless potential. Dedicated to something not human. He looked at the once cowering humans, already shrouded in the strength of their god, in the dark shadows of ignorance and cowardice. Here in this place of worship, the shadows of divinity were all-encompassing.
His only rage burned brighter, the sword at his side humming in furious agreement.
Suddenly, he was massive, a looming figure of light and blades, of glorious rage. The torches flickered, some even going out as the full force of Jorhan’s will spread out to encompass the church. The doors behind him burst open once more, surrounding Jorhan in a shroud of luminosity. God-Slayer’s humming picked up volume as Jorhan fed it his path. Freedom, Independence, arrogance, responsibility, and a thousand other nuances poured into God-Slayer. From God-Slayer they become blades of light, piercing the thick shadows that shrouded the church in mystery. Revealing the truth. For a split second an invisible struggle took place, the brilliant light of Jorhan’s path piercing further into the worshiper's divine shrouds.
Jorhan breathed in deeply, preparing himself.
Then with a deliberate movement, placed his hand on the pommel of God-Slayer.
The world was CUT.
The searing light burned through the shadows in an instant, joyously rampaging through the church, revealing hidden truths and forgotten experiences.
He spoke, his voice terrible to behold,
“I am Jorhan an Erduk, He who is beholden only to himself, wielder of God-Slayer, and I have come to save you.”
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
The people fell to their knees, cowering in the face of the resplendent light, crying out as it seared them with new ideas and old stories. Stepping into the light after ages in the darkness is always hard.
Some of the guards made futile attempts to bar his path as he strode forward, toward the high altar. But in the end, they fell short. The problem with being nothing, is that resistance is futile in the face of something.
The light followed as he walked, bathing the people in burning truth.
Upon the altar, a man appeared. Dressed in regal robes and carrying a book with a single rune on the front, he raised his hand for silence. The cowering people calmed and the room dimmed. He looked down at Jorhan from his perch on the high altar.
There was no doubt as to who this was.
The Archbishop of God.
One of the most powerful men in existence.
“Who are you?” he asked, his every word a divine command.
The room darkened further as their god began to reassert his presence, using the archbishop as an anchor. Then it lightened again as Jorhan replied,
“I am the Chainbreaker.”
The Archbishop's face darkened, a promise of a coming storm,
“You would dare claim that title?”
“Why not? Your god was once known by that title before you stripped him of it. So I claim it.”
“You would dare put yourself on the same level as God himself”
“No. I would place myself higher”
The blade at his side vibrated.
The Archbishop's face darkened further.
Jorhan continued, azure eyes blazing,
“So long as God chains man to the earth, he is no Chainbreaker. So long as he steals the actions of man, he is not worthy of respect. So long as he exists, I shall not rest. Your god shall die and man will gain back their burden. Only then will the world regain its shine.”
The Archbishop drew himself up in righteous rage, ideas becoming law through his words.
“A whelp like you cannot comprehend the power of god. He does not shackle us but rather raises us up. He does not steal from us but rather gives back. He gives us purpose and power.”
“But it is not your power. You are nothing without him.”
“We are great by the virtue of our essence. God only helps us refine that power.”
“NO”
Jorhan’s exclamation echoed through the room, deadly in its passion. This was a battle like no other, not of blades, but of something much deadlier. Rhetoric. A blade can kill a man, but rhetoric can end a nation. I watched with mixed feelings as one of HER descendants engaged divinity with such immense vigor.
“There is no essence,” Jorhan proclaimed, a vicious downward strike, “All men must build themselves. That is a truth all men must bear if they want to come great. Only then can we ascend.”
“Ascension comes by the virtue of God. He will raise us into the heavens above.”
“Ascension comes from greatness.”
“And greatness comes from God”
Deflection, correction, deflection.
“Greatness comes from understanding, and understanding comes from experience. God takes our actions, the responsibility, and the consequences. He takes their weight.”
“And saves us from the weight that would otherwise crush us”
“No. It cuts off the path to greatness. The full weight of an action must be carried for it is that burden that grants the understanding. Actions have consequences and all men must face those consequences.”
Trust, ripost, denial.
“No man can carry that much weight”
“Wrong!” Jorhan exclaimed, soul alight, “Each man is a world unto himself, and he can only be himself if he can bear his own weight.”
“That’s impossible!”
Correction, counter, retreat.
“This world used to be brilliant gold, a world where every man embraced, and nourished themselves. Now it is dull iron, a world where man whimpers in the corner, flinching at every footstep” his voice rose with every word, “This world is damaged! Stripped of its glory by the gods we created to bear our burdens! I will not stand for this! What say you!”
The Archbishop flinched at the power of his words, the mighty will and burning path both.
“This is madness! We will not submit to it!”
“Then begone!”
Press, recoil, press.
Jorhan’s hand gripped the cool pommel of God-Slayer. Energy coursed through his very soul as he drew upon the very principles that defined his existence. He refused to be contained. Refused to be subsumed. Refused to surrender. Refused to accept. That refusal became his blade, a blade of scorching light. That light become God-Slayer,
Time seemed to slow as Jorhan searched for the intended recipient of his blow.
He scoured not the physical realm but rather the conceptual.
An infinity of concepts abounded but he resolutely focused on the task at hand.
Then he found it.
In front of him was God, not me, but rather the god the people had created in their fervent worship. An amalgam of countless concepts and wills. It was not something Jorhan could cut down. But he could free those caught in its hold. With the realization, his sight expanded. No longer was the avatar of religion alone in void, but it was instead anchored in place by countless threads. Each a person. Leaching off them and drawing strength from their ignorance.
Jorhan saw, and he raged. So he saw more.
Thicker threads connected the god of my church to the gods of the others. One by one they appeared, resplendent representations of Adam’s children. Burning figures of glory and passion. But fake. Constructs of mortal mind instead of eternal soul. The web grew expanding in scope until it filled Jorhan’s vision. An indestructible web, inviolable even by the wielder of god-slayer.
But that was ok.
Jorhan was not here to end divinity. He was here to free the people.
And he would.
Because he raged.
His rage became his strength, purpose turned power as his blade flashed brighter than ever.
In churches around the world, a bright light began to stream in through all openings. Torches flared brighter and people lifted their heads away from reverent prayer. Lifted their heads from the earth and looked into the heavens above. They marveled at its beauty, even as new thoughts began to occur. They began to yearn for more, yearn to be more.
Jorhan’s grip on God-Slayer tightened, the terrified Archbishop seemingly falling back in slow motion as the blade began to radiate incandescent light, even through its steel sheath.
He had his target, all that remained was the final step.
Muscles tensed both physical and mental, bracing for the devastation to become.
Slowly and all at once it happened. Muscles moved, contracting and relaxing as they guided energy through every single muscle in his body. At the same time, his mind and soul flexed infusing concepts into the blow, guiding it to its target, and imbuing it with his roaring rage and unyielding will.
Jorhan CUT god out of the lives of mortals.
In the physical world, it looked like a pinnacle representation of a sword cut, executed with a blade of pure light. It cut through the air like the sun cresting the planet, hitting nothing and at the same time touching everything. In the astral, the blade of purpose and will became a thousand, then a million, and with a single consummate flick, severed false divinity from humanity.
A sundering.
All around the world, the beautiful light that the people had been basking in struck. Where the people had been beginning to yearn for more, a single truth was, slowly and painfully, for change is never easy, seared into their souls. They could be more.
The effect was immediate, and I watched from the heavens above as the world order was thrown over in an instant. The masses streamed out of the churches, alight with flames of inspiration and motivation. They were ready to bear the weight of their dreams. Around the great city of Micheal, the gates opened, and the opposing legions retreated, leaving hopeful people to once more stream into the cradle of kings. Religion would never be truly eradicated, and the truly faithful remained faithful, for god was their dream. But there was now freedom. No longer would religion be the only way to live, to survive. The possibilities abounded.
In the church of me,
Jorhan slowly sheathed his blade, trembling from the backlash. The blade of god was not meant to be wielded by mortals. Light streamed in through the windows illuminating his azure eyes, and being drunk in by his pitch-black hair.
At long last, he had freed the people.
He threw back his head and laughed a light joyous sound. It rang through the newly illuminated church, mingling with the surprised exclamations of the people.
“Finally, the wall is broken! Now it's time to explore this new world!”
He laughed some more, drinking in the warm sun-rays.
“The world was once gold! It can be gold once more!”
He breathed in deeply, eyes flashing.
“AND! IT! WILL!”
Jorhan spent the rest of his life basking in the dawn of a new golden age. He had freed the people and he got to witness the fruits of his labor. New paragons rising up and old stories being retold once more.
Change comes only to those that will it.
Iron can become gold, and darkness light.
It is arrogance to assume one man can change the world.
But sometimes, arrogance is needed.