I was supposed to be in my car, heading to my Krav Maga martial arts class. But my plans hit a surreal speed bump when a black truck pulled up next to me. Suddenly, it felt like hot needles were piercing my skin, and my consciousness slipped away in an instant. Now, I find myself in darkness—an eerily peaceful abyss where nothing and no one can hurt me. It's a sanctuary where worries cease to plague my mind.
Once, I heard a beautiful song echoing through the darkness. It was sung with intense love and care, but abruptly, it ceased. I yearned to hear that beautiful melody again. Soon, voices reached my ears, and I hoped to catch that enchanting tune once more. Instead, I was met with screams of pain and agony. A soft voice, just an echo, urged, "Calm yourself, Zaattia, endure it for these last moments."
I felt my dark world beginning to break, a blue light seeping in. My bewilderment was cast off as another scream of agony pierced the silence. The blue light, once only a whisper, began screaming in my vision, and I started to cry; I couldn't help it. "It is a boy," the voice I had heard in the darkness said. Her voice was clear now.
I felt the warm hands of the woman grasp my body tenderly. I didn't want to see her; this place was too bright. Put me back in the darkness; it felt safe there. She placed me in the warm hands of someone else, and when she spoke, I opened my eyes immediately. It was her voice that I had heard in the darkness, that beautiful melody that she now whispered to me as she held me in her arms.
This woman was a peculiar but extremely beautiful sight. Her hair was raven black. Horns, the color of stone blue and spotted with orange, graced her head like a crown. Bold orange stripes lined her cheekbones and forehead like ancient hieroglyphs, a contrast against her ghastly pale skin. In the blue light, her eyes shimmered like topaz gemstones holding a charming allure that seemed to emit from inside.
I wanted to gaze at this person for as long as I could, but sleepiness threatened to take that away, and ultimately, it did.
2 months later…
It is no mere mistake; I find myself in the form of an infant, confused by the circumstances surrounding my existence. The contrast between my current state and the clear memories of my past life is both jarring and claustrophobic. My abilities in this weak little body are limited to cooing, dribbling, and consuming mushy paste. Struggling against the handicap of my infantile confines, I am left to think about why I retain the memories of who I once was. When claustrophobia threatens to overwhelm me, I escape into the sanctuary of memories from a life that now feels evasive and distant.
At the youthful age of 26, I embarked on a career as a loan officer at Pillar Holdings Inc., a respected bank in Los Angeles. I longed to ascend the professional ladder, and my sights were set on the role of a manager. I passionately subscribed to the belief that unwavering dedication and diligent effort could propel one to great heights in life.
I held a firm stance, particularly with individuals who fell short of meeting the set-out requirements. In that role, I navigated the fine line between compassion and firmness, driven by the conviction that success should be earned through perseverance and adherence to standards.
A 46-year-old man walked into my office seeking a loan, but his criminal record immediately caught my attention. Despite his claims of turning his life around with a steady job, I remained unmoved. I acknowledge that at times, I may embody a certain heartlessness, taking refuge in the guise of doing what's right, even if it cast me as a less-than-sympathetic character. Oddly enough, this harsh approach brought an aspect of satisfaction, particularly when the work got difficult.
In that instance, I denied the loan to the old fart, unswayed by his narrative of redemption. The visible anger etched across his face, with veins that protruded from his neck, did little to change my decision. Six months of Krav Maga training, and the knowledge that he couldn't bring any weapons, was all the confidence needed, I could've fought him.
I finished work at 5:00, left at around 5:30, and had enough time to return to my apartment and still make it to my Krav Maga class. However, as I turned into the boulevard and stopped at a red light, a black truck pulled up next to me.
The windows of that truck rolled down, and our eyes locked. My instinct was to accelerate and escape the danger, but before I could react, the harsh staccato of automatic gunfire shattered my sense of safety. The sensation of hot needles pierced me, and I slumped over the steering wheel as the grip of life began to loosen.
<<<<<
I sighed but all that emerges is the sound of a child. “It sucked that I went out that way, I didn’t even get to use what I learned at that Krav maga class, ugh!! I had an entire life ahead of me, and it was cut short by some uneducated irrational old lunatic. It’s not fair!”
My mother runs to me as I begin to cry in frustration. She cradles me in her arms and showers me with kisses, “What has angered you, my child.” she reveals a breast to give me some nutrition, and as the warm milk wet my throat, I begin to feel sleepy.
Dammit, I hate how weak this body is, couldn't go one hour without falling asleep. I sigh, in this life, I will not be weak, not to myself, not for anyone.
4 Years later…
I progressed beyond needing my mother's assistance in walking and speaking; the language is very difficult to learn. I find myself going through a world without a fatherly presence—a shitty reality. I asked about the whereabouts of my father, but my questions went unanswered as Zattia—shocked—left me sitting on the floor and burst into tears in her room.
My mother, as I've observed, possesses humanoid features, with a face and body that are familiar, yet, she has the characteristic adornments of horns on her head and intricate markings on her cheekbones and forehead. There's an otherworldly quality to her, a reminder that my origins are far from conventional.
Moreover, their communication is in a language I'm gradually deciphering. It sounds Russian or Poguese in its rhythm, but the words remain of another world.
In my mother's library, a treasure of knowledge opens out, written by Daemonium Scholars, spanning realms from history to creatures and fauna. Within the locked volumes, an interesting book emerged— "Magi Chorus Caedis." That book dived into the technicalities of Praecantors, mage warriors good at manipulating magic.
According to the book, Praecantors harness their magic through two forms of control: Interius Imperius and Externum Imperius. These two methods are vital to the art of combat known as Magicae Tactus. In the hands of a professional, this form of hand-to-hand combat, along with the skill of magic, becomes an unstoppable force.
I tried my hand at it, but success was far away. In this world, the age of 10 brings magical abilities for Praecantors, so it makes sense that my attempts wouldn't work.
The dissimilarities between my old world and this newfound one are not just some; they are staggering. As I look through my circular windows, sitting on a wood chair with the fragrance of lavender, I am met with a surreal sight—an expanse of bluish-purple sky that emits a gentle glow during daylight, somehow without a light source. As night descends, the mysterious transformation unfolds, leaving me in awe at the unearthly show that unfolds beyond my lavender-scented sanctuary.
The fauna comes to life, blades of grass glow with little dots of light, and flowers shine with gradients of blue or purple—illuminating the darkness. Beyond the sky lies--according to the book--- a giant void, a beautiful canvas that cradles our Plateau Urea. but, it is not alone; three others exist, far away and unseen by my eyes or any eyes for that matter. They are called Buquen, Trellis, and Istreon, these plateaus stretch across the void spanning the length of a continent. Anchored, they rest within a domain that circles all plateaus.
I see my mother arriving, her wagon is pulled by a creature she calls a Gorngaar, This gigantic creature is as tall as a horse or taller, with muscular forelimbs armed with menacing spikes at their lower extremities. Its short hind limbs are covered in a dense fur coat and a strikingly long strip of hair runs along its formidable back. The head looks similar to that of a goat but exudes a more menacing aura, adorned with six eyes that closely survey its surroundings. A majestic horn crowns its head, adding an extra layer of amazingness.
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The massive wagon being pulled was a sight to behold. Its sides are covered with wood and metal windows that can be pulled up to entirely cover the wagon. However, what truly sets this vehicle apart is its distinctive feature: a metallic canopy gracing the top, segmented by arching wood into five sections, and activated by a chain mechanism, this design allows the canopy to deploy, shrouding the front entrance of the wagon.
My mother is an Arator, to put it simply, she is a part of the farmer class, if I fixe my gaze down toward our farm, I can see both sides of the dirt road covered by acres of Tall trees with blue leaves that grew what my mother calls, “Jeto.” It is a captivating blue oval-shaped plant with luminescent speckles covering its fruit. The plant's leaves have a mesmerizing gradient, transitioning from a deep blue at the center to a vibrant yellowish-green at the edges.
I hurried down the stairs, the usual ritual to meet my mother. However, my liveliness was abruptly stopped by Irneas. She seizes my hand, preventing me from dashing through the door like an overeager madman. "Let go, Irneas!" I protest with a squeaky voice.
"No! Zattia instructed me to keep you indoors, so you're staying put," Irneas retorts guiding me forcefully into a chair in the kitchen.
Two years my senior, Irneas became a part of our family after her parents, close friends of my mother, died, her battle in battle against cacodemons, and her mother in childbirth. Acting as my guardian in my mother's absence, Irneas looks interesting. Her amethyst-colored skin and tiny forehead horns are distinctive, but it is her eyes that are unnerving. Her irises mirrored the same hue as her sclera.
My mother returns to the house clad in her Arator attire—a tan suit seamlessly integrated with an apron, covering her entire body save for her head.
It would be false to deny my love for this remarkable woman. She carries herself with an elegance that mirrors her strict loyalty to tradition and duty. Irneas, recognizing the importance of respect in our household, places her palm over her heart and dips her head slightly. In response, my mother reciprocates the gesture, laying both hands over her chest and offering a smile. The silent exchange showed the mutual respect and understanding that existed within the walls of our home.
My mother's gaze shifts toward me, and with open arms, she calls me. Without hesitation, I come running, eagerly accepting her invitation. "How I missed you, my child," she expresses, wrapping me in a warm embrace. Then, with a fond smile, she inquires, "Has Irneas been teaching you well?"
“Yes, she has.”
Stepping back, I showcase what I have learned from Irneas, earning a round of applause from my mother. Glancing back at Irneas, I observe her standing with her hands clasped in front of her, with a cocktail of nervousness and relief in her demeanor.
“Excellent work, Zageth, and to you as well, Irneas,” She says nodding. “Tonight I shall make a feast for both of your hard work.”
“Thank you, Melior,” Irneas says, repeating her previous gesture of respect.
6 Years later…
After completing my daily training in the Caedes sword art, I reflected on the rigorous rule I underwent before engaging in Communi Pugna, the sword art exclusively employed by Legionnaires in combat. The principles of this martial form were outlined in the "Liber Artium Gladii."
According to the ancient book, "Communi Pugna" stood as the sole form of combat permissible for Legionnaires to master. From what was read, it seemed that this form of combat was looked down upon by the demon knights, lords, and centurions, but In my opinion, Communi Pugna holds a unique practicality in combat, offering a flexible and effective approach. However, its utility is overshadowed by the sheer ferocity of a form like "Caedes." This wild combat style is reserved exclusively for the elite ranks, including Demon Knights, Centuri, Centurions, and Demon Lords. The pages of lore hinted at their immense strength, dwarfing that of a mere Legionnaire. Interestingly, the stakes were exceptionally high, as any endeavor by a Furia to acquire this art was met with a dire consequence—death. The disheartening reality that an attempt at self-improvement is not only unrewarded but met with severe punishment sickens me to the core. I clenched the sword I found hidden in my mother's room and gripped it tightly. Determined, I execute the Gwusite stance of Communi Pugna on my third sack dummy, adhering to the art's swift and deadly maneuvers outlined in the codex. With precision, I target all vital points in rapid succession.
The sack dummy lay torn and shredded in the aftermath of my relentless assault. I pant, feeling the physical toll of rapidly swinging such a heavy weapon, but I recognize the need for improvement. A clear memory surfaced of Irnea, two years prior, who was inducted into the Militaris after being assigned to the Legionnaire Caste.
My mother's words echoed in my mind and revealed that our Grand duke had increased the number of Demons assigned to the Legionnaire Caste. A sense of foreboding lingered, compelling me to brace for the challenges ahead.
With my magical abilities now appearing, I embark on exploring spellcasting. Concentrating intensely, I envision the flow of mana coursing through my body, attempting to execute the Interium Imperius. Sensing the power was one thing; however, conjuring it was difficult in its own right. I take a deep breath and center myself before transitioning into the execution of Externum Imperius. In my mind, I visualized the desired element, shaping it before summoning it forth. As I extend my hand, a small flame materializes, flickering and dancing much like a candlelight.
It is a great start if I do say so myself.
A Year later...
I am settled in my customary spot, surveying my mother's vast expanse of land, I witness an immense legionnaire wagon riding down the dirt road. It is drawn by a pair of majestic gorngaars, their skin as pristine as freshly fallen snow, and marked with striking red colors that intricately cover their powerful bodies.
They sent a message weeks ago, but anticipation coursed through me as I awaited their arrival. Over the past year, I had dedicated myself to rigorous training—mastering the intricacies of sword arts and honing my magical skills. The Interius Imperium has become second nature, almost as simple as breathing. With a deliberate motion, I open my palm commanding the externum imperius to manifest. In an instant, a blaze dances within my grasp. Swiftly, I extinguish it, mindful not to unleash its destructive potential, and set my home ablaze.
My meager possessions were neatly packed—a handful of shirts and a strong pair of leather boots with them were the most crucial items: the Liber Artium Gladii, the Magi Chorus Caedis, and the sword that had been my constant companion throughout a year of rigorous training. Carefully enveloped in a thick cloth, they are securely resting in my backpack.
As I ready myself for departure, my mother emerges to meet the legionnaires who wear garments and armor of midnight blue and black—the colors of Grand Duke Nortamo. She confronts the approaching legionnaires.
A praecantor, wearing some dangerous-looking battle attire, engages in conversation with my mother, trailed closely by a menacing Furia centurion. The praecantor's armor comprises chest plates arranged in three descending segments over the lower torso, it concealed a black leather tunic and intricately designed leather pants beneath. The woman's skin bears a color similar to light red, and distinctive horns protrude through carefully tailored openings in her helmet. She leaks authority.
Beside her is the menacing Centurion—a big man with two mighty ram-like horns protruding from his head. His skin is a deep red, and his armor suggests he is a very strong Centurion, it surpasses that of the soldiers flanking him. Perfect in quality, his pauldrons and chest armor depict the menacing face of hell drakes, instilling an air of dread. Every inch of his physique is sheathed in gleaming silver armor, except for his biceps.
Exiting my room, I tread cautiously towards the doorway, my heart pounding. The gaze of the menacing legionnaires shifts to me as I nervously approach.
"Come, boy," the legionnaire commands, her voice cutting through the air and startling me. She extends her hand to the side, and the centurion promptly places a box adorned with intricate hieroglyph designs into the woman's waiting hand.
"Place your hand on this device," she instructs, beckoning me closer with a gesture. All business, I thought, appreciating the no-nonsense approach. Yet, even with their efficiency, the undeniable truth lingers—they were intimidating.
Wasting no time, I place my hand on the box. Abruptly, it erupts with a cacophony of metallic clanks before an unexpectedly sharp and thin knife pierces through my hand. I scream in surprise and agony as the box begins to radiate with a haunting purple light. Ethereal tendrils emerge, their glow pulsating intermittently. Instinctively, I try to pull away, but the woman holds my hand firmly, locking eyes with me. "Do not move," she commands with unwavering authority.
I could do nothing but kneel as the tears flowed.
The woman swiftly yanks the device from my hand, clasping my wrist gently as a soothing green hue envelops my injured hand. The pain gradually subsides, and is replaced by an eerie sense of relief. "By Lucifer!" she exclaims, her astonishment evident as she returns the box to the centurion. "How is this possible?!"