“To serve as amongst the Grand General’s inner retinue requires one to be ever on guard, for there are no shortages of those who wish to sow chaos in our fair empire. I cannot fault them; it is simply the nature of filthy, scum-sucking reprobates to corrupt all that is good. They were mere heathens before Caelum gave their kind new purpose, and how do those fools respond? With scorn. With excuses and complaints of unjust treatment when they are the ones who failed in proving their worth. The skilled are rewarded; the lazy are given nothing. Such a simple decree, yet the slums hold untold numbers of rejects who refuse to part from their mound of self-pity.

“It angers me. It infuriates me. But above all else, it disgusts me that I once sympathized with those parasites. I thought them unfortunate, I thought surely with the proper support they could develop their true potential, but I was naive. From the very start, I was caring for creatures less than human, and it was only when they captured me - struck me at my most vulnerable in the hopes of weakening Xeros’s influence - that I realized the truth: They never wanted to be saved.”

- Alchemist Regent Nokron

———

Nokron

It is getting worse. That wretched feeling of unease is getting worse.

Not even a stroll under the afternoon’s leisure has done much to soothe Nokron’s dread, and so he has bid return to the one grace that has always given him solace: his work. Here he confines himself - a feeble imitation of what is supposed to resemble a laboratory - but it matters not the condition of one’s facility; in the right hands, even rubbish can transform into superior product. That is the difference between him and the other inferiors: passion.

But not even his love for research is enough to calm his troubled mind. I feel it: the slow, gradual hands of a ticking clock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Time is running out, but why? How? What is coming? I do not know. Unknown, everything is unknown.

Such paranoia often is the result of ingesting his beloved vapor, but Nokron knows this is not some mind-addled hallucination. It feels different: final. As if everything is out of his control. He looks around this squalid room, and he stares at the noxious-filled beakers that once caressed his tender heart. Now, they mock him—his inability. His fear. No matter how many toxins the Alchemist attempts to synthesize, they all sputter into an ugly, grey mess. Failures.

His throat tightens; his heart pounds with thunder. Terror floods his decrepit veins, and he can only cry out in horror as gruesome fiends of shadow begin to swirl around him. Laughing, laughing, forcing him to beg and cower for the voices to stop. They lash out and scream of nonsense, wishing to know the Grand General’s secrets. But he does not know them. How could he? That man has never once trusted in another. No matter how hard Nokron works, no matter how desperately he devotes his life to the empire, all he receives is a judging glare—waiting for the moment a mistake is made. Xeros has once looked upon him kindly, but not anymore.

And it is all because of the slum’s inhabitants.

Why? Why did you betray me? I loved you all. I gave food to the poor; I gave medicine to the sick. I had lived a virtuous life seeking new concoctions to help the needy, so why did you expose me to your hatred? I would have became a saint, but you despicable, greedy leeches took away all my kindness. It is not my fault. It is not—

The sound of a shattering beaker snaps the flustered Alchemist back to reality, and he looks down only to discover a bright red liquid seeping from his palm. The pain Nokron feels is all too real.

But it is also just what he needs to recompose himself.

“Instinct… it is warning me,” Nokron mutters with a gasp. “This is no mere bout of insanity. No, this is a prognostication. A warning of something dangerous approaching.”

Without a second thought, he bursts the lab doors wide open and hurries to the fortress’s command center. Time is crucial; he must not slow when these moments of clarity are few and far between.

Nokron has never been a man to give much credence to instinct’s irrational call, but never in his life has he ever felt such abject terror. Doom is coming. His end is near, Creation decrees it, but curse the Stars if they believe him to accept this sordid fate.

Eventually, the center’s chamber comes into view, and a swift kick is all that is needed to send the door flying. It soars through the air, narrowly missing a shocked soldier, and crashes into a wall as Nokron unashamedly rushes to the front where a map of the surrounding is contained. And all the while, the nearby officials remain silent; they know better now.

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This cannot be… there is only one possible route of invasion, and it is through the vast Bogged Marsh. No creature or rogue tribe would traverse such a path, so why can’t I escape this incessant feeling of danger? Nothing can pose a threat to a stronghold of this size. Nothing, except an army.

An army…

“You,” the Alchemist rasps to an unsuspecting officer.

“Y-Yes, Commander, what can I do for you?” they stammer.

“Tell me, has Xeros sent word of any movements from Polus as of late?”

“No sir, we have received nothing of the sort. The Grand General should currently be in the Overlord’s domain at this time.”

“Mm, I see.”

Has it been a month now? Yes, a month. Ample time for a large force to be deployed.

Logically, the Magnus Murus is a terrible location to mount an assault against, but logic holds no dominion here. If Nokron is wrong, then so be it. However, something must be done if only to pacify the festering unease tearing at his heart.

“Gather the legionnaires,” he says. “Form a reconnaissance unit from the quickest of the lot, and have them investigate the fringes of the—”

But before Nokron can finish, a frantic soldier barges into the room - eyes panicking, breath gasping - and drowns the Alchemist’s words with a distraught plea.

“R-Report! Urgent report!” they cry. “We’ve just identified a great number of figures approaching the Magnus Murus from the marsh!”

“… What?”

“The exact number is unknown, but it appears to be a force rivaling that of an entire nation’s military. And they are advancing quickly. At their current pace, the fortress will be sieged by the hour.”

Nokron does not react, at first. He merely stands still - body wreathed in a suffocating aura of silence - before he suddenly springs to life, stomps his way to the messenger, and grabs at their collar—lifting them high into the air as a deep, rumbling growl rises up from his throat. “Who?”

The wretch wriggles and chokes amidst his grasp, but eventually they manage to sputter a single word. “P-Polus.”

“The Polus, is it? Hehehe… ah, and pray tell why such a large army was allowed to go unnoticed?”

“We don’t—we don’t know, sir. It is as if they appeared from out of thin air.”

“Is that your defense? Think very hard before you answer. I will not tolerate excuses a second time.”

Tears dribble down their cheeks; their eyes turn red as Nokron’s grip becomes tighter and tighter. Now, the thing does not even sound human, and their speech becomes but a pathetic outburst of sobs.

“Please… please believe me. I stood watch the entire day. Never were my eyes taken away from the marsh, but I swear to the Stars above that there was no one there. One moment, nothing. And then—”

“Mm, a pity. I warned you.”

A loud snap, a final warble, and thus the messenger falls silent—their neck crushed. Their head hanging limp. The fool can yelp no longer, and Nokron tosses the body aside near a few frightened soldiers before stepping towards the next highest-ranking officer in the vicinity.

“… Well?” he says to the still-speechless cur. “Get moving already.”

“Y-Yes, sir,” they reply, promptly ordering the others to spread the message throughout the fortress. “The barrier is activated, the defenses are primed, and the Rust-Blood Legionnaires will be out on the field in a few minutes.”

“Good, send the rest of the experimental war-machines as well. I want no apparatus spared.”

“They are still in the testing phase—”

“I do not care.”

“Very well, and what of the Astrologians? Shall we have them defend by the ramparts”

“No.” The fortress has enough firepower. What Nokron needs is to inflict a sudden, devastating blow—to disrupt their ranks and make all who dare invade know true horror in the face of hopelessness.

And he has the perfect weapon to do so.

“Bring forth the Elysian Ray.”

The head officer trembles at the mere mention of the name, and when they next speak, they do so hesitantly—voice dripping with doubt. “… To power the Elysian Ray shall require nigh all the Astrologians we currently possess. Is this truly your command?”

“If you make me repeat myself one more time, then you shall join them as amongst the fuel.”

“Of—of course. It shall be done.”

With a final salute, the pathetic thing swiftly flees the room. It will be unfortunate to lose such a large number of Astrologians, but they will be worth more in death than alive. I must not spare even a single tool in our arsenal.

Soon, the fortress descends into chaos as all manner of personnel move about in a chaotic bid to prepare for war. Yet, despite the restlessness in the air, Nokron feels relieved. The burden ailing his troubled mind has finally been released. The unknown shall haunt him no longer.

Hah… so the winged rats of Polus were not so crippled by Lorelai’s death after all. How interesting, but I am not worried. Why, I look forward to their assault. There is no better setting to foster despair than that of a battlefield. Man will suffer, death will reign free, and so will Creation inevitably be defiled.

It shall be glorious.