“They carved out my eyes. They tore every last one of my fingernails. And when I could scream no more, beg no more for mercy, they stuffed my butchered body into a sack and then tossed me out with the rest of the garbage. There I laid, a few pitiful sputters away from my final rest, when I began to think to myself… if only there was a way to go back—to rectify my mistakes. Should I have been more kind? Should I have given up my life, my love, my wealth, my heart so covered in blisters and scars? How could I have relieved their hatred that saw no end?
“The answer was simple: I couldn’t. From the very beginning, it was an impossible task. The grim jest, the stark reality of it all, was that they never intended to change.
“I dedicated my life towards the improvement of others, and yet… there was only ever apathy in their eyes—a disgusting indifference towards the blood and sweat shed to make their pitiful lives a little bit easier.
“Only when my heart thumped no more did I come to a most bitter revelation: There are some people in this world not worth saving. I laughed, and I laughed, and I laughed—a bitter, disgusted laugh full of regret. I could only laugh at the futility of it all, and so I let my compassion finally wither as I awaited the cold grasp of death.
“But it never came, for my time had yet to cease.”
- Alchemist Regent Nokron
———
Sarathiel
The titan roars out to the heavens and lifts his giant, crimson axe up high; the edge glistens with the reflection of nigh innumerable a horde of man, but Sarathiel does not hesitate. He brings it down with a forthright step and cleaves through the legion as a shiver of ferocity ripples through his veins. The blade rends clean, bisecting its foes in a splatter of blood and sending the still-warm halves aflight, but even the sight of their slaughtered comrades do little to stop the wave of soldiers from advancing.
Sarathiel’s momentum has been halted. He can no longer simply rush through them like before, and the man responsible for his sudden displacement is nowhere to be seen. Now, all he can do is stand his ground and pummel those in front swing by swing. Crush by crush. He pounds the earth in a relentless stride, leaving craters to sink and fill with the bodies of his fallen enemies: a stream of blood and oil seeps below his feet, dripping from flattened skulls, severed limbs, chests gaping with holes. Yet no matter how many the titan rips and tears and butchers into an unrecognizable mess, the onslaught never ends. Another soldier replaces the last, and they carve at his armor with their saws of tiny serrated fangs— unceasingly, constantly, until he grows numb of their lashes, and he pushes through with another swing of his axe.
Still, he knows this is only a lagging endeavor. His strength drains with each corpse joining the pile, and if he persists in this stalemate, then it will not be long before the titan is forced to transform back into a mindless animal.
“… Sarathiel. Sarathiel!” Lorelai’s voice shouts in his mind. “You must retreat. I can scarcely see your body in the midst of so many soldiers; even a man of your strength shall be whittled away eventually.”
“No,” he says, crushing another mechanical dreg beneath his sole. “Not until I bring down the gate.”
Her face is hidden, yet nonetheless Sarathiel can feel plainly a sigh of annoyance traveling between their connection. “Sarathiel, please do not be stubborn. The man who ruined your charge is most certainly the Alchemist Regent, Nokron; who is to say you will not be transported again once you draw near?”
“It will be different. I know what to expect now.”
Nokron will no longer catch him unaware. The true pest is the rabid army hounding his every move, all chasing to their deaths. All joining the bloody mound with not a shred of resistance.
Nokron, he can surely contend with. But Sarathiel admits he will need a bit of assistance with thinning the legion.
“Lorelai, is Deborah still there?” he relents. “I may require her help after all.”
“Of course,” she says. “But know you will not be able to escape the range of impact. Are you prepared?”
“I’ll live.”
“Very well, the Astral Arrow will descend in a few moments. Hold your ground.”
Before he can reply, chains suddenly spring out from amidst the swarm and quickly wrap around Sarathiel’s arms, his legs, and even his neck as they twist him to the ground and pull from every direction—tugging with a force until his armor begins to scorch from the grinding. There - emerging from the crowd - are a group of heavily-armored legionaries, bulk much greater than that of the rest. And attached to their arms are colossal, hulking plates arranged into a strange cylindrical structure—the very end leaving a hollow opening where the chains binding Sarathiel originate.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
These new Caelum ensnarers ground themselves in place, hooks ejecting from their armor’s gaps and digging firm into the dirt, and they all work as one to keep the titan firmly bound in place. The legion approaches him, eager to enact their vengeance upon his vulnerable state.
But it is no use. Sarathiel takes a step with his tethered legs, he struggles against his arm’s bindings and slowly, gradually, lifts them forward until his hands are grasped tightly around the metal lock. With an enraged cry, he whirls his body and spins the chains around him, sending the ensnarers on the other end crashing straight through the other soldiers. Their bodies turn into living weapons, colliding and forcing all caught in their path into a revolving tornado of death as the battlefield plummets into a landscape of pure destruction. Thousands are maimed. A thousand more are caught in the wreckage.
Yet, even after all this, the Caelum legion remains dauntless. The surge approaches once more, and Sarathiel readies himself to repeat the massacre.
However, their charge is interrupted by a blinding light from above. It washes through the expanse with paralyzing jolt of aura, pressuring down upon the masses with a great weight, and as the legionnaires look up towards the sky, they bear witness to a shining pink cluster raining down from the heavens. It is lustrous. It is overpowering.
And it is headed directly towards Sarathiel.
“Deborah has asked me to relay you a message,” Lorelai’s voice echoes.
“… And what would that be?” he replies, flinching before the raw spiral of energy.
“These are her exact words: ‘I hope the pain serves as a valuable lesson. Don’t be so stubborn next time, you steel dolt.’”
“How lovely.”
She truly has spared no effort in this attack; Sarathiel can already feel his heart beginning to sink.
This will indeed hurt.
“Impact incoming in: three.”
The land is enveloped in the Astral Arrow’s radiance as it falls closer and closer to the Caelum masses hypnotized by its splendor. The fortress’s armaments quickly change its attention from Ascalon’s advance and unleashes the full might of its barrage at the descending ray, but the projectiles are shredded apart before it can even come close to the attack.
“Two.”
Some of the soldiers manage to break free from their daze and look around for any means of escape, but there is none. They cannot outrun it. They cannot hide from it. All the Caelum legion can do is brace themselves and wish for a quick end.
“One.”
Sarathiel covers himself in the sturdiest metals he can muster and condenses his form into one, sturdy, impenetrable bulwark—every morsel of his being concentrated entirely on defense. His flesh, his organs, and even his heart: he encases them all in a tight layer of steel.
And as he clings to the earth, the titan notices the man with the strange tankards materialize in the distance—looking up and shaking his head.
“Hm,” they mutter to themself. “How vicious. Even I cannot turn back time for such a violent form of Creation. A shame, but if more need be sacrificed then so be it.”
The legion peers up at their leader with hope—only to be consumed with despair upon his disappearance. He leaves not a word for souls about to be purged, not even a look of pity. The rest are merely left to close their eyes and wait with hushed breaths as a final flash of color consumes them in their entirety.
“Zero.”
The Astral Arrow descends at last, and thus is the world drowned in a tremendous boom. The air reverberates, the land is ripped asunder, and the entire expanse is bathed in a sparkling hue—glittering like the night sky.
The fortress manages to escape the destruction by surrounding itself in a barrier resembling that of crackling lightning, but those of the outside are not so fortunate. Mangled carcasses and fragmented exoskeletons litter the now-desolate battlefield, and bodies of those flung above are brought crashing back down—a shower of blood painting everything within sight in a deep coat of scarlet.
Only a singular warrior remains, drenched in sweat and gasping hard whilst doubled over in a deep pit. His ears are ruptured, bones quaking in shock as he struggles to stand, and his steeled body emits a rising smoke from the remnants of Deborah’s attack. It pains him to even breathe, but soon enough his monstrous body begins to reconstruct itself; unsalvageable bits of viscera are discarded and replaced by new, metallic replicas while his silver blood stitches together the organs still functional. Sarathiel can feel his flesh regrowing. Every second, his soul screams with an agony that can never be put to word.
But nonetheless, he is alive. Once again he has survived where no other should have.
Sarathiel wonders if he can even be considered human anymore.
“Sarathiel, how is your condition?” Lorelai asks.
“Fine,” he grunts. “Just… allow me a second of peace. I’ll get up eventually.”
“I dare say you have earned it after enduring such hardship. There remains naught a speck of the legion save for a few stragglers fortunate enough to be assigned at the very edge, but Ascalon’s assault shall take care of them.”
“Mm, then there is only one task left for me to finish.”
Sarathiel stumbles his way back up and lets release a weary groan as he stares at the fortress gates a mere paces away.
At the very front, there stands the man responsible for all the titan’s torment this day—chillingly unaffected by the massacre around him. He merely stares at the bodies with an indiscernible expression, and all the while the tankard upon his back sputters with ghastly howl.
Nokron raises his head, and he looks at Sarathiel with his visor of glowing red orbs. The titan responds in kind and raises his axe, preparing to end this siege for good.
One last man to slay. Then, Sarathiel can finally rest.