“It was upon the following year of my coronation that I began to wonder… what does ‘invulnerability’ truly mean? There were very little records of Kings and Queens in the past ever requiring the full invocation of the Monarch’s Wings. Whenever there came a threat pounding on the capital gates, the current ruler would protect the city by calling forth a barrier. The guardian deity, that which doth take orchid form, was an extension of that sole, but simple, power.

“However, what of my individual defense? If there were ever a moment in which I must be exposed to harm, what would the threshold be before mine bulwark inevitably succumbed? To that end I decided to conduct a very simple test: by harming myself.

“First, I consumed the most potent of the Virtues’ toxins. Only small doses at first - I am not quite reckless enough to risk instantaneous death - but as time went on I steadily increased the volume. In the end, no matter what entered my body, I never felt pain or had my blessing weaken.

“On the next test, I set myself on fire. This trial was meant to determine how long I would be able to endure a constant source of harm. Quite surprisingly it took a full six hours before I began to feel a slight discomfort, but I was immolated whilst in a passive state so such findings may not be entirely accurate in the midst of battle.

“From then on, I subjected myself to many more extremes: from stabbing, drowning, starvation, to at one point even tossing myself off the highest point of the castle. My antics brought Gadreel much stress at the time - it took me weeks before I was able to convince him that I did not, in his words, ‘gone utterly mad’ - but I believed these evaluations to be necessary for one beholden with such responsibility.

“I had to know my limits. I needed to understand what my capabilities were in order to one day fight alongside my fellow knights. Even if the process was frightening, I never wavered. This was my contribution to the kingdom: a study to aid mine kindred in the future far to come.”

- King Ascalon, Ruler of the Polus Monarchy

———

Ascalon

Ascalon approaches the room of leaking miasma, but the moment he draws near, the doors part way on their own, and he is greeted by a hazy domain of darkness and decay. Murky strands wriggle in the air; the shadows curl and freely twist about. But at the epicenter of it all is a large, weathered machine. Its appearance is reminiscent of a slavering maw.

The machine encompasses the entire chamber, pipes and ducts snaking out of sight. Every second, it groans whilst siphoning the surrounding corruption: devouring it, molding it, until a vile gas is produced in turn, and it gushes along towards the silhouette of a man most familiar.

There, greedily sucking in every last bit of the vapor, is the degenerated form of Nokron. His mechanical suit is now a rusted mess of brown and copper, and he slumps over as if without conscious whilst attached to a series of hooks and vein-like tubes—all thoroughly filled. All flowing directly into his body.

Here he is, the source of all this madness. Ascalon can barely suppress a growl as he strides forward and confronts the Alchemist, facing him with a pointed blade.

“You…” Ascalon says, his eyes alight with fury. “Were you the cause of this? Were you truly so desperate as to forsake your humanity and commit the foulest of taboos?”

Nokron raises his head, and he spews forth a sound utterly hideous: sharp, like a serpent. Guttural, as if choking on his own spit. There remains not a trace of humanity left in that garbled tongue.

“Ah… at last, you have come,” the Alchemist rasps. “Did you enjoy my gift? It is a shame Sarathiel fell so swiftly, but he served his role. My role is to give you a very welcome reception, though it appears you have already torn apart my unseemly guard. How interesting. I thought such things would have disturbed you more; the King’s heart is crueler than expected.”

Ascalon scowls. He will not be provoked by Nokron so easily. “Speak. What did you do?”

“Me?” he says, delighting in the King’s anger. “I simply put them to use. Incompetent, the lot of them: for they to be defeated after expending so many a resource was a failure I could not overlook. Those fools were merely awaiting their own slaughter. And so I gathered them all up, I locked the doors so they could not escape, and I drowned them in the throes of despair.”

Nokron hums in satisfaction, and he hangs his head back as if to savor the memory of his brutality. “It was quite the satisfying sight, witnessing their flesh meld into a greater whole. I turned them from a feeble, lowly wretch to a creature of neither life or death: forever trapped in the realm between. Trapped in an unending state of torture. There was no need to gather the vapor anymore, for I had beget an endless supply—”

Before the man can say another word, Ascalon leaps forward and prepares to cleave Nokron into two right then and there… and he succeeds. The Mattatron slips through his waist with nary a resistance, and his severed halves unceremoniously dangle loose whilst still attached to the grotesque machine.

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It is done. The King has slain him.

Is—Is that all? After all his atrocities, after all the misery wrought by his obsession, for Nokron’s end to be this brief… I am rather conflicted.

But it never is so simple. Soon, the bloody remains of the Alchemist begin to do the impossible: they move. A slight twitch, at first; then a tremble; then a violent shake until the two halves writhe about as if with a mind of their own, and from the stumps shoots forth a crawling, groping mass of black tendrils that steadily reattaches Nokron’s warped body.

“Rash and impatient,” the man says with not a reaction to his sudden bisection. “How unfortunate. But I am afraid such effort will yield naught but disappointment.”

Nokron frees himself from the tubes, lurching forward and stumbling with a stiff gait not unlike the abomination of before. Except his demeanor is far from despondent. He stalks with a cold, calculated purpose, and the King opposes him with a brave front in reply: yet his nerves teeter at edge like never before. How can it not, for the man has just cheated death before his very eyes.

“Could it be…?” Ascalon mutters, clenching his sword with even greater revulsion. “But that is absurd. You—you are already dead, aren’t you?”

The man chuckles, and he rips off his armor, his helm, the tankard upon his back. And he reveals to Ascalon the visage of a brutalized corpse. His flesh is flayed, necrotic and oozing with bubbles of pus, and his face is carved all over in rancid scars. He has no hair. He has no skin. He has no eyes, for all that lie in his skull are two empty voids.

But what Ascalon finds worst of all is that none of these wounds are recent. No, they fester with the stink of untold years. How long has he been rotting like this? How long has Nokron lived enduring such a horrible existence?

Despite all the despicable acts he has committed, Ascalon cannot help but feel a small sympathy for the Alchemist. No wonder he is so deranged; it does not excuse his actions, but the King understands. No one should be forced into such torture.

Yet, the man in question is oddly serene. He looks at peace, as if he has finally found his salvation.

“Death… I now realize how wonderful it is,” Nokron says. His arms raise up high, body prostrating towards the heavens while he grovels and worships the miasma like it is a loving deity. “For so long have I avoided the sweet seduction of nothingness, but it is within its bosom that my soul is free of this blight we call pain. I am refreshed. Clean. No more whispers, no more phantoms. How ironic: only at mine final hour do I feel truly alive.”

But his euphoria quickly turns into hate as he jerks his head and looks upon Ascalon once more. “Alas, my resentment is great. There is only one reason why I still remain in this world, and that is because of you—you infuriating, loathful curs! You are responsible for my madness, you are the calamity sent to corrupt my work, and you… well, I simply despise your very presence.”

The Alchemist coughs and wheezes as he descends further into his tirade, and all the while Ascalon wracks his brain over how to kill the unkillable. Such a feat is possible with the others, but by himself? Unlikely. Still he does not wish to summon the knights whilst Nokron is in such a volatile state.

However, he has no need to ruminate over such matters anymore. Because the moment Nokron ends his slew of insults, his body begins to swell, and large tumors grow all over—spreading, propagating, without rest.

“Ah, but I must give you credit,” he says. “If it were not for your invasion, I would have never been enlightened. What better to repay your efforts than a taste of my own revelation? Let us all be free of this prison of flesh and depart to the realm of gentle quiet… together.”

Nokron takes one last breath, and then he explodes.

Ascalon is speechless. Even when flying chunks of flesh come his way - and he batters them to the side with a vacant swing - the King does not move a step. He merely stands there, staring.

For he knows better now.

Soon enough, a new gas slithers out of the alchemist’s ruptured corpse. It spirals into the air, gathers into one, billowing cloud, and it steadily shapes itself into the form of a man.

It has no distinctive features, yet Ascalon knows full well what appearance it mimics.

It has no mouth, yet Ascalon can hear a voice echoing from every direction.

Nokron has become one with the miasma.

“I know of your power, Ascalon.” Its words jab at the King’s brain. “I know nothing I do will bring you harm, but what of your precious knights? Mankind is ever so easy to break, and this form limits not the extent of mine passage. Everywhere, in every chamber and hall, there shall only be me.”

With the wraith’s every deliberate taunt, Ascalon’s heart sinks, deeper and deeper, until he finds it difficult to even breathe, and his throat clenches and shreds as he yells out a last feeble attempt at challenge. “Do not run away from me, Nokron! I am your enemy; I am the one you hold grudge with.”

But all the King arouses from it is a hazy, jeering grin. “Goodbye, Ascalon. May you spend these moments in torment.”

Nokron disappears, rushing out of sight and leaving Ascalon to his lonesome.

Have I failed?

He looks down at his hand. It is trembling—smaller than he remembers. Such power flows within these veins, yet what use is it now? Ascalon is helpless.

Is there really nothing I can do?

Or so he thinks, but perhaps there exists one possibility left. To entrap Nokron, to prevent another tragedy from ever repeating again, he must fulfill his duties as a lord.

And sacrifice himself.

… I am sorry, everyone. A proper King would seek to prioritize the lives of the many, to think of those back home and their fate if they would lose their ruler, but this—this is my selfishness. I will always choose to protect those within my reach.

The Mattatron shimmers a sad glow, for it knows what he shall do next.

“Forgive me, old friend. But there is no other way.”

Ascalon raises his blade, and he spreads the Wings’ authority far, farther, and farther still, until the entire fortress is surrounded by the orchid light.

And then he retracts it back, dragging along all that is immaterial: the gas, the defiled miasma, and every last piece of Nokron’s consciousness. They return and are smothered directly into Ascalon’s body.

He closes his eyes, and everything turns dark.