Chapter 148
The Demon Soldier
Methastophola, once just a lowly foot soldier in the ninth legion’s army, was now reborn. What had at one time been a mortal wound, was now a hardened callous of skin and bone that would protect against the mightiest of strikes. He and his legion had been tricked here, charging after an enemy force that wished to apparently use dungeons as a means of escape, a common tactic and one that their unit was famous for dealing with. But this last battle was different, this time there were no further withdrawals, this time a joint enemy force had been waiting for them.
There, Legion Commander Tetharoaloz was slain, as were every other warrior of his unit. At one-point Methastophola had been sliced open from armpit to thigh, his guts and vital organs left to rot and hang open, many of which were perforated and being exposed to the noxious air of the unclaimed lands. He lay there dying, slowly being surrounded by his allies, his brothers in arms. He watched as the forces that had been lying in wait used magics the likes of which a young Methastophola had never seen before. The land had been cursed, lined with runes that were invisible to the naked eye, at least they had been at first.
The runes were dormant at first, until the spirits of his slain comrades were released from their fleshy prison. That is when the true horrors of this prison world were shown to him. Methastophola watched in horror as one by one the released spirits were summoned to the far end of the dungeon. There, a mystic with bright blue skin, neither elf, nor orc gathered the fallen spirits, pulling them in with runes that became alive with so much energy released into the air.
Whoosh!
The pull of the runes were intense, as even as he lay dying, Methastophola could feel the enchanting pull of the currents beckoning him to let go, to relax his will slightly, so that he too may join his comrades in arms. While there was no real honor amongst demons, you did learn to respect your fellow soldiers in arms, as they were the closest thing you were allowed to having a true friend in the demon legion. Chosen and raised from birth, your purpose for being within a squad was as apparent at the days were long, you were solely alive to kill at your commander’s expense. Any deviation would cause intense burning pain throughout your soul, and at the end of the day, a vastly powerful and immortal soul was all a demon truly was, all they had available to them. Losing a battle such as this was nothing, for all that was required to live on was for your spirit to escape and within a day, your spirit would be summoned back where it could be reinfused with a new body. This was why the demon legion was so powerful, for while they lacked any true scale of numbers, they could always be reborn.
Then there were talks of the cursed ones. Just seeing the blue skinned monster before him, the one that comfortably sat within the circle of spirits that were being summoned, Methastophola realized what that blue skinned one was almost immediately. Just looking at it, Methastophola could see the old tales coming true. The way the head was smooth of any hair, the way the eyes were piercing, and the way their soul, well it looked different, as if it had been marked as somehow. They were the bogeymen of the demons, the monsters who you always heard about, but never saw. At least that is what Methastophola had thought, until now, until this moment. On the edge of life and death, he saw the monster, and his already dying skin felt like it chilled to the bone. He had been so close to letting go, and rejoining his fellow comrades in their rebirthing pods, but then he saw it.
Closing his eyes, he pretended to be dead. In his state it was not that hard to pull off, he just closed his eyes and kept focusing on healing his body with his own innate regeneration.
“I think that’s it.” One of the elves cried out, throwing another dead body onto Methastophola.
Oof.
The pain from such a strike had almost been enough for him to cry out in pain, for him to give away his ruse, but he somehow managed to keep quiet. Even the involuntary spasm he had from the fallen ally now laying on his open wound only seemed to help hide his involuntary movements. The fallen ally being so close, was also a boon, as Methastophola was a duel specialist Flesh and Earth crafter. While his affinity for Earth crafting was major in comparison to his Flesh crafting, he was now happy that he had taken the time to practice his minor affinity, in case he was ever allowed to evolve to be one of Commander Tetharoaloz’s elite frontline soldiers. Seeing the state of the elites, and that of Commander Tetharoaloz herself, Methastophola felt very thankful that he had never proven to be competent enough to evolve in such a way. Now, that he had a moment, and had ostensibly suitable Flesh Crafting materials to work with, Methastophola began his task of slowly weaving the skin and bones of his fallen comrade directly into his open wound.
Ahh.
The minute the stomach wound was healed, Methastophola let out a slight sigh of relief. While it was quiet, it still moved nonetheless, fortunately everyone else’s attention was turned towards the blue skinned monster.
“She’s about to do it.” The elves spoke in their unsophisticated tongue. Honestly, Methastophola had wondered why they were forced to learn the tongues of the enemies, but now he was extremely thankful he was at least marginally passible as a linguist of the soon to be conquered races.
“Yeah, let’s go.” Another voice called out.
With that, the last remaining two soldiers who could see Methastophola moved away, gathering towards the blue skinned monster, who even from this distance caused the decaying flesh on his body to shiver with revulsion.
Woosh.
There was a sudden rush of air, and an unimaginable force began to form far off in the distance, right where the monster was standing, right in a ring surrounded by hundreds of Methastophola’s fallen spirit brethren. Just feeling the wind, and knowing who the creature was, caused chills to run down Methastophola’s back, as he knew what this was. “What? No way?” He thought to himself as he felt the all-consuming buildup of pressure, pressure that could only mean one thing, death for his kind, and not just any death, but true death.
Badump.
Feeling the buildup of evil energies, Methastophola gave up his feeble attempts at Flesh crafting, and suddenly began doing what he was best at, namely Earth crafting. Focusing on the ground below him, Methastophola began moving the ground away from him in waves.
“One is still alive!” A few voices shouted, but it was already too late, as Methastophola was down below the surface of the earth, where he was the most powerful.
Methastophola was not alone, as he had a companion, if one could call discarded soul suit of a fallen comrade a companion, but he had one, nonetheless.
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Methastophola slept, for how long he did not know, all that was known was that when he awoke, he had been sealed tight within the land, as an unseen prison had been inscribed around him, forever sealing his soul in place, while his body remained the same. Still, it was the fact that he still had his soul, that he could heal his body, with that of his fallen comrade. For the next century, Methastophola slowly but surely sealed his wounds shut, and then once he was back to full health, he began strengthening his body with the excess skin and material left behind by his comrade, all those years ago.
As the years went on, his body remained the same, but his spirit and mind were able to grow. He focused on improving his understanding of both Flesh and Earth crafting. He began testing his prison, that was when he first began to feel the sweet fulfillment of spirit energy trickling to him slightly.
Only over years of this slow but nearly constant feed did Methastophola realize what was happening. His prison was being fed, and in so doing, he too was being fed, slowly, tiny portions over tiny portions. Sometimes he saved up, to brace parts of his body with extra Flesh craft that he saved up for, other times he focused on testing the constraints of his prison. Finally, it got to the point that any future upgrades would take centuries, so he patiently waited, patiently awaiting for the moment when he would have a chance to test his prison.
Little did he know that his moment to test his freedom would come so soon. As he felt a power tentatively reach out to the prison. Then in one fell swoop, the tendril of energy that had touched his prison, feeling its power drained the restraints in one go.
Methastophola was free, his legion had finally come for him. Not everyone had been slain, there was still a survivor, one who had suffered in silence like he himself had. Now he would get his chance for revenge.
With almost forgotten instincts Methastophola found himself being pulled upwards, as Earth crafting pulled him upwards, towards the surface, towards the unpurified lands of his home dimension. As he arose, he felt the blood and energy of combat raging wildly around him. Not even needing to be asked, he instinctively found the feel of the ancient enemies and began striking out at the foes of his impromptu ally. It was clear that in his time away, that the masters had perfected the flesh suits, as the warriors he was now fighting with were nearly perfect in their ability to both kill and absorb every inch of energy that surrounded them. Seeing and feeling everything around him, Methastophola took his first breath of the air, and immediately cried out in victory as to his final release.
“HAHAHAHA! I am finally free, and soon I will be out of this dungeon as well.” Methastophola cried out, as he began instantly assisting his would be freer. Yet, unlike what he had expected, his unknown benefactors spoke to him, in a language he had not heard in centuries.
“Shut it, as you are next!” A voice called out in the Harbinger tongue.
Hearing the tongue that only the masters used, caused Methastophola to momentarily pause as he took in the diminutive creature before him. Of course, given his size of nearly ten meters tall, every creature, save for the biggest and oldest of dragons, were small in stature compared to him by now, yet, Methastophola couldn’t help but feel the power in those words, inside their very demeanor.
“You are talking to me?” Methastophola asked.
“Yeah, you see anyone else speaking in this annoying tongue?” One of the seven nearly identical warriors said, as she paused in her ruthless assault of the elves and orcs around her and stared directly into Methastophola. Connecting gazes with the creature, something was abundantly clear to Methastophola, first there was something inherently wrong about this creature, as she only had two eyes. Had the master’s changed their designs in the time he had been gone? Was this one meant to infiltrate the enemy ranks? Such discussions had been considered rumor back when he was still part of the legion, but seeing the monster before him, along with her six nearly identical soldiers, it was clear that the demon masters had been successful.
Cling.
Methastophola had been so distracted by the one monster that turned to speak to him, that he had failed to notice the enemy forces that were sneaking up behind him and trying to pierce his body from behind.
Their attacks were useless, as nothing could pierce his enhanced body, after centuries of perfecting his form, Methastophola had woven his fleshy meat suit with layers and layers of Earth metals that defined his exoskeleton layer and made it so he was nearly impervious to the primitive weapons that had been wielded against him in the past.
FWOOM!
Just as Methastophola got into the heat of combat, a fire was lit at the far end of the battlefield. With that, every soldier that had been battling with Methastophola a moment ago suddenly lost their concentration and turned towards the far end. Methastophola too turned his gaze, well one of his sets of eyes looked off in the distance and saw what looked to be command tents burning.
Fwoosh!
Then at the same time with his other set of eyes, Methastophola saw the command tents at the other end of the battlefield also go up in flames. The flames had an immediate impact on the battle around him, as Methastophola could all but feel the moment everyone’s hope faded.
“The commander.” Enemies from both sides called out, those that dared to turn their back on Methastophola and his still unknown benefactors were met with blades and piercing strikes to the back. That is when he struck out.
With surprise he looked up to see not one, but two more squads of these elite soldiers coming to join their forces here at the center.
There was so much death going around, that the spiritual energy was off the charts, that was why he missed it, at least at first.
Only after a few minutes did the subtle tells of strangeness come to him, as he began to feel the signs, the buildup of pressure, the sudden tension within his very core.
“What, they are here?” Methastophola asked, looking around for the blue skinned monsters, the one that destroyed his troop.
He quickly scanned the battlefield, but only after a moment did he realize that the source of his discomfort came from the very center of the group of warriors who had come to release him.
A look of confusion came to him, as he saw the way six warriors surrounded and shielded one who was crafting the vile attack. Didn’t she know what that would do? That this would kill her as well? What? What is happening? Was what went through Methastophola’s mind as he looked on in muted horror at the monstrosity that was before him.
So enraptured was he by seeing the monster wielding the ancient weapon against him, that he missed the moment when one of the guardians broke free and began slicing at him.
Pain.
Unimaginable pain coursed through him, as he felt a stinging burn rip through his body. With a shocked horror, he felt the exact cut, the precise mortal wound he had suffered centuries ago burn with an unimaginable pain. One that caused his breath to catch, as he was certain this wound would somehow be able to follow him to his next body, as this wasn’t a mortal blow, at least it wasn’t just a mortal blow, instead, this wound cut deeper, going straight to his very soul.
Clutching at his chest, he wobbled slightly.
“What? What have you?” Methastophola asked, but his mind was already spinning, as his control over his meat suit was slowly slipping away. For centuries he fought and clung to this meat shell. Then with a moment of clarity, he realized he was free. If he let go, if he renounced his hold on this body, he would be set free, and able to escape.
Holding completely still, he waited for the next strike, the one that would destroy his body and forever set him free to finally be reborn within the safety of the forces of the legion. He had learned and grown so much, he might even be able to be considered a master trainer of Flesh and Earth crafting, if none of his former unit survived, then he could always be moved into a position of knowledge and power. All he had to do was to escape, to flee, to do what he was best at, to survive.
Focusing on what was happening, he held out his arms and waited.
He waited for a killing blow, one that would never come.
Clink, clang.
The blows to his front, one that reopened his mortal wound from shoulder to thigh, but that was all. Blows and strikes clanked off of his back, but they were weak and useless. Nothing could have pierced through his thick hide, at least that was what he had assumed, until this monster had used their monstrous sword that cut not only the physical body, but the spiritual one as well.
Realizing that the impending force of evil, the ones used by the blue skinned horrors was nearing its zenith, Methastophola had but moments to act. With desperation, he turned to face the enemies that had driven him below the surface of the earth so long ago. Now he desperately wanted them to pierce and strike at him. Arms open wide, he accepted strike after strike, pikes, axes, spears, swords, and polearms of all kinds struck and pierced his hide. Many of the blows were painful, striking him directly in his exposed wound. The metallic weapons scraped against his flesh suit, but that didn’t hurt anymore. Methastophola had long ago let go of his control over his pain receptors, instead willingly accepting the fact that he was going to die. The only hope was that he would die before the enemy that had lured him out struck. This too he would inform the legions, the fact that the blue skinned ones were back, having taken a new form, one that they use to lull you into a false sense of security.
Rip, tear, squish!
His meat suit was ripped apart, hooks with ropes were used, and grabbed as his body was slowly peeled away from his floating spirit, finally he was free. He felt his spirit rise up, all he had to do now was leave. There was nothing pulling his soul away, nothing tethering his soul to this dungeon, as the runes that had been used to do that had long ago drained away. Now he was just free.
With one last look, he turned to see his sworn enemy, the enemy of all demons.
That is when he saw it, the most beautiful and dangerous burst of light and energy he had ever seen. It enraptured him, burning away the thick oily outer coating of his soul, the same parts that housed a mortal wound. Within this one burst of light, he had been healed and cleansed. It was a truly magnificent moment, as in this one second an eternity of thought roared through his mind, as he realized so many things he had accepted as true, were in fact false. In this moment, one where he was both fully part of the universe and nothing at all, knowledge came to him. He finally understood the lost language of the mortal enemies, and he understood the word that was spoken. A word that would allow him to be reborn in the cycle of life and death, accurately, not in the perverted way that the demons did.
That word was both a promise of the future, and a sign of why he struggled so hard in the past, to experience this one moment. That word was hope.