Darkness.

I am enveloped and immersed in it, yet I walk with steady steps through these sonorous, shapeless galleries.

The walls are jagged, carved by creations of bizarre nature. They have limbs where there should be none, flesh like stone and iron riveted to bone. Like fusions of iron and blood, but born from a twisted, infantile mind.

But I too am one of these creations.

I do not remember who I was or how I became this, but I know I was once human.

Now, however, I am far more efficient. My creator’s goal achieved.

I have three legs, arranged like those of a stool. Not cumbersome or awkward. The opposite. I move with stability across all surfaces, my speed and leaps surpassing any man’s. From these legs extends a torso, somewhat humanoid, though its insides have been hollowed and filled with strange organs and contraptions that allow me to command my mindless kin. Then there are the arms. They are decidedly humanoid, save for the presence of a sixth finger on each hand. What differs are the two weapons grafted as “arms.” One resembles a folding razor, a blade swift and agile. The other is more like a clamp and a kind of shield. Their roles are evident from their shapes. Then there is the head, unchanged from my former identity, save perhaps for the slight decay of death upon it. And finally, my favorite limb. It extends from the center of my back, connected to my spine. It lashes and hisses behind me, a long extension of metallic bone-spines. It culminates in a retractable stinger, which, when closed, can pierce, and when opened, functions as a hand, thanks to its eight segments that move like fingers—but better.

Here I am, the general leading this army at war with the world.

Before me are the tools of excavation. We move underground, carving veins and arteries of cold stone according to the master’s precise design.

His voice and my logic tell me they are meant to hide and protect us from the threats of our true enemy. The three traitors, separated yet united in flesh and spirit. They slithered from earth to sky on the day of our creator’s birth, fleeing the crumbling Tower of Rebirth to hide and plot against the one who was their own master.

But beyond these reasonable motives, I sense there is something more. As if we are preparing a grand ritual, creating something terrifying even to me, who no longer has a heart.

The land yellows and dies beneath the realms we pass through. The tunnels seem to emit sounds in the silence, like inaudible whispers and muted gurgles.

Here in the depths, the creatures I lead are the most human, I suppose. Compared to this endless web of abominations, I am a work of art of infinite beauty.

The Scurgeons, with their countless limbs ending in the most disparate ways—from shovels and chisels to clamps and scalpels. They crawl on all fours, their snouts of gray flesh and iron aimed at the stone.

We are drawing closer to the city on our path. We will harvest it. We will replenish our numbers, grow more efficient. Perhaps I will even find suitable subjects for the master’s transformations.

Time flowed, placid and inexorable.

The tunnels, advancing like subcutaneous veins, merged into a great chamber—a womb where we would wait.

The Scurgeons resumed digging, this time in a vertical spiral, thrusting toward the surface and the light.

The anticipation, which for me should be nothing, suddenly came alive, unusual and unexpected, like a flying horror in the dark underground labyrinth.

It was an old habit of mine, I suppose, not erased and perfected by the master. But I did not mind.

I found amusement in the wait, perhaps even more than in the harvest itself.

Inspiration stirred within me, almost worthy of the creator’s.

I began to sculpt.

I took a Trhosner, a creature formed from the union of ten or more human bodies. Their legs used as a driving force, their torsos detached and then stitched and riveted into a horizontal platform resting on their limbs, their arms placed outside the great slab of torsos, and eyes and ears sewn to the base of the appendages.

It became the foundation of my new sculpture. I took limbs and parts from other countless creations. In the end, the result was a colossal and immense creature.

It towered over me in the center of that dark womb of cold stone.

Its cylindrical body, resembling that of a leech but more rigid and metallic, stood upright, aimed toward the heights of the cavern.

At its base were structures of bone and steel, like spider legs, ending in spikes and barbs.

Along its trunk writhed arms ready to grasp. Near the summit, I had sewn four large multi-jointed limbs. The mouth—a true perfect nightmare.

After kilometers of tunnels, it was time to break through the last thin membrane.

The army under my silent command began to ascend. A symphony of picks and scratches rose like a mournful lament from the unknown depths.

A thunderous roar and tremor came from above. Rocks and dust fell, crushing some of my creatures.

But finally, the breach was open—a bleeding wound of darkness in the earth.

A second of silence and stillness. Then, screams and another crash. Pieces of the wall tumbled into the channel we had dug.

The screams continued as the vanguard was vomited onto the land.

The city was already a mix of emotions before we set foot in it. Panic and fear dominated; I could smell their sublime scent in the air.

I did not guide the troops with precision. The task was to kill, and I did not wish to distract myself with such humble activities.

I preferred to enjoy the spectacle and immerse myself in the musicality of the moment.

We had been birthed at the edge of the city, just outside the walls. A miscalculation, but it worked out. The wall had cracked and collapsed into the tunnel, opening the way for us.

I moved slowly and with agility, leaping like a tick from one rooftop to another.

I observed the streets and the futile defenses upheld by these men.

Yes, the soldiers of the depths were breaking and crumbling, but they could have been repaired.

I was searching for something interesting.

There he was.

From the top of a tall building, I saw him.

In the north of the city, a group of soldiers was holding out rather well.

Ordinary men cannot accomplish such feats. A new game worthy of the master.

I hopped from roof to roof, occasionally skewering an unfortunate soul in the streets with my stinger—a playful pastime.

Then I stood before the battalion, scrutinizing it for the true linchpin of that trash.

Found him.

A tall man covered from head to toe in dull gray and red armor.

It had to be him. I could smell his vigor and indomitable spirit.

Moreover, he wielded an ancient blade. It was clear it had been forged with a precious alloy. I also sensed a strange aura around it—perhaps a blessing, but more likely some kind of enchantment.

He cut through the slender and swift Skirrers like nothing, while amputating and immobilizing the heavy Lusteks.

It was clear he was the beating heart of those soldiers, giving them courage and faith in the black sea of despair that we were.

It was time to act.

I leapt from the ledge where I stood.

I landed on the Lustek that was being torn apart.

By accident, I pierced its brain with one of my legs. No matter.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

I had made my entrance, illuminated by fire against a backdrop of moonless night.

I must have been quite glorious.

I struck him from the left with my blade-arm.

He parried with his sword.

But he had no time to block the clamp from the right, which, like a boulder, sent him reeling backward.

Other soldiers rushed to cover him. I slaughtered them all. Crushed, impaled, trampled.

He shouted words from his mouth, and the soldiers backed away from him.

Good. A duel.

I had already ordered the black creations to stay away. I do not like playing with insignificant beings.

From his helmet, only bloodshot hazel eyes were visible.

Something red and warm dripped from within.

He stood in a defensive stance, his thick sword held before his body.

He was clearly at a disadvantage compared to me.

I towered over him at three meters tall. Fast and agile, dense and heavy. With more limbs and weapons. A faster, more calculating mind.

He had only flesh, blood, and spirit.

I lunged like thunder before him, repeating the same actions as before.

He dodged the first and deflected the second.

But my unexpected stinger found his knee.

He swung his sword, and I stepped back to avoid the blow.

A moment of calm in the storm.

I watched him, waiting for his descent into total despair.

He had one knee, and thus one leg, rendered useless.

He should have understood and accepted the situation by now.

I was giving him time.

But then… he stood.

His shattered knee defied all logic and kept him upright.

He looked around, then fixed his gaze on me. I heard a stifled chuckle.

Then he shouted in a deep, metallic voice:

“Soldiers! Do not surrender! I know you fear them more than death itself! But do not give them what they want! They want to see us trembling and silent! Kneeling, offering our heads! But no! We are warriors! Not aberrations! We will die on our feet!”

What a pitiful sight. Those insects felt reinvigorated and held their heads high for a few seconds longer. But nothing would change their fate.

He continued, his voice lower but still strong, now directed at me:

“Foul creature, courage! Our fight is not over. Or are you afraid?”

That final laugh—or perhaps the entire situation, so far from my expectations—was like a faint itch in my brain.

It was time to bring him to his knees, to break him, to make him beg.

I charged again.

This time, the clamp from the right first, then the blade from the left.

Dodged and parried.

My stinger shot like a lance, again aimed at his right leg.

He pivoted on his left leg, shifting his body sideways, bringing his sword up from below to meet my stinger.

His left foot was pierced. My leg had nailed him to the ground.

His breath broke into a stifled scream.

He tried to raise his sword to strike me, but my six-fingered hand shot out.

I seized his right arm.

I lifted my leg slowly, the sound of bones and blood filling the air.

With my other hand, I first removed his helmet, then lifted him by both wrists.

He still clutched that sword, but it didn’t matter. He had lost from the start.

I pulled him close, wanting to savor the expression and emotions on his face.

A square, determined face. Even now, there was an immortal flame in his eyes.

The itch worsened.

Then, from his unyielding mouth, came a stunned whisper:

“L…Loris?”

What a strange word.

The itch became a clawing in my head.

“Is it really you? I’m Lucas. Lucas Dumai. Do you remember? ”

“SILENCE!”

For the first time, I spoke to such a weak and insignificant being.

I wanted to scrutinize him, to watch his mind crumble. So why…?

Why was I the one afraid?

No. My name is not Loris. No. No. NO.

It burns! My head felt as if a red-hot iron had been thrust into it.

With the pain came memories and sensations. No. Impossible. I have neither.

Then another pain. My right arm severed. A searing venom eating into my cold flesh.

Pain, rage, and helplessness overwhelmed me.

I was afraid. I no longer wanted to play.

So I destroyed the game.

My stinger plunged into his heart, tearing open and ripping apart everything inside that sack of flesh.

But he stood there, upright on those broken legs.

WHY?!

Why is he not afraid?!

I am better. I no longer need to hide or close my eyes!

“Loris… Before I go, tell me one thing. Where did you hide that night?”

I am not Loris. I don’t know…

But my hoarse, grating voice answered:

“A floorboard… It was lifted. There was just enough space for a small child…”

“Blood seeped through the cracks… I was drowning in it…”

“But I was good. I stayed silent and still, like the dead. It was my salvation.”

His eyes crystalline and serene, he knew from the beginning his destiny.

I, on the other hand, was being devoured by something hot and ravenous. It wanted to consume me.

I severed Lucas’s head and tied it to my side. I didn’t know what I would do with it.

As the battle drew to a close, I “rested” and tried to regain control of my mind as much as possible.

I also recovered the sword that belonged to the great warrior. It had cut through my humanoid arm like nothing, and I sensed that the aura surrounding it was related to what had clawed at my brain.

Toward the end of the assault, near dawn, the rooster’s crow came.

Except it was our enemies who sang the melody.

Horrors of the sky blotted out the rising sun. Their iridescent wings, just like those of the past.

But there was more.

A massive mass of flying flesh. It had four wings, translucent membranes shimmering with silver light. A body resembling that of a larva, but more distorted.

The few humans still alive I saw go mad. Tears of blood streamed from their eyes. They rolled on the ground, screaming incomprehensible words.

Then, silent and all-encompassing, drowning out the shrill shrieks in the sky, an abominable sound spread.

The flesh and blood on the ground began to move like skin and muscle.

The men still alive saw their bodies deform and stretch, kneaded by the slimy, infectious wave.

That gigantic thing was the cause, and it had to be brought down.

Finally, I gave orders to my army. The Skidvurs emerged from the tunnel, protected by the infantry. They were to deal with the flying horrors with their lances of bone and iron. Additionally, larger, improved specimens catapulted Atruls into the sky—small, spider-like creations with spurs.

What a waste. All the bodies and new materials of a city lost to these disgusting creatures.

I was withdrawing the troops toward the tunnel.

It needed to get close enough for my plan.

We were suffering heavy losses. That mass of flesh had pustules that burst and shot out chunks of meat that, upon impact, adhered and covered more of my soldiers, merging and transforming them into its slaves. Moreover, the blood-soaked ground had turned into a carpet of skin from which tentacles stretched, hindering us.

We were getting closer to the chasm behind us. And so was it.

I positioned myself at the edge of the abyss. Before me was the void; beyond, the sky filled with abominations.

My new friend Lucas seemed to enjoy the view with me. His mouth twitched into a grin, and his eyes rolled madly beneath his eyelids.

The obese larva was finally above the abyss, seemingly intent on crawling into it.

Now was the moment to see my work of art in action.

A flash. Then a psychedelic screech.

The death construct had latched onto the thing in the sky, its limbs anchored in the flesh. Meanwhile, its mouth—an endless series of rings made of fingers with teeth—was drilling into its body.

The massive winged monster soon had a colossal parasite within it.

It let itself fall downward, thrashing weakly into the hole, crawling deeper.

Annoying. Nothing good could come of that thing reaching the sacred halls and corridors of the master.

My creation had to kill it before it reached the main underground chamber.

I had to inform the master in the tower in the meantime.

So I closed my eyes and devoted myself to silence and darkness.

I chanted the name of the nameless.

I was looking for his golden smile in the darkness.

Then finally I found him.