In the shadows of an ancient castle, a short soldier, but covered in heavy armor, descended endless stone stairs. His torch cast dancing shadows on the walls, revealing scars from past battles: deep cracks, weapon marks, and dark stains whose origin was better left to the imagination.
After ten exhausting minutes, the soldier finally reached the bottom. He found himself in a long hallway flanked by sturdy wooden doors, each sealing off a different room. The air was thick with humidity and a sharp smell that made his nose itch even through his helmet.
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As he advanced, piercing screams began to seep through the doors:
"No, please, not with that!" pleaded a voice, broken by terror.
"I didn’t kill anyone!" protested another, mixing desperation and indignation.
"My eyes, my eyes!" screamed a third, in a blood-curdling wail.
The soldier swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He quickened his pace, heading toward the only door at the end of the hallway, illuminated by an unsettling white light seeping through its edges.
With a trembling hand, he knocked on the door with his metal-plated knuckles.
"Enter," responded a raspy voice from within, laden with authority and something more... something supernatural.
The soldier obeyed, blinking at the sudden intensity of the light. When his eyes adjusted, he saw Zarakel sitting on an ornate chair, manipulating various flasks filled with impossibly colored liquids.
"Sir, I..." the soldier attempted to report, but fatigue and fear cut his words short.
Without looking away from his experiments, Zarakel extended a tentacle from his back—a sight that still made the soldier's stomach churn—and dipped it into a nearby bucket. He then offered it to the exhausted messenger.
"Here, drink," Zarakel ordered, his voice a raspy whisper.
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The soldier drank desperately, the cool water a stark contrast to the oppressive atmosphere of the dungeon.
"Sir, the fight is over," he finally reported, wiping his mouth with a stained glove.
"Really?" Zarakel’s voice took on a tone of macabre hope. "Did Bhaxmunt manage to kill Thamuz?"
The soldier fell silent, his gaze fixed on the stone floor. The silence grew so thick it was almost tangible.
"I see," Zarakel murmured, his voice tinged with disappointment and resignation. "Even the natural predator of the shamonak couldn't defeat Thamuz."
Gathering all his courage, Berkum managed to articulate:
"Thamuz... killed Bhaxmunt. He grabbed his head and crushed it."
The revelation seemed to shake Zarakel. With supernatural speed, he mixed the flasks in his hands until they formed a single substance, which he carefully stored in one of his pockets. He rose from his ornate chair and walked toward the door.
"Come, walk with me for a moment," Zarakel ordered, placing his arms behind his back in a deceptively casual gesture.
Berkum nodded, puzzled by Zarakel's apparent calm in the face of such shocking news. Together, they left the room and walked down the hallway. The screams and wails of the prisoners continued, but Zarakel seemed immune to them, his face a mask of impassivity.
They ventured deeper into the castle, passing through hallways and chambers the soldier had never seen. The ease with which Zarakel navigated this underground labyrinth was unnerving.
Finally, they arrived at a stone bridge that stretched over an unfathomable abyss. The only light came from the soldier torch, casting dancing shadows on the cavern walls.
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"Tell me, what is your name?" Zarakel asked, breaking the silence.
"My name is Berkum, sir," the soldier responded, nervousness evident in his voice.
"Berkum... What an interesting name," Zarakel mused, turning his head slightly. "I suppose you're from the south, where the moon turns pink."
"Yes, how did you know?" Berkum asked, astonished.
"Those from your lands have something special: great courage and the effort to do things right," Zarakel explained. "Normally, the one who informs me is someone much larger than you, with better physical capabilities. But I was told he couldn’t fulfill his duties for a few days due to a battle injury. You were the first to volunteer to replace him. And now look at you, walking and chatting with me as if we were equals."
"Oh, thank you, sir," Berkum said, surprised by the unexpected praise.
"But," Zarakel added, his tone growing darker, "do you know the true virtues of this empire? The ones I have cultivated since I became king forty years ago?"
Berkum remained silent for a moment, his mind struggling to process Zarakel’s question. Finally, he responded with the conviction instilled in him during his training:
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"Bravery, honesty, and commitment. Those are the values I was taught about our empire during my training as a soldier."
Zarakel's laughter erupted suddenly, echoing through the cavern with an unsettling resonance. His hand partially covered his face as he laughed, a sound so out of place in the grim atmosphere.
"They really do train you well!" he exclaimed between diminishing chuckles.
Zarakel turned to face Berkum, the height difference between them emphasizing the aura of power that emanated from the king.
"Do you follow those virtues?" he asked, his raspy voice carrying an indecipherable tone.
"Yes, it is my duty as a soldier to follow the empire's virtues," Berkum replied, trying to maintain his composure.
"Excellent, as a soldier," Zarakel paused, "but have you ever followed your own virtues?"
"What do you mean?" Berkum hesitated, confusion evident in his voice.
Zarakel turned and began to walk toward the end of the bridge, where a gigantic door stood, emanating a disturbing red light.
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"You see, Berkum," Zarakel began, his tone growing sinister, "virtues are something we great leaders use to instill good values and order within our empire. But in truth, they are something we use to shape the empire that lies within us, guiding the decisions that will keep it standing. Do you want to know the virtues that govern the empire within me?"
Berkum swallowed nervously, his body trembling slightly under the weight of his armor, now drenched in cold sweat.
"What are your virtues?" he finally asked, gathering all his courage.
"Power is the greatest of virtues," Zarakel declared. "It is what drives me to want more and more in this life. Strength to keep moving forward despite obstacles. And lastly, tolerance, to know how to handle every situation, no matter the cost."
They reached the massive door, and Zarakel touched it with one of his tentacles, a gesture that made Berkum shudder involuntarily. The door creaked open ominously, revealing several figures draped in white robes stained with blood.
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"Now," Zarakel said, his voice filled with macabre anticipation, "here you will see how those virtues are applied."
He invited Berkum to enter with a gesture of his tentacle. Both stepped into the room bathed in that unnatural red light, their eyes slowly adjusting to the crimson gloom.
"What is this place?" Berkum asked, his voice barely a whisper, choked by the horror surrounding him.
The scene before his eyes was a living nightmare. Rows of cells extended in all directions, each housing people and creatures in various states of mutilation. Their bodies were covered in fresh scars, like grotesque canvases crafted by a mad artist. Figures in white moved between the cells with unsettling efficiency, transporting organs and impossibly colored liquids in containers that seemed to pulse with life. The stench in the air was indescribable, a nauseating mixture of antiseptic and decay. Berkum had to fight the urge to vomit, covering his nose with a trembling hand.
"This is where I like to play with life," Zarakel explained, his voice laden with disturbing enthusiasm. "I mold it to my will and watch it grow. This is my personal playground."
One of the white-clad figures approached Zarakel silently and whispered something in his ear. The king's eyes widened, and a macabre smile spread across his face.
"Excellent. We will go immediately," he declared, his voice brimming with unnatural joy.
Zarakel quickened his pace, with Berkum struggling to keep up. They arrived at a towering metal door, reinforced with materials that looked capable of withstanding the blow of a titan.
"Open the door," Zarakel commanded, his voice reverberating against the walls of the complex.
The operatives complied, activating a mechanism that caused the door to slide open with a metallic screech. What it revealed left Berkum paralyzed with horror.
"Son, how nice to see you!" Zarakel exclaimed with grotesque enthusiasm.
Before them stood Gigantino, but in a state that defied all comprehension. His flesh hung from hooks embedded in the wall, like a grotesque living tapestry. His body was covered in fresh surgical wounds, bruises of every imaginable color staining his skin. Gigantino's face, once powerful, was now a mask of exhaustion and despair. Zarakel entered the room with determined steps, while Berkum remained frozen at the threshold, unable to tear his eyes away from the nightmarish scene. His mind struggled to reconcile the powerful Gigantino he had known with this tortured, mutilated version.
Zarakel knelt in front of Gigantino, his hands—unnaturally cold—cradling his son's shattered face. His eyes, filled with grotesque affection, locked onto Gigantino's.
"How is my dear son?" Zarakel asked with perverse tenderness.
"It... it hu...rts," Gigantino mumbled, each word a torment.
"I know, I know, my son," Zarakel whispered, his voice a macabre lullaby. "But it’s necessary. I can’t waste this opportunity that your little toy has given me. It’s not every day that we find ghunmak in such a pure state. It will increase your chances of defeating that damned Thamuz."
Zarakel pulled out the vial he had stored earlier. The liquid inside glowed with an unnatural blue light, reflecting in Gigantino’s dull eyes.
"I combined it with other substances," Zarakel explained, his voice full of sick pride. "They will boost your strength, endurance, and durability to unimaginable levels. You’ll be able to challenge the gods themselves."
With trembling hands of anticipation, Zarakel uncorked the vial. He grabbed Gigantino’s chin, forcing him to drink half of the contents. Then, he stepped back, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of expectation and madness.
"Now, we just have to wait," he whispered to himself.
The effect was immediate and horrifying. Gigantino began to convulse, his screams of agony echoing through the chamber. His muscles swelled grotesquely, the skin stretching to the point of breaking. Bone spikes erupted from his body, tearing through flesh and clothing alike.
With a bestial roar, Gigantino freed himself from one of the hooks that held him.
"Seal the doors!" Zarakel ordered, his voice tinged with a morbid excitement as he hurried out of the room.
The workers obeyed, sealing the chamber. The howls and screams that filtered through the metal were chilling, a symphony of pain and transformation.
Suddenly, deafening bangs began to resonate. The creature Gigantino had become was slamming against the door, each impact leaving deep dents in the reinforced metal. Then, as abruptly as it had started, silence fell.
Berkum, unable to bear it any longer, collapsed to his knees. Tears of horror and despair streamed down his face as he looked at Zarakel, searching for some vestige of sanity in that monstrous figure.
"What have you done?" he managed to choke out between sobs.
Zarakel turned slowly, his face illuminated by a smile that seemed to tear at the very edges of comprehension. His eyes, dark pools of madness and unbridled ambition, locked onto Berkum.
"I..." he declared, his voice seeming to emanate from the depths of hell, "have tested my virtues."