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Thousands of years had passed since Feng Deming's imprisonment; now, he appeared twenty by human standards. Sealed deep underground in a dungeon, the prince stood out even in the shadows. Dim light highlighted his pointed nose and high cheekbones. His defined eyebrows, as sharp as daggers, arched over his closed eyes. Long, dark-brown hair flowed like a river of shadows down to his thighs, adding an aura of mystery to his appearance.
The dungeon emitted a musty odor with a faint metallic hint of blood still staining the walls. The faint rustle echoed through the silence, interrupted only by the distant drip of water. Each drop resonated like grains of sand slipping through an hourglass, marking years of insufferable torture endured.
Focused on breaking the phantasmal chains, each moment of captivity centered on mastering the deciphering of the twenty seals binding those chains. Ancient glyphs unraveled through sheer concentration, forehead glowing with intensity. His closed eyes twitched as he concentrated, the pressure of the chains digging into his skin a constant, throbbing reminder of his yearning for the liberty to walk free once more.
'How satisfying it would be to see no trace of their world, all by my own hands,' Deming entertained, an evil, pleasure-filled smirk curling his lips as the thought tasted as sweet as honey. 'Their mutilated bodies shall be my masterpiece, and their painful screams, well, the sweetest melody to my ears... And all of that is within my grasp now.'
Heavy footsteps reverberated through the stone walls, growing louder as they approached the dungeon, breaking his concentration. Male voices, low and urgent, murmured in the distance, their words indistinguishable but charged with tension.
Aware of Feng Deming's immense power, many self-proclaimed 'gods' had gathered to prevent his escape. The faerie general, known as 'the god of war,' shouted through the dungeon, his voice sharp and grating like metal scraping against stone. "Cease, demon!"
Deming did not open his eyes, not when he was this close to breaking the seal. 'Now, they shall witness the true meaning of what they call... a monster,' he sneered, his smirk deepening as he continued to decode the seals.
The faerie general appeared to be in his mid-twenties. Long silver hair added to his handsome appearance, and an elegant gold head chain with a jewel hanging from it rested against his forehead, matching his vibrant blue eyes.
His voice grew louder and more forceful. "I said, stop!" His hand crackled with energy, forming a beam of light that hummed with intensity.
Despite the warnings, Deming remained unmoved, his focus unbroken. The dungeon walls closed in, the pressure building as if the very stones held their breath.
His eyes, like molten metal, revealed the tales of untold suffering and a promise of vengeance as they opened. Long lashes left fleeting shadows across his cheeks with each slow blink. His golden eyes roamed over the trembling soldiers. Each shiver and flinch deepened the intense pleasure radiating from him, as though he fed on their fear.
Frustration and dread colored the general's voice as he turned to his troops. "Attack!"
White, ethereal wings emerged as they flew up, their auras shimmering. They moved in sync, tracing complex patterns with their hands, starting with a circular motion. With both palms pressed together, they unleashed a cacophony of brilliant beams of light that resonated through the stone walls and shook the floor, filling the air with a burning scent.
Deming smirked, his eyes reflecting the flickering light of the beams. "They're courting their demise." The chains around his limbs and neck vanished. With flawless precision, he dodged the attack, tilting his shoulder and spinning to face his opponents.
Blazing fire emanated from his eyes. He raised his arms and redirected them back toward the soldiers until they met their end, exploding in blinding light and deafening noise. Arms crossed, a fleeting satisfaction softened his aloof demeanor as he took in the explosion.
"You tried," Deming mused with a short, dismissive wave, his expression twisting with malevolence. A cruel smirk settled on his lips as he taunted in a deep voice, "I wish you could see your faces."
"Stay alert, everyone!" the faerie general ordered, his voice unsteady. "Lord Muchen is nearly here! Hold your positions!"
"What? You cannot stop me without him?" Deming ridiculed, though the mention of Muchen made his jaw clench and a bitter taste rise in his throat. 'Does Muchen have another trick up his sleeve to trap me?'
As he observed the general's trembling form, his eyes drifted toward the shadows, where a fleeting tension marred his otherwise composed expression.
His low, venomous voice resonated in the stone chamber. "How amusing... I suppose it is your lucky day. I may have to postpone my plan to obliterate this realm. But do not worry; I always keep my promises. And when I return, perhaps I will start with your loved ones first. I shall chain them deep in your dungeons, make them yearn to see the light and sky again, knowing they can only dream about it, day after day. They shall scream in agony while you watch helplessly, begging me to stop. And I shall remain still, just as you did all these years, watching me suffer."
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The general narrowed his eyes, confusion etched across his face. 'What is he... talking about? I've never...'
Deming's voice dropped to a vicious growl. "And it shall not stop there. On the lands where you have raised your children, I shall build statues of our people from your ashes. And as for Muchen, he shall be where he always needed to be—under our feet."
The general's face drained of color, his lips parting as his breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. His eyes widened, and his hands shook with unrestrained intensity.
~*~
A soldier rushed into the throne room, his voice urgent. "My lord, the Astaran prince is on the verge of breaking free!" Intense and glaring sunlight bounced off his gleaming white armor, illuminating the crystal pillars of the chamber in a vibrant glow. A faint scent of incense filled the room, blending its sweet and earthy fragrance.
This news filled Lord Muchen's heart with anxiety as he murmured, "That cannot be..."
Lord Muchen, a middle-aged man, wore a long, white robe that signified his authority. His hair, tied back in sections and as black as night, allowed a few stray strands to frame his sharp features. Atop his head rested a golden crown, its twisted plant stem design symbolizing his connection to nature and his role as ruler.
Muchen's hands trembled without control. "Seal... that... demon," he urged in a strained voice, his teeth clenched to the point of almost shattering, his eyes bulging with fear. "Summon all the high gods. IMMEDIATELY!"
"Yes, my lord," the faerie soldier bowed, only to be interrupted by the ground shaking with great force. Both their eyes widened in shock.
"Hurry!" Muchen scowled in disdain. 'If Feng Deming roams free, our demise is inevitable.'
~*~
Deming tilted his head, regarding the faerie general with a cold stare as the general's breath hitched, sweat trickling down his forehead. Overwhelmed by fear, he could only meet the demon prince's sharp, menacing gaze with trembling eyes.
The demon's golden eyes now blazed fiery red, his dark aura pulsating and radiating eerie energy as he clenched his fists. Time froze, and in an instant, a violent eruption shook the dungeon.
The unfortunate faeries near him vanished in a cloud of smoke, the painful screams of hundreds echoing throughout the dungeon. The air filled with a strong, smoky odor of burnt matches and materials for those who survived the attack.
The general, overwhelmed, succumbed to the ruthless assault. Drops of blood trickled from his trembling lips as he muttered in confusion and fear, "What... what is he?"
"Make sure you prepare well for my return," Deming declared with a cold grin as he ascended into the air. Fierce black flames erupted from his back, forming broad wings that crackled and burned. A swirling cloud of black smoke surrounded him as he departed, leaving behind a bone-chilling nightmare for the witnesses.
Muchen and his soldiers stormed into the dungeon, their eyes sweeping over the dusty area with heavy hearts, taking in the remains of their loved ones reduced to ashes. Shock and grief gripped them, their jaws dropping as they struggled to comprehend the loss. Frustration and sorrow tightened their fists, some suppressing tears at the sight of their once-living comrades, now gone.
"L-Lord Muchen," the general clung to life, his voice a weak whisper.
Muchen, paralyzed with fear, snapped back to reality, turning his attention to the fortunate survivors. His eyes fell on the injured man lying on the ground who had spoken his name and recognized him. "Yize..."
"I... I failed in my duty." Yize's eyes narrowed in pain. Two of Muchen's soldiers knelt beside him, reaching out their arms to help him as he tried to get back on his feet.
Yet, before he could gather himself, Muchen's gaze froze him in place, like ice on a winter's day. He bowed his head in shame, bearing the silent disappointment of his lord.
In the middle of the wrecked dungeon, Muchen clenched his fists, his eyes bulging with rage. His voice, dripping with evil authority and hatred, stated, "Our time will come... soon."
~*~
Deming soared across the sky, his black robes billowing in the wind. A gentle breeze caressed his face, tousling his straight, silky hair. He had long imagined this moment—reuniting with the sunlight's warmth and the wind on his skin. It had been an eternity since he last tasted such freedom, and the distant horizon beckoned him back to his home.
Astara, a realm where mountains reached the sky, surrounded the land like a protective cloak. At the heart of Middle Astara stood a city far more advanced than any other, where history, culture, art, and academia thrived. The grand palace served as the city's crown jewel, its stone walls adorned with stunning carvings portraying the culture and artistry of the Astaran people.
Approaching the palace gates, childhood memories flooded his mind, urging him toward the grand throne room, where his sworn enemy awaited.
The massive doors swung open, and Deming stepped inside, dominating the hall. The Astaran Supreme and the council gaped as the boy they remembered from his youth had matured into a tall adult.
Murmurs filled the chamber. One council member whispered to another, "Isn't that Prince Feng Deming? Wasn't he declared dead?"
Deming's malicious gaze landed on the king's, driven by a thirst for revenge. "Former lieutenant and servant of my father... how dare you sit on my throne!" he taunted in a fierce, deep voice, burning with rage in his glare. "You parasite... You sold me to the faeries as a slave. You disgust me."
Gasps and cries of outrage echoed throughout the throne room. The once-mighty King of Kings shifted, his eyes darting around the room. His composure crumbled as he struggled to comprehend how Deming's escape had occurred.
"What? Did you truly believe I would remain imprisoned forever?" Deming summoned forth a raven-black sword with a sinister aura.
The king attempted to regain control. "These accusations are nonsense! If anyone is breaking the law, it is you, entering my palace uninvited... GUARDS!"
"I made you a promise that day, and as you are aware, I always honor my promises." Deming's gaze bore into the former lieutenant, causing bystanders to recoil in horror. "Your reign ends today, and I will ensure not a single statue is made in your likeness, nor will any Astaran speak your name again until you are forgotten..." he paused, holding his hand before him with indifference. "Also, why would I need permission to enter my own palace?"
The king's heart sank as he grasped the direness of his situation. With trembling hands, he drew his sword in a desperate attempt to defend himself. Yet, before he could raise his blade, Deming moved with lightning speed, striking before the king could lift his sword. With a swift blow, the prince shattered the king's defenses, leaving him gasping as his life force ebbed away.
Deming stood over the fallen ruler, his breath heavy with anger, and the council members fell to their knees.
~*~
"Hope is a fragile illusion... Once he returns to us, Feng Deming will beg for mercy before the end," Lord Muchen murmured, his smirk unfurling like a serpent coiling around its prey, venomous and inevitable.