The agonizing, deafening screams of a shattered army displaced the air around him.
In the chaotic flight of a thousand, thousand men, one would find no morsel of grandeur. There was no dignity. No morality.
The hellscape before him was indeed one of such caliber. Forsaken comrades and confidants clawed feverishly past one another, crying for their mothers. Veteran warriors of countless years cast down their family heirlooms and ran with broken minds. Even the most prestiged of nobles threw their own knights from swifter steeds in a panicked attempt to flee the unspawn that had birthed from 70,000 of their kin.
Amidst this world of pandemonium, the slower, clumsier men would find themselves kissing soil beneath the armored feet of their brothers. They would not rise again. Calling the act a retreat would disgrace even the poorest of commanders.
Haidre, however, did not move. He could not. As his brain failed to process the raw, sensory overload that assailed him, he appeared, for the briefest of moments, as a quivering stone within a raging river. The scent of gore, interwoven with piss and shit, corrupted his nostrils as he finally and unwillingly retched his last meal into the trampled ground beneath him. Tears, born from a savage diversity of stimulants, quickly followed, and he collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
There was no dignity.
Why had it been me? His first cohesive thought raged.
Why was Faylon spared and not me? I'm the one with a family, damnit!
As if trying to invoke a response from the land itself, he furiously scraped at the mud with shaking, gauntleted fingers. No- it would have been more accurate to state that he had simply vented his insurmountable frustration into the most easily accessible medium around him.
Of course, he knew the answer.
Haidre was strong. More importantly, he was healthy, both in body and mind. His brother Faylon had been injured prior to the draft notice during a bar fight. Rather, Faylon, a barkeep, had been badly beaten after refusing a thuggish posse free drinks. As a noncombatant, he had not reciprocated. Damaged bodies and unwilling hearts were not the qualities of a good soldier.
Being the younger brother, Haidre was never expected to surpass Faylon in his accomplishments. Yet there he lay, the proud father of two and loving husband of one, within the horrible massacre of Katze Plains, while his pathetic, lonely brother tended mugs in a wayward inn up North.
As Haidre lamented in his own vomit, the torrent of moving bodies began to intensify. Something big started to violently shake the world. The symphonic screams and cries began to undertake a more shrill, insane quality than before. He took no notice of this, however, as another noise cut mercilessly through his thoughts and into his ears. An unnatural noise, growing louder.
SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT
--
"Damnit!"
Faylon cursed as the mug flew from his fingers and burst upon marriage with the cold, unpolished floor. He ignored the sarcastic applause around him and casually moved to collect the remains in a rehearsed manner.
He had been daydreaming again-
Although, considering my profession, nightdreaming had to be a more appropriate description, right?
As he mulled his predicament, his body performed an impressive array of tasks. Even as the pieces collected into his sweeper, he absentmindedly refilled the mug of a regular and scanned the hall while counting the number of solemn faces with empty flagons.
This is why I am here. He thought. This is why I am still here.
His bouts of surreality aside, Faylon could be counted among the best bartenders in the Re-Estize Kingdom, and his customers knew it. No person would remain unattended for long under Faylon's care. The owner of the Brimming Hollow, intelligent enough to see the correlation, kept Faylon employed with a healthy wage. Needless to say, any damages to the inn's property would, of course, still bear consequence in the department of legal tender.
"Boss'll really chew you out for this one, Fay! That was one of the new pieces."
"As expected of Faylon-dono."
"To think I'd learn so much about job keeping from a fumbler like you!"
Faylon reciprocated the friendly jeering with a sharp grin and shot back,
"The next one will be holding your precious drink in it, Torbin-san. You can count on that."
In response, the rugged man pulled his mug close with a slow, grating manner. His placatingly worried expression drew more hearty laughter from those seated at the bar around him.
The lack of hostility in the air opened the hearts and calmed the souls of any who ventured into the Brimming Hollow. This was widely known.
Despite residing far from the capital, the small, two-story inn received regular purpose in servicing laborers and farmers of the surrounding countryscape. In addition, its proximity to the main road made it a popular rest stop for weary travelers, traders, and adventurers alike. The walls were thick and the beds soft. In short, it was never empty.
Recent events had not gone entirely unnoticed, however. While the usual clientele of about 30 respectable locals was a given, the trade caravans from E-Rantel had been noticeably absent in the recent months.
Hearsay often spoke of the city governed by death. Whispers of a nameless fear invoked terror in those with vivid imaginations.
If such a place truly existed, it’s understandable that merchants would avoid it.
As Faylon scratched his greying stubble, he reveled in the fortunate life he’d been blessed with of late.
After the massacre at Katze Plains, at the hands of the Baharuth Empire and the abominable Sorcerer King they supported, the vacancy of a hundred thousand men had eviscerated the nation. Incapable of governing their now understaffed establishments, many storekeepers shut down their domains and moved elsewhere. Some had even vacated the Kingdom. Crime had increased following the influx of abandoned buildings and shortage of guards. Widows, unable to support their crippled families, tearfully abandoned their children, regardless of age.
Faylon had extended aid toward Haidre's wife and their two daughters. Grief-stricken as she was, she had refused any help from the man who, in her eyes, left his brother to die.
"Another round, Fay! Draining these flagons is hard work, and I need to relax with a refill!"
He needed not say a word, however. Ever the multitasker, Faylon had already sped between the crowded tables and delivered the perfectly frothed ale to the applauding patron with shocking agility.
"Kukuku. With speed like that, it's almost hard to believe you once resembled a slab of raw meat, Faylon-san."
Faylon grinned again. Indeed, he had made a full recovery.
The men whom had taken such delight in beating an unarmed, innocent barkeep quickly found themselves with bruisings of their own as the loyal denizens of Brimming Hollow rushed to his aid. Faylon was told they now resided deep within the capital's prison, although he could not care less.
Yeah, I couldn’t care less.
It was not that Faylon misunderstood conflict. On the contrary, he considered it an important, albeit tragic, act that helped maintain order and govern populations. He was merely at odds with it on a personal level. His dearest brother, failing to grasp that perspective, had discarded him as a foolish man disharmonized with the real world.
Scanning once again the plethora of tables surrounding him, Faylon's eyes came to rest on, and quickly diverted from, the man in the far corner. He sat alone, separated from the nearest compatriot by three rows of crude seating. Aside from the occasional, stealing glance, the entire inn avoided him like a healthy man would a sick. It was as if life instinctively receded from that being, and with good reason.
Despite the warm atmosphere, he wore a thick, hooded, full-bodied cloak that obscured his features to potential observers. Although the garb muddied his form, it was obvious that the fellow was insanely muscled. He towered above a normal man's stature, and his shoulders made one think of two cannons, loaded and ready to explode.
No one knew how long he had been there. Even Faylon, who prided himself in his memory, did not remember seeing him enter through the large portal from the farmland beyond. The man had requested a single cup of water, which lay still untouched since its arrival at his table. Instead of drinking, he had casually withdrawn a journal from thin air, something which had drawn quiet gasps from the congregation beyond, and busied himself reading and re-reading it from cover to back.
Lone magicians were rare in this subsect. If given the choice, most preferred themselves amongst adventurers' parties, or perhaps secluded deep within the capital's archives and libraries. In addition, a magic caster bearing such overpowering physique would sit ill with even the most well-versed of travelers. The two qualities were not congruous.
It was only natural that he sat alone. Faylon concluded.
Withdrawing once more into the present, Faylon became aware of a commotion at a small table some distance behind him. He knew, without turning, the culprit orchestrating the disturbance.
"Bonz." He muttered, his face morphing into one of distaste.
After Katze, all well-informed common folk had heard some mention of that red-topped, hot-tempered mercenary sitting across the hall. Bonz Durkin: the "Silver Talon" of the Orichalcum adventurer team "Blaze of Crystal".
The late adventurer team "Blaze of Crystal". He corrected himself.
Blaze of Crystal had been hired to take part in the battle at Katze Plains. If the rumors held true, Bonz had prematurely lost his nerve and abandoned his companions. The remains, if one could call them that, were transferred to him soon after, along with any and all possessions his companions once retained.
As a result, Bonz had grown wealthy, retired from adventuring, and begun spending his days enthralled with the consumption of booze and less acceptable "remedies" as a tavern-hopper. He had yet to be barred from the Brimming Hollow.
Maybe tonight will be that night. Faylon hoped as he scurried towards the upheaval.
"How dare you look down on me, the Silver Talon?!" Bonz bellowed, gripping the collar of a man beneath him.
"You abandoned your friends and left them to die on the battlefield. How dare you call yourself an adventurer?!" The drunken patron heatedly replied.
"My team was weak!" He screamed with veins bulging beneath his matted, crimson hair. "It's no wonder they died failing to protect that pitiful noble."
"You-"
"That's enough!" Faylon uncharacteristically shouted as any vestiges of noise ceased around him.
Indeed, to have the usually composed bartender of Brimming Hollow raise his voice was a very rare occurrence. However, the dangerous matter of an obviously unstable, very powerful man warranted such behavior.
"Violence is not tolerated in the Brimming Hollow, Bonz-sama.” He continued in a quieter voice. “Even from one so exalted as yourself."
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Bonz, in pause as if processing the new modifier, slowly smiled an expression of malice as he released the man and rose to face Faylon.
"You. I know you- You're that pacifist everyone holds in such esteem around here. Where does a limp man like you get off against ordering a hero as myself around?"
"A hero-"
"Silence!" Bonz hissed as he whirled to face the boozer behind him.
"Surviving that slaughter was effort enough, plebeian! You weren't there. How dare you assume me a coward like this impotent man you so treasure before you?"
"Barkeep." He continued, turning again through clenched teeth. "I never heard an answer from you."
"This is not your house to burn, Bonz." Faylon replied steadily. "I suggest you collect your belongings and leave in a respectable manner while that option remains open to you."
This was, of course, a bluff.
Any adventurer bestowed with the rank of Orichalcum was a being of nigh unparalleled skill in combat. A hundred men of the average caliber would fall easily against Bonz and his equipment. It was because of this disgraceful truth that Faylon's regulars did not scramble to his defense.
It was a bluff, and everyone knew it, including the formerly top-ranked warrior who opposed him.
"I go where I want. I stay when I want … I… I take what I want!"
Bonz paused, the evil grin returning to his glistening face.
"I think I'll take your life, peacemaker."
Something polished and metallic gleamed in the light of the blazing hearth. It was an item from which flowed the driving lifeblood of his title: Silver Talon.
Having once belonged to an old elven battlemaster, Bonz' gauntlets were quite special. Made from mythril, the illustrious plates of metal were capable of drawing envious stares from any crowd. Three menacing spikes on either mitt faintly glowed with blue, magical energy against the warm, candlelit ambience around them.
Like any high-ranking adventurer, Bonz swam in triumphant stories of his own valor. Rumor told that his superhuman strength was imbued with a rare magic while channeling that armor. With a single strike, it was said he could obliterate any manner of foe through an unbelievable, explosive force. Even the most monstrous demi-humans would surely be maimed when paired against such mighty power.
With this in mind, Faylon could to do little but remain still as the drug-mad warrior positioned himself for a killing strike. Even if he dodged Bonz’ attack, the shockwave would surely kill him.
It is unavoidable. He thought in despair.
"Oiii!"
A fist flew through the air, landing on Bonz' cheek.
"Kuku... Just who do you think you are? Ending a man's life after such little provocation is disgraceful, don't you think, Durkin-sama?”
Torbin's haymaker had left little impact on Bonz' face. However, his goal had only been to dissuade him. Likewise, the emphasis of his voice carried traces of pleading undertones with it, and he trembled slightly as he spoke.
Torbin was an intimidating man. Standing just shy of two meters and tenacious from a lifetime of hard work, he was considered one of the strongest men in the area.
He stood no chance against the old Orichalcum adventurer.
He’s just trying to diffuse the situation.
Faylon realized his mistake with shame. How foolish he’d been to not consider the safety of his customers.
"It's a bit much, don't you think? How about we all just-"
*TUFFT*
A stilted, perverse noise cut through their eardrums. Something shiny glimmered in the air.
In that instant, Torbin's body, infused with magic, became a self-propelled missile.
His chest caved inwards and blood spate onto his shirt from a triad of gaping holes. Tears of pain erupted from his eyes as he exploded across the room, crashing into a wooden support and coming to rest many meters away from his aggressor.
His body convulsed, briefly, and then fell still.
Torbin’s now glassy stare quietly anticipated their next move. A deeper, darker silence engulfed the inn as red liquid began pooling unto the floor. Not even a whimper escaped the terrified farmers and workers as they ogled the unsightly corpse of their friend.
"Now-" Bonz cackled.
"Where was I?"
...
Faylon could not comprehend what he had witnessed.
He could not process Torbin’s demise quickly enough.
It was too fast. He managed to cogitate through anguish and incredulity.
There was no moment of reprieve. No prolonged episode of inaction. Nothing suggested of the sort as the inhuman warrior before Faylon failed to waste even a single second. Bonz Durkin, a veteran of countless fights, had a brain wired for combat efficiency.
In his mind, the interference had been dealt with. That was all.
As Bonz repositioned himself, time seemed to warp for Faylon. He envisioned an inhospitable landscape. Bodies. Flesh, and gore. Blood-caked piles of human parts scattered across a killing ground while dark clouds of carrion birds circled above. A merciless slaughter had been performed here. An unspeakable act of cruelty. He saw Haidre shaking his head at the thought of his worthless sibling before marching into his untimely death.
As Faylon’s own passing arrived, the guilt he had so delicately preserved came surging forward.
Forgive me, poor brother... Oh gods... Faylon sobbed internally as something warm leaked down his face.
It would be an instant death. One might take comfort in the knowledge that Faylon's last thoughts were not of himself, but of the brother he had failed to protect.
He closed his eyes.
Then-
"That's enough of that."
A horribly grating voice, like dry, rotten wood scraping and crumbling against itself, filled his ears. As if to reaffirm its first comment, the voice repeated itself in a similar fashion.
"You've done quite enough, yes."
--
Bonz jumped at the sudden, scraping speech and slowly turned, confused.
Something isn't right. Bonz thought. This voice- is it coming from upstairs?
The hooded man- no, the towering monster behind him had appeared out of nowhere.
He had been sitting across the building. How was I unable to hear him move?
Bonz’ eyes widened. Survival instincts cruelly consumed his mind. This massive being behind him was radiating an unimaginable power. It was impossible. Even an Adamantite adventurer would surely not have emanated such bloodlust. Disgusting, beer-laden sweat began pouring from his body as Bonz made an instant decision.
Escape? No- I would not be able to flee the thing in front of me. I only escaped Katze Plains after reading those creatures’ intentions and avoiding the larger swarms of soldiers.
I have to fight. He groaned.
Although going toe-to-toe with an entity of comparable skill to his own was not desirable in Bonz' mindset, he felt confident that a surprise attack would tilt the fight in his favor.
Yes, I'll finish him with a single blow! Bonz thought excitedly as a smirk ripped through his fear.
Utilizing the momentum of his turn to fuel his punch, Bonz' body blurred and his gauntlets glowed pale blue as he activated his trump card.
Martial Arts- the warrior's magic. No one, not even this mountain of a man, could withstand the following onslaught of abilities and remain unscathed. Of this, Bonz was confident.
"[Limit Breaker],[Physical Boost],[Cutting Edge]" Bonz’ voice thundered.
Blue energy coalesced and circled around him. His skin glowed as he seemed to increase in size.
"[Iron Fist]"
He roared, pouring his stamina reserves into a single, deadly strike.
[Limit Breaker] allowed Bonz to overcome his physical boundaries. As [Physical Boost] and [Cutting Edge] fused with his body, his destructive potential soared to a level rivaling that of the Kingdom’s late Warrior Captain.
Performing such a myriad of techniques did, however, force incredible strain upon his anatomy. Bonz recalled this fact as he accelerated to speeds indiscernible to the human eye, and the painful feeling of tearing muscle reverberated across his frame.
I’ll need an intermediate resting period after this fight is over. He haplessly thought.
Such terrible strength was not unleashed without consequence.
As his attack connected, a blinding shockwave of light rippled across the tavern. Windows were shattered. Wooden beams were splintered and warped as if caught in a maelstrom. Tables, chairs, and men alike were propelled back into walls for daring to exist within close proximity to the devastating finisher.
Bonz was sure it had connected, but something still felt impossibly wrong.
Completing his spin, he expected to see nothing more than a putrid cloud of gore beyond his extended appendage. As his vision caught up to the vicious speed of his blow, however, he let out a stifled cry of fear and disbelief.
“Uwaaaah~~!”
His fist, empowered with strength enough to easily obliterate two dozen men, had been caught by the cloaked figure as one might nonchalantly pluck a lightly thrown object from the air. Aside from his arm, nothing identified the man of having moved or been moved in the slightest.
“Eh? A being of your level should be able to detect those of higher caliber… Am I wrong?”
The raspy voice continued, bearing motes of displeasure.
“Are you, perhaps, suicidal?”
…
Without mercy, every man present observed, at odds to what they thought possible, the inconceivable spectacle before them. Some began crying. Others scrambled into corners, covering their faces.
Bonz himself was not exempt to these reactions. As he writhed in panic, he noticed something horrific creeping up his hand.
Still held in the figure’s grasp, the gauntlet, made of mythril and enchanted with durability hardeners, began dissolving without resistance as ice would under a scorching sun. Ugly, rusted patterns of decay spread and snaked across the once pristine alloy, aging it beyond repair. Flakes of corroded metal gently floated towards the hardwood floor, marring it with a grotesque assortment of colors.
The collective sound of heaving emerged as an unbearable scent of rot, spawned from whatever devilish magic had been unleashed, began funneling through the heavy air. One especially raving patron grew unnaturally still as the mixture of intoxication and decomposition sent his body into shock.
Amazingly, the now-manic Bonz still managed to find his voice: a feat truly depicting of his old occupation as a renowned adventurer.
"S-stop please! I'll do anything!" He shrieked.
"J-just let me live. I-I can-"
..!
As if provoked past acceptable limits, the figure before him began suffering an unnatural change.
His unbelievably powerful frame began to twist and writhe under the cloth as though demons attempted to surface from a long, cruel confinement beneath. A green, luminous aura rapidly established itself at the center of the hand that engulfed Bonz' fist.
No, that wasn't right. Bonz' feverish brain corrected itself.
The glow had been there all along. But now, as if spurred into flight by whatever destructive power this demon held, others light had begun to dissipate, leaving only one, evil source from within its shrouded palm.
The world shook as reality began to distort. Walls developed angles too misconstrued for their own dimension, and onlookers felt as if their bodies had started taking on unnatural qualities.
All of this cumulated as a single word erupted from the hideous speech of the hooded man.
"[ERASE]"
And then-
In a flash of green light, it was over.
The Silver Talon vanished alongside his assailant.
The perverted environment receded to its original state. Within a split second, both figures, and the turmoil they’d wrought, had been expunged from existence as if they’d never lived at all. Everything, from shattered glass to twisted wood, regressed as if accepting a reality their patrons failed to understand.
Indeed, as silence descended once more unto Brimming Hollow, 30 once-toughened humans struggled mutely with their sanity. It would take time for them to acknowledge the events that had transpired.
After an indeterminate lapse, some men slowly staggered to their feet. Others remained on the floor, twitching uncontrollably.
It had to have been a dream, right? I really should pay more attention. Faylon absentmindedly thought as he lost consciousness and his body collapsed.
--
"I got carried away..." Arzenox reprimanded himself.
As he watched torch-lit soldiers carry the mutilated body of Torbin away, Arzenox busied himself by scratching a few lines into his notebook.
"It seems my visit there bore nothing productive." He sighed.
His hopes of questioning travellers or merchants about the Sorcerer Kingdom had been postponed with the arrival of that red-haired fool.
If he continued along the main road, there would be very few inhabited locations before the walls of E-Rantel became visible in the distance. Waltzing into that city would not yield him the results he wanted.
"Even so, it's not like I can go back." He mumbled, looking towards the inn again.
His body groaned as roots and tendrils readjusted their positions under the heavy cloak. It often became annoying having to hide his constantly morphing body from prospective eyes.
"Still." He mulled. "Maybe something beneficial arose after all…"
Before he had withdrawn, he’d overheard the bartender, Faylon, state his desire to accompany the guards back to the capital. He had wished to enlist, even at that middle age of his. The change in spirit had pleased Arzenox.
His attitude was not unlike an old friend...
Ainz Ooal Gown the Sorcerer King. That name had resonated with Arzenox strongly since its utterance first reached his ears in this New World. It was a name of power among monsters- among heteromorphs, like him.
"A minor setback. Nothing substantial." He concluded, shutting the journal.
I have to know. Is it just you? Are there more?
Arzenox rolled his neck and displayed a smiling face of blighted vegetation to the moon above.
"The outcome will be the same, regardless."
Ainz Ooal Gown. There can only be one supreme power in this world. Only one being has the right to rule over all others. By my every fiber, it shall not be you.