Mhaieiyu

Arc 3, Chapter 1

At the Foot of the New Man's Throne

Gallant were the drums of the warriors who lived. A roar of thumps bounced off the walls of the great halls that stretched for perhaps a mile in either direction. In this room, a confetti of cheer, an uproar that gave way for the new. Celebrations weren’t quite as elegant as they were beyond the eastern borders but, held just a week since the elections began, were impressive nevertheless. The leathery rub of a clenched fist aroused excitement, and then a splash. Afterwards, a rainfall of wet cement droplets thrust outward in a wide arrangement. The still-moist frame’s surface moulded around the knuckles that caved a shape into it, and the hand, having struck firmly and definitively, withdrew, damp with rubble-to-be. Thump, thump, thump. Halberd and spear butts, sword tips, rifles and boots slammed the mason deck united. Today marked the beginning of a new age — a new Head of Men, and the sixth since the Syndicate adopted this custom in the days of Merry Monday. He, a Yanksie turned Syndie, Elior, was far from what any would have expected to lead these people on after Alpha’s premature abdication, and yet it made all the more sense. Setting aside the pride of battle, Elior could and promised he would bring the two most prosperous nations closer together than anyone in the world, as he was the only one with esteem enough to encroach on Yanksie aristocracy while still giving his dues to the creed he had given his life for.

This opportunity had to be seized. It took a bit of contemplation and controversy, but in the time a ship sailed to and from port and harbour, the decision was already made. No other candidates came close.

Elior would rule. And to that, the army heartily thumped their chest with their right hand, then shaped their arm like an L by their shoulder, and raised four fingers skyward.

Celebrations were fine, but still, matters had not been settled yet. Alongside the Head of Men’s old charges lost was that of the lionhearted and beloved General and Head of Military: Kev. His death was positively assured by Elior himself during the interior elections — a brave declaration that poured more doubt into his future reign, yet also flattered him for his honesty. By his own admission, Elior was little a fighter. He was a thinker, instead. A bringer of peace.

Peace had no need to wield a gun.

But then, who would lead the army into battle during times of tribulation? Well, it turns out, Elior had planned ahead there, too. He would appoint one of two siblings captured and kept during the war. Now, normally, this would have been much too vapid a choice to make, but there was a difference to be made. This concerned one of a duo of tactical geniuses and strategic masterminds of conflict who hadn’t the ability to lose their nerve in battle, nor hesitate to fight when the time came. Such were the rumours, anyway.

The Wraithsmans would compete for this honour, and what better way to show the worth of their mettle than pitting them against each other in a ‘friendly’ spar?

First, Leo Wraithsman; the so-called 'Sword Juggler' — a prodigy beyond comparison with bladed arms who let not his humble flesh restrict him from the ways of the magic arts, having learnt to exploit ethereal equipment to make use of that which he could not normally. With human genes still, he is better than most martial magicians, and can vanish into thin air by leveraging his talent with handle teleportation. His coordination was unmatched.

Then there was the sister, Amber Wraithsman — it’s said that her aim never lied. If her opponents move out of harm’s way, a secondary target will be struck instead. It’s as if the very fate of the world were at her fingertips, and with each press of a trigger, she continues to flatline a planet of foes. Her perceptive qualities surpassed those of Cryptids tenfold.

Syndie soldiers were hypnotised by their worth; their skepticism drowned out by the sporty hollers of they, the audience. To stand against each other unarmed, the outcome felt inconclusive. Even without a sword or a gun, they were deadly combatants, having expertly mastered their reflexes and finely tuned their countermoves; in this respect, they were equals. The Mynotaurs themselves felt vulnerable watching from the shielded seats of the arena, imagining a firm tug of boots on their heads that would splinter their skulls with horns in grasp. Wylvens touched their necks, imagining their being collapsed with a leg grapple and spin. The few Gygantes did ponder how quickly their skulls might be crushed from their vicious axe kicks. And the common men almost soiled themselves, baffled at their effortless combination attacks with which they would drop a man a second after rising.

This display — a vulgar show of themselves, perfected. Indeed, the Wraithsmans lived up to their infamy and pushed a little further to venture into the nightmares of all attending. A perfect figurehead for any leader’s reign. Elior would be pleased, regardless of victor.

The battle ended after the four-minute mark. Standing on crater-like rings of sand where their heels struck, bleeding from the lip and bruised to hell, Leo looked more tired, but the limps were all Amber’s, her ponytail having undone itself to shy her vision under unruly strings of black silk hair. Now, they stared each other down, one not wanting to advance without the other’s initiative.

It was then the new Head of Men stood from his special place among the crowd beyond. Their peripherals sharp, they turned to look at him, and with a risen palm, they untensed themselves. Amber couldn’t stop her knee from failing and buckling under her. Lowering his hand, Elior did nothing for a good while. And then, he made his pick. Lifting his right hand once more, the better half of the audience stood to clap and cheer at their new General. Leo Wraithsman would take the chair by Elior, at his choosing.

Amber’s eyes twitched. She snapped her sights back on her brother, reaching for his hand, but he turned away, walking off to give his gratitude. Watched by all her new coworkers, defeated after such a balanced battle, she felt a burning wave of humiliation set in and scorch her very soul.

Leo Wraithsman, the Sword Juggler, and now, the Head of Military and General of the Syndicate. Her father might be disappointed.

Celebrations would have to be trimmed short, however. With the crucial vacancies occupied, and command re-established, chaos withdrew from the Facility’s communications team and the city’s decontamination unit could finally perform. Further instruction would be held once the mission to bring safety back to the many inhabitants of the Hub could be assured. In the meantime, Merean implored a team be sent to gather the Celestials’ aid, and Elior acquiesced. Ignoring his newly won throne, he spent his first day as Head of Men in the boardroom among all the strategists who survived.

The tall, lankish Head took to the seat in the furthest end of the table. All whispers were quiet as Elior made his way, with just a few murmurs of how controversial the change had been; an act almost miraculous given the circumstances.

Merean sat by him, acting as a close council. Clearing her throat, she brought full silence into the room, decked with people as it was. “Our situation is improving,” she said first, earning a few smiles. “It’s hard to imagine how ideal our situation is. An entire front, wiped off our concern list. On behalf of the team, I thank and welcome thee, Elior.”

A brief round of applause ensued, with the lowest lackeys performing the customary salute as per practice.

“With diplomacy in our favour, our primary focus now is the protection of our land.”

The First Colonel, a firm yet unassured officer, stood from his seat. “With your pardon.”

“Lance,” she called.

“In regards to the ranged effort.”

“Of course,” Merean nodded, “be seated.” Turning to check on Elior, she was delighted to see not a dot of stress on his face. Elior’s eyes and ears were glued to the scene, fingers webbed together and a subtle smile reaffirming his serenity. Such a different sight from Alpha’s ways.

Lance nodded. “Naturally, artillery has been issued, but…”

“Yes, our munitions are lacking,” a young man hummed.

A fist banged against the desk as a female officer spoke up. “Our Head of Arms is useless, I tell you! Eleven years, to what end?!”

“Simmer down. Hephaestus’ resignation is being issued as we speak; voluntarily, too. Our future is bright,” Elior said, the pride he felt for his new team dripping off his tongue. “We must find faith in the Goddess’ will. May her light guide us in finding new days.”

Merean chuckled, unable to hide her contentment. “Quite religious. I thought of Yanksies as less proper.”

“In all fairness, you were trained to find flaws in my kin. Alas, we all bathe under Her sun,” Elior argued, finding humour in her provocation. “Of course, those devils are exempt.”

“Naturally, sir,” the same dame from earlier spoke again. “But we will need to find someone to take his position.”

The new Head of Men smiled eagerly at her. “I insist, lay your unrest. I have the perfect genius in mind. But first, the task at hand. Brief us on our current predicament.”

Merean turned her sights toward the rest of the board. “If you would,” she said, eyeing a man of middle age and low stature.

“Madam,” the subordinate agreed, standing up to bring all’s attention to a map posted on a whiteboard. With a red marker, he began to jot the details of recent transmissions. “As predicted, the northwestern front was first to be flooded by the mass. Reports of those that survived, civilians mostly, stated that the mass consisted entirely of Crawlers of lesser and intermediate caste. They tore through our primary defences without delay. Interior officers were hopeless to repel the Galloping on their own, and many didn’t get the chance to regroup in an outpost before being slaughtered." The strategist felt his brow glisten with sweat. “I’m concerned the Syndicate will be undermanned after all this…”

Elior lowered his head in comprehension. “Indeed. We will need to reinforce our ranks. Lent Yanksie units won’t suffice.”

“But armoured vehicles would certainly help,” Merean added. Both she and the new Head could see the discomfort on the others’ faces on the mention of Yanksee’s intervention.

The officer sat down. “Certainly… Though machine gun fire won’t be effective against their particular nature. And shells are expensive.”

“We’ll take whatever we can nab at this point,” an exasperated strategist sighed.

Elior snapped his fingers. “In the meantime, let’s encourage our remaining soldiers to give their all. I’ll be looking over the instructor list with General Leo briefly. I suspect our current training regiment is subpar.”

“It was built by Alpha himself.”

Whether or not that sounded like a protest was hard to read. The Head hummed. “Saintess bless him. May he find light in the darkness.”

“I would also like to bring attention to the… incident that took place during the breach,” Merean added on top, joining the others in their discomfort. Elior seemed confused. She would relieve that. “Our sole surviving Celestial—Sixth Lieutenant Corvus—attacked my co-chief, Hoern, during a hysteric episode.” For once, even Elior seemed to be caught by surprise. He looked genuinely confused, his arms prying apart ever so slightly.

“Our last angel… has strayed, you say?” Elior said, a firm hand on the chief strategist.

“Unfortunately so, sir. We have placed him on temporary leave until such a time we can decide his future with us.”

“Whatever is the reason?”

Merean didn’t bat an eye. “We sent Second Brigadier Erica as a figurehead to lead the coastal line. She was obliterated among them.”

“Ah… And she was held dear?”

Another voice, a female officer, squeezed the bridge of her nose. “Yes. So close you could almost call it love.”

A similarly downtrodden voice sighed. “She was sweet on him, I know that much.”

Elior’s smile vanished in the mournful silence. Slowly, he eyed each member of the board. He noticed how only half the seats were occupied. “Well, I’ll say. How very evil of you all.”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

The sudden comment came as a stray bullet. “S-Sir?”

“But worry yourselves not. I’ll bear the burden of straightening out our comrade. No need for suspensions or terminations, understood?” Elior’s heart-warming nature faded briefly upon issuing his first real command. Those present in the room felt their nerves flare with fret and trepidation.

♦ ♥ ♣ ♠

In the many years that the quartz-haired noble had spent zombified in his studious ignorance, Tokken hadn’t enjoyed a day of exercise. He wasn’t one to run for the joy of doing so: his biggest sport involved menial house chores, none of which included carpentry, or painting, or preparing dishes… All was provided for him by the maid that acted as his guardian during the long hours of the day he spent father-and-motherless. He might peer out the silk-woven curtains and watch other children play and compete, but he’d never mustered the courage to join them. By the time he was seven he was so weak a ball tossed might not reach further than his shadow. His time spent in the village, too, lacked much labour. The farmlands were owned by just one little family-run business that thrived off their vegetables. Furniture was never built for there were plenty and the odd broken wall was fixed by the resident stonemason… Tokken’s only job was to teach the youngest boys and girls manners; his snobbish upbringing made that a meritless challenge.

Conversely, Mumble's stay in the Facility was enjoyed thoroughly, to be and stay there. So much so, that when he was finally given the boot, he volunteered—at the tender age of fifteen—to join the Syndie cadets. Despite any contempt or derision, even age, he blew through the course in a few insignificant days, more so lectured than trained. His exact rank designation was put on hold.

Tokken, on the other hand, was allowed to stay despite doing nothing but stall. He had convinced himself that, as soon as could be, he should run back to the village. The problem lay in the unwillingness of his few trusted friends. Chloe insisted she enjoyed working as an assistant in the Ward as she had found herself useful therein, and helping the Zwaarst kids recover was a delight. He had met Holly briefly during the Galloping, to whom he gave many thanks, but Emris’ protectiveness of her kept her distant and guarded, and she hasn’t made any noticeable attempts to talk thus far.

Tokken would be alone in such a journey, and with how well venturing off has gone for him in the past, he felt at the mercy of the decisions outside of him. After days of doing squat, he decided that, if he should stay here, he could fetch himself a job too, and earn his loaf.

The chefs kicked him out on the first day, after a ruined batch.

The Ward had no need for those who could only mortar themselves a rough antibacterial.

The weapons facility required he know how guns even worked.

His back almost blew out from carrying boxes around for an afternoon.

He wilted the flowers when he gardened.

He couldn’t keep track of people’s names nor add and subtract numbers quick enough under pressure.

He couldn’t even brew coffee right.

And that’s how Tokken, the last living heir of the famous Tsuki line, took to a mop and a bucket as a way of life. The one thing that he could do was clean the carpets and marble floor.

Ten hours of sweeping, dipping the mop, lathering soap, polishing the walls, grooming the wools… By the time his shift was over, he was flatter than roadkill on his comfy bed. There was an advantage to this job, long and arduous as it is: complete independence. He could be undisturbed and even sneak in some details from conversations that were had while he swept. He hadn’t had the chance to hear from the new Head of Men, and he was eager to do so.

Janitors, cooks and other lesser-class workers were nicknamed ‘shrimps’ here; lesser than the ‘midlet’ doctors. It was demeaning, but there was an odd sense of security from the fact bullying his class was frowned upon. Anybody who poked Tokken with a tease would be met with a clap over the nape. It still meant working from the dirt, but he could find himself no use elsewhere, so it was either this or become food for the Howlers on his run home. He built some confidence to stay, suspecting the Syndies’ every move and paranoia were no longer a concern with his busied mind, but working tirelessly to keep this place’s image was harder than any of his past ventures. His arms felt necrotic and his legs were numb from standing for hours long. There was so much residue dust and powder from the invasion, and the occasional glass shard would cut his hand, leaving his palm scarred.

It would be hard, but everyone had a job. He just had to get used to it.

“Are you goddamned serious, buck-o?!”

One break and a Mynotaur’s blurt was what lead him here. Not even three days into his new work, he was reassigned. For once, it wasn’t due to incompetence. This time it was due to a miscommunication…

“I’d love to, sure, but…”

…And a poor, poor suggestion to one’s captain.

Standing in formation, legs wobbling and breath shallow, a small company of seventy-five men and women began to sweat in their grey uniforms. The lot stood in two perfect rectangles, awaiting their new captains. Among them stood the last Tsuki. He had no idea what he was doing here, how he could possibly fit here, and how he might survive this. Could he leave? Should he leave? Was fleeing only to be eaten by dogs preferable to this? The way Norman argued, he could either work in the dirt or fly with the Celestials. But flying was laborious and dangerous. Besides, he couldn’t kill a fly.

The Jewel betrayed his ideals as it gleamed excitedly. Tokken could kill a fly. He’d killed bigger by now.

The thumping, marching steps of three officers walked into view, crunching the sand floor of the arena. Two of them clunked about in grey Nynx armour—one clearly a lot bigger than the other—whereas the middle one wore black — standing at a height more natural for a human. The ‘important’ soldier stood still before the other two, allowing them to advance ahead. The pair slammed their heels together into the substrate, stopping in robust military fashion.

Tokken could feel the course of his blood with every beat of his heart. He didn’t belong here. 'Norman, what have you wrought?!' Tokken scrunched his forehead in thought.

“Cadets!” a female voice with the rough rowdiness of a canine, the soldier on the left, boomed. “Show me where your loyalties lie!”

Before Tokken could register those words, everyone around him thumped their chest with their right fist and then raised the same arm in an L-shape, showing four fingers. He stumbled, but the lad managed to imitate their gesture. The officers too returned it.

The beastwoman’s voice shouted, “Four skyward fingers. This is your promise, and your fucking death warrants, Cadets! One finger for each Head, as was dictated by Merry Monday a century ago!”

The right boot of every Cadet, minus Tokken, slammed the earth. Together, they cried, “Four skyward fingers!”

“Those of you willing to stand here today have decided upon this very fact, each and every one of you: you will serve this glorious Syndicate ad nauseam! You will fight, you will break, you will crumble, and burn, and pillage, and do exactly what we fucking tell you to! For the sake of our land, our prosperity, our unity!”

“Yes Ma’am!” shouted the lot. Tokken caught up this time. He had no idea why he was complying. Adrenaline shot him up like a drug.

“From this day onward, the half of you on the left will be on my personal shit list, and henceforth you will address me as Captain Lambda! Those of you outside of it shall refer to me as Third Sergeant Heila!”

The second grey Nynx officer raised a palm. This voice was male — quiet, ground to dust with a scary rasp. “And to those on mine, on the uh… right, I’ll be spoken to by title of Captain Beta. To the rest, I am Fifty-Second Colonel Vibarius.”

Heila continued, squaring her shoulders with her arms behind her back. “The person that stands behind us will be supervising your work here today, and I want not a single one of you worthless dregs to disappoint! This here is none other than our newly appointed General and Head of Military, Leo Wraithsman!” Heila pointed at the soldier in black suit. “That is the Leo Wraithsman. If you underperform, he has complete authority to turn you shitstains into fertiliser. You will refer to him, me and my partner with maximal respect, am I understood?!”

“Yes, Captain Lambda!” said the group to her left, their voices beginning to crack.

“Yes, Third Sergeant Heila!” the group to her right struggled out.

Heila didn’t sound pleased. “What the fuck was that sound? Are you rotters even alive for this?! I will personally sic each of you with an artillery barrage!”

The human man to her right wheezed and coughed into his fist, before raising his voice as much as he could. “I’m sure some of you rats have been raised in the most self-convenient environments you could ever spit at. I’m sure there are those among you who’ve suffered. I don’t care. You shoe-douche lickers are entirely scum until such a time I see you pull through. Only then will I see you worthy of your boots and clad. For now,” he coughed, “you are less than the sand you stand on. I will make warriors out of you bastards if I have to scrape you off the tiles each and every time. Until you’re dead or a vegetable, you’re good enough to shoot a gun.”

'I’m dead,' Tokken guessed. It’s definitive. Running from wolves was more appealing than this.

“Now, don’t get us wrong. We won’t make weapons of you. We won’t make soldiers kicking and screaming. We thrive on loyalty and cooperation. We raise shining silver, not the copper those of the East crank out. That said, I won’t tolerate haze-brainers. I don’t want slackers, I don’t want untimeliness. I don’t want bullies, wreckers, kamikazes, racists.” Vibarius eyed a particular Felyn. “ I don’t want disrespect. If you can’t have the decency to see those around you as your brothers and sisters in arms, then you have no place under my wing. Am I heard?”

“Yes, Captain Beta!” shouted the group on the right, Tokken included. Morals weren’t off the table. A pleasant thought for the youngster.

“Yes, Fifty-Second Colonel Vibarius!” chanted Heila’s group.

Heila stood firm, raised her left arm and gave her first order. “Platoon, face my west!”

The group on the left stomped their boots and turned with haphazard synchrony toward the wall opposite the second group.

Vibarius’ voice was still quieter when he too ordered, “Platoon, face my east!”

The group on the right did much of the same, facing the wall opposite Heila’s. Tokken was among them, and he did stumble. This time, his unease and incompetence were seen by his captain, who took note. Tokken felt his gaze and became terrified of it. So this was the military’s psychological experience… Those old books couldn’t prepare him for it.

Together, the captains ordered them to march for the two walls, trying to follow their captains’ pace. When they reached the furthest edge, they stood still and firm, being sure not to anger their captains any more than they already seemed. For another minute, the marches were still, and all standing tried their damnedest not to allow their nerves to claim them. Then, a line of new soldiers came into the arena and walked along the edges of the sand. A few Cadets turned their heads to see them and were immediately made to drop to their knees by their superiors. Tokken was short enough not to be seen doing the same.

The soldiers that arrived carried what seemed a heavy bag upon their backs. When they entered the Cadets’ field of view, some at the front noticed they were Privates, judging by the badges on their shoulders. They stood directly in front of the rows of trainees, facing them, and in a machinated fashion they dropped their bags by their right heel and reached within, taking out a rifle. Pleased shushed murmurs followed.

“Cadets!” Vibarius shouted, the dehydrated drag in his throat unpleasant to the ear, “these will be your assigned arms. Treat them with respect and they’ll keep you alive in turn. You will learn to carry, dismantle, maintain, reload and fire this weapon. If you lose it, you’ll be flogged. If you don't unjam it in five seconds, you’ll be flogged. If you so much as scratch the fucking paint off it, you’ll be flogged.”

“Yes, Captain Beta!” they shouted once more. Tokken’s throat hurt from all the yelling, but he’d piss himself otherwise, he knew for certain.

“Take your arms in an orderly fashion,” the Colonel ordered.

One after the other, each Cadet reached for their gun. Many were gun nuts, so of course, they carried it like a baby of their own. When Tokken took his, he was surprised at the weight of it. It felt like carrying a dumbbell around. Dropping the barrel over his shoulder, he exhaled a deep breath, returning to his place in the formation. This was the first rifle he had ever grazed. There was a haunting yet comforting feeling in its cold, iron grip.

The Jewel glowed distastefully. Tokken didn’t see it. He was too preoccupied figuring out how he would explain this to Chloe later tonight.

“Now, Cadets…” Vibarius shouted, “Thirty laps around the mid-camp!”

♦ ♥ ♣ ♠

The Head of Men marched down the hall, his long black trousers stuck to his legs like an extra layer of skin. His coat was a pleasant brown, slipped on over a white tuxedo shirt by a bodyguard in light attire. To Elior’s right, a strategist followed, pushing her glasses up every step of the way. With how long his legs were, she and the guard had some trouble keeping up.

“A dispatch has officially been ordered to purify the core of the city. The industrial sectors seem relatively clean according to civilian witnesses. Our team will arrive in nine hours,” she said, stumbling some in her rushed pace.

Elior cleared his throat. “Very well, thank you Cindy.”

“A-And I would like to offer my whole congratulations to you. You are doing this nation a tremendous service,” she said. “Praise be, sir Elior.”

“Yes,” he said, giving her a simple smile. “May the Saintess’ light reach and guide us all.”

“Make way for our supremísimo!” the bodyguard roared with a distinctly uncommon accent, making the doctors that walked near create a wide gap between them, saluting their new leader. The strategist, too, took her leave, always with the proper thump and gesture.

Elior turned to the guard quizzically, not missing a beat. “Rennegard?”

“My ancestors. Apologies, your greatness,” the bodyguard said, lowering his head in shame even as they walked.

“Don’t. I appreciated your likes,” Elior said, keeping that smile. There was something pervasive about the way his eyes watched all that surrounded. That stare did much to discomfort the guard. He waved the thought off, deeming it fitting of a man of his status. A true lord indeed.

The two guards that stood posted by the entrance to the throne room gave their salute as Elior approached, opening the large door before he would have to slow down. The blinding light of the windows’ gleams within strained the Head of Men’s eyes briefly, but he acclamated soon, and enjoyed the sight that unfolded. The rays of the sun’s shine glowed diagonally across his throne, giving it a truly glorious and holy appearance. He took a second to breathe it in.

“Sir Elior?” the bodyguard asked, leaning closer to show his interest.

“I’m not used to this,” Elior cackled quietly to himself. “I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t donned in pearly iron.”

The guard nodded, and took his place among the line of other guards that stood on either side of the red carpet that lead to his new throne. A symbolic trait introduced by Alpha himself. Elior didn’t deem himself a king; in fact, he loathed the thought. But that could wait. He made his way to it, humming the lines of the Manifesto he used some days prior. And as he took his seat, he felt the magnitude of the power at his fingertips. Peering over the throne room, looking upon his entourage, he exhaled deeply, feeling the stress of this insurmountable deed he had devoted his life to melt. The time for work was spent. Now, came the time for change.

“Blessed be,” he said lowly to himself, catching only the attention of one of his guards. “Blessed be, this luck of mine.”