The sword pierced the Dark Lord’s heart. Gratia jammed it in further, leaning her weight against the tyrant. Terran fell, and she stood over him. Someone called for Gratia. She turned their way, and smiled. She actually smiled. As if this murder meant nothing. As if Terran weren’t some sacred being. That cursed smile haunted him as he faded into the dark…
***
Dark Lord Terran awoke to pain.
The stabbing sensation began in his chest, but soon spread throughout his body. It felt as if countless tiny knives had embedded themselves into his flesh. They slashed at him with each minuscule movement. Terran couldn’t see. He could hardly hear. Decayed lungs drew breath for the first time in ages. The breath did not escape, instead coalescing by Terran’s mouth, making the air around him hot and muggy.
He was buried in rock. Terran tried thrashing to escape, but that only made the pebbles sink further into his exposed flesh. But he could hear other pebbles falling away. He was close to some sort of cavern. Freedom. Terran continued thrashing, gritting his teeth as the stabbing sensation only worsened.
After minutes of tortured flailing, the cool wind blessed his left hand. Terran reached out, clawing the stones around him, tearing them away one by one. His clawed fingers ached each time, but the cool relief spread as the rock fell away. It wouldn’t be long now. Freedom would be his again.
His left knee escaped the torture. Terran kicked outward, using his Gifted strength, and much of the rock fell away. This started a cascade. More rocks fell around him. Terran intended to leap out to freedom with elegance, but a large stone hit the Dark Lord on the back of the head and he wound up flat on his face.
Terran tried to get to his knees. Even this simple act took three attempts. Creaking bones protested each movement. Something jabbed into his gut whenever Terran moved his torso. His weak knees failed him repeatedly. Terran was forced to crawl through the dank space because his body could not support itself. His limbs trembled. Every movement hurt. But Terran had to keep it together. He had too. It was unbecoming of him to show weakness. The Dark Lord took a deep breath to calm himself. He was fine. Why wouldn’t he be? Despite the defeat, he was still here.
Terran still wore the enchanted armor, which covered him head to toe. Pieces of the suit had rusted, which made movement sluggish. Not to mention that the armor itself was cracked and battered. Its once shiny form was now littered with holes. Throughout his body, Terran could feel the sharp jagged edges poking at his skin. Every movement was a risk. Such a sorry state. All because of those loathsome peasants. And Gratia. If she still lived, Terran would have her burned at the stake. Maybe even hung. Terran relished the thought.
Now though, the Dark Lord was here, stuck on the stone floor within some unknown brick tunnel. This should have been the point when his robed followers emerged from the shadows, chanting the ancient hymns as they welcomed his glorious return. Yet there were no followers. There was no chanting.
Terran was alone.
They had failed him. His nation had failed him. They had betrayed their Gifted to flaunt with another. They should be here. They were his followers after all. Why weren’t they here? Was he not good enough for them? Was that it?
Focusing on his rage, Terran pulled himself along the floor until he reached the nearby wall. He dug his claws into the brick, then pulled himself up. By using the wall for support, Terran was able to stagger along the dank hall.
Even this was a feat. With each step, shrapnel stabbed his calf muscle. His legs felt ready to snap off as Terran dragged them along. If it weren’t for his Gifted strength, the Dark Lord would have been paralyzed. Such a pathetic state. The rituals for burial had clearly been neglected.
All Terran’s followers had to do was obey him, and his decayed form would have been avoided. Their negligence was repulsive at this point. When Terran found them again, he’d drill the truth in. He’d show them all. One did not ditch a Dark Lord. Terran was too powerful to be trifled with.
Bang!
Terran hit his head against something metallic. Staggering back, he dug his claws into the wall just before falling to the dirt. Terran felt in front of him. He gripped a handle. This was a door. One made of solid iron instead of wood or stone. Such a waste. Good armor could have been forged from this metal. Still, an iron door was a formidable obstacle. Maybe these followers weren’t as stupid as he thought. But not even this could hold a Dark Lord.
Terran clenched his fist and breathed in, despite the pain it caused him. He drew upon his vinye, the enhanced strength within all Gifted souls. The Dark Lord focused on his fists, strengthening the limbs while weakening the rest. As he did so, his weakening legs buckled. Terran was soon forced to his knees. But the tradeoff was worth it. Strength flowed through his fists. A red aura encompassed them, which illuminated the tunnel in dull hues.
Terran punched the wall. The metal cracked at the center, and the bottom half of the door shot out at great speeds. Terran collapsed to the ground. Still he smiled. Despite all that had happened, he still had his strength. Some things never died.
Refocusing his vinye, Terran filled his legs with strength so that he could walk again. His arms grew thin and boney. The aura died down, casting the tunnel back into darkness. Soon, enough vinye was concentrated in Terran’s legs such that he no longer needed the wall for support. Though it did make his arms dangle uselessly by his side. Not ideal, but it would have to do.
Shambling through the door, Terran found himself on the bank of an underground river. The water was foggy and dirt brown. Everything around Terran reeked of death. No, worse. It reeked of literal waste. His followers had buried Terran in the Diveky sewers. Certainly undignified, but it seemed to have kept him hidden. With a grumble, Terran continued on. The sewer would lead outside eventually. Finding his followers from there would be easy. They were still numerous. Not even Gratia could sway their deviation.
Terran continued his shamble through the brick caverns. It was deathly quiet, save for his own groaning and the occasional drip of water above. The way ahead was masked by darkness, so Terran kept one hand on the sewer lest he accidentally fall into the hidden river of waste. He didn’t want to think about that possibility.
The sewer was a maze of identical brick tunnels. No signs of life either, save for the occasional rat which scurried across the sewer floor. His followers had gone to great lengths to ensure Terran’s body stayed hidden. Perhaps too great. He walked and walked, seemingly for hours, but never did he seem to reach the end.
In all that time, Terran couldn’t have traversed more than two miles. Yet he was already weary. His cursed body made everything difficult. Muscles popped and strained, protesting at every opportunity. Movement had to be precise, lest pieces of bone or metal jab his flesh and worsen his pain. A constant struggle. Terran’s groaning turned to wheezing, then to panting. He dragged his feet once more, hunching over with a hand placed over ruined lungs.
Yet he continued on.
After what felt like an eternity, a light appeared on the horizon. Two slits of pale moonlight lit the tunnel. These pale ribbons descended from a metal grate above. Terran stopped just short of the light and reached out his hand. It was a disgusting thing, the flesh putrid and green. Was this decayed form truly his? No. It had to be. He was seeing it.
There was a puddle on the floor. It was crystal clear. Terran gazed upon his reflection and staggered back at the sight. He knew he’d decay, but never did he think it would be this bad.
The armor covered most of the damage, but the years had taken their toll. Much of the armor had rusted. Bits and pieces had fallen away, revealing green flesh and even bone. Terran could even make a piece of his lung, a black balloon nestled behind the ribs. Metal jabbed into him, fusing with flesh, making the armor a permanent fixture of his body. The hands were particularly bad. The gloves were gone, save for the occasional metal scrap. The skin of his hands was gone. Terran’s fingers had been withered down, such that the tips resembled razor sharp claws.
Only the helmet, by all miracles, was undamaged. Terran’s face was not visible. His eyes glowed a violent red. A monstrous red. He was no longer human. No, he was some mangled abomination. A husk of metal and flesh. Never again could he live like normal men. Never again could Terran walk on the streets. Never again would people talk with him like a person. There’d always be a barrier. He had been crippled beyond repair.
The Dark Lord sighed. He knew the risks. Now he had to live with them. This was the pain he must bear to make things right. To restore what was stolen from him. His helmet was fine. While rusted, it kept his face hidden. That was a good sign. Fate could still be on his side.
Terran whipped his hand out of the moonlight, the bone cracking from the sudden movement. But Terran ignored that as he looked up to the manhole cover above. Moonlight. Escape. This was a potential exit.
To his left, there were a series of rungs attached to the brick wall. They were metal, just like the cover. So much iron for such trivial things. What a waste. Good soldiers could have been armed from all this metal. What was this world coming to?
Regardless, this ladder was his way out. A three meter climb. Simple. Terran evened out his vinye. His legs wobbled, and he stumbled about like a newborn deer. Something snapped. Terran slipped, banging his head on a rung before hitting the floor.
His helmet rang like a bell. All flash white. A groaning Terran struggled into a sitting position. How humiliating. He hadn’t even had a chance on the ladder, and he was on the floor. He tried to stand. The snap sounded again. A rib had cracked. The bone was visible, through a hole in his chestplate. Disgusting…
Trembling arms kept Terran down. He tried focusing his vinye on the legs again, but such an effort was futile when Terran had been physically exhausted. He’d have to rest before trying the ladder.
It really was pathetic, this thing he had been reduced to. Mere hours of walking had been enough to tire him. While still strong, his endurance had been greatly reduced. Recovery may be possible as Terran adapted to his new form, but that was only a maybe. There were limits now. If only his followers had been there, then Terran could have tested his limits in a more dignified manner.
This was all their fault.
There should be a grand punishment for their insolence. Though in this form a fearsome speech would have to do. While Terran rested against the wall, he pondered the speech in his head, losing himself as he tried to nail the syntax and diction. Even when his strength returned, many hours later, Terran stayed on the floor, too focused on crafting the perfect speech.
The ideal speech would be short. Though not too short. Perhaps a minute or two. Though the sentences would be short. Dithering thoughts would distract from the crux of his point. He should use guttural words too. Like “slaughter” or “calamity.” Yes, calamity. Their abandoning of him was a calamity. No, that wouldn’t work. Perhaps another word then. Less formal, to emphasize how pissed off he was. How about: their treatment of him was an absolute sh-
“‘Ello?”
A sphere of light was to Terran’s left. As it neared, the sphere grew wider and the scrawny silhouette of a man appeared behind it. It was a sewage worker. A peasant then. Terran sat upright, correcting his posture. He let out a low sigh. Why, of all people, must some random peasant happen upon him? And in this state, no less. This was not how things should be.
The worker held a strange device, the origin of the light. Like a metal torch, though he held it out instead of upright. Perhaps the light was magic. There was no telling how common magic would be now. It paid to assume the worst.
The light grew to encompass the worker. He wore a dull orange vest, and had a hardened helmet. Though it was cracked by his skull so Terran doubted the worker got much use out of it. The worker himself was aged beyond belief, face wrinkled and teeth yellow. He supported himself with a plastic cane. A sturdy cane.
Terran cursed his next thought. No. He would not use the cane. He was a Dark Lord, nobel, honored and the rightful ruler of the world. His Gifted strength was that of ten men. Such peasantry tools were beneath him.
The worker chuckled to himself. “How’d ya end up all down ‘ere?”
Oh great. Not just a peasant, but an idiot as well. Could this get any worse?
Terran kept quiet. Not that he couldn’t speak, but it seemed better to wait. When the oaf caught on, his reaction to Terran’s form would be telling. “Seriously buddy,” the worker said. “How’d ya get down here? I’d be impressed if I didn’t have to take care of ya sorry self.”
If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
Why was he being so casual? Unless his vision was just that bad. The worker had yet to shine his torch on Terran though. Perhaps that was why he was not screaming yet. The worker said, “Hey! Can you even hear me, ya damn fool!”
Terran faced the worker, his neck creaking as he turned. The worker kept sauntering towards him. “That’s it, just get up now. You’ll be out of my hands in no time, you drunk.”
Terran dug his claws into the wall, and gritted his teeth. This worker thought he was a drunk. A fool. That settled it. He had to die. No one could know of his humiliation here. But he still wasn’t at his peak. He had to wait for him to get close. The worker came within striking distance. At long last, he shined his torch on Terran. Gasping, the worker stepped back and tripped over himself. Terran nodded. That made him drop the torch. “Wh-what are you?”
The torch rolled into the sewer, where it sputtered out. Terran leapt before the man could run off. Blood spattered, covering Terran’s arms as he struck the man again and again. There was no shout. No begging for mercy. Simply a gaggle, then nothing.
Bolstered by rage, Terran stood upright. He put his arm back into the moonlight. It was red, blood dripping from his claws. He rotated his hand, viewing it from multiple angels. His bone-like claws were sharp. No more need to carry an old sword anymore. Terran was always armed. He could make an example of someone at any time. What a symbol. This alone would strike fear into any man.
“M-M-My gods,” someone cried out. Terran snapped behind him. There had been a second man watching from afar. He took off. But he wouldn’t get far. Breathing in, Terran refocused his vinye into his legs. A red aura surrounded them. Terran leapt off to chase the stranger.
The fool shouted for someone, but it was in vain. Even weakened, Terran was far above ordinary men. The sprinting corpse was closing the distance, slowly but surely.
Vinye bolstered his legs, making them a blur. His body burned as he ran, making Terran cry out with each step. But he ignored the pain. This peasant could not get away. He would not. His return had to be secret. It would be. Terran would not have his glorious conquest spoiled.
The path split into two ahead. Terran cut the man off. The stranger tried to leap into the river of filth. Terran punched him mid air, then slammed him into the ground. The man hit his head on the stone.
Briefly, it seemed that had been enough to do him in. He was still. Then the man groaned and rolled to his side. He looked young, perhaps no older than twenty. The youth was handsome, though for whatever reason he wore strange glass lenses that blocked out his eyes. Terran put a boot on the glass man’s chest. “Peasant,” Terran said, voice hoarse. Speaking was difficult. As if blades were lodged in his throat. “Do you know who I am?”
The peasant did not meet his eye. He gaped at Terran’s claws, and the blood which dripped from the tips. The man babbled like a child. Just by seeing Terran, he had been reduced. It was so easy to do these peasants in. Too easy. Terran grinned beneath his helmet. Even after however many years it's been, the common folk remained simple.
Terran leaned over him the glass man such that his form dominated his view. The glass man broke down into a messy fit of tears. Terran hit the wall. Bricks exploded around them. “Quit your sniveling and look at me.”
All was still. The glass man struggled to lift his head. The Dark Lord walked around the glass man to get a good look at him. The youth had no muscles. In fact, he was skinnier than a starved horse. Even holding a short sword would be a struggle for him. This was no warrior, but that didn’t make him useless. “What is your occupation?”
The man said nothing. He still gaped at Terran’s claws. Terran sighed. Had he overestimated this man’s endurance? That hit against the stone had been a bit much. It would be too easy to lose himself in this feral form. Calmly, Terran said: “What is your occupation?”
The man babbled out some vague reply. Terran sighed again. Of course this would happen. What else should he expect? Terran’s new form was incomprehensible to the average man. Basic talk would no longer do. He’d need another tactic. Terran hoisted the student up by his shirt, then slammed him against the wall. “Speak or you’re dead!”
“I-I’m just a student,” the glass man stammered, looking down. Terran prodded his thin side, causing the student to perk up again. “I-I’m studying at Blackwell University.”
“A scholar,” Terran wheezed with delight. Next to soldiers, a group of strong scholars would be vital for his plans. Much had to have changed during his slumber. Information would be key if Terran was to take back the world. “Tell me. What do you study, sir…”
“Borak,” the glass man answered. “Borak Themes. I-I’m dual majoring in urban planning and electronics.” Electronics. Such a strange word. So visceral too. Perhaps it was some new weapon or maybe method of torture or a new array battle of tatics, though there was only one way of knowing.
“Tell me about electronics.”
Borak scratched his head. “Like…right now?”
“YES RIGHT NOW.” Terran picked the man by his throat, and stared him down at eye level. “I must know everything.” He threw Borak down again, and waited far too long as the oath composed himself. The gesture was overly dramatic but seemed to do the trick. At least it seemed to once the man composed himself.
“Electronics,” Borak said, backing away. “Y-You want to know about electronics?”
“Yes,” Terran said. “The basics will do for now.”
“W-well it's more accurate to say I major in electrical engineering,” he said, breathing in. The worm regained some composure, now kneeling before Terran. “I s-study electricity. Circuits, power generation, stuff like that.”
“Interesting,” Terran said. “Define this… electricity.”
“Wh-what?”
“You heard me.”
“You don’t know what electricity is?”
“Do not insult me!” Terran punched the wall again. His hand hit it at an awkward angle, bending two fingers, and snapping something. Terran howled with pain, but masked this by turning the shriek into an ear-splitting roar which made the sewers' foundations rattle. “Explain.”
Borak offered his pitiful explanation. Something about charged particles, too small for the commoner to perceive, flowing in some sort of current. None of it made a lick of sense. How could something be everywhere and yet invisible? Borak was clearly mistaken about a great many things.
“HEY!”
A third silhouette appeared, this one was about ten feet away. Another stranger was here. This was getting ridiculous. These were sewers, not the town square. “Keep your distance,” Terran said, lifting his hand. “I have no quarrel with you.”
“Step away from my friend,” the broad stranger said. He stepped into the light, revealing a L shaped piece of metal in his quivering hands. “If you don’t, I’ll open fire.”
Terran laughed aloud. This stranger had the gall to threaten him. He wore no armor. He had no weapon, save for that measly tool he held. It was too small to be a weapon. There was no blade, just a square edge. What was he going to do? Throw it at him? Ha!
Terran stomped towards the stranger. A bang erupted from his metal piece. Something pierced his shoulder. A stab of pain shot up his spine. The Dark Lord staggered back as the man approached, bang after bang erupting from his metal piece.
More holes formed in Terran’s armor. Something cracked. Terran fell on his knees.
Borak scurried away as his angered companion approached, firing off repeatedly. The stranger came within striking distance. But Terran could do nothing. His body was littered with holes. Pieces of flesh were being ripped apart, split in two. The pain was everywhere.
There was a click. And then nothing. The stranger stepped back, fiddling around with some metal pellets in his back pocket.
This was his chance. Terran struck the stranger before scampering into the darkness. More shots rang out. Two hit his back, one in his armor and another in his flesh. Terran shrieked but kept running. He had to get away, despite the embarrassment. This was new magic. There was no telling its range. For all he knew, this stranger could kill him from miles away. His return would not be extinguished so soon.
So he ran. Terran ran and he ran. And he only stopped running when his exhausted legs gave way. He landed face down on the floor, then turned to his right. In his elbow, a small metal bead jabbed his armor. He remembered then the pellets which the stranger had fiddled with. This one, while smushed, looked nearly identical.
Terran ripped the pellet out. A bit of flesh came with it. Warm flesh. The metal had been fired at a high velocity. High enough that it pierced his armor. That hadn’t been magic. Just a sick twisted trick. Terran could’ve slaughtered both men with ease.
Cowardice had taken hold of him back there. Pathetic, shriveled cowardice. Dark Lord Terran had defeated an army single handedly, yet a single peasant had been too much for him today. His glorious return, with loyal followers and a blackened throne, had been squandered. He was alone. He was a monster, and a pathetic monster at that. Could he possibly be—
No. No.
No.
His caution was not without reason. It was clear now that this new world was different in many ways. Caution would serve him well. Besides, Terran’s mere appearance had scarred Borak from life. And he had struck his friend before retreating. His blood still dripped from Terran’s claws. Neither man would forget that encounter.
Yes, his reputation was intact. It may even prove better this way. Two dead bodies could not spread a message. They would build fear and awe around Terran’s eventual and public return. That would be cannon return, not this. And it would be glorious…
A noise distracted Terran from his woes. Briefly, he worried that a fourth man had stumbled across him in these sewers but it was just a rat. It sniffed his hand, then tried to take a bite but Terran swatted it away.
This place was disgusting. He had to get away. Though that was easier said than done. Terran could barely move with all the tiny pellets embedded into his flesh. They would not kill him — they couldn’t whilst he wore the armor — but they still made each movement hell. And just when he figured his pain couldn’t get worse. But it was a pain he needed to live with now to fufill his great mission.
Reaching out, Terran pulled his body along the floor. He gritted his teeth. The pain. It was too much. His mangled body couldn’t bear it. Terran flopped onto his back, and panted heavily. His limbs shook, aching from that great strain. He’d have to rest before trying again. That little encounter had sucked the life out of him.
Terrran’s new limit was clear: One grand bout of exertion, and then he’d have to spend a few hours recouping on some floor, vulnerable as a slug. Perhaps it was good that his followers didn’t find him after all. One look at what Terran had become would be enough to convince them to leave him here to fend for himself.
But that didn’t mean he was defeated.
Pansfinre would be his again. Sure the world had changed, but Terran could adapt. He had before. At the very least, Gratia was no longer here to foil his plans. That was worth something. Terran could see it now: the throne restored, and all of the peasantry being too frightened to even speak his name. The world would be righted from whatever sorry state it had fallen into. There would be peace.
This time, Terran gave himself only an hour to recuperate. His body feltt better by then (Not great, but better.) so he transfered he could into his legs then continued his aimless march. His arms were now stiff like wood. Far from ideal, but it was a step up from them dangling uselessly at his side. He was adapting. A good sign that his strength would return.
The Dark Lord’s aura made the sewer appear blood red as Terran trudged along. He soon came across a door. It was the same stoney texture of the wall, so he would have missed it if it weren’t for the moonlight which leaked through a crack at the bottom.
One enhanced kick smashed it in. The cool night air rushed into the sewer. Terran took his first breaths on the outside. The Diveky air was different now. It had lost its sweetness, and was now bitter and smokey. It must’ve been due to his decayed form. Terran sighed. Many pleasantries would be lost to him now. This was but the first of many.
A series of distant fortifications towered over the city. These glass and iron castles tickled the clouds, and would have put even Terran’s old palace to shame. Each building was aglow with light. It wasn’t just the distant forts, but even the smaller buildings closer by. Interiors glowed a harsh yellow. Diveky had tamed the dark. So much so, the only celestial body visible was the moon. These lights had drowned out the stars. Such power. Such monuments. Whoever ruled this new Diveky clearly had untold wealth about them.
The street Terran found himself on now was more familiar. The cobbleled road was narrower. The buildings were close together, and were made of familiar wood and stone. Yet there were many differences even here. Large iron lightposts kept the dark at bay. Strange iron wagons were stationed besides every other building. There was nary a soul in sight. Most peanuts were in doors, safe in their worlds of light.
So much had changed. Terran hadn’t been asleep for mere decades. No, it had to have been centuries. Maybe even a milenia or two. Gratia was for sure dead then. The world was a stranger. Such a sad loss. Still, Terran couldn’t sit and mourn. He had to keep moving, lest someone see him.
About a block away, the road widened up to an open town square with a stone statue at its center. A monument to some figure perhaps. Terran briefly thought it would be of him, but whoever replaced him would have such monuments burned. No, his ancient war would be relegated to the history books. But a compulsion took hold of Terran. He had to know who this was. The Dark Lord kept to the sidewalk, creeping along as he slithered towards the statue. Once at the edge of the square, Terran could see it was a woman. A tall woman with long flowing hair, lifting her sword towards the heavens. The Dark Lord’s stomach dropped. He knew who this was.
Still, he had to be sure. There was a plaque by the statue’s feet. Terran approached the statue until he was close enough to read the plaque.
Trust is the key. Only together can we win. — Gratia de Blashkel, The Legendary Hero
The Legendary Hero? That’s what the world knew Gratia as? Not as the annoying, self-righteous brat that she was, but as a paradigm of moral virtue? Why? All she’d done was give a few speeches. It was Terran who had cleansed the world. It was he who had taken power. Not this brat. She’d merely stolen what he’d built. She destroyed while he created. Why build her a statue after all this time?
Unless… what if Gratia had done something after she killed Terran? What if that were only the start of a line of great deeds? What if she did something so grand, it put even a war against magic to shame?
No. No. This was nepotism. The leaders were related, or biased… or something. There was no other explanation. Gratia was beneath him anyways. This statue was but an insult. A corruption of objective truth! Terran got his claws ready, prepared to tear this abhorrent monument asunder. But then…
Bang!
Someone had fallen in the distance. Terran hid behind the statue to watch from afar. They were a broad figure. A man. Seemed to be a youth. Fighting age then. Yet clearly not the smartest. Which made him a good candidate for recruitment…
The man recovered, then gathered the bags which had fallen around him. He approached the door of a business, holding it open for a few seconds, before making his way inside. The front door had a sign which read: “Derik’s Blacksmith and Metalworking Shop.”
The Dark Lord grinned a half-tooth smile. Some professions, it seemed, had withstood the test of time. He scratched Gratia’s stature, then made his way for the Blacksmithery. It was time he got more acquainted with the locals…