Taking back what was his would, of course, not be an easy feat. Terran hardly knew how the world had been corrupted during his millenia long slumber. Instinct told him to head for the distant metal pillars, the iron beacons which now towered over Diveky. Going out in the open would spell doom. He’d need to be stealthy. Keeping to the rooftops, Terran leapt from building to building. However, he soon found himself sidetracked.

A mere two blocks from the blacksmithery was a street flooded with light. Bright and orange. A few buildings even had a glowing trim of light. Bright signs advertising in store windows. There was so much light, it may as well have been day. Peasants kept to the sidewalks for metal wagons roamed the streets, honking as they sped past each other. No horses pulled these wagons. Their soot infested the air. Each breath Terran took scraped at his lungs. Such decay. Such poison. Powerful poison…

It seemed that even the modern peasantry had a good grasp of magic. Perhaps witchcraft had returned in full swing. Or maybe these were more tricks, like the metal pellets that had almost doomed Terran before. That blacksmith had had some lights, and he didn’t seem a competent magic user. Still, the source of these lights could be magical. It was impossible to say with so little information.

So Terran kept back, watching the chaotic scene from the barren roof of some apartment. There was nothing for him here. The moment Terran even stepped foot into the light, the people would panic and the world would know of his return. That would spoil everything. And so, instead of attacking, Terran decided to watch the bustle from afar. He studied the busy intersection, peering at faces, the strange clothing, the ear-splitting sounds, anything which could be important.

It was all so different. Outfits unlike anything he’d ever seen. People of all ages and sizes coexist in the streets, men in suits and those in strange leather jackets. Two men argued over a yellow wagon. An older woman yelled vehemently into a metal device by the side of the road. Everyone looked like a fool, really. There was a lot of yelling. No one had time to stop and converse. Then again, why would they stop? There were neither parks nor roads. Only stone. And metal too. Lots of metal. It was a luxury no longer.

Terran moved on after only five minutes. He knew what he needed. Intersections like these were abominations. Trees were nary in sight. He counted three, and each were confined to small fenced areas. The Dark Lord never considered himself a nature lover, but in these moments, seeing a thriving oak would make him feel far better about his city. But no. The people were too lost in smog and decay.

Soon, Terran came across a street he recognized: a roundabout with five roads which steamed out from it. Back in his day, this had been a most ordinary street: a marketplace where peasants sold meat and fish. Now, the roundabout was surrounded by five story apartments. Smog spewing wagons sped by. A lone building nestled within the roundabout itself.

At just one story, it was by far the smallest yet somehow the most busy of them all. The place reeked of grease and sweat. Its horrid stench burned Terran even from across the street. Metal wagons surrounded it. Large windows revealed the cramped interior, where groups of yelling people begged for their meals. Bodies were pressed shoulder to shoulder. Young girls in small dresses delivered plates to the ravenous guest, who feasted like wolves. If people weren’t sitting, they were dancing, listening to a cacophony of strings and drums that must have been music to them.

Terran couldn’t see the appeal for the life of him. This place was ugly. Damn ugly. The walls were blue and trimmed with a tacky red light fixture. Its arched roof was faded, and rusted with age. Yet people still flocked as if it were church during mass.

A two-wheeled vehicle approached the restaurant. Two rode the mount, exposed to the elements. The man up front skidded the metal mount to a stop, halting its purr with a flick of his wrist. The knights removed their helmets. One was a man with greased hair and a coal black jacket. The other, a woman who had his same dress.

Diveky had truly fallen. If Gratia were here, she would agree with him. This was not what either of them had fought for. The city was too chaotic. Too disorderly. Too disrespectful of the natural world. It needed correcting. It needed its rightful ruler.

Terran looked at these claws, hands trembling. He could end these youth’s misery now, slash at their music box and burn the unfortunate dwelling to the ground. Yet he held back. There were too many people here. And he still did not know his current limits.

Closing his eyes, Terran took a deep breath. The vinye pooled in his legs slowly, as if gunk clodded up his veins. Vinye transfer was a simple process, a special quirk of the Gifted. They were not just blessed with enhanced speed, strength and durability. That power could be transferred from arms to legs, letting them weaken one to bolster another. Your strength and speed could increase ten fold. In his time, Terran had garnered a reputation for being more durable than a mountain and quicker than lightning. Yet now, despite his impressive recovery, Terran was far removed from his prior strength.

He could not retake the city alone. An army would be needed. His army, preferably. Though those lazy followers had yet to show themselves. They had promised they would be there for him upon his return, yet the Dark Lord had yet to see any one of them. No, it had to be negligence. How could they be so lazy? So uncaring? Did they lose sight of their vision? Or did they care for him no longer? Could the years have whipped them all out?

No. No.

There had been so many. Thousands of loving, loyal devotees, who cried out his name. Such devotion did not simply vanish. They would not betray him. Not to mention that they had Terran’s dogma. They could not be eradicated. For such extraordinary men to be killed… the very notion was absurd.

Perhaps the years had made them forgetful. Yes, that could be it.. Terran did tell only a few his final resting place. The secret, if small enough, could easily have been lost within a generation or two, even as the Order lived on. Come to think of it, Terran did reawaken later than he thought.

That was it then: his followers did not know his return. Terran needed to somehow alert them without alerting the authorities or the common folk. Perhaps rumors could do the trick. Though it would have to be the right kind of rumors. They should seem mundane to the untrained ear, the sort of ramblings made by mad men. But to one immersed in Terran’s history — one who knew him as intimately as they knew themselves — these rumors would be an undeniable signifier of his return. That way, the rumors would tip off the followers but not the police. But what kind of rumors would that be?

The answer was obvious: fear. Terran would become a terror in the night, showing off his strength and speed in minute bursts. He’d jump random peasants and elite men, and scare them to death with his absurd strength. Fast like lightning. Stronger than a mountain. Yet something undead, reborn from ruin. It would be physical. Not an illusion. Because this was no mere demon, no. This was a Lord in Darkness, defending himself on the streets as he searched for the followers of old.

Yes. Those were the best rumors. Spreading them would be an easy task. Despite the change in age, the people would remain simple. Some things never changed.

Terran would begin by attacking the peasantry. None of them would be Gifted, so he could attack any he wished. Neat tricks were useless against his power. Though first he’d need the right street. Not this pitiful social space, which was engulfed in light and noise. But something quieter. Darker. Where even one’s own shadow was hidden. Rumors thrived in uncertainty.

Terran marched off, ready to find a good street. There was just one problem: there were no good streets. Plenty were too wide. The narrow ones were full of traffic. Almost all were well lit. Diveky no longer had reason to fear the night. The city never slept, now that they had brought the sun into the evening.

In the end, Terran had to settle. The street he chose was a few feet too wide and the lights — while flickering — were placed at too regular a rate. Though the flickering had its own eerie charm to it. The dusty streets, and bins overflowed with garbage, which hinted at this being a poorer part of town. Rumor would be amongst the impoverished. Terran would do nothing too fancy this time. Just a dash, quick attack, then a run.

This would be the perfect trial run. Terran could work up to more enthralling feats later. Of course, Terran first needed a victim. It really could be anyone: rich or poor, young or old. Though not so old they’d die from a heart attack the moment they saw him. The street looked abandoned, but there was always some idiot out at this time of night. It would just be a matter of time…

The minutes crawled into an hour. Terran sat on the ledge, rapping his fingers, staring at the street. Where were the idiots? Sure, it was most likely the early morning by now. But Diveky was a big place. Surely some fool would have walked here by now. Should he try another street? No, this was the darkest one here.

A sudden noise distracted Terran from his thoughts: a rhythmic beat which swayed with the wind. It rose high with elegance, staying there for a moment, before going back. Up and back. Up and back. Gracefully like the sea. Peaceful as a cloudless night. This was music. And it wasn’t the drivel that had been playing in that diner, no. It was something else. Something far more elegant. Regal. Ancient.

A vision overwhelmed Terran. Leon was seated in the kitchen, practicing his kitheria in the mirror as he let his fingers guide him. He was so youthful. Handsome too. Even back then, Leon had had promise. So much promise…

Terran broke free of the vision. That music. He had to find it. He walked as if in a trance, letting the music guide his body. His eternal pain went forgotten. Terran kept pace with the gentle melody of the one man symphony. He soon found the music’s source. It was an old man, playing a stringed instrument whilst sitting on a rusted bench. The beast of an instrument was half his size. The man held the instrument by its long slender neck, and supported its wide wooden body between his knees. The bow moved back and forth in a hypnotic motion. Back and forth. Back and forth. Terran found himself lost to the rhythmic motion. Indeed, the bow seemed an extension of this man’s own body.

This instrument had shiny wood. Its bow had a perfect string. Yet the man played the ancient melody exactly as it had been performed in Terran’s day. The Dark Lord closed his eyes, feeling nostalgic for the old hills and stars. Then he thought back to his childhood. Aha, that’s where he knew this melody. It had been a soft lullaby played at the end of days to ease the village children into slumber. It had been so long, yet still he remembered it. If Terran closed his eyes, he almost felt like he was in his prior life. Terran shook the thought aside. No. That life was behind him now. He had to focus on the scene.

A woman with a pearl necklace passed the musician. She dropped some coins into a hat by the musician's feet. The musician thanked her, and continued playing. This was the golden opportunity. A witness and a victim, neither of fighting age. Either could easily spread his desired rumors. Terran savored the music one final time. So sweet. It would be a shame to snuff it. More opportunities would come. Sure it was irrational, but there was no telling when he’d hear this melody again…

Light streaked the sky. A motorized wagon sped across the corner, skidding to a stop in front of the musician. Two men came out the back. Both had metal pipes. The pearl studded woman took one look at them, then ran off screaming. The criminals got to talking with the musician, who continued to play even as they stood over him. They discussed in hushed voices. Something about money. Not that it mattered. The specifics hardly did in these situations.

The music was gone. It was time to fight. Terran readied himself. Then, he realized he forgot his quote. Terran often talked in battle. So many of his quotes were spun on the battlefield. He needed a quote to tip off his followers. Otherwise, he’d be indistinct from any random beast.

Terran thought back to a random one from years before. The context only just applied here, but it would have to do. These men seemed in a hurry. He must strike before they left. Haste was key!

And yet, Terran still mumbled the line a few times to ensure he got it right. This was his first appearance, even if indirect. Messing up was inexcusable.

Once sure in his diction, Terran leapt to the street. Night winds rushed through his armor. Terran transferred vinye to his legs, which supported his fall. He landed atop the metal wagon. Its metal beant beneath him, no match for his strength. After that, he leapt such that he was between all the men.

The three cowered back, gaping at him. One goon raised his pipe, but Terran was faster. He kicked this man into the brick wall then held the other by the scruff of his neck. He leaned close and said, “Insolence will not stand in my city.”

Terran threw this man towards the companion. Both lay by the bricks. One groaned, clutching his knee. The other rocked back and forth. They were injured, scarred for life and delirious, but very much alive.

That left the musician. The old man staggered back, then stumbled over his instrument. His foot went straight through its thick wooden body. The strings sounded out like the cry of a dying animal. The musician ran around the corner, fast as his trembling legs could carry him as he screamed about a demon.

Terran did not pursue him. The musician was the perfect witness, after all. Though it was a shame he lost his instrument. Terran picked it up by the neck. There was a gaping hole in the center. All the strings had snapped. The wooden frame fell away, as did much of the body, which left only the neck in Terran’s hand. With a grunt, Terran threw the rest to the ground. This beauty would never play again. Such a waste!

But Terran could not dwell upon tragedy. There was much to do. That appearance had been great, but this alone would not make rumors worthy of his followers’ ears. More attacks were needed. Maybe even some killings if Terran could do so quickly. And fiercer quotes too. That one had been rather cliche. Especially since his caidance had been flat.

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First though, he must get back up to the roofs. Being seen on these streets would spoil his images. Fortunately, there was a metal staircase strapped to a building across the street which led to the rooftops.

Terran began his ascent. He ran at first, but his body tired with each step. His mangled feet were crying with every protest. The adrenaline from the fight had faded. Horrid pain returned in full. It felt like he was walking over knives. And when Terran dragged his feet up, his torn calves burned. He had run throughout the city, and made one attack. Somehow, someway, that little adventure was too much. Just when Terran thought he was clear, the pain had returned to remind him of his limits.

Once at the rooftops, Terran was appalled to find a band of orange nestled over the distant horizon. The sun would rise within the hour. Even if every bone and muscle didn’t ache in protest, Terran could not squeeze in a second attack in time. He could not be seen at day. Day was fear’s antithesis. No matter. Rumors weren’t formed in a day. This was always going to be a several day plan. For now, he needed to find something.

Terran took a step, and pressed something glass. A bottle. It was a bottle of milk, stained with red lipstick. Strange. Who would leave a bottle of milk out on a rooftop? There was nothing here, save for some blankets and a pillow by the center of the roof. Perhaps some joker had thrown this up here. But what joke would that even be?

Whatever its origin, Terran now had a bottle of milk. He moved to drink it but stopped. His helmet completely encased his head. Even if he could get the milk to his parched lips, what use would it have? It would just leak through some hole in his guts. The world need not see that. Food and drink were useless now. He was above them.

Terran threw the milk aside. He walked deeper into the Historical District. Only now, when the sun was nestled just below the horizon, did Terran find the perfect streets. They were narrow, like the ones of his ancient Diveky. Many alleys were so narrow that Terran could walk from building to building without the need to leap. Unfortunately, these buildings now bustled with early morning traffic. There were too many witnesses. Terran could come back here tomorrow, but he had to move on for now.

Soon enough, Terran came across a decrepit warehouse. Its stone roof was arched similar to those of Terran’s day. It may have actually been from his day, considering some of the aged symbols carved on the walls. The structure was little more than ruins now. Vines covered the hole-littered walls. Many bricks were a sickening green, the stale stench of mildew infesting each and every one. The sides had been painted by vandals. Thousands of messages. The largest of these read, “Your in Tvarlato Territory.”

Terran snorted. Such a preposterous claim. And such horrid grammar too. How could one hope to strike fear if they couldn’t even write? If Terran ever met this Tvarlato, he’d be sure to put him in his place.

Despite the warehouse’s age, it cast an impressive shadow on the surrounding block. Imposing and ancient. Almost like his old palace, in a sad decrepit kind of way. But the building's shadow waned. The sun was rising. Terran entered through the hole in the roof.

Terran had to hunch over as he awkwardly squeezed between dusty boxes. Dusts filled the air. Cobwebs abounded. Creatures unknown scampered in the distance, only discernible by their pitter-patter as they ran amuck. The old room was crammed with boxes. Stacks touched the ceiling. Yet the cardboard was worn, and littered with dust. No lights hung from the ceiling. There were plenty of comforting shadows to hide in. Yes, this building was ancient and forgotten.

Just like him…

Terran cast the thought aside. Reflecting like that would just make him sad. He had to find somewhere to rest up. There was an opening at the back of the loft, between two larger boxes. Terran nestled in, though sitting without injuring himself proved a nightmare. If he bent down too much, some shrapnel would impact his chest. He tossed and turned, each movement causing some piece of shrapnel to stab him somewhere. It took way too long to find a position he was comfortable with, and even then his knees were bent at an awkward angle. But it would have to do.

At least he could rest like this. Terran would wait here until the sun set again. But what was he to do then? It wasn't like Terran could sleep in this form. The magic of his armor kept him alive and rejuvenated. Now that he was awake, death would be his sole return to slumber. It shouldn’t have been a big deal. Terran had already waited milenia. A dozen hours would be nothing…

Still, the lack of progress pained him. None of this would be happening if his followers had just been there. Now he was here, alone and in pain, forced to endure more boring hours with nothing to hold him over. Terran cursed that last thought. It was so petty. But what else was he supposed to think? He was poised to be alone with his thoughts, whether he liked it or not.

Terran punched the box beside him. The wooden side snapped off. Old books tumbled out. The Dark Lord sat upright. That was convenient. Entertainment. Just when he had complained about it too. Perhaps it was fate. A predestined motivator, meant to show that his course was true, just and destined to work out. No, that couldn’t be right. If fate was on his side, then Terran wouldn’t be huddled in some dingy warehouse in the first place. He’d still be on his rightful throne. Terran picked up a book. It had a darkened cover and scarlet lettering on the spine. Such a powerful aesthetic. It had to mean something. “The Locked Heart,” Terran read. “Betrayal, Love and Drama galore. Bertha is an ordinary girl, but she is miserable. She must choose between the gorgeous Milos and the hideous but rich Vladstie.”

Terran threw the book aside. Such filth, a story about commoners of all things. He could see why it was being kept here. He would not succumb to it. A Dark Lord would never be caught dead reading such drivel.

***

“But Bertha,” Milos staggered towards her, then raised his arm in a dramatic fashion. “Why? O’why must you go away? Doth our kiss mean nothing?”

“It means everything,” Bertha said. She too threw her arms at the sky dramatically, then let them sink to her sides. “But Vladiste has a yacht. It’s big. Has three engines. I think you can see my point.”

“Three Engines?!?” Milos fell to his knees. He raised his arms dramatically and convulsed as if he were electrocuted. All the sorrow was in him, and he just had to let that sorrow out in one profound, great, burst of emotion. “Noooooooooo!”

Terran looked to the side. No light came from the hole in the ceiling. It was dark now. About time. He’d grown quite stale of these books. He threw down The Locked Heart: Vladiste Returns Again, and made his way out of the warehouse crevice. Night had returned. His reign of terror could continue.

Terran clenched his aged fist, focused his vinye on the extremity. Soon, it glowed with his crimson aura. With eyes closed, Terran swore he could hear an energetic hum. So much rage, just begging to be released. Time to get back to it.

Terran stepped back on to the arced roof, only to immediately slip. Terran caught himself with his claws, digging them into the stone to slow his fall. He stopped just shy of the edge. That could have been bad. Really bad.

Everywhere was wet. Clouds hung low. It was a moonless night, yet didn’t feel like it due to the street lights. There were so many, even in this decrepit part of Diveky. The people were content to scare terrors away with technology alone. Well, Terran would show them. These tricks would not stand.

Keeping to the rooftops, Terran returned to the narrow streets he had seen yesterday. He kept a sullen march, both to conserve energy, and to ensure he did not fall again. With these narrower streets, the paths below resembled great ravines. Terran could break his fall with vinye but that required him to land on his feet. That was not a guarantee in his rigid form.

Soon, Terran came across a decently narrow street. It was about ten feet wide. The buildings on either side were littered with boarded up windows and warped brick. If it weren’t for the shadows wavering inside, Terran would have dismissed the place as abandoned. There was just one problem: the two massive streetlamps blasting light into the void. Terran had read about these in the books. They were a recent invention, and ever since their disastrous creation, fear of dark had been a thing of the past. Now, if those books were to be relieved, night was a romantic time. Romantic. Ha! Terran couldn’t help but laugh.

But nevermind that. Magic still had yet to return, even after milenia. These lamps were physical. That meant they could be dealt with. Pebbles were stuck in the roof gutter. Terran bent down to get them, but something stabbed him in his decayed torso. The pain flared again each time Terran bent over. Growling, Terran stomped it on the gutter enhanced strength.

The gutter fell down away, and the pebbles further along were launched into the air. Terran caught them. It was a good collection, about ten. That should be enough. Terran laid his palm flat (As flat as he could at least, for his fingers curled slightly after years of being stuck in that position) and put the pebbles on it. He transferred vinye into his hands, then flicked a pebble.

The pebble whisked out of sight. A clink sounded as it hit something in the dark. Terran tired again. It hit something metal, then a mechanical scream bellowed out. Terran leapt back, in fear of some monster. The scream died away. He scanned the horizon and soon found the culprit. He had hit a metal pipe, which had been filled with steam. The artificial scream had come from realizing the steam all at once. Easy Terran, he thought to himself. Don’t let fear overwhelm you. You’ve done better deeds before. Imagine that this lamp post is Echrock’s face. Imagine that narcissist here before you.

Terran tried the trick again. The pebble hit the lamp square in the light. Glass shattered and the light sputtered out. Perfect. Now for the second. He got it on the second try. Darkness enveloped the street. The pitiful light from within the decrepit buildings did not compare. All was still. All was black. Now this was a place for shadows, demons and monsters. All those things children feared when the lights went out. Rumor would be easy to spread from here…

It was a waiting game now. This cramped alleyway provided a shortcut between busier streets. Despite the broken lights, some fool would try his way down sooner or later. The people were simple that way. Such ineptitude could be counted on.

Within minutes, Terran was proved correct. A metallic wagon — or car, as the books had called them — made its way down the road, its front lights cutting through the darkness. Part of the wagon was on the sidewalk. It knocked overfilled bins as it sped along. Terran snorted. Its owner thought they were safe in this vehicle. So safe, they paid no heed to the things immediately on the outside.

Oh, how wrong they were.

The car skidded to a stop. A man exited. He was a middle aged gentleman who wore a boring suit with this weird red snake thing which fell from his neck. He had brown shoes so polished, Terran could make out their sheene from the roof. With a hum, the man strolled to the nearest apartment. Such a fool, so unaware of the danger that surrounded him. Terran longed to pounce, but held back. He had a victim but no witness. He needed to wait for the perfect moment.

The man knocked on a door across the street. A younger woman answered. Within seconds, the two got to arguing. A small ledge was above the two. It was about two feet wide. The perfect vantage point. Terran leapt to the other roof. He landed at an awkward ankle, then tumbled back. Terran brought his arms out wide which kept him from slipping. The couple below failed to notice for they were too enthralled in their argument. Terran stepped over the edge, and dug his claws into the brick wall. He descended to the ledge. It supported his weight, and so Terran stayed there with his back to the wall.

This was the perfect opportunity to see the modern peasantry in their natural environment. He’d strike them when they were at the climax of their points. That way, whatever they argued about, would seem truly trivial compared to his sudden appearance.

“I just don’t get it,” the woman said. “My family’s lived in this tenant for three generations. You can’t just kick us out now.”

“I already did, Ms. Cybulva.” The man held up the rectangular box by his side. It jostled in place. It sounded like a heavy stack of papers. Maybe some metal as well. That was a briefcase. Like the one Vladiste used in the story. Terran grumbled. Why were those trash books, of all things, proving to be useful?

The man looked up. “Did you hear something?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Cybulva yelled. She stepped away from her porch and poked the man in the gut. The frail woman now towered over him by a good foot. “You have no right. All us work our ten hours. We follow the contracts. We ain’t with the mafia. This is our home, and it will stay ours.”

Cybula seemed headstrong, though this man was clearly in control. Perhaps Terran should attack him, then. It would make him appear in control. Yes, Terran would attack the man when he left for his car. That would make for the best message.

“Technically this never was yours,” the man said with a sly smile. “This worker’s complex is property of—” Cybulva charged, growling like a bear. Yelping, the man stumbled off the porch. Cybulva stopped her assault last second, laughing with her arms crossed. Standing tall, the man whipped the dust off his suit. “Ha. Ha. Very funny.”

The man seemed poised to say more, but fear got hold of him. He backed into his car. Perhaps Terran should change tactics. Attacking the aggressive Cybulva would be a more impressive feat. Of course, then it might look like Terran was saving the man from an aggressor. The last thing Terran needed was for people to think him a hero. His followers would not chase some hero.

The man stayed by his car. He put his hand on the door latch, but kept his gaze to the ground. He twiddled his thumbs, as if he were a guilty child. Then, after taking a breath, he glanced at Cybulva. “Also, the contractors coming tomorrow to evict.”

“What?” Cybulva ran to the man. The man opened his car door. Terran leapt down, and picked up both by their throats. They struggled in place, gasping for air, unable to scream as Terran crushed their windpipes.

Now, which would be the victim? Terran looked from one struggling being to the other, mulling over his options. Cybulva had a lot of spunk, hinting that she could be a gossip. But the man was richer. That suggested more societal influence. He could spread the rumors further. Then again, his death would strike fear in the wealthy too. And his face was annoying.

Terran slashed at the businessman’s throat. Blood soaked his suit. The man gurgled, eyes widening as he realized his fate. Then he grew limp.Blood poured onto Terran’s hands. He let Cybulva go. The women looked at him. Vomit filled her cheeks. She stepped back on unstable knees, clutching her side. She began to bed, like a disciple banking on his final prayer. “Y-you killed him…”

“Of course I killed him!” Terran stomped towards the woman. Cybulla rushed back to her apartment. She was gone in mere moments. The door slammed shut behind her, then she locked the door. Actually locked it. Terran snorted. How moronic. As if a mere lock would stop him.

Stepping away, Terran stepped on something soft. The man he had murdered. Fear still contorted his face. His youthful face, one free of blemishes or marks. His glasses had masked that he was of fighting age. Terran sighed. How pitiful. But still, even to the end, this man seemed dedicated to his boss’ cause. Such devotion. He could have been the perfect bureaucrat. Maybe even a right hand man. Something about his chiseled jaw reminded Terran of Sitam. Now, his handsome features were spoiled by blood. A shame. The death was unnecessary. An unnatural compulsion had overwhelmed him. Something dark and feral…

No.

Rumors without backbone fell flat. Cybulva would be sure to talk now. Exaggerate details. Details which his followers would pick up on. Sacrifices were needed for Terran to ascend. The murder would be worth it, once all was set right. And he shouldn’t think of Sitam either. Sitam was gone. This man here was no Sitam. There would never be a replacement…

“By the gods!”

There was another man. He dropped his grocery bag, then booked it out of the alleyway. Terran bolstered his legs. He was on the man within an instant, and blocked the way ahead. The coward dipped left, straight into a pole. A clang echoed in the dark. He sat there, recovering.

Terran laughed. It was unbecoming, but he couldn’t help himself. And he continued laughing even as the coward rushed over the next street corner. Terran was on a high, his prior guilt forgotten. Screw his prior concerns. Screw the guilt. The attack had been perfect. His power was still far above the commoner. Terran could wander the city streets as he pleased. He could end any life he wished. These people were pawns. Mere pawns!

Oh, Terran missed the rush. It wasn’t the same as battle, but still he felt alive. Fear would spread through the streets. Rumors would reach his follower’s ears. Even if they didn’t, it wouldn’t be the worst thing. Terran could feel his strength returning. With time, he could retake this city himself.

And it didn’t have to be some slog either. No. Terran was going to enjoy it…