Eight’s throw sent Ratcatcher spinning through the air, the world around her spinning. She hit the edge of the vat with her back, heard a loud crack, and everything below her waist went cold. Her legs no longer hurt, the pounding pain in the pelvis abandoned her, and hanging head down, she saw the bubbling mess resembling nothing of the nutrient solution used for producing food.
The sludge itself turned more solid and gummy, and a dark stain with what appeared to be pulsating purple veins lined it. Ratcatcher tried to hold on. If only her legs still worked! She could’ve held on with her knees alone! Or with her tail! But no matter how hard she tried, no muscle obeyed her. She slid into the contorting mess, shouting in pain at the top of her lungs and hearing hissing, hissing announcing her own skin being peeled off.
The weight of her body dragged her deeper; the heavy liquids crept into the torn skin and started filling up an exposed lung. She knew she had to close her mouth shut, but the agony was unbearable! Dirty waters tightened upon her, almost as if she got tucked into a blanket; only this blanket was made of acid, slowly melting its path through her skin, blurring her vision, and sinking into her ears. Ratcatcher whimpered, drinking a whole mouthful of black acidic waters when her eardrum gave in and a new fire rekindled in her stomach.
I am dead. She thought.
“Not yet, servant.” A voice spoke through the darkness, clear and strong, used to being obeyed.
Amidst the panic and pain, something shifted in the water. She thought it to be a single black worm, creeping to her through the acidic contents, but the green mist swirled around it, forming a gigantic skull. On its forehead it wore a rusted crown, hammered into the bone, forever fused to it. Parchment-thick skin covered the skull, and sunken eyes appeared, examining the girl and bathing her in a sickly green light.
“Bow to the perfect order.” The skull said, without moving its lips. Ratcatcher found herself no longer experiencing pain and lifted her hand, almost losing her conscience. The dark had already stained the white of her bones, and she could see meat and burned veins. “Surrender your body and accept your place in the Hierarchy.”
“Never!” she tried to say, but couldn’t; the mud filling her lungs choked her into near unconsciousness. Yet the thing heard her. “Who are you?”
“I am the Chosen Prince. The destined king, the one true ruler of this world, the unbreakable will and…” It thundered and dissolved, engulfing Ratcatcher in darkness and entering her body through the eyes, nostrils, wounds, and mouth.
His will came upon her mind, resembling nothing of the gentle touch of Edward or Esmeralda. An all-encompassing iron fist, chaining every soul to its will, the unfathomable conscience torpedoed its way through feeble resistance, subjugating every thought and every desire to a singular goal. Ratcatcher’s conscience wasn’t even a candle flame against the approaching sun; she wasn’t even an ember; she was nothing; she could do nothing but...
To be subsumed.
The body submerged in the toxic wastes twitched, and bones pushing back into alignment made louder-than-whips cracking sounds. He breathed in the dark waters, examining his body. No skin, ruined muscles exposed, bones shattered, ligaments torn, eyes burned, spine snapped. A thought sent a wave of parasitic infection through his body.
In the Old World, a specially bred type of fungus produced bacteria. Inconspicuous at first glance, the mushroom unleashed spores that fused a living flesh to its stem, soil, and surroundings, forever trapping a creature, sucking in its liquids for sustenance, and using the corpus to propagate and spread. A simple desire replicated these bacteria, forming spores in the air, and evolved them. Obedient to his will, the parasitic spores started mending the damaged spine, restoring the spinal cord, and bringing feelings back to the numb toes.
The virus didn’t disappear on its own; even after it evolved, the bacteria still tried to continue its work, altering his body. Another wish summoned phages that devoured the bacteria, eliminating the threat. He ran a hand over his body, testing the extent of the damage, and continued his work.
One more virus got drawn from non-existence, this time the one that caused its host to fatten up and burst, spreading itself through droplets of blood. A biological weapon. He modified it, controlling the growth and flesh covering the exposed meat and drawing calories from the surroundings. It wasn’t the same flesh that covered this body before, but the flesh that he imagined it to be, and that was acceptable. Only his vision mattered. He expanded his consciousness, cursing at the feeble capabilities of this brain, subduing the leaderless viruses in the hall, and spreading further beyond the walls.
He was here. This much, he was sure. The place looked familiar, although he couldn’t recall why. Traces of his power imprinted themselves on the ground, and at his desire, they pushed out, remaking the surfaces for kilometers around. As convulsing and spastic bodies clawed their way up from the depths, the depowered generators started working anew, bringing his servants into service.
Servants? Yes, the siege. It all started coming back — the plagues ravaging the fools trying to bar his path. Hundreds have tried, and they all failed until something happened. He faced someone. A ruler! The pretender who claimed, who stole his legacy.
And he sensed it. The throne! His throne! He was near it, still close to Stonehelm; his goal is within his grasp, and this time he will sit upon it. And claim himself a house.
The thought confused him. A house? Why would he want a house? Is he a peon to live in a shack? A palace. This must be it; it all makes sense now. That must be it; it all makes sense now. A throne must have a palace, and this will be a home...a house...worthy of a king.
His mindless servants will converge on the city, but where are his loyal servants? Where… He frowned, unable to recall a single name. He had servants numbering in the tens of thousands, some named by him, others serving him of their own free will. How could he forget them? The genius… the strong… the brutish… the cunning… the angry…
Their names eluded him, and the being let it go. Setbacks were irrelevant. A king has no need to remember everyone. In time, he will recover all and reclaim all that was rightfully his. More important matters demanded his attention. He lifted a hand so thin, so useless, finding it unbefitting of himself.
A halo of white and crimson haze surrounded his head, and voices whispered in his ears, promising him might, status, and everything he would ever want in exchange for fealty. He saw it — a world of rot. Poisonous rivers carried sickness across the mountains’ slopes; underground rivers turned green and dark; toxic winds had reduced lush pastures to deserts filled by withered trees. And servants. Cocoons bubbled in every city, their sheer numbers hiding the corroded metal and crumbled stone of buildings. Each cocoon prepared hundreds of shamblers, ready to be awoken at a moment’s notice and carry on his glorious conquest.
Clouds of poison, more potent than anything he had used before, caressed the ground, rendering it infertile forever, extinguishing life and creeping into secured bunkers, leaving none untouched. A world of stillness, a world of perfect certainty. And he was the axis of it all. A snap of his fingers reduced mountain ranges to rubble; his tap opened the ground to the bedrock; his breath stilled the very core…
And all this thing asked for was a trifle, a nothingburger. Eternal fealty and extinction of every living species. And he will be one of the chosen few to create a better world.
Lies. And very obvious at that. If the entire world is a victim of his power, how could another world rise out of its ashes? Something would have to give in. Or to be removed. And worst of all, this offer had nothing to do with his desires.
He remembered hearing this offer before. Humanity was his to rule, his to lead to the hallowed times of his eternal reign. He had endured long decades of living among the crude metal, hearing the groaning and twisting of colossal gears, poisoning others, and remaking entire nations with his soldiers, leaving barren wastelands behind. And all of it was just the means to an end. For this reason, he restrained his diseases from overtaking his human subjects… What were their names again?
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Stonehelm will flourish under its rightful owner, its walls rebuilt, paving roads stretching to every corner of his domain, fields of wheat blossoming as far as an eye can see, and workers toiling in factories, assembling great engines of war for his ever-expanding kingdom. In time, the populace will bow to its appointed destiny, and all will be as it should. An eternal king, keeping vigil and guiding the unwashed masses, instilling a perfect order for every street urchin and every peon, now and forevermore.
Kill the world? What inanity is this? Any fool attempting it shall perish.
“Begone,” he pushed the mental projection away, whipping the crimson halo with flesh-eating infections. It didn’t affect the fiend, but the cracks in space, opened by his will to let his weapon come through, did.
It pleaded with him, convincing him he couldn’t survive on his own, not anymore, and pointing out the feebleness of his current body. Lies, and even if not, it mattered little. What is a king without subjects or a nation? A princeling at best, a beggar at worst. He had rejected offers of power, rank, and riches before, and he shall do so again. A king rules, taking all he wants. A slave obeys, whimpering for scraps.
The halo ghosted into nothingness above his head.
The Chosen Prince unleashed his venom, materializing some of the deadliest diseases, and the surrounding mud trembled. A virus capable of crystallizing flesh. Changed, transformed into a plague of bone-making. A sickness inducting paranoia in its hosts, driving them away from doctors and closer to the uninfected. Changed into a new strain, one that bolstered the capabilities of a brain. More diseases. His desire had ignited further evolution.
The surrounding toxic mass clung to him, transmuting and grafting itself onto the living body, increasing weight, and forming new organs and bones. A king desired his old body back. And a bigger brain appeared over the Chosen Prince, connecting to his temporary body and letting his senses return to the modicum of what he once had.
Soon. He will reclaim it all.
****
“Eliza!” Elina screamed, stopping at the edge of the ramp.
Again! It all happens again! She was in charge; she acted as a leader, and she had failed everyone! Useless, helpless, weak. Elina tried her best to break through Maximilian’s wall. She struck until blood appeared on her knuckles. She fired shockwaves, ignoring the recoil hitting back at her. At the end, she even tried to claw at this invisible wall of space, and still all she could do was watch as Eight repeatedly drove her friend’s body against the console, decimating her even more severely than the previous time.
And then the Number tossed Ratcatcher. Vasily hobbled closer, silently handling over to the syringes gifted to him by the Shadow. He shook his head, refusing to take one for himself, and gazed desperately at the vat, mirroring her own desire. This medicine can save Eliza, if only…
Elina broke the eye contact, hating herself for it. Eliza Vong was dead. She heard the hiss and her desperate scream. None of them could’ve survived this toxic waste. She must lead Vasily away and have his wounds treated at once.
The vat spewed a bubble, sending it hovering up. It reached the ceiling, exploding and melting its path through it.
“I… told you…” Hustler whispered, falling to the side. “If you won’t join willingly… You’ll be willingly used.”
Steam poured from the vat, its surface rusting and exploding with the force of an artillery barrage, knocking everyone off their feet. A single cold shard had struck an Avenger, ripping off everything above his ankles and slamming the remains against a wall. A pulsating mass fell off the ruined vat, landing on the ground and spreading a web of sickness through it, creating new flesh growths covering the dead bodies on the ground. Shapes rose and barged out of them, pale and wielding dark claws. The living corpses nimbly darted at the closest people, whether they were the Numbers or Avengers, attacking both sides. No longer constrained by rigor mortis, a semblance of animal sentience guided their assault.
The disgusting mass kicked out a stump, then another. It tried to stand, and its leg broke beneath the weight. Another leg appeared, this time resembling a large skeleton limb wrapped in a leathery hide. It stomped on the ground, lifting the rest of the mass, and steam poured over it, dissolving the ceiling and all the floors above.
On and on, the green pillar moved, spearing through the factory, reducing stones and metal to nothing, and spreading rust and corrosion everywhere. The metal darkened, and several support beams collapsed, collapsing some of the upper floors. The pillar came out. Elina watched in pure horror as it reached the sky.
And darkened it. At first, it was a single line against the sunny day — almost nothing. Then its top started spreading, tainting the light clouds in the dark and turning them into heavy storm clouds. The taint spread, filling the entire sky as far as Elina could see, and the clouds erupted, spilling an acidic shower onto the ground. The drops hissed, rusting the outer layer of the factory, and the whole place shook.
“The unbreakable will and you are dead!” A toothless mouth opened in the mass, and it charged toward the trainees, no longer limping, a throbbing, oily tentacle protruding from its quivering depths.
“Stay alive,” Vasily whispered.
He pushed them. Elina cursed herself; she roared in disbelief at Vasily’s tackle that saved her and Carlos from being swiped by the oversized tentacle that grabbed the boy, submerging him into the oscillated flesh. Vasily yelled, his voice hardly a whisper because of his ruined lung. The acid coursing through the thing’s veins washed away the nanomachine armor and clothing, burning the naked body as it was dragged toward the center.
Elina, Carlos, and Wivin tumbled down the remains of the ramp as the monster uprooted it, corroding it into darkness and shattering it like ice. Elina rolled away from the popping, cracking, and slumping mess and rose, beating an enormous chunk of metal threatening to fall on Wivin.
Vasily. The communications were no longer jammed. And there was no signal from him — not a single blip, nothing. He disappeared, swallowed up too quickly for them to do anything.
The mess of flesh shifted again, thinning and rising, forming a head resembling a skull with two sunken, dimly lit green eyes. Arms, legs, and chest appeared, all covered by a cancerous skin that blistered and cracked at a turn. Spikes pierced its forehead, spurting thick, dark blood. A crown grew on the creature’s head, and it stood at full height, naked, bones protruding against the skin, and yet so terrifying and otherworldly mighty. It took a step with the grace of a dancer, lifting a hand and testing his fingers, scowling at the blood pushing from between the fingers.
The monster’s leathery hide had a blue tint, reminding Elina of a drowned victim. It had the build of a famine victim. The belly sank deep, becoming one with the spine; its head looked way too big and heavy for the needle-like neck; the nails grew long; and the skin was dry. The pristine blue color didn’t last long. Blackness filled the veins, pressing them against the skin, and yellowish, cancerous bulbs appeared and burst, spilling pus and blood. The damaged area healed, the blue returned, and the process repeated itself — this time with blood gushing from every orifice. The monstrous fiend experienced seasons of decay and restoration; his immune system suffered failures, and something unnatural kept restarting it, doing the same thing over and over.
“I have returned. The Chosen Prince walks this land once more.” His eyes found Elina, and swirling mist left the pale skin, collapsing the remains of the ramp and dissolving a crusader who leapt at him, wielding his gladius. There wasn’t even a scream; the man vanished in a single step and corroded dust landed on the floor.
Wivin took guard before the trainees; on her orders, the rest of the Avengers took the distance and fired everything they had at the monstrosity, also using weapons taken off the dead Numbers: rockets, shells, and energy beams. The green fumes choked the life out of the incoming beams, devouring their heat. The cloud’s edges corroded the shells and exploded the rockets, keeping the tyrant safe from harm.
Safe from the harm aimed at him. Elina recognized him through the horror; it was as if he had stepped right out of the terminal’s display. Only he wasn’t the same; before his power had ruined those who stood against him, and now the Lord of Disease and Rot was afflicted by his own bile, struggling to maintain his form.
“And I shall have what is mine. The throne, palace, and concealed city will be mine. Prostrate and exult, for your purpose is clear. Surrender your bodies to the order. Be honored to serve as cinder blocks for your king.”
The green mists rolled toward the group, speeding out and leaving the floor a desolated mess of corroded metal riddled with twitching maggots. The wall didn’t go in an even front. It spread out like a crescent across the hall, already threatening to cut off any retreat. Elina stepped closer to Wivin, gestured for Carlos to come closer, and placed her hands over his and the countymeister’s stomachs.
“Carlos,” she said. “I really like you. Sorry for being a bitch sometimes.”
“Wait, what are you…” he started, but she snapped her fingers before the countymeister could grab her.
The shockwaves hit them, sending both spinning through the air, away from the rolling mists and close to the entrance where the survived Avengers led the hostages. Like a hungry maw, the mists closed around Elina, threatening to swallow her whole, melting first the armor and then the vulnerable body inside. And the trainee pressed her hands against one another, planning to sell her life in combat to deny the Chosen Prince the satisfaction of seeing her weak and afraid. If she should die, she’ll go out like Vasily and Elina, fighting and kicking till the end.
“No, not yet.” She heard a cheering voice, and the air hardened, refusing to pass the green death. The laughing Maxmilian stepped closer, oblivious to any danger, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes and surrounding them in a sphere of hardened space.
And the creature stood tall, the light of its eyes visible through the thick fog.