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"To wish for truth is to invite the darkness of revelation, where the light of hope is often extinguished by the shadows of our own desires."
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A few miles away from the ambush,
Huff Huff
Ragnar and Lorian ran through the dense forest. The sounds of battle faded behind them, replaced by the steady rhythm of their footsteps and the rustle of foliage.
"...Lord Ragnar... the ambush has failed..." Lorian panted, casting a worried glance at the boy behind him. His golden armor glinted in the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy. Sweat and grime streaked his face, his breaths heavy from the intense fight.
Ragnar halted, chest heaving. His scarred, tarnished armor bore the marks of countless battles. He tightened his grip on his longsword, knuckles white with strain. He thought, ‘A battalion of commoners and children… they never stood a chance.’ Despite his sharp, calculating eyes, his hands were shaking. ‘I’m sorry...I couldn’t keep you all safe...’ He shut his eyes tight, his shoulders stooping. "We underestimated it," he muttered, frustration mingling with determination.
Lorian clutched a short spear that radiated a purple glow, its tip blackened as though imbued with chaos. Despite his tense posture, a calmness resided in his eyes, defying the peril around them. "It's relentless," he said steadily.
Behind them, Ragnar’s son pressed against a boulder. His once opulent clothes hung in tatters, hinting at a noble past reduced to ruins. Terror flickered in his eyes, his gaunt face smeared with grime and streaked with tears. His small body trembled, breaths quick and shallow. Yet, amid the fear, a spark of resilience glimmered as he clutched a worn locket, his mother’s last gift. His lips moved in a silent prayer, eyes wide with a blend of terror and defiance.
Ragnar's gaze lingered on his son, a fleeting softness in his eyes. "Lorian, we need to get out of these woods," he urged, his voice tight with urgency.
“Not possible. The young master can’t run anymore…” Lorian responded.
Ragnar looked at his son, on the brink of fainting. With a deep sigh, he looked back at Lorian. “That Archetype of Chaos is intelligent…we were set up…” He remembered the mocking faces of the other Lords.
Lorian nodded, a strange glint in his eye. His brows furrowed as he looked towards Ragnar. "Maybe we've put our trust in the wrong people," he said, striking the ground with his spear. His words carried a weight that Ragnar almost missed.
Ragnar tried to bolster his morale, looking at his frightened child ‘I can’t let him see me falter'. A shadow of helplessness passed over his face as he grappled with their dire reality. Clenching his jaw, he focused on the tree line. 'This is the last Archetype. I must kill it, even if it means my death.' Yet, Lorian's words echoed in his mind, stirring a nagging doubt. 'Have we been too trusting?'
The earthy aroma of damp soil and rotting leaves anchored him to the present. Ragnar shifted his stance, feeling the weight of his son's gaze. Alone, he might have fled. But as a father, running wasn’t an option. He’d die before he let anything happen to his boy.
"We’ve got less than a minute before that thing's on us," Lorian announced gravely, gripping his armament.
Ragnar turned to his comrade with a small smile, a stark contrast to the dire situation. "Lorian, got any world essence left?" His voice was strained, desperation creeping into his eyes. He noticed Lorian glancing away, avoiding his gaze.
Lorian swallowed hard, his eyes darting towards the approaching beast. "Barely enough for a spark," he muttered, fear etched on his face.
Ragnar chuckled, a bitter edge sharpening his tone. "No need for lies, Lorian. I know you have enough to escape." His gaze bore into Lorian's, searching for a flicker of the camaraderie they once shared. "Take my son and go. Find His Majesty, tell him where we hid the supplies." His voice cracked, a desperate hope clinging to the last vestiges of their friendship.
Lorian's eyes dropped, the weight of unspoken truths pulling at his soul. “I’m sorry...” The words were a whisper, yet they resonated with an undeniable finality.
As Ragnar met Lorian's gaze, a vivid memory surged to the surface. The sun had set over Nyxium, casting the castle gardens in a warm, golden glow. The scent of blooming flowers had mingled with the distant hum of the marketplace, a serene backdrop to a simpler time. They stood on the garden terrace, the wind tousling their hair, the world at their feet.
"It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The way the light catches the rooftops, makes everything seem... possible," Ragnar had mused, his voice filled with quiet wonder.
Lorian had smiled, a rare, genuine expression softening his usual stern demeanor. “You’ve always been a dreamer, Lord Ragnar.”
“Not just dreams, Lorian. Goals.” Ragnar had noticed a commoner struggling with a heavy load, and without hesitation, he had gone to help. “I want to share the burdens of everyone in Nyxium,” he had declared, lifting the weight with ease.
The man had looked at him with a mix of awe and gratitude, his eyes shining with a glimmer of hope.
Ragnar had turned back to Lorian, determination blazing in his eyes. "If you see what I see, will you follow me? Even if it leads us into the abyss?"
Lorian had placed a hand on Ragnar’s shoulder, the gesture lingering with unspoken promises. “You are a kind man, Lord Ragnar. I'll follow you, into paradise or the abyss.”
Now, staring into Lorian's weary, guilt-ridden eyes, Ragnar felt the cold ache settle in his chest. 'What happened to us?' he thought, clenching his fists. With a heavy sigh, he said, “I would have hidden my world essence too if I were in your place.” His voice hardened. “I don’t mind dying a warrior’s death, Lorian. My only regret is not knowing who the traitor was. Repent not with words, but with actions. Find the traitor and avenge me.”
Lorian nodded, the gravity of Ragnar’s words settling heavily on his shoulders. "I will honor your final wish," he vowed, his voice unwavering despite the storm of emotions churning within him.
Ragnar turned to his son, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "House Blackthorn will be under your guidance now," he choked out, quickly averting his gaze as he wiped his eyes with a rough hand. Steeling himself, he gripped his sword tighter, ready to make his last stand.
Thud.
The earth trembled violently as colossal trees crashed down to the west. Above, dark clouds roiled, lightning slashing through the sky while thunder boomed like the drums of war. The beast approached, a harbinger of doom, an unstoppable force of nature.
Thud!!
Ragnar swallowed his fear, vivid memories of fallen comrades and the bitter rebellion against Nyxium flashing through his mind. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end, but fate had twisted the knife cruelly. Resolve burned in his eyes as he faced the oncoming beast, determined to protect his son at all costs.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
THUD!!!
The large shadowy figure appeared in the horizon. Black tentacles writhed and coiled high above the treetops, their sinister dance casting eerie, elongated shadows across the landscape. The very air seemed to thicken with dread, the scent of decay and rot lingering. Ragnar gulped. He began channeling all of his strength as he clutched his sword tightly.
Sizzle...
A sudden, searing heat blossomed in Ragnar’s back. The acrid scent of burning flesh invaded his nostrils, clashing brutally with the familiar earthy aroma of the forest. For a moment, confusion clouded his mind.
He looked down in disbelief as a spear tip, glowing with a sinister heat, protruded from his chest. The realization struck him like a hammer: the weapon had pierced through his armor, slicing through flesh and bone with devastating precision. Shock and agony mingled on his face as he turned, only to meet the cold, glowing purple eyes of his betrayer.
"Lorian...why?" The words escaped Ragnar's lips in a strangled whisper, his voice heavy with betrayal and anguish. "We were like brothers..."
Lorian's expression was an unreadable mask, his hand still gripping the spear's haft. The trust Ragnar had once placed in him shattered like fragile glass. As the paralyzing poison from the spear coursed through his veins, Ragnar's legs gave way, and he collapsed to the ground, his vision darkening.
Lorian smirked as a translucent purple sphere expanded from his brow, growing wider each second, extending into the forest where a grotesque beast had emerged. The beast, an Archetype of chaos, was not just a threat to their lives, but a symbol of the encroaching darkness threatening to engulf Nyxium.
However, as the purple sphere crossed the beast's head, it suddenly stopped all motion, as though in fright.
“….This….domain!” There was panic in its voice. “A….Baron…?!” The beast stared wide-eyed at Lorian, its four legs trembling until it collapsed, its body shrinking to the shape of a man.
“Esteemed…..Baron….we…are..on..the..same side. Forgive my….” The beast growled, its voice slowly shifting from grotesque to a deep voice of a middle-aged man. There was a mixture of reverence and fear in its voice, its face now resembling that of a man with blonde hair.
Suddenly flames erupted out of nowhere, enveloping the beast.
"Perish," Lorian uttered as the flames coalesced into a raging tornado, incinerating the monster. A piercing wail echoed through the forest as the creature met its fiery demise.
Amidst the crisp smell of burnt flesh Lorian felt a surge of triumph, a sense of liberation washing over him like a tidal wave. A subtle smile spread across his lips. 'No longer restrained by the need to hide my powers, no longer shackled by the charade of weakness and timidity.'
With a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes, he turned his attention to the comrade he had just betrayed, his gaze cold and calculating, devoid of any remorse.
"Don't act high and mighty, Ragnar. Your hands are just as dirty as mine," Lorian said coldly.
'What kind of domain is this? To extinguish an Archetype with mere thought...?' Ragnar’s eyes were wide open even as his body lay on the ground. Sweat trickled down his face, his guts churned, and his chest felt heavier. Fear was quickly replaced by bitterness as Ragnar spoke, "You bastard... you let them die while you hid your strength." His voice trembled with fury, eyes burning with anger.
With each word, his eyes reddened, and his voice grew louder. But with a huff, he closed his eyes for a moment. When he reopened them, the redness was gone, replaced by calm. His words next were soft, as if coming to terms with reality, "You hid this deeply, didn't you? Their loyalty, their sacrifices—did they mean nothing? You watched them fall. Who... are you?"
Ragnar's voice broke as he remembered the faces of his soldiers, who sacrificed themselves to provide an escape route. He strained to turn his head, to catch a glimpse of his son, but his neck refused to obey. The weight of Lorian's accusations pressed down, each word a dagger to his heart.
As the cold realization of Lorian’s betrayal set in, Ragnar’s thoughts turned to the larger game at play. This was not just a personal vendetta; it was a move in a greater scheme to destabilize the kingdom. With each loyalist cut down, the rebellious lords tightened their grip on the heart of Nyxium.
Lorian nonchalantly inspected his nails, dismissing the act of betrayal as trivial. "You know the real difference between us, Ragnar?" he said, a cold smile playing on his lips. "I embrace my actions and am at peace with it. You lords cloak yourselves in noble words, but in the end, you let them die all the same."
Lord Ragnar's vision faltered as he struggled to speak, "King Echidnaeus... will avenge this. You’ll be remembered for your treachery," Ragnar spat out, his voice faltering as he strained to see his son one last time. Despite his desperate attempts, his neck remained rigid, denying him a final glimpse of his son. His last gaze would forever behold the visage of his betrayer.
Lorian looked up at the skies, where twelve radiant stars outshone the sun. "They’ve made their choice. Echidnaeus is done for...," he smirked, his eyes glinting with a cold, unyielding resolve. "History is written by the victors, Ragnar, and I hold the pen."
Ragnar’s heart pounded with a mix of rage and sorrow. The weight of the situation pressed down on him like a suffocating shroud. His mind raced with memories of their shared past—nights around the campfire, battles fought side by side. The betrayal felt like a knife twisting in his gut. "Lorian of the Madi Oasis tribe... Everything we believed in, everything we fought for... was it all for nothing?"
Lorian's smirk faded slightly, his gaze hardening. "You were always too idealistic, Ragnar. Too blind to see the rot within the kingdom. Your people, with their mantra of 'the greater good,' were the ones who showed me the harsh reality."
Ragnar’s vision blurred, tears mingling with the blood on his face. He gasped, his voice a ragged whisper, "Take what you want from me, but please, spare my son. He is innocent in all of this..."
He never finished his plea. The Domain Lord of Nyxium, an aristocrat by lineage, slumped lifeless to the ground, his final breath a mere whisper in the wind.
“Noble or commoner, it’s all the same once you’re dead,” Lorian turned, his eyes meeting those of the petrified boy. The youth stood frozen, his face a mask of silent terror, unable to process the horror before him. He didn't scream, didn't cry—just stood there, eyes wide and vacant, even as his father’s life ebbed away.
Lorian glanced down at Ragnar’s lifeless body, a flicker of disgust crossing his face. "You wonder what changed me?" he muttered; his words directed more at himself than the boy. "Sometimes I wonder too." He examined the blood-smeared tip of his spear, tracing the intricate symbols of palms and dunes etched into its metal shaft. His gaze grew distant as memories surged from the depths of his mind.
"Samaritan Solutions," he whispered, the name tasting bitter on his tongue.
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Ten years ago…
Genesisville, Earth.
Cold winds swirled around Lorian as he gazed at the signboard that read 'Samaritan Solutions'. A feeling in his gut told him that something was not quite right about this place.
A modest, inexpensive yet neatly pressed sky-blue shirt adorned his frame, complemented by well-tailored black pants. Faint traces of facial hair graced his freshly shaved visage, his countenance and physique emanating the vigor of a man in his mid-twenties.
Despite having merely turned twenty-two, the rigors of life seemed to have accelerated his maturation process. His eyes bore dark circles, a testament to countless sleepless nights, and his forced smile did little to hide the weariness etched on his face.
During his morning news routine, he had come across an advertisement for a test happening in this location. All participants would receive rewards, and there was even a grand prize of $10,000 for the winner. The conditions were straightforward, open to anyone except those with any form of sensory disability. He had hesitated at first, wondering if this was the right decision. What if it was a scam? Or worse, what if he failed?
Perched on the outskirts of the forest, the venue's facade seemed to hold secrets in its weathered walls. A road connected it to the city, while an alleyway at the back led to the dense forest on one side and the central highway on the other. Looking at the ominous gates and the sign above them, he couldn't help but feel like he was a doomed character in a cheap horror movie.
'Even if that were true, I am smart enough to run in the opposite direction if something creepy happens. Hehe you underestimate me Mr. Writer'. In an attempt to calm his nerves, he resorted to his usual bland humor as he made his way through the gates. He had an ongoing joke with himself about how he felt like his life was being written by an incompetent and sadistic writer.
As he passed through the ominous gate, Lorian found himself greeted by a queue of individuals already lined up, about 20 people in total. Behind him, a handful of others trailed, seemingly joining the forming line. He stifled a yawn, his hand coming up instinctively to cover his mouth, hoping no one would notice.
'Hoho… seems I'm not the only one drawn here by the allure of easy money', he thought, eyeing the crowd ahead. Some fidgeted nervously, while others engaged in quiet conversations. Lorian observed an orderly row of people standing patiently before a closed door. Lingering at the back, his eyes darted around, uncertain where to place himself. After a moment's hesitation, he joined the line, still second-guessing his decision.
Lorian felt the weight of his mother's illness pressing on him, every step a reminder of why he was here. He clenched his fists, suppressing his exhaustion. "I can't afford to show weakness," he thought, the weight of his responsibilities pressing down like an iron vice.
He glanced around, observing the people drawn here by the same driving force: money. It was the unseen hand propelling dreams and shaping the world.
'The struggle for existence hasn't ceased; it’s merely shifted from the wilds to the confines of concrete,' he sighed, lost in thought.
The air buzzed with anticipation, a palpable energy coursing through the crowd. Lorian took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for what lay ahead. It was then that his thoughts were interrupted by a deep voice.