Chapter 1: My Grandma is the Dark Lord

This was it. The end had come.

Rodrigues ripped his sword free of the fell, green skinned creature's heart. The hobgoblin snarled, raising a shaky and scarred arm as if to throw a final attack. But the gaping hole in its chest spelled death. Its legs quivered, and then the beast fell back, an iron club slipping from its open hands and clattering against the cold, black stone floor.

Rodrigues huffed. His arms slumped at his sides. Tired. So tired. This war of many years had come to its end. The war for freedom for the good people of Fantasia.

All that remained was the final chamber to this wicked fortress in which he stood. Rodrigues breathed in the foul stench of goblins and blood. His footsteps pattered against the wet floor as he marched past the forest of small green corpses. Goblins each and all. Of all the devilish creatures to guard him, the mighty Dark Lord had chosen the lowest of them…

Rodrigues let his sword arm sag. Its chipped edge dragged on along the floor. The Giant-slayer's blade it was called. Once a brilliant weapon that shone with a silver lustre. Now it was but a pitiful instrument of war, slick with black blood and gore, grating against the Dark Lord's polished marble floors.

I've killed so much with it. I've relied so often on its power.

Only one enemy remained. One enemy, and this weapon of mass death could be lain to rest.

Rodrigues stalked up to the tall metal gates leading to his final foe's throne. Therein the Dark Lord hid, no better than the snivelling and cowardly goblins in his service. The lord of all villainy and tragedy in the land of Fantasia. Therein he awaited, while his hordes fought the allied armies outside his fortress.

One more battle. One more death at my hands. Rodrigues placed a tired hand upon the cold surface of the metal gates. They were patterned with twisted vines, flowers blooming at their ends. But Rodrigues had no eyes for art this day. It was him the peoples of Fantasia had chosen to wield the Giant-slayer's sword. Him they named 'hero'.

All that remained was to slay the Dark Lord and liberate Fantasia of evil forever.

Rodrigues pushed on the metal gates. They swung inward a lot faster than expected, as if they were made from paper and not heavy steel. He stumbled inside from the force of his own push, awkwardly dragging his sword into the chamber.

And what a chamber it was. Yes. I should expect nothing less.

It was a grand hall, circular in nature, tall windows lining the walls. Outside, a violent storm of the Dark Lord's power raged, black clouds blotting out the sun with brilliant flashes of red lightning raining down upon allied armies fighting for their lives.

Rodrigues stalked inside, trailing blood on the spotless, scarlet carpet leading up to the Lord's throne. He was there as expected, dressed in his jagged suit of armor. An armor void of any beauty. It was black from head to toe, and of sharp angles protruding from various points.

"No," Rodrigues breathed out, shaking his head in spite. "No, you're not just sitting, are you? You're fucking lounging while the good people of Fantasia are fighting out there for their lives and loved ones! Fucking lounging! Have you a care at all for even your wicked subordinates? Any care?"

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The Dark Lord brought down his legs from the armrests of his throne. He turned his head to face Rodrigues, slow, and deliberate in his actions. He moved with a nonchalance, as if all the time in the world belonged to him. As if his very death would not put an end to the vile magic he used to brainwash his armies and summon a violent storm.

The Lord stretched out an arm to one side and it disappeared into a subspace. From within it he pulled out a great metal mace, tapping its shaft against his free hand. He looked no better than a village guard with a disciplining baton. This was nothing more than a game to him and Rodrigues no more than a naughty child in need of reprimand.

All while people and creatures are dying outside!

Rodrigues seethed. "Answer me one thing," he said. "Of everything, why goblins? You have beasts ranging from trolls to horned devils fighting outside, yet you guard your own throne with a measly few goblins and one hob? Why? Is this truly no more than a pastime for you? A fucking hobby?"

"Hobby," the Dark Lord said with a voice muffled by his metal mask. "Such an interesting word. Perhaps this addiction can be likened to a hobby or a pastime."

The lord lifted his metal mace and stalked forward. Thump, thump, thump, went his heavy steps. The plates of his black armor clinked and rattled. A sudden flash of lightning struck outside, and a crash of thunder followed at its heels. Chandeliers hanging from the ceiling creaked as they swung back and forth. Shadows danced from the swaying lights, and the Dark Lord tilted his head expectantly.

For a brief moment, Rodrigues stared into the small eyeholes of his enemy's helmet. He thought he saw something familiar there. Something tucked into the corner of his memory. He hadn't the time to recall. Another flash of lightning struck, and the Dark Lord charged.

There, in that dimly lit throne room did hero and villain dance, blade clashing against mace, footsteps a storm over the scarlet carpet. Each clash of metal produced sparks and made the very chamber itself shudder. It was the mighty Giant-slayer sword against whatever fell magic had been imbued into the Dark Lord's mace.

Dust fell from the ceiling as the violent clash continued. Scars were driven into the marble flooring. The chamber was a storm of chaos no different from the raging violence outside.

"It is over!" Rodrigues said. "Even I can tell I am gaining an advantage over you."

As if those words had riled the villain's anger, the Dark Lord struck with more ferocity than before. Every swing of that great mace seemed to amplify the storm outside. More and more red lightning rained down like lances of molten iron.

Rodrigues grit his teeth. He imagined the screams of his allies outside as lightning burned their flesh to a charred crisp. He turned that anger to strength, meeting his foe's terrible strokes blow for blow. The fierce clash of the two weapons made the windows of the room shatter, and for certain now Rodrigues heard the screams of his comrades.

He struck harder, beating the Dark Lord back, one step at a time. It was out of desperation that the lord of all evils then raised his mace high for a mighty blow, but such a slow attack left him wide open.

Rodrigues struck his foe's head, and that spiked metal helm went flying from the Dark Lord's head. The villain fell back into his throne, slumping against it. Wisps of sweat drenched grey hair fell at the sides of his head. Rodrigues raised his heavy sword to deal the killing blow.

But yet another flash of lightning illuminated the chamber.

Rodrigues' sword slipped from his fingers. The heavy metal lump clattered to the floor at the same time a deafening crash of thunder boomed through the halls. The Dark Lord's face was revealed to him, and his mouth hung agape. It was an aged face of hard lines and subtle wrinkles, but it was a face he'd known since childhood.

"Grandma Roberta!?" Rodrigues cried.

Roberta gave one of those knowing, toothy smiles that Rodrigues knew all too well. One of those smiles that said you're in a lot of shit and was usually followed by a beating with a pair of dirty slippers.

And that was the last of Rodrigues' memory of this day. His grandmother's arm came up and the mace struck the side of his head. The world turned to black and Rodrigues collapsed upon the scarlet carpet before his grandmother's feet.