They say (who 'they' are I'm not entirely sure) that the most important parts of any story are the beginning and the end- The first impression made, the mood of the entire book and whether or not the author can 'catch the reader's attention' are all established at the beginning. While the overall satisfaction with the Novel- and what will be remembered is established at the end. 'So Author, how'll you do it? How'll you wow me and catch my attention?'

 Could start with sex- sex always sells right? Everyone enjoys a good romp. Romance, star-crossed lovers, deep breathing, and the only time perspiration is considered attractive. But, alas, the love has already been held and lost, long before this point in my story.

'Violence then! A good bloodlust appeals to human barbarism, right?' You've got me again. Although this story does start with a conflict, it pales in comparison to what has already transpired. The ultimate battle has already been fought, and the victor already named…

'A joke- at least open with a joke...' Though suitable to my life- the atmosphere calls for something a great deal more sombre... as you see we start my tale with a death, and begin our story at the end. This is the tale not of great beginnings, but of surprising endings. This is the end of my history, the last few times my name, Renon Uth Zhakrin would be recorded within pages. Though I didn't view the situation so darkly, in fact, to me it was not the beginning of my last tale, but an unbelievable opportunity.

 Where our story begins is a difficult place to comprehend, or at least a difficult place to comprehend to someone who has led a normal mortal life. It's like nothing quite on earth, the sensations that the area assaulted upon your comprehension. The air held a cold clammy quality about it, almost refreshing but somehow unnerving. Like breathing in the moisture given off of dying fruit. Each lungfull seemed to cling heavily within the lining of your lungs, pulling them down and weighing them within your chest giving the impression that a thin layer of grease was coating its inner walls. It wasn't altogether unpleasant, in fact it held a encompassing quality about it, no matter how invasive it may be.

 That was the ultimate definition of the place; invasive. Invasive and surreal, or perhaps unreal. Your senses seemed constantly duped, constantly grappling for something coherent. Everything to the visual eye and basic senses seeming in perfect order, but the feel of the air, the slight unplaceable odor, the unnerving still that seemed brim with silent screams (like that sickening pause between witnesses a child harm themselves and knowing remorseful howls were about to ensue), an ashen cotton taste that hung on everything seemed artificial, but unnervingly unplaceably so. Such was the nature of the Lower Plane.

 Ah, the Lower Plane. Allow me to correct all notions before your mind gets the best of you. Basic existence consists of multiple planes. Like rainfall. You have a main source, a cloud in this situation, from this one body falls countless drops, all of these drops will eventually gather once more, forming a singular body. The moisture now takes an entirely new form, a new body, but the ingredients are the same.  This is the same idea of the planes. You have a singular plane at the very top. The purest, the source of these other planes. This is the Upper Plane. This Higher Place would be connected to a number of concepts and mythology that I'm sure you heard of. The single most recognizable being 'heaven'; now don't get all haughty (no angry letters please), you really do have it all wrong. I find it amusing how cities, countries, worlds fight for ultimate control over imposing their beliefs as the 'correct belief'. What has never occurred to anyone is the fact that they could all be wrong, or that any form could be correct to each individual, that it is all subjective.

But I digress.

 This Upper Plane is then the source of hundreds of 'drops' that are considered Middle Planes. There are thousands of these 'parallel worlds' that usually live in ignorant bliss of one another. All believing they are the sole existence, all believing they are of sole worth. Although most are ignored and overlooked by the Upper and Lower planes, there are a few that are considered 'property'. Think of a child that places ants in their own tank. Although the ants continue their existence ignorant of their overseer, they are, in a sense, confined by the child. If not exactly 'owned', for all intensive purposes the notion applies in much the same manner. These Middle Planes, or 'drops' would then be connected to a singular flow, into one body of space once more. Soiled, used, far from its 'pure origin' this which would be the Lower Plane. Again, a common misconstrued perception being 'hell'. Though entirely inaccurate, there is some truth to the mythology that is involved, as with any well guarded secret, information 'leaks'. You see the Higher Plane does inhabit astral beings consisting of divine creation. On a scale of magical manipulation they are blindingly white, pure, and 'unsoiled'. While the Lower Plane does indeed consist of demonic beings, who balance the scales being equally as black, drained and 'dirtied'. It was amongst this black drop to our stage of events danced two beings in the deathly fits of combat.

There was something about the deafening silence that was suiting. Like the thrum of adrenaline that causes the senses to fail  in traumatic situations. The dramatic sounds of the battle that commenced below, the blows of violence, the whisper of death, all subjected to silence seemed only to increase the tension in their absence. There were no other distractions, no noise to focus on, no smells to draw your mind away- the silence stole all opportunity to focus on the other senses to ease your mind from itself (Afterall evening likening the smell of blood to copper, or the sounds of breaking bones to that of twigs was a form of comfort- or desensitization, of lessening the impact by connecting it to an innocent twin). No, it was somehow suiting that the lone figure that witnessed the battle take place from his perch far enough away that the sounds of battle fell short stood unnoticed, unimportant.

 Renon Uth Zhakrin, the egotistical businessman, the secret historian; the unobserved observer sat not in concealment but unabashedly had placed himself at the tallest point, a sharp cliff, overlooking the conflict that took place below. Whether he didn't care if he was spotted, or if he knew he wouldn't be due to his watched being otherwise... indisposed was never discovered. He watched, and in the part of his own story, he was irrelevant.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

 The quiet observer wondered if the two that battled beneath him realized the almost unnerving beauty about their moves. The ebb and flow of offensive and defensive movements. Fluent, calculated, though panicked. Renon's own pulse quickened, his lips pulled back into a broad inappropriate smile as his mind clawed out, imagining what sensations must be pulsing within their own hearts. A hysteria touched his throat, giddy laughter catching in a knot threatening to break his own silence. But the show unfolding below was only partially absorbed. From the distance the businessman stood he could only see the vague shapes of the two beneath. The figures silhouetted, draining any distinguishing colors, any lines between clothes and flesh blended into a singularity. Renon's unnaturally bright jade eyes narrowed unfruitfully to try to distinguish one of the aggressors. He could not recognize him, and although this may seem like a small inconvenience there was a subtle sense of dread the settled into the back of his mind. Like glancing at the first few steps of what you know will be a very long journey.

 The creature on the defensive, the one that faltered in his movements, that panic was beginning to steal all training and skill away from Renon did recognize;  Ba‘al Zebûb. Anyone within the Lower Plane would recognize the stretched out form of the demon, even if he currently was exhibiting uncharacteristically flawed behavior. You see,  Ba‘al Zebûb was one of the most powerful demons within the Lower Plane.

The Lower Plane since the lost history of its existence has always been broken up into various 'territories' called realms. Each realm held its own set of rules, its own ruler and its own territory. The only overlying factor that was universal was wealth. Whomever held the most wealth, held the most power- and therefore the more influence. A common misapprehension is that these realms would then be in constant feud with one another to gain more territory. The truth was the kingdoms of the Lower Plane altered very little. It was not property that gained wealth. There was rarely a need (or even want) to destroy other kingdoms. It didn't necessarily add to your own power, it simply removed one out of existence. However over lifetimes the original 28 realms had dwindled to a mere 8, perhaps out of spite, out of conflicts between heads, or out of sheer boredom. The occurrences of this were rare and far between, and often went unnoticed.

Ba‘al Zebûb was the head of the third most influential kingdom. A desolate world of rotting organic manner of every imaginable (and unimaginable ) sort. If- when he is to die, if he were to fall, Renon's realm which currently stood behind him in fourth most influential would take his rank.  (Ba‘al Zebûb's realm would be absorbed, and everyone would take a step forward in the line so to speak). The absorber, Renon assumed, would be the Lord (and Lady) of the realm the battle currently took place upon... the Obsidianus Realm..

 The Obsidianus Realm was the largest, and the single most powerful.  Renon (in truth) had always been envious of it. The vast spanning world raced before him in oppressive black. The land was cast entirely in Obsidian, its polish surface both breathtakingly beautiful and equally as ominous and demonic. The world was fully formed, in the sense that it echoed the image of any lush land. Rolling mountains, forests, lakes, rivers, all at the edge of a vast city. But everything, though echoing the image of life was frozen, unmoving in black stone.  Within the lower field that stretched at the base of Renons cliff and touched the edges of the town, each blade of grass was of carved obsidian, staking upwards like millions of shards.  The forest that stood stark against the land like the front of an army strong in their thick glass, rose feet into the air and exploded into a splay of leaves. The black leaves themselves chiseled with startling detail. Rises marked the leaves where veins would have brought them sap apparent in their pattern. The leaves paper thin as normal leaves would be, became vicious weapons in their current material however, the razor obsidian cutting and mangling at the slightest brush. Everything remained silent, the unholy leaves did not rustle in some unseen breeze, but stood silent in its twisted horror, never swaying or giving way.

 A lake stood at the other edge of the field. A lake in appearance though in nature it was as solid as the rest of the world. The obsidian pool polished to such a sheen that it too did reflect as the mirroring quality of water would. The doppelganger pitch black in its nature like the stillest of waters caught in perpetual twilight. It is upon this flat unbroken surface that the battle raged. The two reflected within the still surface, a perfect replica adding to the battle beneath their feet. The nagging mystery of the stranger grew as Renon's observation continued. He did not move like a demon would, or any other being that should be within this plane. He moved with the motions of a beast, attacking with his shoulders forward, retreating from blows and making quick changes of direction of attack with a knee and hand upon the ground in a sprinter's stance. The figure was gaining ground, the blade that added length to one of his arms danced skillfully, meeting quickly and often with the other silhouette. Renon realized slowly that the aggressor was toying with Ba‘al Zebûb…

Far above the two.. and indeed every realm burned a black sun that coiled dark flames in on itself, a negative of its brother. It casted a sickly glare upon each realm, but had a unique effect upon the Obsidianus Realm. The black glass nature of the world reflecting the pallor light, mimicking the eyes of a man where black has stolen the remaining white and the last sickening glimpse of the dying soul reflects there within the black depths. The light not glowing, or reflecting back, but seeming engulfed and consumed by the blackness in desperation to avoid inevitable death. The obsidian stole all the light it could, muffling its illumination reflecting what little focal highlights it could in return. Even the green hidden within the dark suede of Renon's clothing that needed direct light to bring them forth in highlights remained hidden within the blacks.

 A quiver of emotion broke the male's pale facade as Ba‘al Zebûb came to his knees. The darks of Renon's eyes widened as a cat looking at a bird beyond a pane of glass would. The struggle was over, the conflict decided. The mysterious rival slowed his movements, no longer feeling haste in his assured victory. Walking with a slow pace as  Ba‘al Zebûb, the fallen Lord raised his hands in one final plea. No honor or dignity amongst the sworn dead. With a quick sharp movement, the demon was killed and died as easily as any man would have. Once rank and status were stripped away, no matter how influential a figure was, there is never much left over. Death is the ultimate egalitarian. The body, useless, fell back numbly, a shallow pool marring the blacks polished surface with a rebellious stretch of red. The attacker watched for but a moment longer, and then sunk down to sit upon the ground, easing his muscles.

 Renons eyes rose away from the scene, his attention spanning to the east once more. His gaze dancing over the former landscape of  Ba‘al Zebûb, anticipation lighting his features, flawless white teeth flashed a smile drenched in insanity as it slid over his lithe features.

This is the best part.

The impenetrable silence during the struggle lasted for only a breath longer than a deafening snap smashed the air wide open. The noise was like a shattering gunshot upon glass. It echoed upon itself within the glass realm, resonating the trees until leaves broke free and smaller shattering noises joined in the chorus of unsettling loud snapping noises that now rolled one over another. The black obsidian, like some great black fanged beast, was expanding. The borders of the two kingdoms removed, the obsidian was cracking out from its edges and spreading upon the rotting organic matter of  Ba‘al Zebûb's former world. Settling again once the great wave of black teeth has passed over it, it too now cast in obsidian. The edge spanned and continued to engulf with the core sound of the obsidian breaking forth to spread over its new expansion, the lighter sounds of obsidian shattering and an accompanying wail of glass scraping upon glass. The Obsidianus Realm was expanding its borders.

In a time the realm was fully integrated. The mangled corpses, rotting trees and food of  Ba‘al Zebûb's realm were all still there, distinctly the same in appearance, all but that it too was now entirely cast in obsidian, and was now subjected to a new melody of dead silence.