The question gnawed at me. Hero? Villain? Pawn? In the grand narrative, what role did I truly play? Were heroes defined by their actions, their intentions, or simply the chronicler's favor? They draped themselves in righteousness, a banner easily stained by power. When they struck down foes, they were hailed as liberators. Yet, when I defended the tattered remnants of my world, I was branded a tyrant.

The line between hero and villain, I realized, was a mirage shimmering in the desert heat. It shifted with the storyteller's whim. Villains, they were not born of malice, but of necessity, molded by the shadows your heroes cast. We were the consequence of your choices, the bitter fruit of your so-called light. Without villains, your heroes would be hollow figures, their victories empty boasts.

You, the reader, empathize with them. You've walked their path since the first page, witnessed their struggles, understood their motives. Their actions, however flawed, become your truth. But my story? You turned a deaf ear, unwilling to see beyond the label the author slapped upon me. A villain, they declared. And so, a villain I became. Yeah… I’m the devil that the author created, and that you forgot.

Fifteen years ago, Alaranta wasn't a wounded island. The Flow Beasts weren't confined to a desolate wasteland. Instead, they rampaged freely across our lands, their insatiable hunger a constant threat. Kathízise, my home city, was a bustling heart within Alaranta, a jewel almost grand enough to be a nation itself. It housed my family, my friends, my entire world. It was my haven.

Back then, Kathízise pulsed with warmth, a quality that defied its modest size compared to the capital. But the warmth couldn't extinguish the ever-present fear. Flow Beasts, those twisted creatures of pure malice, were a constant threat.

The Chasles Academy, the iron fist that protected Alaranta, finally made a heart-wrenching decision. With the council's reluctant blessing, they enacted a desperate gambit – to herd the Flow Beasts. Not to eradicate them, but to push them away from the teeming cities and concentrate their fury on a single, desolate place... Kathízise.

I couldn’t escape those memories, whether I was awake, asleep, or somewhere in between. Flow Beasts, once rare and elusive, suddenly surrounded us, revealing themselves as merciless predators. They obliterated my home before my eyes. The kindergarten I attended was reduced to ashes by their fiery breaths. Their claws tore through my friends. They annihilated my world. No, it was my fellow humans who destroyed my world.

All that remained were the ruins of war. Yet, even as a child, I refused to accept it. I kept digging, searching for what was precious to me beneath the rubble. I dug to retrieve my favorite pillow, to hold my tablet once more. I dug, yearning for one last goodnight kiss from mom, a final word of thanks to dad for teaching me to ride a bike. I dug, hoping someone would see my futile efforts and show me mercy. And when hope waned, I dug to make my own grave. I dug and dug and dug...

I dug, but I found nothing.

The only reward for my relentless digging was the harsh, unyielding truth: they believed that destroying Kathízise was a necessary sacrifice.

Their 'rescue' was a cruel joke. Four days late, the rescue teams came with smiles plastered on their faces after forcing this hell upon us. "Save" us, they said. Right. Like vultures circling a dying carcass. The destruction of Kathízise felt deliberate, a twisted sacrifice for their twisted goals. But the show must go on, and they herded the remaining survivors towards some glorified internment camp called Commplant.

I refused. Shock held me in a vice, the world a surreal nightmare. My beloved Kathízise, reduced to smoldering ash. Leaving felt like abandoning the very spirit of my home. They left, their masks of concern slipping a little too easily, while I stayed, unmasked as they thought I was putting on a show.

Survival became a desperate dance. Fruits and scavenged vegetables kept me alive, but barely. I was a ghost haunting the ruins, the lowest rung on a broken ladder. Then, a sound pierced the silence: a whimper, a creature in pain. Curiosity, a flicker of life in the desolation, drew me closer.

There, amidst the rubble, a small Flow Beast. Its leg pinned beneath a fallen beam, its eyes filled with a primal terror I recognized all too well.

No larger than a dog, the creature shimmered with otherworldly beauty. Dark scales, like a thousand captured stars, rippled over its body. Long claws gleamed, a stark contrast to its mesmerizing eyes that pulsed through a spectrum of pink, purple, green. Two whip-like tails, tipped with wicked barbs, completed the picture – a Netherclaw, a terror of legend.

"Well, aren't you a sight," I muttered, clearing the debris pinning its leg. Cradling the trembling creature, a bitter laugh escaped my lips. "Soon enough, you'll be tearing at my throat, another monster in this nightmare. Yet, here I am, playing Florence Nightingale to a demon."

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Despite my cynicism, I found myself tending its wounds and sharing my meager rations. Days bled into weeks, and an impossible thing happened – a bond formed. A Flow Beast, the very embodiment of my destruction, brought a flicker of warmth back to my deadened heart.

The guilt gnawed at me. My people would scoff, brand me a traitor for showing compassion to the enemy. But vengeance, though a tempting siren song, held no solace. Here, in the ruins of my world, a sliver of humanity bloomed in a Beast. Something to beheld indeed.

Two years. That's all the trust the Netherclaw earned. Two years of companionship, of shared meals and watchful nights, all ripped to shreds in a heartbeat. It grew monstrous, hunger overriding any semblance of affection. Claws, tipped like obsidian daggers, tore open my chest.

Pain, a searing inferno, filled the void where my trust used to reside. My eyes were locked with the Netherclaw's, a chilling reflection of my own demise. Then, a flicker. A surge of energy, once unseen and now undeniable, coursed through the forest. The Flow. The very lifeblood of the world awakened within me, a cruel irony at the precipice of death. What use was this power now, when my skills remained unhoned? my potential unrealized? My death before me?

Agony stretched into an eternity. A blur of brown light erupted, cleaving through the air. The Netherclaw shrieked, its monstrous form crumpling under the unseen force. Two figures materialized beside me, one with sun-kissed blonde hair, a grin splitting his face. "Found him, just like he said," he boomed, and the world faded as welcome darkness embraced me.

Consciousness flickered back like a dying ember. My chest, a smoldering ruin, throbbed with a dull ache. I cracked open an eye, blinking at the dim room. Bandages, rough and stiff, clung to my torso. A groan escaped my lips as I attempted to sit up, but a fresh wave of pain pinned me back to the bed.

"Easy there, little one," a gruff voice said. I turned my head, vision blurry, to see the man with the wild grin from earlier. He sat hunched over a table overflowing with papers, brow furrowed in concentration.

"No healer or harmonizers in our unit," he continued, pushing himself up and approaching the bed. "Best we could do was some battlefield patching. But hey, surviving a Netherclaw attack ain't bad for a rookie! You might just have something after all."

Exhaustion weighed me down, a thick fog muffling emotions. What should I feel? Gratitude? Fear? All I could manage was a blank stare. His grin faltered, replaced by a hint of annoyance. Perhaps sensing my struggle, he extended a hand, a worn leather glove covering his knuckles.

"Astolf Thornwood," he said, voice booming. "Pleasure's all mine."

I managed a weak nod, my voice barely a rasp. "Oliver Quartz. Nice to..." The words trailed off, swallowed by the overwhelming need for sleep. With a final effort, I forced my hand out, meeting his in a shaky handshake.

"Why?" My voice rasped, eyes darting around the unfamiliar room, unable to settle, “Why did you save me? What usefulness could I ever serve for you?”

Astolf, his brown eyes heavy with surprise, flashed his trademark grin. "Let's say this hand represents death," he said, holding up his leather-clad fist. I found myself fixated on the worn glove.

A shiver ran down my spine as his grin widened and that hand clamped around my throat. My ragged breaths hitched. I clawed weakly at his forearm, offering a pathetic resistance.

"Felt pretty damn tight a day ago, didn't it?" he rumbled, his grin feral. My vision swam, the room darkening at the edges. "It rendered you helpless, took everything you had. Now here you are, near death by the very Flow-beast you nurtured!"

Despite the haze obscuring my vision, I saw him raise his other hand, placing it gently over the one constricting my windpipe. His tone softened. "But you see, Oliver, fate intervened. Our faith, a force more powerful than any beast, decided to grant you a reprieve."

He finally released his hold, leaving me gasping for air. My hands flew to my throat, the coolness biting.

"We weren't the ones who saved you," Astolf continued, moving towards a nearby closet. He rummaged through it, tossing clothes haphazardly in my direction. "It was faith, a divine hand pushing death away. They see a purpose in you, Oliver. A purpose you'll serve."

"Lucky you are, Oliver," Astolf boomed, his voice echoing in the sterile room. He swaggered towards the massive oak door, his every step punctuated by the silence. "Saved not by some bloated nation, but by the righteous! We are the true shepherds of humanity, the architects of love… of perfection!"

With a flourish, he flung open the door, a wave of soft light and fresh air washing over the room. Yet, the sound that followed wasn't the gentle rustle of leaves I perhaps envisioned. It was laughter. A grating, mirthless cackle that sent shivers down my spine.

My gaze darted past Astolf's broad back and landed on the tableau before me. My breath hitched in my throat. Men, women, even children, toiled under the watchful eyes of hulking figures. Their ragged clothing offered scant protection from the relentless whips that cracked against their backs for even the slightest hesitation. Screams of pain and pleas for mercy ripped through the air, a chilling symphony of suffering. This wasn't a haven; it was a nightmare made flesh. They were pushed to surpass human limitations. Forced to get stronger. Deprived of their freedom and lives.

Why did he laugh? How could he witness such agony and find amusement? As the weight of the scene settled on my chest, Astolf's words rang out with a hollow echo.

"Welcome, Oliver," he declared, his arms outstretched in a grand gesture, his back still to the unfolding horror. "Welcome to the almighty C.O.M., the Cult of Marloth! Here, we are more than survivors, academies, or mere mages. We are the architects of a new dawn, one forged in the ashes of the corrupt Council!"

“Welcome to C.O.M.! Where our one and only goal, is to bring the Council of the Nations down, and seek to satisfy our God! To satisfy the desires of the one and only Marloth!”

The weight of his words crashed down on me. Saved, not by a savior, but by a fanatic. A cold dread snaked its way through my body. This wasn't just about survival; it was about a war fueled by a twisted ideology. And I, a broken vessel clinging to life, was now a pawn in their twisted game.

I, a broken vessel clinging to life, had no option but to bow my head to Marloth.