The demon offered him a deal, 16 souls and he would have his son back. He had given him a sword, “To capture their souls,” he said and after that the man found himself outside the temple, sword in hand.

The sword was relatively normal, the only odd thing was an eye on its hilt and carvings embedded in the blade. He thought nothing of it, just as long as he could bring his child back.

His first target was the doctor; he had refused his son treatment despite the gold he had brought to him. He let the doctor see his face before stabbing him in the heart.

The next day there was panic in the city. Nobody had died in a long time. nobody had been murdered. There were a few deaths in the arena but murder, nobody would’ve dared. The Guardian Cenobia was set forward to find the killer. The man could not enter that city again.

The next target was the Hoarder, a shrewd old man who kept all the fruit to himself. If his guards hadn’t found the man sifting through his gardens, he would have managed to run off with some for his son. The man sliced his head off, his blood staining the blessed gardens he sold.

Their faces haunted the man. The stench of their blood and their eyes locked in one permanent expression. The doctors of confusion and the Hoarder’s of surprise.

Next was the General, a man who had tortured and beat him for stealing the fruit. No matter how much the man begged and pleaded for just one fruit for his son, no matter how much he cried, the whip kept tearing into his back. For it was no human that was the judge, but the whip.

He strangled him with the whip before stabbing him through the chest.

Soon there was a manhunt, the tribe wanted the murderer dead.

Occasionally the Man visited his son, he was underneath the temple. The temple where all the Shaman prayed. The man had resorted to asking the Shaman for help but they too had refused, sending him and his dying son off with a useless prayer. He knew they hoarded the fruit too for the Hoarder’s garden was right atop their temple. It was raining, drenching him. His son was covered in a thick blanket and his breathing was steadily becoming slower. He had made it to the temple begging the Shaman for fruit, throwing what little gold he had left but they shook their head solemnly, sending him off. He caught the eye of Lord Emon, the head Shaman but his face remained impassive beneath that mask of his.

Enraged he left the temple, his son slowly dying in his arms. However, his horse slipped in the grass and he was taken deep in a cave, his dead son in his arms and a sword floating in a blue light right in front of him.

His son was still in the cave, the Demon telling him he’d keep him safe. Though the Man didn’t trust the Demon he had no choice. He was getting desperate and he didn’t want to lose more family.

The fourth was in the city of Avion. The Man had to keep hopping from city to city as staying in one city for a long time could arouse suspicion. This City was patrolled by another one of the Guardians, one that could fly. The Man watched in awe as the guardian perched atop the largest building in the middle of the city in the Lake, the moon casting a pale silver light on the Guardians beautiful wings. But the Man was not here to gawk, he had a mission to do.

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The Labourer was a greedy man, adorning himself in fine spotless garments while his workers built his mansion with their blood. The Man worked for him, wanting to earn as much gold as he could for his ailing son. Little did he know that each brick he lay in was just but a futile endeavour for a greedy man.

Navigating through the mansion, for the Man knew the house brick by brick he saw him in one of his rooms, underneath a blanket. His body was disgusting, nothing but flaps of fat that cascaded down upon him like waves at a beach. The Man wondered if his sword could even pierce him.

He found out, moments later that his sword could cut through him like he was a slice of bread. A woman appeared in her night clothes. When she saw the bloodied bed and The Man wiping his sword, she screamed. It was the Labourers wife. She ran as fast as she could, probably to alert the Guardian for the Guardians were the sworn defenders of the cities. The Man followed suit, tackling her into a room. She begged for her life, his blade shut her up. Before she died, there was a look of resignation on her face.

It was after that, he decided to wear a mask.

The Man noticed that slowly his face became paler, his blood slowly darkening but The Man didn’t care. He would do whatever it took to bring his son back. His pale skin reminded him of his deceased mate laying on her deathbed, her life slowly draining away from her. She had died of the same disease that their son was ailed with.

He remembered when they were young, atop the back of Quadratus they’d climb to see the sunset on the beach. He remembered her delight in seeing the smaller Guardians, Cenobia and Celosia. It felt like centuries ago when they had gotten married and she was pregnant with their first child. He remembered the delight in her face when he was born, despite her weary eyes.

He remembered the Shaman placing her dead body in the burial mounds. It seemed even the Guardian itself had a look of pity in its giant blue eyes. Blue eyes that looked as if they could see the secrets he kept buried in his soul.

Her delicate features and wavy hair could be seen in his son. It was all the more reason to carry on with his mission.

The Man couldn’t enter the cities, for risk of alerting the Guardians. So he wandered through the fields. He saw a Shaman praying at one of the temples, his blood now stained the stone altar.

A Merchant caused quite a stir amongst a group of spectators. His dead body caused quite a stir amongst a group of spectators.

There was a caravan, being pulled by two horses. The Man butchered one of the horses and set the other free. The Rider begged for his life, the Man gave him death.

His Son emerged from within the caravan, confused at the commotion. His innocent look reminded the Man so much of that of his son. He killed him before he had discovered the dead body of his father, to preserve his innocence.

Or so he told himself.

His skin got darker like venom coursing through his veins.

The Man remembered his son, the bright eyed look he gave everything in the land. He admired the world around him even though the Man and many others saw just how ugly it was becoming. His son was an adept archer and good with animals.

Slowly all the faces blurred into one. He didn’t know how many he had killed. All he could remember was the boy he had murdered and the look of confusion he had as the sword pierced his chest.

Slowly he started limping, the darkness in his body like venom in his veins. But he was not yet done, he just needed to kill just a few more, just a few more for his son.

There was a family living in a small tent. The Colossus Basaran roamed this land. A land of clear springs and large trees with grassy mountainsides.

The Father saw the Man limping. He ran over, eager to help. What he didn’t expect was a sword in his chest. The Mother screamed, she was silenced. The Son cried in his cot. He was just but a baby.

There was a look of hesitance in the man’s eyes.

He remembered his son bundled up in his mate’s arms. A weary smile on her face.

That was when the Man became the Monster.

Basaran was too late. A bolt of lightning made the tent explode into nothing but fabric.

Black tendrils wrapped themselves around the Man, piercing his heart, spreading across his entire body. Slowly the darkness expanded, forming arms, horns and a pair of hollow white eyes.

Beneath the temple, his son woke.