Deep in the heart of the jungle, nestled within its most shadowy recesses, stood a solitary hut. Concealed within its walls, a group of individuals engaged in a hushed conversation about the past. Not the concocted tales spun by the false emperor, but the unadulterated truth.
Oliver, his eyes searching for answers, voiced his desire. "I yearn to uncover the veritable history of this world," he declared. "Dozia has imparted fragments of knowledge to me, sharing the tale of how the Demi Humans lost their magic. Yet, the rest remains shrouded in obscurity. The history, the imposters, everything is an enigma to me."
The witch fixed her gaze upon Dozia, her voice laced with impatience. "Dozia!" she snapped. "You've spent days with the boy, and yet you haven't enlightened him."
"Mistress," Dozia interjected, her voice quivering. "Oliver woke up in an entirely foreign realm. I thought it best to grant him a few days to come to terms with his new reality."
The witch sighed wearily. "True, the ordeal with the slavers and the upheaval of leaving your camp must have taken a heavy toll on all of you."
Exhaling another tired sigh, she redirected her attention to Oliver. "I had hoped that Dozia would acquaint you with the world's nature, at least its rudiments," she said, casting a fleeting glance back at Dozia. "But time seems to be slipping through our fingers. Thus, I shall provide you with a concise summary of the world you inhabit. It is crucial that you comprehend the history, the true history, before delving into queries about the Imposters and the Deus Imperitor."
Oliver, on the verge of voicing his thoughts, paused and restrained himself. "Please, continue," he entreated.
The witch turned her gaze to the trio. "Before you, before me, before Emilia, the first Imposter, there existed an ancient and formidable civilization. They harnessed magic in ways we can scarcely fathom, employing it to accomplish awe-inspiring feats that reshaped the very fabric of the world."
As Oliver absorbed the words, he observed the faces of Dozia and Rasmus aglow with rapt attention. Seated upon the wooden floor, they evoked memories of his kindergarten days, when he and his classmates would gather on a rug as their teacher regaled them with stories. At times, he forgot just how young Dozia, Rasmus, and the others truly were. Yet, he found himself willingly swept up in their childlike fascination, seeking a comfortable spot to rest and listen.
"This ancient civilization forged marvels beyond imagination," the witch continued, her demeanor now relaxed as she reclined in her chair. "They crafted contraptions that soared through the heavens, vehicles capable of traversing vast distances at incredible speeds, and fearsome war machines that waged battles and ravaged nations. But that was not all. They ushered in societal, economic, and medical changes, elevating the quality of life to heights we can scarcely fathom. The dire trials we presently face were mere legends and forgotten remnants of a distant past for them—a genuine utopia."
Oliver's emotions stirred uneasily within him. Flying boats, planes, vehicles defying borders—cars, perhaps even trains. But the mention of war machines struck a disquieting chord, a haunting familiarity that resonated deep within his being.
However, they were not satisfied with their newfound power. Consumed by greed, they chose to wield their weapons of war to attack one another," she said, her voice resonating with an eerie calmness. As she spoke, a brilliant display unfolded before their eyes, casting off a mesmerizing array of flames. The roars of fire engulfed them, and the shadows contorted and twisted, taking on grotesque forms. In that moment, he finally understood the excitement that had filled Rasmus and Dozia upon hearing this tale. He watched, transfixed, as the tendrils of flame danced and swayed along the weathered wooden planks, mirroring soldiers, colossal metal beasts, and peculiar robot-like contraptions. They swayed in the grip of the witch's malevolent magic.
"Descended upon cities they did. Pillaging, destroying, enslaving," she continued, her words laced with a chilling sense of foreboding. "They killed anyone who dared cross their path, and the other nations of this world, drawn into the madness, soon found themselves entangled in a web of war." The trio stood witness to a city consumed by the fury of flames, reduced to rubble in an instant. Though unharmed, they beheld the fallen remnants of soldiers and citizens alike. The once grand vessels, vehicles, and airborne contraptions lay shattered, discarded in the wake of war's aftermath.
"For centuries, the war raged on," she murmured, her voice carrying the weight of sorrow. "Years of progress were squandered, and the land became rife with radiation. Toxic fumes choked the very life from nature, undoing all the good that this ancient civilization had accomplished. Their descendants, driven by their own destructive hands, unraveled the legacy left behind."
A moment of silence settled upon them, the weight of the witch's words sinking deep into their consciousness. "And then, it happened," she whispered, her voice tinged with a mix of sorrow and fury. "At the brink of the final battle, when heaven, hell, and Earth merged into one, the gods, goddesses, and deities wept in disgust. Their blessings, their creations, and every ounce of magic they had bestowed upon this civilization were squandered, discarded like worthless trinkets."
Oliver observed the clenched jaws and flaring anger in Dozia and Rasmus, empathizing with their frustration. To possess the ability to wield inherent magic, only to have it forsaken for something deemed superior—it must have been the ultimate betrayal to the demi-humans.
"Greatly disappointed in their children, the gods decided to enact...penance," the witch said, her voice carrying a hint of grim satisfaction. "Penance," Oliver echoed, the weight of the word sinking into his being. "A religious punishment, if I'm not mistaken?"
The witch nodded, a sinister smile playing upon her lips. "Yes, Oliver," she confirmed. "They believed this civilization deserved...penance. They had committed unforgivable sins, scarring the very fabric of the world. But nature, the world itself, began to heal. The rivers once tainted with toxic waste transformed into thriving oceans. The war-torn plains and desolate trenches bloomed with vibrant flowers. Gradually, the world began to heal."
Her gaze shifted towards Dozia and Rasmus, her eyes gleaming with an otherworldly wisdom. "And alongside the humans, new races emerged—the Demi Humans. Some philosophers argue that these beings were born from the crucible of war. Perhaps they were genetically manipulated or mutated, shaped to adapt to the harsh realities of this new world or even weaponized as instruments of war."
"The dwarfs found solace in their subterranean mountain forts, the elves dwelling high amidst the majestic treetops, the humans forging ahead with innovation, the goblin men lurking within their forested domains and hidden crevasses, and the beast men, adaptably surviving on various terrains," the witch elucidated, her voice carrying an air of ancient wisdom. "However, I hold a different belief. Personally, I don't subscribe to the notion that the demi-human race was birthed through the crucible of war or arose from mutated human genes. They simply...existed."
Oliver nodded slowly, his mind piecing together the fragments of this enigmatic puzzle. "The penance...it occurred," he murmured, his voice barely audible. Taking a deep breath, the witch raised her hand, directing their attention towards her.
"The decree of the gods," she continued, her voice gaining an eerie resonance. "The legend remains veiled, shrouded in mystery, yet the accounts from each race all converge on a single truth. Amidst the wails of a burning city, as smoke filled their lungs and choked their throats, when men, women, and children lamented their profound losses, the gods heard their pleas. They loved their children, but as any caring parent knows, a child must face consequences. And so, the gods issued a decree of penance. Yet, even in their divine judgment, they still harbored love for their wayward offspring."
"They loved their children?" Oliver reiterated, his voice tinged with disbelief. "So, they chose to punish them."
"Oliver, I've walked this earth for countless years. Whether this legend holds truth or not, I cannot say. It could very well be a tale born from a time of great turmoil. Religions, particularly those forged in the crucible of the harshest times, carry immense cultural significance. But..." The witch paused, wrapping her arms around herself. "Penance did come."
The roaring flames once again shifted and contorted, weaving into a brighter and more intense blaze. Within the flames, a figure took shape—a girl, towering over Oliver, older in age. From her features, Oliver estimated her age to be somewhere between fourteen and nineteen. She donned a heavy leather jacket, jeans, and boots, but it was the sword strapped to her waist that caught his attention. "Emilia, the First Imposter," Rasmus interjected, recognition sparking in his eyes. "She was the one who united all the human tribes, forming the First Empire, the progenitor of all subsequent empires."
"Correct, Rasmus," the witch acknowledged, turning her gaze towards Oliver. "This is Emilia, a young woman, an imposter like yourself. She was born in Chicago, the daughter of an alcoholic mother and a father taken too soon. Yet, one day, she found herself summoned into a room adorned with numerous trumpets. She chose one—or rather, it chose her—and she was bestowed with a blessing."
"Blessed?" Oliver repeated, his voice laced with curiosity.
The witch nodded, her eyes gleaming with ancient knowledge. "Blessed," she echoed. "Emilia was blessed with a fraction of the gods' power. The First Trumpet, bestowed with the ability to conjure potent tendrils of lightning from her very hands." Oliver's gaze fell to his own palm, contemplating the implications.
"No, Oliver," the witch interjected, her voice firm. "None of the imposters possess a brand like the one you bear on your left hand. It is uniquely yours."
It was yet another reminder of his nature, of the daunting purpose that both Dozia and the witch believed he carried. The witch continued, her voice carrying a weight of significance.
"In her might, the First Imposter would unite the scattered human tribes, remnants of the ancient war that had ravaged the land centuries before. She transformed the continent into a sprawling empire, reigning as queen until her eventual demise."
The image shifted, dissipating into a radiant orb of pure flame as Oliver watched in awe. "I don't understand...how does this connect to..." he began, his confusion evident.
"Quiet, Oliver," Dozia interjected, her voice commanding. "Soon, you will comprehend the importance of this, I assure you."
Undeterred, the witch pressed on. "Decades passed, and while the empire Emilia had built remained strong, others began to rise."
Once again, the flames shifted and contorted, revealing the visage of a man. He appeared to be in his early twenties, his hair neatly combed, a gladius strapped to his back. Ornate golden armor, adorned with a curious wolf emblem, encased his form. "His name was Lucius, a son of Rome and the first emperor of Orium."
It took a moment for Oliver to process the revelation, but when he did, his eyes widened in astonishment. "Wait, he's Roman, right?" His head turned towards the others in the room, his confusion palpable. "Hold on, I'm lost here. Wasn't Emilia from my time? Why is he..."
"Imposters, Oliver. They transcend generations and span across time and space," The Witch explained, her voice filled with a mixture of weariness and fascination. "Emilia may have hailed from late 1980s Chicago, but Lucius was born in the time of the Roman Empire," she continued, gently combing through her locks of hair. "Legends and tales speak of Imposters scattered throughout the years, existing in the past, present, and even the future. They are summoned, these Imposters, but they all share one remarkable attribute..."
"The power of the gods, an inherent gift for magic," Dozia concluded, her voice carrying a weight of understanding.
She nodded, fixing her gaze on Oliver. "Do you grasp it now, Oliver? The immense power that Imposters wield? I know your abilities may seem modest at present, but as you mature and train, trust me, you will come to understand why you are so crucial and, above all...dangerous."
"Dangerous?" Oliver echoed, his voice filled with a mixture of surprise and concern.
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The witch turned to Rasmus, her expression expectant. "The dwarfs, they have always held a complicated relationship with Imposters," Rasmus averted his gaze, his hands finding their way to his lap as the witch continued. "Some venerate Imposters as angels and deities, while others regard them as demons and monsters. Tell him why, Rasmus."
Rasmus hesitated, his gaze fixed on the floor. Reluctantly, he turned to face Oliver. "Many years ago, perhaps even centuries before we lost our magic, there was an Imposter named Jonas."
Oliver observed the tension in Rasmus's throat, the visible struggle to speak the name. "Jonas...an older man. The legends tell that he was not summoned until he was in his late thirties or forties. But he was an older man, and the dwarfs...they took him in."
Rasmus scratched his back, his hand trembling slightly, his eyes bulging as he continued the harrowing tale. "I don't know much about what happened, but Jonas found a home among a tribe of dwarfs. We dwarfs hold knowledge in high regard, and he, being a teacher or something...it doesn't matter now, but he was useful. He taught us improved methods to harness energy and innovative building techniques. We implemented them for decades," Rasmus turned his gaze to Oliver. "Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and no one suspected a thing. He...he..."
Oliver noticed the flash of Rasmus's teeth, the grinding of his jaw as he struggled to utter the words. "He murdered them all, Oliver."
"What?" Oliver exclaimed, his confusion and disbelief intertwining. "How is that possible? If it was an entire fortress of dwarfs, that would have been..."
"Hundreds, perhaps even thousands in the age of magic. Our fortresses were sprawling underground cities, and he utilized his trumpet, breaking through the earth above. Sunlight bathed us as our ceiling came crashing down. Hundreds perished on that fateful day..." Rasmus took a deep breath, the weight of the memory evident in his voice. Dozia turned her attention back to Oliver. "That is the true power of Imposters. Jonas was employed by another country. Perhaps the dwarfs had wronged them in some way, and they sought revenge..."
"Wronged them?" Rasmus shouted, his eyes narrowing as he glared at Dozia. "I don't care if we scammed them out of a thousand gold pieces. Men, women, and children...hundreds of innocent lives were entombed beneath that mountain. No one...no one deserves such a fate."
The room fell into a heavy silence, and Rasmus's gaze locked onto Oliver's. "I know you're an Imposter, Oliver. But let me be clear, knowing that doesn't change my meeting with you," he stated firmly.
"How do you know?" Oliver questioned. "I..."
Rasmus chuckled, his laughter echoed by Dozia as their eyes bore into Oliver's own. "Because you were the one who saved us. When darkness enveloped us, when hope was on the verge of slipping away...you saved us."
"Oliver," the witch interjected. "I understand that this is a lot to take in, but these stories and legends hold great significance. The tale of Emilia and Jonas represents two sides of the same coin. An Imposter who did good, uniting the people of this world into a powerful force once more. And Jonas, swayed by the lure of wealth. There have been other Imposters, both good and bad, but now is not the time to delve into those details. However, I believe these tales are crucial in highlighting what comes next...the end of magic."
Their smiles faded instantly as the witch continued. "Centuries have passed since the time of Jonas and Emilia. Emilia's empire crumbled and fractured over the years, dividing into different countries and city-states. But there is something important to note: a group of Imposters was summoned."
"A group?" Oliver inquired.
"Yes, a group," the witch confirmed. "A group of...five, if my memory serves me right." She hesitated, a bead of sweat trickling down her brow. "They were a formidable group of Imposters, able to learn, grow, and train within the safety of a sponsored kingdom."
"A sponsored kingdom?" Oliver repeated, seeking clarification.
Dozia turned towards him, offering an explanation. "A sponsored kingdom is a realm that has chosen to protect and accommodate an Imposter. Typically, they utilize the Imposter to combat monster infestations or employ them as weapons in times of war. Usually, however, Imposters remain hidden."
"Thank you, Dozia, but that's not the crux of the matter here," the witch's piercing gaze remained fixed on Oliver as she continued. "The demon race was another kind of demi-human species. They bore a striking resemblance to humans, but with various shades of gray skin and unique characteristics. Centuries ago, another Imposter obliterated their homeland, which is now known as the badlands—a wretched pit of toxic waste and monstrous abominations, a land of death."
"Yet, the demon race remained strong and proud. They learned to survive, to tame the monsters—an ability we humans still do not possess," she glossed over the trio, her voice animated, as the flames flickered back to life. A towering figure emerged, clad in rugged scrap armor and wielding a spear, mounted on a bizarre creature fashioned from different insect parts. "For years, they waged war against humans—attacking, pillaging, enslaving. They believed their cause was just, fueled by the Imposter who had ravaged their homeland and left them with nothing."
"...and the humans fought back, didn't they?" Oliver interjected. "I'm not defending the Imposter, but the demons had no right to launch such attacks."
"I agree," the witch affirmed. "That's why the Imposters joined forces with the King upon learning of the demons' plight. The ten of them trained, learned, and grew stronger. Eventually, they set off on their journey, even recruiting demi-humans into their ranks."
"Ten?" Oliver repeated, his voice tinged with disbelief. "But you said there were only five... or six?"
The witch's eyes widened with such intensity that Oliver could glimpse the purple within purple. Slowly, she shook her head, her demeanor calming. "I apologize," she said, her voice tinged with regret. "My memory isn't always the sharpest. It's a side effect of living such a long life."
"It's alright, mistress," Dozia interjected, nudging Oliver lightly as he withdrew his hand. "Please, continue."
"They journeyed across the vast lands, recruiting allies, honing their skills, forging connections," the witch resumed, her words carrying a weight of sorrow. "The demons fell beneath their blades, but there came a time when they were ambushed..."
The witch paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she sank deeper into her armchair, taking deep breaths to steady herself. "I often ponder this, dwell on the things we missed, the moments when we failed to see what was truly happening. But that was years ago..." She lifted her gaze to meet Oliver's once more. "This man, he had grown into a fearless warrior and a better person. But he was captured by the demons. Tortured, humiliated, mutilated. Eventually, he was rescued, but his friends... his damn friends were too preoccupied to realize the extent of his injuries."
Another deep breath escaped the witch's lips, her other hand digging into the armrest, the leather yielding beneath her grip. The trio watched in silence, no flickering flames or enchanting displays to embellish the tale—only darkness.
"They carved a path of slaughter through the halls of the demon king's palace," she continued, her voice laden with a mixture of anguish and determination. "And when they had beaten the demon lord into submission... when the leader of their group wished to show mercy, to prove that violence was not the answer and that there had been enough bloodshed, the man turned."
Her teeth clenched, as if the words caused her physical pain. "He killed the demon king, but that wasn't the end. Using an ancient technique from the bygone era of the Imposters, he merged himself with the demon king," she revealed, observing the shock registering on their faces. "An Imposter, wielding his trumpet and harnessing the power of the demon lord, possessed enough strength to rival even the mightiest of Imposters... he became a god for a fleeting moment. With command over the elements and dominion over life and death, he enacted his penance."
Taking a deep breath, the witch released her grip on her face, her hand now gripping the opposite armrest. "The power was not boundless, but he managed to sustain it by virtue of the demon king's form. In that fateful moment, he enacted his penance..."
"He took the magic, right?" Oliver interjected, only to be met with exchanged glances and fleeting looks. "Wait, Dozia, you mentioned this before... you said..."
Dozia shook her head. "I didn't tell you what happened to the demons."
Oliver turned back to the witch, his confusion evident. "The demon race... what happened to them?"
The witch met his gaze, her eyes heavy with sorrow. "The Imposter, he stripped them of their ability to procreate. An entire race, he stole their future. Within a few short decades, the demon race faded into legend. Their deeds and people consigned to the annals of history books."
"Wait, what!" Oliver sprang to his feet, his eyes darting around the room, searching for confirmation. "You really expect me to believe this?"
They continued to stare at him, their expressions unwavering. "I know, Imposter powers are formidable. But you're telling me he attained the ability, the power to..." His voice trailed off, unable to comprehend the enormity of what he was hearing.
"Oliver, I understand how insane this sounds. Believe me, that entire scenario should have been impossible... for an Imposter to acquire such strength, to command like a god," the witch admitted, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "It was the desire of Benjamin, the first Heretic."
"But there were consequences, right?" Dozia chimed in.
The witch nodded gravely. "The Demi Humans, the Imposter believed that because they served humanity, they deserved the right to reproduce. But due to their demi-human genetics, he deemed them impure. So, he severed their connection to magic." Her gaze settled upon them. "The elves lost their immortality, the dwarfs lost their magical prowess in forging, the beastmen lost their innate bond with nature's magic. And many other races, who were not inherently magical, lost their own magical abilities."
She took a deep breath. "Losing magic may not sound significant to you, Oliver. Your world never had magic, but here, magic was the lifeblood. Dwarfs thrived on their mastery of forging, establishing a prosperous economy and maintaining relative peace with other nations and races. The immortal elves, wise from their long existence, amassed a wealth of knowledge and excelled in both magic and the spiritual arts. The beastmen were renowned for their mana-infused strength. But now, with those blessings stripped away... the gifts bestowed upon the children of the gods, what remains?"
Oliver already knew the answer. "Easy targets. To conquer, enslave, and destroy."
The witch nodded in solemn agreement. "The Imposter returned. He slaughtered his companions who tried to stop him, but he lost himself in the process. He couldn't sustain that level of power and keep himself alive, yet somehow, he found a way to contain the Demi Humans' magic. He ordered the destruction of all monuments, articles, and texts pertaining to him and his friends... erasing his history from the world. He married the princess and crowned himself Emperor, ruling over the remnants of Emilia's first empire."
Dozia interjected, her voice filled with a mix of anger and despair. "First, it was the elvish lands. The elves were left bewildered and torn without their magic. The humans took advantage of their vulnerability. They set fire to the elvish high trees, deployed dragons and winged beasts to bombard the capital on the mountaintop. Survivors were enslaved, either shipped off to the empire or who knows where." Dozia paused for a moment. "Thomas, he's a descendant of one of the elvish groups that managed to find refuge here or in other regions beyond the empire's reach."
Rasmus turned towards Oliver. "The dwarfs experienced what Jonas went through. Our homes were decimated, our underground havens collapsed upon us. Those who stayed to fight succumbed to the humans' magical superiority. My family moved here generations ago, joining a tribe for safety."
"Do you see, Oliver?" the witch interjected. "This is a common occurrence in this world. Throughout the land, there are regions like this where people flee, seeking refuge even in the face of monsters or Imposter abominations. They yearn for a chance at freedom in these havens."
"You mentioned cities and towns. Are all the places outside of this region... just a bunch of slavers and..." Oliver's voice trailed off, his tone filled with apprehension.
"No," Rasmus replied. "Other countries have their own regulations. Even within the Empire, you would have the freedom to roam. But you would be treated as a second-class citizen, regarded as nothing more than a dog in the country you once served and fought for."
Dozia let out a contemptuous snort. "Rasmus, you're being too naive. What about the eastern countries? They gladly purchase demi-human slaves for their armies. And the mistreatment of second-class citizens... it's pervasive. Things need to change," she asserted, casting a meaningful glance at Oliver. "...and he will be the one to bring about that change, for he is the Deus Imperator."
Oliver ran his fingers through his tangled hair. "What is the Deus Imperator, Witch?" he inquired, his curiosity piqued.
The witch nodded knowingly. "The Deus Imperator is the figure the demi-humans of this world hold onto. While some humans may believe in the legends, their faith is not as fervent as that of the demi-humans," she explained, her gaze fixed on Oliver. "Your arrival, the mark upon your skin, this is no mere coincidence... it is the culmination of a centuries-old prophecy finally unfolding."
Oliver observed the shock on Dozia and Rasmus's faces. Their eyes widened, and Rasmus's hands trembled. "So, it's true," Rasmus mumbled, his voice tinged with awe. He raked his fingers through his dark locks as he turned towards Oliver. "For he is the Deus Imperator, the one who shall reclaim what was unjustly taken, the great redeemer."
His words were twisted and strained. He lunged towards Oliver, who instinctively recoiled. But instead of an attack, Rasmus bowed, his head touching the wooden floor. "Forgive me, Oliver," he pleaded. "I didn't know. Dozia had her suspicions, but I... I thought, I thought..."
"It's all right, Rasmus," Dozia said gently, her hand resting on his shoulder as he slowly rose. She wiped away the tears streaming down his face. "It took the witch's assurance for me to fully embrace my faith, but look at him now," she gestured towards Oliver. He stood against the wall, his back pressed firmly, the sound of his rapid breaths reverberating in his ears. "He is the living embodiment of the prophecy. We will serve him, and the Lost Ones will be the vanguard in his holy war."
The zeal in Dozia's eyes had returned, her fervor palpable. Oliver's heart pounded in his chest with an unsettling fury as the witch rose from her seat, her footsteps clicking on the floor as she moved about the room, capturing the attention of the trio.
"There is a place, deep within these jungles, an altar of sorts, where Imposters would frequent," she announced, turning towards Oliver. "I believe this place could be instrumental in your journey, Oliver."
Dozia nodded slowly as she and the others stood up. "All right, I suppose we'll..."
"Not yet, Dozia," the witch interjected. "You will stay here with me, while Rasmus goes by horseback to that location. We have much to discuss," she directed, her tone firm.
Oliver noticed the color drain from Dozia's face as she sighed, resigning herself to the witch's command. Almost mechanically, she took her seat at the table, while Oliver listened intently to the witch's description of the place he and Rasmus would venture to.
As the door creaked open, they embarked on their journey, riding off into the horizon. The wind lashed at their faces, carrying with it a sense of freedom and anticipation. Oliver's senses heightened, and he began to grasp a deeper understanding of the world unfolding before him. Yet, amidst this newfound awareness, an unsettling hollowness lingered within him, an enigma he couldn't quite fathom.