The thundering cadence of hooves echoed through the air, resonating deep within the ears of Rasmus and Oliver. The two boys ventured forth from the dense tangle of the jungle, their path leading them away from the familiar mountain range that marked their new base. Instead, Rasmus veered Oliver towards the boundless expanse of the plains, urging him deeper into the uncharted realms of the forest.
"Take him farther than you've ever ventured before, tread close to the precipice of the bog jungle," Rasmus instructed, his voice carrying the weight of cryptic knowledge. "Eventually, you shall stumble upon a monument of stone, a realm teeming with rocks. It is there that Oliver must part ways, and you must remain steadfast by his side... no matter the tempting whispers that may assail you, resist the urge to intervene or venture within the forest. This is Oliver's trial."
The witch's words reverberated through Rasmus's lips as he relayed them to Oliver, his young companion, who carried a slaver's sword strapped to his back, his eyes glazed with a mixture of confusion and curiosity. He pondered the remnants of the enigmatic message. "My trial," Oliver murmured in a hushed whisper.
He had been instructed to seek out a peculiar altar, a wellspring of power that promised to unveil profound insights about the world around him, or so it was said. Yet, his mind grappled with more pressing concerns. Even as the distant hoofbeats faded and the vastness of the journey gradually receded, other thoughts writhed and entwined within the recesses of his psyche.
A mere couple of hours ago, he had been informed of his true nature—a usurper, a man or woman summoned from another world, bestowed with extraordinary powers to shape the destiny of an entirely foreign realm. With their abilities, these interlopers had forged a new reality upon the ruins of a war-torn land, an inferno that had reshaped its very landscape. The imposters had unified warring tribes, establishing empires and city-states, erecting trade routes and armies. Yet, their gifts also harbored the potential for unspeakable acts of violence and unspeakable atrocities.
Oliver's gaze fixated upon the back of Rasmus's head, haunted by memories of Jonas, the elderly man who had callously exterminated an entire colony of Dwarfs in the name of greed. But he knew deep down that such tales of imposters were likely far from unique; there were likely countless others who had similarly left their mark with tales of betrayal and bloodshed.
Yet, he was more than just an imposter—he was the Deus Imperator, or so they believed. A deity-like figure to the demi-human races stripped of their magical essence. According to their prophecies, he held the key to reclaiming what had been unjustly stolen—their ability to wield and harness magic.
It was a bewildering notion for a boy hailing from New York, living a meager existence in a dreary town among his grandparents' affluent affections. Both his parents were deceased, and the weight of this newfound greatness seemed incongruous with his humble origins. He lowered his gaze, observing the peculiar brand seared into his left hand, a mysterious symbol etched into his flesh.
Yet, that was not the extent of his revelations. The reality of his current existence, his impending destiny, loomed ever larger. He harbored no doubts about the witch's words. He could sense the turmoil embedded within her voice, the cautious cadence and measured concern that infused her speech. The moment he had been summoned to this realm, his fate had been irrevocably sealed.
There would be no path leading him back home. Whether he lived a long life or met his end in some forsaken ditch, the doors to his former life, filled with the conveniences of modernity—hospitals, supermarkets, and schools—were forever closed to him. He had witnessed the existence of the Lost Ones, condemned to a life of tribal savagery, and it resembled nothing short of a living nightmare.
No more video games, no more late-night snack runs, and certainly no police presence to maintain order. Chaos reigned in this desolate world, where survival of the fittest prevailed and the weak were left to wither in the shadows.
His thoughts turned to the Lost Ones. His father would have dismissed them as a pitiful sight, a lost cause. Just a band of children pretending to be soldiers and warriors, desperately clinging to life in a world that had already claimed victory.
Sitting on that street corner, he had witnessed much. The rows of tattered tents, the feeble glow of lanterns casting a pale yellow light, and the sheer number of them. But it was the Lost Ones themselves that struck him. He understood why Dozia had refused to carry that sword on her back, especially since the weaponry of the Lost Ones was nothing short of pitiable.
They wielded weapons made of bone, stone, and bronze, whatever they could scrounge up. Only a select few of the so-called "warriors" possessed pieces of makeshift armor, while the rest were left to rely on mere garments. It wasn't an issue of scarcity; rather, it seemed a deliberate choice or the result of unfortunate circumstances.
Did Dozia, Lena, Thomas, and Rasmus not deem it important to ensure their followers were adequately protected? Their weapons were laughable at best, while the slavers possessed tools and blades forged from iron—a material that had won countless wars in his former world.
Yet, the Lost Ones had one saving grace—their numbers. By his estimation, their tribe consisted of roughly ninety-seven members. The majority were children around his age, with a smattering of younger and older kids. Numbers, in and of themselves, held a certain strength.
His eyes widened as these thoughts reverberated in his mind, echoes of bygone ideas his father had instilled in him. Always observe, always plan, always scrutinize and take in every detail. Such odd musings, the meandering of a mind thrust into radical and unfamiliar circumstances.
Slowly shaking his head, he allowed the gravity of the situation to once again settle upon him. His mind's eye drifted to his grandparents. How were they faring? He could almost hear his grandmother's melodic voice singing a morning greeting as she approached his room, her aged knuckles brushing against the door.
How many knocks would it take for her to realize Oliver wasn't there? Would she scream at him to wake up, warning of the impending bus and his tardiness? Would she burst into his room like a force of nature, ready to confiscate his gaming console for the weekend? And what would she think when she pulled back the sheets, only to find him absent?
His arms instinctively wrapped around himself, the chill wind ruffling his dark hair. He could envision his grandmother's features contorting, his grandfather holding her tightly as she silently wept. His grandmother possessed a way of knowing things, and he wondered if she would sense that her only grandchild... was gone, forever.
The distant wail of police sirens reached his ears, and he imagined his grandfather's attempts to console her, photographs of his mother and himself spread across the coffee table. Would they retrieve his old toys, stuffed animals, and other cherished mementos?
How long would it take for Hunter's older brother to alert the authorities about the enigmatic "Tradition" and its secret location this year? Would the police and construction workers sift through months of painstaking cave collapses, desperate to uncover any trace? But even if they dared to undertake such a monumental task, their efforts would be in vain. For Hunter and his companions had embarked on a forgotten path, guided by a mysterious blue orb that whisked them away to an entirely different realm. What about Aidan, his friend? Was he stranded in this unfamiliar world as well? Was he nearby, or perhaps thousands of miles away, lost in a foreign land? The vastness of this realm was unknown to him, leaving Aidan's fate shrouded in uncertainty.
His thoughts then turned to the slavers. Had they been captured? Enslaved and sold off to distant lands? Hunter, Markus, Bella, Aidan, and the others—they may have had their flaws, but they were still his peers. Despite his reservations, he didn't wish any harm upon them. He suppressed a breath, his nails digging into his flesh as his mind once again drifted back to his grandparents.
Would they spend the remainder of their days burdened by regret? Would they pray and beseech his mother for forgiveness, tormented by their failure to safeguard her son, the sole remaining link to their deceased daughter? Would his grandfather succumb to the bottle once more? Would he storm out of the house, consumed by a drunken rage, his screams piercing the sky and stars as he cursed his father, accusing him of stealing his daughter and corrupting his grandson?
But then, his mother's gravestone appeared, bathed in a vivid yellow glow in the recesses of his mind. He would never fulfill his promise to her. He would never visit her grave again, never tend to the flowers placed upon it with his own hands.
His life, his future, had been mercilessly ripped away from him. Now he was burdened with a grim and incomprehensible purpose, struggling to make sense of his emotions. There was no home to return to, no life awaiting him. It was all stripped away, leaving him adrift in a sea of desolation.
"Oliver," Rasmus's voice carried on the wind as he brought the horse to a halt. "We've arrived."
Rasmus assisted Oliver in dismounting, and they approached the peculiar arrangement of stacked rocks before them. They stood there for a moment, studying the enigmatic formation. Then Oliver's gaze ventured deeper into the forest, where a clearing materialized—a natural opening that parted the trees, beckoning him forward.
There was something there, something of profound significance and disconcerting familiarity. It was as if he had treaded upon this ground before. Oliver shook his head slowly, attempting to navigate the tumultuous emotions that had surged within him mere seconds ago. Like a mirage in the desert, it flickered and vanished. However, the weight of the slaver's sword on his back seemed more burdensome than ever.
"A trial," Oliver's voice resonated, causing Rasmus to glance at him. "What am I going to face out there?"
Rasmus averted his gaze from him, fixating on the vastness of the clearing. "I don't know, Oliver," he uttered. "But you must not fail this trial. You are the Deus Imperator, and more hinges on this than you can fathom."
"What?" Oliver questioned, his voice tinged with confusion.
"You're not a fool, Oliver," Rasmus responded. "The tribe needs you. Do you honestly believe your arrival among us was merely a twist of fate?"
Oliver remained silent, inhaling deeply as Rasmus pressed on. "You have a choice, Oliver. Face this trial and emerge victorious... or face the consequences."
"Huh?" Oliver exclaimed. "Who said anything about dying?"
"I may not know everything," Rasmus continued, "but I do know that this trial is designed to test you. As I said, you are the Deus Imperator—the one destined to reclaim what was unjustly taken. But can you truly challenge the false king in your current state?"
Rasmus clicked his lips, his gaze fixed on Oliver. "We all need to grow stronger, but this trial is yours alone, not mine."
Holy crap, I could die right here.
His legs trembled, his heart pounding in his chest with such ferocity that it overwhelmed his senses. He could hear it, the thump-thump reverberating through his being. His eyes darted toward Rasmus, the young boy staring ahead into the clearing.
Then his attention shifted to the horse. Something within him urged him to flee, a primal fear coursing through his veins. The fear of the unknown was a treacherous companion, but...
He took a deep breath, its resounding echo causing Rasmus to raise an eyebrow. But that simmering sensation deep within his heart subsided. It gradually dissipated, leaving behind a sense of equilibrium. He was afraid, yes, but he also possessed a measure of calmness.
"Are you okay?" Rasmus chuckled.
Oliver attempted to muster a smile, managing only a nod. Rasmus sighed and extended his hand. "Hand me your sword."
Oliver regarded him with a strange look, but the thought struck him that Rasmus was a dwarf. According to the old stories he had read, dwarfs were master craftsmen. Perhaps Rasmus could... upgrade his weapon. In his mind's eye, he imagined wielding a blade of fire or ice, or perhaps even one that emitted bolts of electricity from its tip.
"Fuck yeah," he thought, brimming with anticipation.
Eagerly unfastening the sword's strap, he handed the blade to Rasmus. The dwarf gripped the scabbard with one hand and reached for the handle with the other. He closed his eyes as Oliver watched, overcome with excitement.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
"Sit tibi gladius manus, sit temperabilis et clarus, sicut auditum tuum," Rasmus murmured.
The words held a magical poetry, their resonance lingering in the air as Rasmus took a deep breath, wiping away a bead of sweat from his brow. Returning the blade to Oliver, he gazed at it in his hands. "What did you do?" Oliver inquired.
"I prayed," Rasmus replied.
Oliver regarded him with indifference. "You prayed," he echoed. "So, what does the sword do now?"
Rasmus tilted his head. "Pardon?"
"Yeah, the prayer worked, right?" Oliver pressed, securing the scabbard on his back once again. "Does the sword burst into flames or cut better or...?"
"Whoa, Oliver," Rasmus interjected, raising both hands to halt him. "It was just a prayer. I invoked the gods to bless your weapon, to ensure it serves its purpose."
"So... you just prayed?" Oliver queried.
"Yes, that's all I did," Rasmus affirmed. "What did you think I was going to do?"
Oliver stared at him, shaking his head in response. "Never mind. I'll be back in a couple of minutes." He waved goodbye to Rasmus and continued down the path into the wilderness. His eyes quickly adjusting to the darkness as the crescent moon cast its gentle glow upon the surroundings.
He ventured deeper into the clearing, the lone blessing of the dwarfs his only companion. Unbeknownst to him, a prayer, in its own way, could be the most formidable weapon of all.
Meanwhile, Dozia and the Witch were still conversing within the hut.
Dozia sat hunched over the table, her tears falling like soft pellets, crashing against its surface. The Witch observed her silently, sheets of paper cascading before them. Complicated words in an ancient language were scripted in messy black ink, their jagged lines extending as Dozia mulled over them. But it was the harsh shapes, filled with deep red scarlet ink and mingled with deadly symbols, that captured her focus.
"The Mark of Benjamin..." Dozia snarled, her eyes glaring at The Witch. She remained stoic and cold, offering no discernible facial feature or expression. "Are you insane? This is your trial, your test... and you'll kill him!"
"You know my magic, creation magic," The Witch calmly responded. "The beast isn't that strong. I've altered its genome too..."
Dozia's fist slammed into the table as she rose abruptly, her sleeve wiping away the tears. "I already told you what happened with the slaver. Do you honestly believe that..."
"The slaver was a human, and this one is more beast. I hope that Oliver will have an awakening," The Witch interrupted.
"An awakening?" Dozia questioned, her voice tinged with skepticism.
"Do not be a fool, Dozia," The Witch regarded, her tone sharp. "Oliver was raised in a completely different world for twelve years. He never had to worry about where his food came from, if a broken leg or simple sickness would lead to his death, or the fear of authority like the ones you Lost Ones hold towards the Human Empires."
Dozia rubbed her elbow, turning away from The Witch. Her gaze once again fixed upon the center of the drawings, the results of the witch's creation.
"He needs this, Dozia. I understand your personal feelings are clouding your judgment, but trust me, this is for the best. Oliver still clings to the past, agonizing over the loss of his previous life. He needs to realize that survival in this new world requires clawing and fighting," The Witch explained.
"And if he doesn't?" Dozia snapped. "What if he fails this trial or gives up? What happens if the beast tears him apart and devours him?" She sneered, sinking back into her chair. "This is wrong. We should have taken our time with him. Lena could have taught him how to hunt, and I could have shown him how to lead properly. I could have..."
"The time you think you possess, you do not have. I promise you, Dozia. The world is about to change. Whether it be for better or worse, this world is on the brink of transformation, and the Lost Ones will be at the center of it," The Witch said, regarding the goblin girl with a knowing look. But Dozia's eyes remained fixed on the drawing of the beast.
The witch slammed her palm on the table, causing Dozia to startle and the papers to momentarily take flight. "Who do you think is Oliver's ultimate enemy?" she scoffed. "Tell me, Dozia. You are a clever girl. With imposter blood running through your veins and a human lineage on your father's side, you have not lost the touch of magic. So, tell me. Who is Oliver's greatest foe?"
Dozia scanned her surroundings, treating it like one of the thinking games they used to play when she was younger. The answer was rarely the obvious choice; it was usually the difficult ones that proved the most challenging but shockingly turned out to be the obvious ones.
"The False King," Dozia answered, nodding her head in affirmation. "He stole our magic, and Oliver will have to confront..."
The Witch responded with a hearty laugh, her voice echoing through the wooden log cabin as she leaned back in Dozia's direction, her laughter subsiding.
"The false king!" she exclaimed. Clicking her lips, she waved her hand dismissively. "That is my point, Dozia. You are clever. You know when to be cruel, when to be tough, and when to be gentle. But you fail to see the bigger picture, to witness what lies beyond the great expanse."
"Then enlighten me with the answer," Dozia challenged.
The witch smirked. "The true enemy is out there," she said, rising from her seat and taking a place by the window. Her gaze focused forward.
"What?" Dozia inquired. "The monsters?"
The witch clicked her lips again, her tone sharp. "No," she snapped. "The tribes, the other demi-human tribes. They are our greatest enemies, but they can also be our greatest allies. Strong believers, bound by faith and honor alone. I had expected another Emilia, but Oliver will suffice... he will do very nicely."
The words and plans flew over Dozia's head. "How can the tribes be our main enemy? I've heard tales of what the false king was capable of. He once wielded the power of a god and..."
"You know nothing of imposters, Dozia. I have heard tales and legends of the feats accomplished by imposters. Let me tell you, the false king was nothing more than a child compared to the true masters and what they have achieved."
...and those words sent a shiver down Dozia's spine.
"What do you mean, the tribes are our greatest recourse?" Dozia stood alongside the witch. "I won't be able to..."
"Damn it, Dozia," the witch snapped. "You cannot control everything. If I lecture you and provide all the answers, it will only weaken not just Oliver, but you as well for the path that lies ahead."
Dozia's fingers tightened into fists. Her fangs visible as she turned away from the witch. "I understand that you care for Oliver, but you must also have faith in him. Believe me, that boy is far greater than you realize."
"I will do whatever it takes to protect him. He is the Deus Imperator, and if I am to be his lieutenant in this holy war... I will do what is necessary," Dozia declared.
"Protect," the witch muttered. "Yes, protect. But never shield him entirely. Oliver must learn and make mistakes. He must grow into a leader, and you must help shape him into the man he needs to become. Friend, lover, companion... I don't care what transpires between you two, but never weaken him with your bond. You shall be equals, neither taking more nor less."
Dozia stiffened but showed no real expression. She slowly shook her head as she moved along the wall opposite the window.
"Tribes have fallen, and more will continue to fall with the passage of time," the witch said, pausing as rain began to patter against the window. She reached out, her breath fogging the pane. "Oliver, because of his actions, has been thrust into a difficult position. He is the Deus Imperator, and the Lost Ones know this to be true. They will celebrate each kill, each victory, and their morale will soar in his presence. Because within him, they will believe they are fighting for a just and noble cause. But never forget, Dozia, with leadership comes responsibility... he must grow."
Dozia's fingers tightened further. "Don't you think I know that!" she snapped, her eyes closed as tears threatened. "If he doesn't come back, if he fails..."
"I know," the witch acknowledged.
She took a deep breath, her voice softening, and straightened her robe as she moved away from the window. Once again, she settled into the comfort of her leather chair. Yet even Dozia could see the immense pain etched upon her face.
The way her palms perspired, the veins pulsating on her forehead, and the trembling fear evident in her every movement. "If Oliver doesn't come back, they will lay the blame on you and Rasmus. That's how primitive civilizations work. And without you, Dozia, leading them, they will be lost."
Dozia's heart skipped a beat as she recalled the scene by the campfire. She had believed her actions were just, revealing Oliver's true nature... but now she realized it could be one of her gravest mistakes. It could spell doom not only for her but for the entire tribe.
Her mind raced to the men and women, the young ones in desperate need of a home. Would all her efforts and investments in the tribe be swept away like sand in the wind?
"Dozia, my dear Dozia," the woman hummed softly. "I wish I could shield and protect you. But I am but a bystander, an observer who waits for the opportune moment to intervene. I am truly sorry that you have been entangled in this dreadful plan."
Dozia wiped away her tears once more. This time, the witch stood, encircling her with her arms, drawing her closer. "I was your age when I found myself in a similar situation. My friends and I were far from home, forced to rely on our own talents and determination."
She held Dozia tight, providing a sense of strength as the young girl clung to her robe. "I understand why you did it, Dozia. But I love you enough to tell you that there is a chance Oliver might die there. The trials are but one part of the process to prove if he has the will to become the Deus Imperator. It shapes them, gives them a deeper understanding."
Dozia trembled at the mention of the trials. "I...," she began, but her voice caught. She shook off the tears, a sob escaping her chest as she convulsed in the witch's embrace.
"Alright, Dozia," the witch said, loosening her grip. "Now, you must come to terms with this. Strengthen yourself, for there is a lesson to be learned in such trials."
Dozia nodded, but her gaze drifted back to the parchment. The fangs, the claws, the wild mane of the beast. "Why did you choose such a monstrous creature for him? Something so massive and terrifying. Why couldn't it have been one of the forest creatures?"
Yet again, the witch regarded her with an indifferent expression. "Dozia, you still fail to see and hear," she explained. "My magic of creation altered the beast. It may still be dangerous, with claws as sharp as razors and a howl that unnerves, but I made its skin and bones as vulnerable as butter."
Dozia's eyes widened. "What? But then what is the purpose of the test?" she inquired.
"Ah, now you're starting to grasp it," the witch said. "This isn't a test of martial prowess or the power of his Imposter heritage."
"Then what?" Dozia snapped. "What kind of lesson is he supposed to learn when facing such a creature?"
The witch let out a sigh as she finally released Dozia from her embrace. Her deep purple eyes bore into her as she spoke the words. "It's a test of courage, a trial to determine if this Oliver is stronger than the previous Deus Imperator candidates. If he proves weaker, I shall take note of this weakness and not fail again."
"You talk of him as if he's something less than human, a mere plaything... a creature to be controlled," Dozia protested, her voice laced with tension.
The witch's gaze sharpened, her eyes narrowing. "All beings are toys in their own way. Lesser beings require control, but men like Oliver, they must be guided towards their moment of greatness. You understand this, Dozia," she sighed wearily. "Once again, this trial is about bravery and conquering one's deepest fears. But it is also a rite of passage... a journey for Oliver to grasp that everything he once held dear has turned to ash and dust. The only truth, the only life that remains, lies down the treacherous path he's compelled to tread."
Dozia's expression turned grave. "And what if he fails?" she inquired, her voice laden with concern.
The witch's demeanor grew somber, her words laced with a chilling certainty. "Then, he'll meet the same fate as those who came before him. He'll perish, just like the rest."
Oliver was now traversing alone.
Oliver estimated it took him somewhere between fifteen to thirty minutes of cautious walking to venture deeper into the clearing. Whispers of monstrous creatures and forest beasts had reached his ears through Dozia and the other members of the tribe—the Lost Ones.
His boots treaded heavily upon the withered grass, his senses sharp and attuned to any signs of danger. But all that greeted him was the glow of the twin moons, casting their ethereal light upon the land. The nocturnal symphony of crickets and the dancing illumination of dragonflies were his only companions in this nocturnal forest.
In the grand scheme of things, it was just a boy and his sword navigating a fantastical world. Amidst the grimness and ugliness that pervaded this realm, there existed pockets of splendor and beauty that momentarily allowed him to escape the darkness that surrounded him.
Truth be told, he despised the caverns. It wasn't merely the discomfort of sleeping on unforgiving rocks, despite the Lost Ones' willingness to offer him their bedrolls. No, it was the very concept of being underground that unsettled him.
The lingering uncertainty and raw fear from what had transpired in those subterranean depths still clung to his skin. He sensed that the other members of the Lost Ones felt the same unease, silently debating the prospect of abandoning their five-month-old refuge.
The clearing had its advantages, but Oliver couldn't help but notice the lack of strategic foresight in its design. Yes, there were defenses in place and guards to ensure their safety, but what they truly needed was a proper home—a bastion that could withstand the trials of battle and warfare.
"A society, a people, should never forsake their home in times of conflict," his father's voice reverberated in his ears. "Home is the very essence we fight for. It must stand firm as iron and remain safeguarded. Because, in the end, home and family are the only constants we possess in this tumultuous world."
There was wisdom in those words, a lesson in strategy. This vast region, with its temperate climate, snow-covered landscapes, and treacherous marshes, surely held a more suitable location within the depths of a dark mountain. A place where the Lost Ones could forge their sanctuary, shielded from the encroachment of human empires, rival tribes, and the perils of nature itself. But the question that hung heavy was: Where?
His thoughts were abruptly interrupted as he spotted something in the distance—a structure that had long suffered the ravages of time. Once a building, now reduced to crumbling ruins by years of decay. The weathered cracks in the stone, the moss that had claimed its surface, and the scattered remnants of debris served as testament to its desolation.
But within the depths of that decrepit structure, Oliver's gaze fixated on something at its core—a rock with faint, glowing symbols etched upon its surface. He regarded it with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation.
There was an unmistakable pull, a familiar sensation urging him forward. This must be the place, the very site of the trial! His thoughts echoed resolutely in his mind as he pressed onward. His boots squelched in the mud, each step a determined push through the muck, until finally, he arrived.
Entering through one of the numerous openings, his ears caught a sound emanating from the far corner, near the radiant boulder.
"Hello..." he murmured, his voice barely audible.
The moment the sound escaped his lips, the noise abruptly ceased. His eyes darted to the corner of the room. There stood a figure—a person, or perhaps something far more monstrous. Hunched over, its back contorted, Oliver could hear the grotesque symphony of teeth sliding along leathery flesh.
A surge of fear constricted his throat, robbing him of words. Pressed against the wall, his gaze fixated on the figure, witnessing the creature's teeth rending the flesh of some hapless animal. The agonized groans, the desperate gasps for breath—they reverberated through the air, mingling with Oliver's own labored breathing, a symphony of terror.
The man—or rather, the monster—was a patchwork creation, his skin crudely stitched together, clumps of hair sprouting sporadically across his body, his muscles twitching and pulsating. Scarlet eyes bore into Oliver, a sinister smirk adorning his blood-splattered teeth.
Moonlight cascaded upon his sharp, talon-like fingernails, illuminating their deadly intent as they fixated on their prey—Oliver.