Oliver jolted awake, his body jerking upright as the scream erupted from his throat, filling the room with a primal anguish. The blanket was flung aside, discarded in his frenzied awakening, and his head whipped around, seeking some unseen threat that lingered in the shadows.
"It's alright, Oliver," Dozia's voice reached his ears, pulling him back from the abyss of his own terror.
He turned his gaze towards her, finding solace in her presence as she approached him with measured steps. "It's alright."
His breath came in ragged gasps, each exhalation causing his chest to rise and fall with a desperate rhythm. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he felt the sting of fabric against his skin, a reminder of the wounds he bore.
Bandages wrapped around his arms, waist, and feet, a testament to the battle he had endured. His hand instinctively went to his abdomen, where the sharp pain of the feral werewolf's attack still lingered. The events of the fight played back in his mind, a chaotic blur of agony, despair, and strategic planning, culminating in a hard-fought victory.
Victory. The memory of plunging his weapon into the werewolf's flesh, severing its head, sent a thrill coursing through his veins. His lips curled into a sinister smile, a dark satisfaction rising within him.
"I am strong, I am great, I am the Deus Imperator!" His hand rose to his face, shielding his eyes from the intrusive light, as he focused on the sounds that enveloped him—the steady rhythm of Dozia's breaths and the crackling of the fireplace.
What had transpired during that harrowing ordeal? It wasn't a mere surge of rage or a surge of power that fueled his actions. No, it was something more primal, an untamed fury that had consumed him entirely.
He had descended into a beastly state, no better than the werewolf, inflicting countless wounds until he was certain of its demise. Yet, amidst the savagery, a strange sensation had taken hold—a surge of exhilaration.
Throughout most of the battle, he had fought recklessly, driven by fear and desperation, neglecting the rationality that might have offered a tactical advantage. The danger was real, far removed from the realm of fantasy movies or video games.
The pain from his injuries still gnawed at him, a reminder of the brutal reality he had faced. His father's teachings had saved him, despite the man's monstrous nature. Unbeknownst to him, his father had bestowed upon him the skills necessary to vanquish adversaries far more formidable than himself.
His sword bore the scars of the encounter, his body faltered under the weight of exhaustion and blood loss, but he had emerged triumphant in the end. His gaze shifted to the brand on his left arm, the three lines that marked him with unimaginable power.
The memory of the stone pillars shattering against the werewolf's back flooded his mind, a testament to his victory, to his ascent over a colossal foe. In that moment, standing atop the conquered beast, he felt an unparalleled euphoria.
Nothing could rival the thunderous beat of his heart, the sheer satisfaction of defying death's icy grasp and proving his superiority over a mere monster.
It all felt so bewildering, so unfathomable. He existed in a realm between sleep and wakefulness, suspended in a transient state where consciousness and unconsciousness merged. But amidst the confusion, the pain served as a visceral reminder—an affirmation that he was alive.
Throughout his existence, there had been moments when Oliver questioned the very essence of his being. Times when the uncertainty of his future and his purpose gnawed at his core. He possessed no grand ambitions, content to meander through school as an unremarkable figure, avoiding the likes of Hunter and his lackeys. Making friends seemed an insurmountable task, the scars of his troubled past acting as an impenetrable barrier to genuine connection.
College loomed on the horizon, but beyond that lay an obscure path, shrouded in a murky haze. The light of his aspirations flickered dimly, unable to illuminate a clear direction. Doctor, lawyer, office drone—none of these vocations stirred his interest. In truth, he struggled to grasp what he truly desired. His grandparents offered words of solace, urging him to wait until high school, assuring him that true companionship and purpose would reveal themselves in due time.
Yet, deep down, he knew their words were merely well-intentioned attempts at encouragement. In this world, devoid of his father's militant order, there existed no catalyst capable of reigniting the fire that once burned within him. The Order—their structure, their might, the sense of belonging—imbued his every waking moment with a profound sense of purpose. The knowledge that he played a role in something significant, something capable of reshaping the world, sent his heart racing with intoxicating power and exhilaration. Everything that came after felt like a mist, obscuring his mind and heart.
He had resigned himself to the belief that he would never experience that feeling again. Yet, within this unfamiliar realm, a smirk began to etch its way across his face as the creak of the door reached his ears. His countenance returned to neutrality as he shifted his gaze towards the visitor—The Witch.
Her purple eyes locked onto him and Dozia as she pulled a seat closer to the bed. "Oliver, how are you feeling?"
"Not great," he replied. "Your trial left me feeling like shit."
"Well, that's to be expected. You fought and survived, and retrieving the beast's head was an impressive feat in its own right."
"The head?" Oliver's voice quivered as his attention darted towards Dozia.
"Rasmus took it and prepared it. It's rather unpleasant, I must say, but he was impressed by your strategizing."
"To employ your telekinetic abilities to trap the creature beneath the rubble and deliver the final blow," the witch interjected, a faint smile apparent in her voice as she regarded Oliver. Her piercing purple eyes sent a shiver down his spine. "You are truly a unique individual, Oliver," she added, casting a fleeting glance at Dozia. "I told you not to doubt him. Oliver is a good boy, a clever boy. Given time, he will serve your tribe, learn your ways, and even enhance them."
"I never doubted him, not for a second," Dozia interjected, her words infused with a tinge of defensiveness. "But I..."
The witch chuckled softly. "You believed he wasn't ready for the challenges ahead, attempting to shield him and inadvertently weakening him in the process. That, my dear, is doubt," she snapped her gaze back to Dozia. "Never forget what Oliver has demonstrated today. He has conquered a formidable mountain—a beast that fell beneath his blade. He stood victorious, an embodiment of strength."
Dozia's eyes scanned the crumpled pages that still bore the False Imposter's twisted teachings. The venomous words that had spilled from his deceitful lips. The war, the impending dangers lurking in the shadows. She had misjudged Oliver, her unwavering faith as his follower clouding her perception.
"Now, Oliver," the witch's voice broke the silence, capturing his attention. He turned his head toward her, curious yet cautious. "I have a vital question for you. When you touched the Altair, what did you see? Describe it to me in vivid detail."
Oliver observed the witch, her narrowed eyes and the tightening grip on the armrest of her worn leather chair. He sensed the weight of her words, a subtle warning that lying would not go unnoticed. The pain from her trial still lingered within him, a reminder that her trust could not be taken at face value. In their pursuit of knowledge and understanding, he and Dozia had made a grave error by seeking her out.
However, deep within him, an insatiable curiosity burned. He yearned to comprehend the enigmatic visions, the divergent paths and haunting memories that had flooded his consciousness when his hand made contact with the altar. He had to know what they meant.
"I saw something...strange," he began, pushing himself off the cot, his gaze fixed on the witch. "The altar revealed images to me."
"What kind of images?" she probed, her voice tinged with urgency.
"Images that defied logic. I witnessed myself engaging in actions and movements that seemed inexplicable. There were moments when I didn't feel like myself, yet I knew it was me," he confessed, his words tinged with uncertainty. He hesitated briefly before continuing. "Have you ever woken up from sleep or a deep slumber, feeling an ache in your leg, yet there's an odd stillness to it?"
The witch nodded, her attention unwavering. Oliver pressed on, unraveling the fragments of his experience. "There were instances when I felt older and younger simultaneously, wiser and arrogant, stronger and weaker. I could sense the toll on my body, and I could discern emotions merely by looking at people."
"Looking at people?" Dozia interjected, but a swift motion from the witch silenced her, her hand raised as if to hush the inquisitive girl.
Oliver acknowledged Dozia with a nod, then focused his gaze back on the witch. "I had this...dream or vision. I encountered someone from my old world. Not a friend, but here, it felt different."
Dozia's eyes widened, a realization dawning upon her. Another Imposter, existing within this world. How many had Oliver journeyed with? Men and women bestowed with the power to reshape reality, a group of forsaken thirteen-year-olds left to fend for themselves.
"We were in a place shrouded in fog and mystery," Oliver continued, his voice carrying a mixture of confusion and familiarity. "It was strange, yet it felt eerily familiar, as though I had never laid eyes on it before, yet I had been there."
"You speak of a fog. Explain it to me," the witch demanded, her tone commanding.
"I found myself in a pitch-black room. Every step I took echoed, reverberating through the air, while an endless fog enveloped me..."
"Did you venture inside the fog?" the witch inquired, her voice carrying a hint of intrigue.
His head jerked abruptly. "No," he replied, his words laced with trepidation. "No!" Fear gripped his eyes as he raised his voice. "I will never venture beyond that fog. Whatever the hell it was..."
"Was there a monster, a beast?" the witch probed further.
"No, nothing like that," he answered, his voice quivering. "But there was this sensation... It was like being out in the middle of the ocean, aware of the infinite expanse around you. Knowing that you were insignificant, and if you pushed forward... you'd either vanish or be reduced to nothingness."
He took a deep breath, his hand instinctively reaching for his face. "I saw someone from my world... Markus."
"We were standing on a peculiar stone floor, paved with ancient slabs. Clad in weathered training armor, we engaged in practice with swords. I was struggling, desperately trying to keep up. I looked at Markus; he had aged, and he had lost parts of himself."
"What was he missing?" the witch pressed on.
"His left eye bore a scar that traced across it, rendering it a milky white. He limped as he walked, his body draped in a heavy cloak that concealed half of his form. I knew he had lost his other arm, and he was ashamed of it... reluctant to be pitied as a disabled warrior."
"He told me to stop allowing Hunter to get under my skin... to not be a fool like Hunter, blindly serving the kingdom. Being a knight isn't some fantastical game or movie. Loyalty to the kingdom would only force me to endure its injustices," he recounted, his voice resonating with the weight of Markus's words. "He had mentioned before that I possessed a natural talent with the spear. Although I had skill with the weapon, he warned against confining myself to the expectations of others. A warrior must always learn and grow, never stagnate."
He repeated those words, as if they were gospel. "Was that all?"
He shook his head. "No, there was something else. A peculiar and powerful sensation that eludes me, one I struggle to articulate at this moment. Markus and I were never close, we had our moments but were never truly friends."
He paused, gathering his thoughts. "Yet, when I saw him... I felt something. A profound connection, akin to the love shared between brothers or the bond of closest companions. Deep down, I knew we had fought, killed, and triumphed side by side. We shared a profound friendship and camaraderie, and in that realization, I understood that I was not alone in this world."
The ethereal remnants of his visions still danced around him, their wispy currents defying comprehension. Even now, he grappled with what he had witnessed, lost in the labyrinth of confusion.
It was like staring at an unfinished puzzle, striving to unravel its meaning, only to find missing pieces that held their own untold stories.
"But there was another sensation... another memory," he mused, his gaze drifting to his hands. "I didn't feel older, but I was older. It was as if I had lived a lifetime, despite being only fourteen or fifteen years old."
"Who was with you there?" the witch inquired, her voice laced with curiosity.
"You... you were with me," he responded, his voice tinged with a mixture of awe and uncertainty. "I could feel the weight of your arms resting on my shoulders, the sound of your voice humming intimately in my ear, whispering words in a language I couldn't comprehend."
She regarded him with surprise, her eyes wide with wonder. "Where were we? You're only twelve years old now, but I'm eager to know the location of this experience."
"I'm not sure, perhaps somewhere in the vicinity of these forests. But there were no recognizable landmarks. We stood atop a mountain, overlooking a tribe. They weren't like the Lost Ones, but rather a band of tribal people who resembled Lena... WolfKin."
Dozia gasped, startled by his knowledge. They had never formally taught him the names of the races, only referring to them as Demi and the like. How did he come to possess such information?
"You left my side, yet I continued to watch them," he continued, his gaze distant as he recalled the scene. "They were different from you, Dozia, and the others. They lived in log cabins, with wells instead of relying on the river for water. But their banners..."
He raised his left palm, his index finger tapping on the peculiar mark of the Imposter. "Their banners bore this emblem. They wore it proudly, inscribing it on their armor and even carving it into their flesh..."
Disgust etched its way across his face. Slowly, he turned to face Dozia, his eyes fixed upon her. Would she be among that crowd? Would their friendship, their camaraderie, be twisted into something sinister?
Would she cease to be herself and become a mere puppet of the Deus Imperator—a consequence of his dark purpose and nature? He brought his hand to his face, grappling with the turmoil of what he had witnessed. The Altair had granted him clarity, but at what cost?
"They called me Oliver, but there was more to it," he continued, gripping his head as his teeth clenched. "They called me... Oliverius Victor, Dux Europae. I understand the words now... This world, Europa, it was named by an Imposter... not Emilia, but one who came before her."
"Do you know what those words mean?" she asked, her voice laden with anticipation. Oliver shook his head in response.
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"It means Oliver the Conqueror, Warlord of Europa," he explained, his tone heavy with the weight of realization.
"But that wasn't all, there was something else. There was a person... a woman," he declared, his words gaining urgency. "I wasn't fourteen, I believe I was older, maybe between sixteen or eighteen."
Snapping his fingers, he tried to summon the memory. "There was this girl, she had a troubled upbringing. Her father was a human slaver, and the fate of her mother was known to all. She was a half-breed, allowed to live among the WolfKin, although she possessed distinctly human features. But she had dark brown hair and silver eyes..."
His gaze locked onto the witch, his eyes filled with intensity. "She was my lover. Intelligent, compassionate, and resilient in the face of adversity. Her smile illuminated her beauty, and when she smiled in that vision... I knew deep down that she existed somewhere within this world, that she loved me."
A profound silence enveloped the trio, their eyes fixed on Oliver as he strained his mind to make sense of it all. Eventually, it was the witch who broke the silence.
"What do you make of these experiences, Oliver?" she inquired, her voice gentle yet brimming with curiosity.
"What..." he stammered, his voice filled with uncertainty. "I was hoping you would provide me with some answers. They felt so strange, like dreams submerged in water. I could hardly make sense of what was unfolding around me."
"Oh, Oliver, I do know what they are," she responded, her voice laced with a mix of assurance and menace. Slowly, she rose from her seat, approaching him with a glimmer of something cold and metallic catching his eye. Her hand clamped onto his shoulder, drawing him closer. And then he saw it—the glint of a steel blade, an iron dagger positioned just beneath his neck. His eyes widened in alarm at the chilling touch of the blade.
"What..." he managed to utter, his words choked by fear. "Give me an answer, Oliver, or I'll carve you like a pig, spilling your blood," she hissed, her voice laced with lethal intent.
Fear surged through him once more, his lips parched and his mouth dry as he glanced at Dozia. The girl stood frozen, trembling as if consumed by an icy chill, her widened eyes reflecting pure terror.
His gaze returned to the witch, her purple eyes fixed upon him. "I'm waiting, Oliver. Tell me, what do you believe those visions were? Your life hinges on the answer you give me."
What kind of answer was she seeking? What did this deranged woman desire?
He frantically searched his mind, swaying back and forth, attempting to summon thoughts and emotions that might appease her. Could this be a riddle, a response that might not be right in the conventional sense but would satisfy her twisted logic? Yet, there was something more lurking beneath the surface.
"I think... I believe I glimpsed the future, a path that awaits," he offered cautiously, his voice laden with uncertainty.
The grip on the knife loosened, the witch sliding the dagger back into her cloak as she let out a heavy breath. Dozia and her entourage relaxed, but Oliver remained steadfast and resolute. A shudder coursed through his body, the reminder of how swiftly he had teetered on the precipice of life and death.
He knew all too well that his role as the Deus Imperator would not shield him from the wrath of the witch. She was willing to kill him and bring damnation upon this world, defying the path she had set for him. "The future..." she repeated, nodding vigorously as she hummed to herself. "Yes, excellent. You may choose to believe that what you witnessed was a glimpse into the future."
Oliver felt his lips part, but the sight of the witch's blade and his prior knowledge of her halted him. This didn't feel like peering into the future. Yes, he felt older and wiser in those visions, but there was an inexplicable strangeness that eluded his comprehension.
It wasn't like looking into the future or exploring potential paths. Instead, it felt as though he were viewing the world through another man's eyes, trapped within a foreign body.
The memories, the relationships, the emotions—they felt simultaneously familiar and foreign. He knew Markus was his brother and friend, but deep down, it was as if the boy who trained with him on that sunny day wasn't truly him but rather a different incarnation of Oliver.
Oliver Windsor, the son of a Militiaman and an accountant, was a timid and wounded boy, scarred by his past, his heart bearing many nicks. But that was who he used to be. Now, as he stared down the path that the witch labeled as the "Future," confusion and conflict churned within him.
It felt as though he wasn't gazing at himself, but rather peering through the eyes of a stranger—like donning ill-fitting clothes that belonged to another man. It didn't feel like the true essence of who he was; it felt elusive, like the transformation of a man into a werewolf—an unexpected turn of events that defied comprehension.
He understood the way the woman felt, the way her cheek felt beneath his touch, her fingers tightly entwined with his. He could sense the warmth in her gray eyes as they looked at him with love. Deep down, he knew he was loved, that his heart would quicken when he held her in his arms. But it felt distant, detached, as if he were merely observing his own actions unfold—a future that was meant to be, but not his own. As he clung to the woman he loved, as she gazed at him with tenderness and affection, he simply... wasn't... there.
"You have answered correctly and triumphed in your trial. You have the right to live, Oliver," the witch declared. "Now, leave me. You and Dozia must return to camp. And remember, Dozia, our prior words."
They departed, Oliver struggling to walk as Dozia looped an arm around him, helping him onto the horse as they slowly made their way out of the forest.
"Ahh, what a day it has been," Dozia remarked. "I mean, I knew this would be an eventful trip, but goodness, all this madness..."
Her voice resonated with joy, and a part of Oliver felt frustrated. Yes, he had gained knowledge and a deeper understanding of the world around him, but it changed nothing!
He had faced death twice—once in combat against the witch's trial and then by providing an answer to spare his own life. Yet, his emotions began to simmer and cool as he took a deep breath, attempting to see things from Dozia's perspective.
Even now, he could sense the tremor of terror in her, the relieved exhales after every minute they had left the witch's hut. The witch's final words echoed in his mind—the right to live he had earned, and the conversation between Dozia and the witch.
He was grateful that the witch had not probed into his suspicions regarding what he had witnessed. They felt more like dreams than visions of the future—a power he could harness to survive in this unfamiliar world.
"Say, how was it?" Dozia inquired, observing the wheels turning in Oliver's mind. "How did it feel to kill that werewolf?"
"It was... difficult, I suppose. I used to think that simply stabbing it enough would suffice, but I was wrong," he replied, taking a deep breath and relishing the fresh air of the plains, relieved to be away from the boggy jungle. "I needed to be cunning, to heed my father's words and do what needed to be done. Charging blindly at the enemy yielded no results..."
"But what did you do?" Dozia inquired, her curiosity piqued.
"There was this ancient monument," Oliver began, a hint of pride in his voice. "I lured the beast inside and used my power to bring down the columns. Then I finished off the monster."
A smirk played on Dozia's lips. "Well, well. That was a clever move. We've had our fair share of encounters with monsters, but they usually avoid larger tribes."
Oliver's interest was now fully ignited. "Monsters, like trolls and such, right?"
"Trolls?" Dozia pondered for a moment. "Yeah, I suppose. But they've been brought under control by the human empires... shady business."
The way Dozia spoke those words struck Oliver as odd. Her tone remained neutral, devoid of the fiery anger with which she had described enslavement. There was an underlying layer of something more in her words, but he lacked the strength to delve deeper.
They rode back in relative silence until they reached the mountain. Two sentries greeted them, one blowing into a horn to signal their return. Footsteps echoed toward them as Oliver spun around to face the approaching figures.
"The Deus Imperator has returned! Oliver has returned!" their voices rose in unison, a symphony of words. People from his language and those of the ancient tongue reached out to touch him, their eyes filled with feverish zeal as he dismounted from his horse, Dozia at his side.
"Werewolf killer..."
"Monster slayer..."
"Vanquisher of imposters, the Imposter Monster killer..."
Their words reverberated in a chorus. They had already revered him as a prophet, a messiah of sorts. The savior of their leaders, the living proof of the branded ones, and now, with the death of the werewolf, their reverence grew stronger.
Rasmus, Lena, and James stood off to the side, observing the scene.
"Well, well, he actually survived," James remarked, a touch of disbelief in his voice.
Rasmus shot him a stern look. "I already told you that he was being treated by the witch. That..."
Lena clicked her tongue, pushing herself away from the wall as she surveyed the growing crowd. Her gaze fell upon the werewolf's head, or rather its skull, freshly carved and placed in Oliver's scarred hands. She noticed the fear and hesitation flicker across his features, swiftly transforming into a fevered madness and frenzy. A smirk tugged at his lips as he raised the skull high with both hands.
"I have slain the werewolf! The honor is mine!"
Their fists pumped in the air, brandishing knives, carved blades, and spears. The fervent intensity rippled through the tribe, footsteps thundering along the dirt at the entrance of the cave. Power and adrenaline surged within them, fueling their spirits. Dozia stood beside Oliver, a smile dancing across her face, her goblin features revealing the ancestral monster blood that coursed through her veins. It was a smile of vindication, a smile that declared her righteousness in the face of doubting crowds.
The rest of the tribe kept their distance from Oliver and Dozia, with Lena having a clear view of the breathing room, noticing that even the youngest members understood the unspoken boundary.
The bandages that wrapped Oliver's wounds, soon to become scars, would become the subject of tales and legends in the tribe. Stories would be passed down through generations, recounting how the Deus Imperator had slain a monster, claiming honor, pride, and glory. These tribal tales would traverse the lands, becoming the foundation of legends.
Even Lena, Rasmus, and James, as skeptical as they were, felt it—the strange sensation, the contagious hysteria that pulsed through the crowd. A part of them yearned to rush into the midst, armed with their own weapons. But there was an invisible restraint holding them back, an instinct that warned them against becoming creatures themselves.
Rasmus let out a weary sigh. "Be cautious, Oliver, of the words you speak. Pride and arrogance can be lethal weapons."
Killing Benjamin's monster and a slaver didn't automatically grant him the title of a formidable warrior. There were greater forces at play, and Oliver needed to remain ever vigilant.
"Rasmus, you know the Witch is not to be trusted," Lena interjected. "I've warned Dozia countless times. The Witch's magic may be useful, but she must never be regarded with the gaze of a mother."
James shook his head slowly. "...and what of Oliver? Is there true honor in killing a monster in such a manner?" He turned to face Rasmus and Lena, who eyed him with confusion. "He trapped the beast and killed it with his blade, nothing more than dispatching a trapped animal."
Lena's glare sparked with intensity. "Don't be foolish, James," she snapped, her gaze piercing. "Do you and the hunters not set traps for the beasts of the forest? Do you not employ ambushes and other tactics to ensure food for the tribe?"
Thomas shook his head in disagreement. "This is different, and you know it."
A sly snicker escaped Lena's lips. "So, what would you have Oliver do?" Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "Stab, slash, and wound the beast, leaving shallow marks on his body while the creature devours him?"
Thomas sneered. "There is no honor in trapping your kill. We're not discussing mere boars or deer in the forest; this was a trial of combat. The Deus Imperator should be far superior than—"
Rasmus stepped forward, his hand resting on his belt as he lightly tapped his small Warhammer. Thomas's eyes widened, his gaze fixated on the white surrounding Rasmus's dark brown eyes. "I suggest you choose your words very carefully, Thomas," Rasmus warned, his voice low and dangerous. "That is the Deus Imperator, the bearer of magic, the one who will restore what was wrongfully taken. Show him the respect he deserves."
Thomas's sneer deepened. "Rasmus, don't play games here. We have rules, a code of conduct that governs our tribe," he gritted his teeth, the chorus of voices and praises filling the air while Oliver's wide smirk persisted. The skull held aloft, rising higher and higher. "I'll give Oliver credit for the rescue and slaver's demise. But there's no honor in ensnaring and dispatching your enemy, that's not our way."
"Silence!" Rasmus bellowed. "For he is the Deus Imperator, his word is law, his will absolute. Should he decree, the way shall change!"
"Enough, Rasmus," Lena intervened, stepping between the two. "Take a moment to collect yourself and leave."
He sneered, shoving her hand aside as he disappeared into the crowd. "What's gotten into him? His hand went for his hammer... like he was going to..."
"No, just let it be," Lena sighed. "Rasmus was filled with anger and confusion. I doubt he would've done anything... but he's not entirely wrong. Perhaps things do need to change."
"What?" Thomas exclaimed.
She nodded. "Imposters have a knack for altering the course of our world. Maybe, within our tribe, Oliver can guide us toward a brighter future."
"A future of fanatical zealots who've lost their minds. What the hell is all this?"
He pushed himself off the wall, and Lena could only sigh, her eyes once again drawn to the tumultuous crowd. She had a headache, dealing with the children and now having to contend with this maddening cacophony. A part of her understood Thomas.
So many factors here were hinged on circumstance... but weren't prophecies built upon such elements? Oliver was a savior, the one who had rescued them that fateful night from servitude and grim fates. He had slain the monster, showcasing his tactical prowess and strategic knowledge. Lena wanted to believe in Oliver, but she couldn't help but harbor doubts.
The fervent intensity radiating from him, the way his lips curled into a smile while Dozia stood by his side, her own grin a testament to her vindication. The crowd raised their weapons and bellowed, "Oliver, the Deus Imperator!" in both the new and old tongue.
The younger ones, influenced by Dozia's stories yet not entirely convinced, regarded Oliver with relative kindness. The older members held more stringent convictions, with some actively seeking signs and others like Thomas vehemently dismissing the claims... but this was undeniable proof!
They would follow him, come what may. They would kill, destroy, and do whatever was necessary to fulfill the will of the Deus Imperator.
Their cause was righteous, their power pure, their goals noble.
No matter how sinister or how deep they had to delve into darkness... they all knew they were right, their confidence stemming from their allegiance to the one who would restore what was wrongfully stolen.
The one destined to liberate them and forge a new era, an age of freedom where Demi-Humans would no longer suffer under the yoke of human oppression or be relegated to second-class status.
Lena, too, felt a peculiar unease toward Oliver, even as she yearned to put her faith in him. There was an undercurrent of darkness that she sensed, a shadow lurking beneath his triumphant facade. The surging tides of religious fervor rippled through the crowd, their collective hysteria blending with the sight of him clutching the skull of a Son of Benjamin—a testament to his first true kill on this ominous crusade.
Oliver sought solace on a weathered tree stump, wrapping himself in a worn blanket. Beneath the watchful gaze of twin moons and a celestial tapestry of stars, he surrendered to the lull of slumber. His deep blue eyes fluttered shut as the cool night breeze whisked him away into seamless dreams.
With the morning's arrival, his eyes slowly opened, adjusting to the warm, orange glow of the sun. Letting out a soft yawn, he stretched his arms, the sounds of orders, shouts, and bustling activities filling the camp around him.
The camp was a melting pot of races—dwarves, goblins, wolfkin, and more—all united under Dozia's tribe, the Lost Ones. Once lost, now found. And they, too, shared a common faith in him, The Deus Imperator.
His gaze shifted toward the entrance where the vigilant sentries of the Lost Ones stood, their spear planted firmly by their side. Flies buzzed around the severed head of the werewolf, the monster he had slain, their faint buzzing reaching his ears as he studied the trophy. His attention then shifted to his own hands. Although concealed by a brown glove, the memory of the brand on his left hand lingered. He could still see it, still feel the weight of it—the very mark that branded him.
The chants echoed in his mind—"Deus Imperator!"—their cries reverberating through the days that followed. The lingering madness hummed around him, the strain on his lips transforming into a wide, triumphant smile. Who had presented him with the pike, whether Dozia, Rasmus, or another member of the Lost Ones, mattered little. What held significance was the fusion of his essence with the matted fur and blood of the beast. The bone-breaking force he exerted as he impaled the severed head, igniting the cheers and the resounding cries of "Oliver, The Deus Imperator!"
His breath grew heavy, his chest rising and falling with fervor as Dozia's hands rested on his shoulders. "Well done, you are the strongest, and the honor belongs to you," she whispered those sweet words into his ears. Her crimson hair cascaded over his face, obscuring his view as he stared ahead. The chanting swelled, its weight pressing upon the very currents of the air.
It brought to mind the vision of the future, the Witch's grip on him, paralleled by Dozia's touch. Yet, a fundamental difference set them apart. In that glimpse of what lay ahead, he sensed the ominous undertones of a dark and terrible purpose. Gazing down at his tribe, at what they were slowly becoming—warriors and agents of terror in service to the Deus Imperator—he witnessed his friends and allies transforming into beings driven by faith and zealous ambition.
But within the ranks of the Lost Ones, a distinct sensation gripped Oliver—a blend of fanatical zeal and sinister purpose unlike anything he had experienced before. He had always harbored reservations about being hailed as the Deus Imperator, and those reservations persisted. Yet, in that moment, he succumbed to the madness of the crowd.
He surrendered himself to Dozia's intoxicating words of warriors, pride, and honor as he thrust the beast's head onto the pike. He allowed them to anoint him with that title, lifting his left palm toward the sky as their cheers escalated to a deafening crescendo.
He became the center of attention, the nocturnal warrior of that day, the valiant man who had slaughtered the creature with his bare strength. He was present, fully immersed in the moment. And that terrified him the most—how he had become ensnared in the exhilaration, losing himself in the persona of the Deus Imperator, or perhaps becoming the Deus Imperator himself.
Throughout his life, he had felt feeble and insignificant. Therapists and doctors, pills and his grandfather's lectures had been his constant companions. His father, a deranged and perhaps malevolent figure, had left an indelible mark on his psyche. Yet, through his father's unconventional tutelage, he had managed to survive and see the light of this morning.
Perhaps, hidden within his father's teachings, there lay some truth and happiness in this tribal existence forced upon him. There was a foggy recollection, a peculiar sensation that welled up within him as he cleaved through the monster. The rush of adrenaline, the dance with death, and the conquest of danger through his own hands—they held something indescribable.
Something... a profound feeling that swelled deep within his heart. Sinister thoughts simmered and yearned to consume him. There was a part of him that relished it, a part that yearned for the times when his life teetered on the thinnest of threads, when survival was his only purpose.
Living in the wilderness, commanding and killing—it seemed so straightforward, so effortless. He had been painfully average in school, adrift in the aimless currents of his existence. But when handed a weapon and given orders to follow, everything fell into place.
His thoughts wandered back to Dozia and the Witch. There was no turning back, no path leading home—only a murky road shrouded in darkness and an uncertain future.
Yet, there was an inexplicable allure, devoid of fear or rage. It was a strange exhilaration, where life and death merged into insignificance. It mirrored the past, albeit with notable differences. His father had been right—he had found his own war and his people. He finally had his place of belonging.
These thoughts birthed a fleeting smile that danced upon his lips.