A mess I am.
I embraced logic as much as I worshipped ill-logic. As much as I practiced the common wisdom, I wholeheartedly trained myself to be utterly stupid and absolutely insane. The followers of ill-logic cannot understand the thinking of logical thinkers, and vice versa. Therefore, I do not long to be understood.
I am an adulterer, a mess of a human being. I am a most terrible material for a lover and a husband. Thusly, I have no hope to be reciprocated or loved. I am a most selfish man. Therefore, I prefer being in the company of the most selfish people than the company of the unselfish people. That’s where I belong.
I don’t even like myself, but I am who I am. As much as I hated myself, I am Fearless, the Prince of The Alliance. That is my ego, my arrogance, my worth. That’s an unchangeable fact and an immovable truth. It is something that has remained uncorrupted on Earth until the day I died. Now on Escana, it is unchanged.
“I am Fearless, the Prince of The Alliance,” I would repeat myself to the point that any person would be sick of hearing me repeating myself.
‘I am Fearless. I represent Prince of The Alliance and The Alliance itself.’
‘I am not URLOX’s Prince. I don’t represent URLOX or URLOX’s will or URLOX’s machination.’
People don’t understand what I meant, thus I repeated myself until they could understand me. Is that logical? No, it isn't. But whether they could understand the meaning or not is up to them, it is not my responsibility to explain myself to every person and every people. If an insane and stupid person could understand the meaning of the words, the smart people and sane people should be able to figure it out eventually.
Whether I like it or not, I am Fearless, the Prince of The Alliance. The moonless black and royal gold is the color my banner. A golden flower of five hands is my symbol, and one of the five hands on that symbol is mine. Therefore, the value of my service is linked to The Alliance and the other four hands on the banner. People would use me as a medium, The Medium, to judge FY, Misery, Merleon and Fantasy. People would use me as a standard to grade The Alliance. People would use me as a medium to judge the worth of the Prince of The Alliance and his equal counterparts and his greater. Therefore, I refuse to cheapen the value of my service; for when I cheapen the value of my service, I cheapen the worth of The Alliance and the Prince of The Alliance.
I am Fearless, the Prince of The Alliance. I am expensive. My standard and service are as expensive as their value. My loyalty, love and devotion are as expensive as The Alliance itself. For that cause, I am willing to walk a great desolated pasture or swim an endless ocean or pick a fight against father Time to prove my value. Must I fight war to defend my value, I shall.
To the people who sought Fearless and Fearless alone, I could sit down to negotiate the price with them. But to those who sought the service of Fearless, the Prince of The Alliance, price is non-negotiable.
I refused to sell my service to a bunch of brainless nitwits who had decided to dissembled and purchase a piece of the Prince of The Alliance simply because they lack the capital to purchase him whole. That is not how a piece of art is sold. Art dealers don’t cut an invaluable picture painted by a renowned artist into smaller pieces to sell it cheap. Smart people don’t dissect an invaluable piece of historical relic to sell it to a bunch of nitwits, who possess neither the knowledge of value of the relic nor the capital to purchase it whole. Musicians don’t sell a small part of their songs. That is not how invaluable luxury goods are sold. Those brain-dead nitwits, who wanted to cut a piece of art into its unrecognizable shapes to purchase it, are pieces of shits who understood nothing about the value of art. They are unqualified to discuss and talk about art, let alone possess it.
I refused to sell myself cheap to Death, an opportunist who schemed to crash the market price and devaluate the worth of the Prince of The Alliance to purchase his entire service. That’s not the doing of a person who appreciates and understands art. That is the most disrespectful thing a person can do to the artist, the one created that piece of art. That artist is The Alliance. Without The Alliance, there is no Prince of The Alliance. I refused to sell myself cheap to such a disrespectful person. The fact that Death convinced me to sell myself to her with a lie is even more disrespectful. I am liar but the worth of the Prince of The Alliance is no lie. If Death could not understand something so simple, “Nay,” I would say if I am nice. But I am anything but nice, “FUCK OFF,” said I and demonstrated my rejection.
In the Arthurian, the Caliburn did not dissemble itself into unrecognizable pieces and fragments to distribute itself equally among the knights just because none of the knights are worthy. It is the Sword of Kingship. It is Britain and the fate of every man and woman living in Britain. The only one who is qualify to hold the Caliburn is the person who can bear the burden of kingship and hold the entire weight of Britain on his hands.
Similarly, “I am Fearless, the Prince of The Alliance,” I can only repeat myself until people understand the meaning of my words. Trying to explain the value of an artifact bearing invaluable historical value to a bunch of history haters is meaningless. Trying to explain the meaning of art to a bunch of art rejectors is a waste of time. Pitching a sale talk for a luxury good to a bunch of disrespectful, empty-pocket cheapskates is futility in and of itself.
To the meaninglessness, the waste-of-time and the futility of the world, I simply gave them what they deserved and what they are qualified for. Meaninglessness, a waste-of-time and futility, in and of themselves.
Those who denied the existence of The Alliance are ignorant. As long as I am here, on Escana, The Alliance exists. As long I still draw a breath, the Prince of The Alliance still lives. Those who denied the worth of The Alliance are in denial. I am a part of the symbol of The Alliance, one of the five hands. But that does not mean the minimum worth of The Alliance is five times the value of my service. Only brainless nitwits would draw such conclusion.
I am Fearless, the Prince of The Alliance.
To the only person who can understand the meaning of my words and the value of my service and still seek me, “You want the Prince of The Alliance, an authentic, bona fide Champion, not fakes, earn him,” said I.
The path and the length that that person would go, the cost that person would pay to earn that qualification is not my concern.
A person who can earn my service is the person who is qualified. This is my ego, my arrogance and worth.
“I am Fearless, the Prince of The Alliance,” repeated I.
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“Clothes make the man,” they said, I thought, disagreeing with the common wisdom once again. What is the common wisdom on Earth might not be the same on Escana as I have learned and relearned again and again.
Glamour was the usual sight of Pride dressing in her royal colors. But then, glamour would be any dress and suit that was fortunate enough to be chosen by Pride. She, Pride, the Perfect Demon Lord was the personification of glamour.
“Pride makes the clothes,” I sighed internally.
A gorgeous high low dress in sheeny red velvet shaped after her lovely curves and revealed the inviting sight of her pristine pale legs beneath. Pride really knew how to pick her dress. Her prized mane set loosed, but slyly tucked behind her revealing shoulders, framing herself in a fresh, shimmering cascade of gold. Her pendant, chains of refined golden rings hung loose on her fair neck, highlighting the stunning combination of her revealing low cut neckline and deep cleavage. Her earpieces, both diamond shaped, a passion steeped ruby and an alluring amethyst on beaten gold, humbled to compliment Pride’s bewitching glamour.
“How do I look?” Pride slyly asked, tilting her head slightly.
“I thought you are roleplaying a princess?” I narrowed my eyes and quizzed.
“Who do I look like but a princess?”
“A goddess of love and beauty who is not named Venus,” I replied. Only a goddess can possess and manipulate her own sexuality as much as Pride did.
Pride smiled pleasantly and shared a passionate kiss with me. We exchanged pleasantries, our kind of pleasantries. If other people were looking at us, they would think that we were flirting. Objectively, we had that, ‘Get a room, you two,’ atmosphere around us. So perhaps, we were flirting all along.
Suited in the usual black and canary gold of my uniform, I acted like Pride’s escort. Back then, on Earth, I had only played ROC under one banner. I could predict the future to a limited extent. Therefore, the day I would play ROC for a different banner would come, but that is just not today or tomorrow.
Pride walked side by side with me. Our arms crossed in a passionate tight knit. Pride nestled body against mine, waffling me with her dizzying cologne and sensual warmth. The way we walked side by side, the way we looked and appeared, it was as though our competition has never been a matter of concern to her or me. It was as though she has never been bested 14,999th times. It was just another game for Pride. It was just another day to live and to enjoy.
As we were walking hand in hand, I started telling Pride to surrender for her own good. The pre-game was the same as ever, a meaningless mind game disguised as a battle of words. I advised the female Demon Lord to cut down her losses before it got worse with all of my sincerity. While I believed that the day, when Pride would finally turn the table on me, would come, I had no doubt in my victory.
Pride smiled and retaliated, word for word. Her ample chest puffed out with an air of unshakable arrogance. Her free hand cupped my chin to correct my line of sight, aligning my gaze with hers. Her pearly white teeth flashed into a predatory scoff. “Do you think they can keep supporting you? Do you seriously think that they were on your level?” The lioness asked. There was recognizable shift in her speaking tone, from the light and casual of coquettishness to the deep of power and authority. Her twin orbs of dawn and dust shone with contempt. The Demon Lord added a nasty touch of mind game into her today trash talk. She has probably saved this mind trick for this day.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
I suddenly remembered the nervousness in the voice of the reporter who asked me, “Is FY really as good a person as he seems in public?” It was, in all senses, not that strange of a question to be asked. But the wording of the question is strange. That reporter could have just asked me, “What is FY like when he is at home?” which is, by far, a friendlier question to ask. So I had to pause for a half second to analyze the question. At the time, I detected no hint of malice in her voice, only expectation and nervousness.
It was as if that was her first day of work. I felt bad for that reporter. She had me, a notorious ticking time bomb, in her first day of job.
I knew how to handle the presses’ questions safely. But when the reporters tried giving me the more provocative questions, either due to their job’s demand, malice, or other reasons, things could get ugly in an explosive hurry. Depending on the mood, intent and situation, I could either choose to go with the flow or lash back. If the questions were phrased to embarrass me or my brothers, I was not a person who would sit back and flash an amiable smile.
“No, fuck, no,” I scoffed incredulously as though feeling insulted by the very question, fully prepared to pay some fine money by league at a later time for dropping an F bomb in a press conference. I grabbed hold of the mike, craned my neck at the reporter’s direction and gave her an intimidating glare. “What make you think he is as good a person as he publicly appears to be? Hmmm? That is just his public persona. All of us have one, a public persona. In reality…” I paused for a good two second to draw the attention of the presses, “FY’s a much better person, a much better brother, and a much better lover.” Only when that reporter flashed that look of realization of a person, who has just been pranked on her face, I smiled a sly smile, winking my eyes.
As though Pride has grown used to the timing of my distraction, she pinched my arm, jerking my consciousness back to the present with an angry, jealous look to service my perverseness.
“My bad,” apologized I.
It happened often, my thought of the past and the disconnecting of the presence. It was just like John Irving has said, “Your memory is a monster; you forget - it doesn't. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you—and summons them to your recall with will of its own. You think you have a memory; but it has you!”
Old stuffs just popped up inside my head whenever, wherever and however they like, more a monster than the combination of Dion and Ira. Dion, I could silence. Ira, I could tame. And even when the two of them got out of control, I could discipline and remind them of their place with an iron fist. Death, I could cheat. Curses and mental charms, I could break. However …My longing for that long gone past, my old memory, no matter how much they hurt me right now, I could not bring myself to hate them or do away with them. My slavery to this monster of memory, it was hard to break, mostly because I did not want to break my bondage to it. I neither feared it nor hated it, this monster, my memory. I could not bring myself to fault and defeat this monster.
“Do you think they can keep supporting you? Do you seriously think that they were on your level?”
Pride’s mind trick hit where it hurt. This new The Alliance that I have assembled and trained, they were not my old squad. The banner is the same, the same old golden flower of five hands on a dark canvas. The uniform is the same. But this is not The Alliance that I once knew. Brilliant as Isonos is, he is not FY. Commanding and keen as Sasengun is, she is not Fantasy. Searek is no Misery. Ember is not Merleon. This is not The Alliance that I have fought for. But that changed nothing. Even if this new The Alliance is but a caricature of the old The Alliance, I have assembled them. I have trained them. I have created this new The Alliance. I trust them, simply because I have to.
“So, do you?”
“I trust them more than you would have trusted your lovers.” I countered Pride’s words.
I smirked savagely. Pride grinned widely. I put my hands at her shapely waist. She weaved her strong arms around my neck. We seized each other and killed the already short distance between our bodies, entwining our body shape and shared a smothering, feverish kiss.
Half of Pride’s Golden Sword of Superbia has belonged to me, inside my body, working to my intention. The other half still remained with her. Only when we became one like this, the sword was whole. I vividly felt her growing hot for me and her unabashed delight when she recognized that I was just like her. We felt our strong desire for each other. How much we desired a partner of equal in term of strength and abilities, how much we desired the other person’s body, love and talent, we could sense it. But as usual, when we made each other out of breath, we drew away, cutting the transparent saliva bridge between us.
Once again, we did the deed in front of Sasengun, keenly aware of the pain she felt. An asshole I am. I cared not of Pride’s intention. I kissed Pride in front of Sasengun to let her know that I am not, in any standard, a man worthy of her love. Sasengun was not the only woman who harbored the hope and thought that I was a good person underneath. She was not the only one who believed that I can turn a new leaf and redeem myself. However, I was not that kind of person. I am bad, a walking disaster, and I have always known it. A good man, a good husband, a good father, I could only pretend but never be. I knew what a mess I am, a bottomless quagmire of problems and wrongfulness. I knew myself more than the world knew me. Therefore, as long as Sasengun still had a delusion about me being a good man, a material for a lover, I would do everything to destroy such wishful delusion.
Pride and I returned back to our status quo. We gazed pass our passion steeped expression and into each other’s eyes, finding our own reflection. I saw myself for what I am and what I have become in the twin colors of her eyes. Similarly, she saw hers in my eyes. Arrogance we are, and we would back up our arrogance in any situation, at any moment and against anyone. Our egos are dreadfully similar.
As much as Djinn Demon Lord believed in her superiority, she wisely submitted. As much as Pestilence believed that a human, a mortal being should submit and kneel before a Demon Lord, he would curl into a ball of miasma in Isonos’ presence or mine nowadays. Steeped in bestial madness as Wrath was, he traded the core of his strength for comfort and peace. For a while, Acrẽa had believed that she was my equal and superior, my ultimate queen. When I was serious, Acrẽa learned to fear me as much as she has desired me.
URLOX’s God and Demon Lords. Their egos as Gods, Demon Lords and Immortal beings were strong. Their belief in their own superiority was strong, until I appeared. Reality is just that sad and disappointing.
Every single one of my captive has changed, just not for the better. Their psyche changed and their ego reshaped, in one way or another.
Even Munezee and Sinintee, two of the most egotistic persona among my captives had to recompose and reevaluate their ego toward me. Sinintee had an armory housing infinite magical weapons and artifacts. His armory is a match for Greed’s wealth in both quality and quantity. Yet, Sinintee stopped speaking as if he was my better. He stayed silence and motionless, humbly devoting his time to plot my downfall. It was almost hilarious that a God of Civilization refused to combat with me in war of words and ideology. But it was more hilarious that a God like him would take a charlatan of a human like me seriously.
Munezee, the Father of Demon Lords, as powerful as he was, he has come to term with the current situation. Munezee closed his eyes, humbled and stopped looking at how his creations have been changed by my hands, mapping his victory. He, too, took my jokes seriously. It was absolutely weird that when I gave them my serious warnings, they did not listen. And now, when I spewed nothing but jokes and lies, they bought everything.
I had expectation for them. I had expected that they would remain unapologetic and even proud of what they had done. I had expected that they would remain arrogant. I was let down.
“So Great a God, so omnipotent a Demon Lord. What good your Greatness is? What good your omnipotence is, when your arrogance is easily changed and destroyed by a mere human?”
Their worthiness is infinitely close to zero.
On the contrary, I have beaten Pride 14,999 to 0, more than enough of the reoccurrence to make any normal person realizes that she could not win against me. Most people who had accumulated this many losses would have subtly acknowledged their defeats and inferiority in one way or another. Not Pride.
Pride perceived her still-accumulating losses as an investment. The lioness knew that she only needed one victory to turn things around. She only needed one victory to earn my service. For Pride, this is a hunt as much as a business. But until the day she would win her first battle, I had no intention of selling the worth of my service short. I had no intention of giving up.
The losses she had accumulated have cost Pride much. Nearly half of Pride’s Authority had become mine from her losses. Her Divine Vestment, mine. But more importantly, the ownership of her sword. Half of it is mine now. Depending on the subjects and the agreements of the contest, the Golden Sword of Superbia transferred the loser’s rightfulness and properties to the winner’s possession. It spared none. Not immaterial substances like emotion, memory, experience or talent, not the materialistic things like wealth, bounded followers and slaves, not even the conceptualization of miracles and divinity. Properties of the loser became the possession of the winner. Golden Sword of Superbia is a weapon of a conqueror. A strong person would only get stronger. A rich person would only get richer. A qualified person would only get more qualified.
As the result, Pride’s chess pieces, lovers and servants bounded to her through the sword are being currently deposited into my account. Her authority is being robbed, one by one. Her capability is being questioned. Her power is being bested. Still, her ego remains unchanged. She does not regret picking me, challenging and losing against me. Our arrogance is equal in term of size and weight. Putting our egos on the two opposite sides of a scale, that scale would remain balance for an eternity. Past or future, rich or poor, sane or mad, in victory or in defeat, for better or for worse, our ego, our arrogance and pride remained strong, uncompromised, unbeaten and unchanged.
I don’t sell the value of my service cheap. Pride refuses to compromise on her queenship and leadership.
I shook my head, smiling wryly. Pride scoffed, snickering resignedly. It was as if we were gazing at our mirror reflection.
Our egos come first, anything else comes later. Love is love, friendship is friendship, lust is lust, and business is business, but our ego and arrogance comes first.
True to her name, she is Pride, the Golden Lioness, the Perfect Demon Lord. She had no intention to submit and become my sword. She had no intention of straying from her goal to follow mine.
I am Fearless, the Prince of The Alliance. I am who I am. Even though the words “The Prince of The Alliance” commanded little to no power on Escana, I am still who I am. I have no intention to lend my expensive service to someone else for free. I have no intention to play a game with these Immortals, not when this game means the life and death of millions of people, not when this game would remain and repeat perceptually without a clear end. I have no intention of lending my service to further someone else’s ambition, not when the cost of my service is way more expensive than the value of that person’s goal. I have no intention of changing my banner for the moment. I have no desire to become someone else, someone that I am not.
We are similar. Chaos could not reshape us. This game cannot change us. Neither URLOX nor we can change the other, only we can change ourselves. And neither Pride nor I had any intention of changing ourselves at the moment.
Once again, we turned and went back to our respective corner. Pride returned to her game booth. I went to my spot, standing among the black and gold uniforms on the opposite side of the battlefield. As usual, I have failed to convince Pride to submit. As usual, Pride could not persuade me to resign. And as usual, we decide to resolve our fate and future relationship through this game in a “Might makes right” style.
“Might makes right,” back then, on Earth, it was a cheat code of invincibility, something I had activated to see the Valkyria. It was not the feeling of invincibility that I wanted to experience. It was the Valkyria. Now on Escana, “Might makes right,” is a popular method of diplomacy.
This strange game that we kept playing together for so long had become more than just a game. The roles of student and teacher have been reversed and reestablished. I was her teacher. She was my student. But now, we are both a teacher and student. I am learning from Pride as much as she was learning from me.
Pride, a Demon Lord, has played this game like a pro-gamer would. I, a pro-gamer, played it like a warlord and a general on the killing field. She had a mouse and a keyboard. I had five brains and a dependable supporting cast on my side. Pride saw the battlefield from the bird’s eyes camera angles. I visualized the battlefield through my imagination and listening.
It was a strange game that we played and kept playing. But, it has become more than that.
I, a pro-gamer, a player of games, is playing a war. Pride, a Demon Lord, a maker of war, is fighting a game that simulates war.