Chapter 55
Craven Voices
Days swiveled, with Asher spending most of them lounging around in his half-comfortable chambers rather than on the battlefield. The speed of leveling had absolutely plummeted as he could only get one level a day at this point. Of the last three level-ups, only one wasn’t a passive increase and was another active buff:
Inspire [Rare]
Effect: break up to 100 of your soldiers out of states of Confusion, Fear, and Terror, healing them for 30% of their Max Health. For 30 seconds after, they gain a 10% boost to their Damage and Health Recovery. They cannot be inflicted by Confusion, Fear, or Terror for 3 minutes afterward.
Level: 1/5
Cooldown: 20 seconds
And while the ability itself wasn’t actually bad, the soldiers themselves didn’t fall into those states all that frequently. In fact, it was a sort of a rare event. All the same, the days were somewhat dull, especially because he had stopped being a frequent target. Even when he Knighted three people to become his ‘personal’ party, it didn’t draw much attraction.
He couldn’t quite understand why, but he didn’t bother to either. His mind was beyond occupied with a singularity--waiting for that precious moment when all hell would break loose. He waited and waited, mind stirring with possibilities, until, on the fifth day since he’d executed the strategy, it happened. And, as either luck or design would have it... it happened directly in front of him.
The wall's parting was sublime and breathtaking--tinted dots that were figures slid sideways like doors and began to retreat, one by one. The shadows bifurcated and fissured, and a direct pathway was immediately opened... and Asher did not wait for a second longer.
As planned beforehand, the mage by his side--a lovely, young woman called Sarah of all things--immediately got in touch with the rest of the Generals, soon realizing that there were two more breaches besides the one in front of him. He didn’t dally, relaying to others to begin immediately.
The swarm descended like a plague of locusts while his army growled like an awakened dragon; fearless, boots stomped against the bloodied ground and violence exploded at an unprecedented scale. A nearly two-mile long sundering that was supposed to stabilize began to crack and grow, spanning out on both flanks.
Asher barked commands the best he could, mostly relaying them through Sarah--telling the mages where to concentrate the fire, the priests which groups to heal, and even asking the mage to boost up his voice so that the soldiers would hear him. He needed chaos.
Unbridled chaos.
Pandemonium that could not be contained, controlled, or confined.
He descended the hill, his feet heavier than mountains, and barked even louder.
“MOVE LEFT!! HARDER!! TWENTY MORE THERE!!”
“DON’T FALL BACK! PRESS WHEN THEY FALTER!!”
His voice surged even in the impending sounds of chaos--it was heard, like a crack of thunder.
The roars were his replies--metallic clangs exploded, soon followed by a shower of lights that were the spells.
A bundle of fire exploded right above the left-side flank, dousing the enemy line in devouring flames. Right after, a spray of water doused it, but before it could do much else, a flurry of elemental magic broke apart yet another hundred yards, ripping apart over a thousand soldiers in a swift move.
All the spells from his own mages were exceedingly concentrated as per his orders. Each incantation seemed to rent the sky asunder, leaving trails of shimmering energy before crashing into the enemy ranks with cataclysmic force. It was a harrowing sight, one that left Asher immediately gasping for air.
He witnessed a young soldier be heaved up by a spattering explosion and be wholly dismembered, while midair still, by a violent slash of invisible wind. Blood rained in the torrential storm, bodies--whole and unwhole--piling up faster than ever before.
As he was close, he could see it--vividly... the desperation. It clawed at their hearts and throats, a gnawing fear that threatened to unravel the tenuous resolve their fragile hearts still held. They watched in horror as the fragile lines began to unravel, their ranks falling apart at their seams--the plans, the very ones that they ascertained would crack open the gates of victory... belied.
They were fraught with fraud, tossed in a chasm from which there was no return. Young and old, the veterans and the greens, all found themselves beholden to the inescapable reality--the line was broken... and it could not be mended.
The enemy Magi hurried to try and bombard the breaking line, but there was a concentrated fire meant entirely to disrupt their spells. It did not mean that none of them landed--rather, quite a few did. It wasn't a breakthrough lacking losses, but rather the opposite. Thousands had already perished, some by the blade, some by the elemental magic, and some, terrifyingly still, by being trampled alive. Among the roars that drove them forth like whips of courage, there were whimpers of defeat, the cries of the fallen, the surrender of the marred.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Time slowed down suddenly--no, it felt like it had slowed down, to him at least. He could see it all, the lowest dregs of humanity at a full display. The exceeding violence, the brutality, the unbridled apathy toward life. A heave of a sword ending a life. A thrust of a spear ending another. Who were they? To him, they were nobodies. Tangible puppets handed over to help him fulfill a goal. Nameless, faceless, soulless, and mindless shells.
A head flew upward, rolling like a ball, face fading in and out of his view. The helmet fell off and a wave of golden hair spattered out from within it. It was long and wet and bloodied and it framed the face of a young girl--a child, Asher recognized. She couldn’t have been older than eighteen, yet the pair of debased eyes lacked the vitality of youth, the drops of innocence, and the curiosity of someone who had just started experiencing the world.
He felt sick all of a sudden... yet all he could do was bury it. He couldn’t disavow his own conviction, not immediately so. The head fell and disappeared, both from his sight and from his mind. There wasn’t a part of him that could afford to become an empath to death--as that was all there was in front of him. Death.
It ravaged enemies and allies alike, but it wasn't the sort of death that commanded a level of understanding; it was not cold, apathetic, or equal. It was the violent sort, the bloody kind, the engine that consumed all that which was not ready to die.
Therein... the chaos.
It could not be restored, not any longer.
The line was broken.
The wall had fallen.
Asher’s gaze drifted up the mountain where he caught the size of a well-dressed man waving his arms about in panic, eyes confounded in shock and horror. He’d realized it... yet was in denial. He was trying to undo that which could not be undone.
The most salient thing of all was the growing pile of bodies that was suddenly flung up and away, scattered in every which direction just so that the path was cleared. Asher fell silent and withdrew, silently condemning it all, himself included. There was horror brewing within him like an invisible wart and all he could do was gnash his teeth in silence and watch. He couldn’t look away--they deserved to at least have one pair of eyes witness their sacrifice, even if it meant nothing.
Thousands...
Tens of thousands...
Within just fifteen minutes, there was no longer a line--some of the enemy soldiers were bravely delivering their last stand, though most had started falling back up the hill, running away. The Generals as well as the Commander seemed to have already evacuated judging by the complete breakdown in command that he witnessed in real time.
He watched the exact number of soldiers tucked away to the right of his vision plummet all the way down to an insane 2,1 million. Over a million had perished in just twenty minutes or so.
Sitting down, Asher looked up at the sky emptily. It didn’t matter. At this scale, his heart hardly felt a thing. It wasn’t as though he could possibly understand the number. But there was one thing he could understand--it was his choice that led to this. His plan. His 'brilliant' strategy.
He smiled ever so bitterly and spat to the side, only realizing he’d spat on a pair of rather well-adorned boots. His gaze immediately drifted up where he saw the same handsome man who’d thrust him into this hell. The man didn’t seem to mind the spit, or Asher himself, truly, as his gaze was focused on the battlefield.
A white cape fluttered violently behind him in increasingly speedy winds, as did his shimmering hair, giving him a rather imposing air and allure. Asher stood up in silence, following the man’s eyes--just like he, the man seemed to be imprinting the deaths of the common soldiers into his eyes. As for what reason, Asher couldn’t presume.
"Harken, thee," the man spoke softly. "Let the weight upon your breast be diminished, young lamb. Rather, let my heart behold it for thee. Alas," he looked at Asher suddenly, a pair of iridescent eyes blinding in their divinity. "When the lambs heeded my Command, they savored not the victory of any sort. Only death and loss and defeat. I was felled here, upon these unholy dunes. Wounded in body and pride. My lineage writes of my heroic sacrifices, no doubt, but there were no such things. Just yearnings of a boy with a bruised and broken ego. Do you wish to know why I interfered?"
“...” Asher remained silent; rather, he felt unworthy to even speak. It was strange, beyond so, as he didn’t feel anything close to this when he faced the Emperor.
"That very ego," the man said, suddenly smiling bitterly. Even so, the beauty didn't diminish; rather, it became melancholic. "On occasion, when Journeyman cometh, I would offset the quest and force them into my place. At first, it was to prove that nobody could have won this battle. That it was not my fault. But... once by twice and thrice, I was proven wrong. Thee... is now the seventh who had yielded a victory. And you all had such despondent faces, such melancholic eyes, such ravaged hearts... perhaps that is why you are all human."
“...”
“I was witless in life, I assent,” the man said, suddenly looking up at the sky. “Driven by tawdry pride, by illusions of grandeur. I was the Divine Empyrean, thus they said. And though I won the war, and though I won many wars after it, and though the history celebrates me and my name... I will forever be lesser on account of this day.”
“Why... why are you telling me this?” Asher gathered enough courage to ask.
“... because you suffered unto my selfishness,” the man looked at him again, the gaze mellow and sympathetic. It was the first time Asher had seen it--a pair of eyes that did not diminish his very essence... at all. Even El, as accepting as she was of him, held a hint of disdain hidden deep within her gaze. The man, however, did not. “Forgive me, human... though forgive not my blood. As Elu-dium forespoke, aet benta messin. Forever at war with self.
"Harken," the man lifted his arm gently and slowly, every movement as though perfected and in perfect tune with nature. The world itself seemed to part a path for every action, and there seemed to be invisible spirits cheering it all on. It was such a strange feeling that Asher found it almost addicting. "First cometh the Age of Benediction, where the Mighty Halivum grasped the Mettle of Light and founded the Order of Bereaved. Since cometh the Age of Rapture, where the Order was felled by the Beguiled. Thereafter cometh the Age of Antepenultimate, a time lost and bereft of knowledge. Then cometh the Age of Rebirth, where the Seven Writs were unearthed once more, and Seven Orders of the Devout were born. And now cometh the Age of War, unending strife and struggle to rebirth the Mettle anew and crown thineself the God.
"Every Epoch finds itself in want and need of heroes, o' thy fearful lamb," the man added as his figure began to fade, overcome with light. "In the twilight of their doubt, the frail and feeble seek guidance and look to the unbroken to steer them toward the light. Now more so than before, when flames and ashes of war leave only despair in their wake. Whether you stand at the helm or walk in another's wake, do not be swayed by the craven voices in gilded halls, for they know not the pain of strife or the besotted tears of sorrows. Be free, little lamb," the words began to fade as he wholly vanished. "For even if chained in body, never do subordinate thine soul."