It is done. In the eyes of hundreds, Avalel has done the unthinkable. No soldier dares to seize him, no guard steps forth to capture him. They have all neatly, naturally fallen in his grasp. Honestly, it is a little quick. For one his age to snatch away the power of the faction should’ve been impossible, but here he is. The New Rule rapidly falls to his command, the lives of thousands, if not millions, now under his control. Ah… the feeling is slightly nostalgic, isn’t it?
“That was quite decisive of you, Avalel,” Ipela congratulates, staring blankly at the corpse of the President. There is no grief or even shock in her eyes, only a plain acceptance… and what seems to be a slight arching of the mouth. “Quite different from what I was used to, but definitely a pleasant surprise.” Her aged face shows no fear, but a frightening composure, as if she had almost expected such a development.
“Ms. Ipela, you are certainly key in this success,” Avalel returns elegantly, observing the expressions of the entire Assembly. “Had you not taken me in back then, I am sure the New Rule is now bound to face its ruin.”
As expected, the officials show nothing but fear. These well-educated, wealthy individuals, supposedly in control of the entire faction, now crumble before the simple act of violence, so common for Avalel himself. Their eyes are filled with pure, unrestrained fear, not even daring to look at Avalel or the bloody Anapadeia. And to think these are the leaders of the faction in war… Pathetic, pathetic indeed.
“What… What will happen to us now?” an official nervously says, her hands unconsciously protecting her neck.
“As none had stubbornly decided to side with the former President, you all may retain your current posts,” Avalel replies. “As for the role of President, I do not intend to claim that role, but rather, Ms. Ipela will serve its role for now until a proper election can be made to replace that vacancy. There must be a reward for the first that steps out, after all.” For one lacking even the bare minimum of political experience, Avalel’s words are confident without even a hint of hesitation. “I am still quite unfamiliar with the workings of our bureaucracy, and for that, I still need to rely on your support to preserve the current administration.” Even as his words flow out, there is a sense of artificiality, a subtle sense of mockery on the marginalized role of the Assembly, not as a legislative body in his eyes, but merely as a bureaucratic organization.
He turns to the soldiers, judged to be still recruits with their terrified faces. “Spread out into the streets,” he commands. “Gather as many civilians as possible to the entrance of the Grand Hall. There is no time to be wasted, especially not in a time like this.” His voice is barely louder than a monotonous statement, but it reaches clearly to the soldiers’ ears, immediately prompting them to move out, their boots marching in step. There is something robotic about their movement, so obedient and uniform, like mindless drones.
He can feel the power concentrating, the many layers, levels of Thille swirling together until it is just a pulp neatly resting on his palms. It is almost too easy. Or perhaps it is expected. In times of crisis, especially when a great hope presents itself at their door, the people are far too happy to accept, blindly throwing themselves on the ground, welcoming their savior.
He enjoys the wreath of glory placed atop his head, granting him the power to command… and to rule. It’s a crown he has long forsaken, and only now does he reclaim it. He loves it, embellishing in its light. The battle of Thille, inspiring fear in the people’s minds, is only a means for his eventual reconquest for all he has lost, fueling his rise to power, grasping the destiny he suddenly so yearns for.
He slowly ascends the stairs to the entrance of the Grand Hall once again, flanked by the sea of people, parting away slightly to allow him passage, like a large formation of attendants escorting their master to where he desires.
The Anapadeia emits a dark aura, so different from its usual reddish glow, drifting amongst the people, slipping into their nostrils, their ears, their eyes, their mouths. The silent haze is suffocating, controlling the people, emptying their minds of any rational, individual thought. If they were not before, they are now blinded, their senses dulled, no longer able to even fathom beyond the most basic of thoughts. They can only see Avalel, their savior, a sole figure of light in their world of darkness, reaching towards him, yet keeping their distance, fullying knowing that their wretched selves cannot touch his glory.
Little did they know, Avalel lives in the same darkness as they are.
The haze drifts around, corroding, haunting Thille like a plague, dragging more people to the Grand Hall. Even in the deepest levels of Thille, so resistant and stubborn to influences, fall prey to the Anapadeia, infected with the haze. The entire population of Thille is like an interconnected web of drones, their already flawed characters completely possessed, controlled by the usurper, the “savior” they so idolize.
As Avalel exits the Hall, he can only see people, crowding, stuffing the streets, some even clamoring to the surrounding buildings. They have lost all sense, only wishing to see him. It is clear that they have all been corrupted, completely swallowed by his presence. They have lost all power, becoming only puppets to the Anapadeia as Avalel stands above them all.
All except one, her slightly wrinkled face smiling at the foolishness around her. She quite enjoys this spectacle. After all, it is the art of puppeteering, the mastery it displayed before her eyes. Beautiful, just beautiful. It doesn’t matter that she has long since lost control, the turn of events beyond her comprehension. If she can just imitate it, maybe even completely copy, refine it, she can regain what she had, and much, much more.
She used to loosely guide just three little children. She now only somewhat controls one, having lost her finest asset. But soon, once she is ready, she will be in control of the world itself, having its leaders closely tied to her strings.
“To all!” Avalel shouts, proclaiming his presence, silencing the people, leaving only the whirr of engines and the creaking of metal.
Oh, how satisfying.
“I address you all with a message of sadness. It is not a fine time. The New Rule has fallen into its deepest crisis, Thille now found and facing an imminent attack from the Confederation. Our soldiers, defeated at the Pass, have never stopped retreating. The government, so weak and indecisive, has only worsened the situation. The people, finding their safe haven now under grave threat, cower in fear for their safety. In the months that I was gone, the faction has experienced nothing but losses. I know. If the President cannot do any more, then he is to be disposed of. In times of war, an indecisive leadership cannot lead the people. When he cannot protect his own people, it is only natural that he shall be killed.”
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He pauses. “I am the one who killed the President! Your savior, the one whom you had waited for months, has returned and taken control! I have fought with some of you in the same battle. I have seen comrades fall, friends separated, the ruin of the battlefield in full view before my eyes, a scene that many of you have been too sheltered and protected to see! I have suffered as much as you, perhaps even more, and here I am, standing in front of you, protecting you, leading the New Rule away from the ruin it has dug itself into!”
His confidence is unwavering and elegant, the words flowing out of his mouth. However, he hates the emotion in his words, feeling little passion for the people he claims to have protected. Only the Anapadeia spurs him on, pushing him with every word he says.
“It has come to a time where we cannot afford any more inaction. There is nowhere to retreat! If you truly treasure this city, then I ask, I implore you, that you take up arms and fight! There will be none who can simply sit back and watch. When the blade draws near to our necks, will we let it cut off your head, or resist it with every ounce of our being? Fight! Fight till our last breath! I will lead every one of you until victory is achieved! There will be no end even when our own spirits are extinguished, but only when Thille is again a free city, the New Rule reborn from the ashes to overcome the world itself!”
It is deceitful. He knows. He does not care whether the people will survive such an onslaught. Their values have become negligible to him. All he sees are tools, weapons at his disposal. Yes, he will fight, but not for them. They are the ones who will fight for him.
“As you follow the Anapadeia forward, remember these words: There is no victory without a sacrifice! But in the end, when victory is grasped, whatever sacrifices we made will all be worth it! So march, march with the conviction that all will be made its worth when victory is ours! Whatever the means, remember it is all for the victory of the New Rule! Go to the arsenals! Pick up a rifle! Fight for the faction you truly love, for the leader you truly adore!”
All for the victory and glory of himself.
Somewhere in his new memory, a somewhat foreign figure pushes her soldiers onward in the same fashion, commanding them forward to their certain deaths.
The haze grows thicker, now clearly enveloping Avalel, the air now filled with a dull grey color, the people being clouded, blinded by the hypnotic haze. They disperse, a swarm reaching for their destinations. As Avalel looks upon the people fading away in the smog, he only thinks, How beautiful.
Four years of being under the shadow of Kavlina. Eight months of stagnation, serving only as a lowly soldier in the New Rule, the Anapadeia only known by a small number of people other than himself. Yet here he is, forcefully taking command of the New Rule itself. One single day, that’s all it took. One single day for him to rise to power, one single day for him to revolutionize the faction itself, the power no longer dispersed, but revolving around himself.
This is the Anapadeia’s power, fully released at his disposal. The power long neglected by the Empire, by the generations of monarchs, finally finding a suitable bearer, a vessel. No, the ideal vessel, born of violence, raised, broken, grown from war. The complete qualities of a ruthless conqueror, exactly the one worthy of wielding such a sword.
Just like Elethien.
They have all departed, each to their own station. Avalel finally leaves the Hall, his tattered clothes ruffling slightly, his messy hair almost covering his eyes. Yes, his eyes, the pupils constricted, the irises’ color faded. A grin creeps across his mouth. Ah, how beautiful indeed, the insanity and lust unleashed when one finally succumbs, corrupts to the temptations of power.
Avalel is corrupted, dead. It is the first day of the fifth month, almost a month since he has died.
----------------------------------------
“He has returned?” a voice asks.
Ipela sighs. Even after months of communication, she cannot get used to that noise. It’s the same annoying, immature voice she has fled from for so long, only for her to proactively find him again. It is quite ironic, isn’t it?
“Yes, he has. It is currently quite messy in Thille. It should be beneficial towards you, is it not?” Her voice carries a slight sense of mockery.
“Beneficial? Do you mean for him? Is this supposed to be some joke?” the voice says.
“To take over the entire faction is no small feat, not to mention in only a day. Yet with such an abrupt change, isn’t the ensuing chaos beneficial for your eventual offensive?”
“Where is that chaos that should’ve come?”
“He is like you, in a sense,” she says. “Except where you had your planning, he has his raw talents and power. Do you not remember the outburst of revolutions immediately after you took power, despite your meticulous planning? You are a Wrakasen player, but he is a puppeteer. You seek to manipulate the board. He seeks to control every single piece.”
“Where is Oriyun, our intermediary?”
“Corrupted,” she scoffs. “Turned to a mere drone. His rapid control of the entire faction is… unnatural, even for the Anapadeia itself. The entire faction is just a hive mind, with him as its head. They are simply possessed by the sword.”
“How are you not corrupted, then?”
“... I presume it has something to do with the similarities between that magic and my own skills.”
“You’re lying, aren’t you?”
Ipela laughs. “Not exactly. But I dare say, you have become quite the intelligent man, haven’t you? Far more analytical than your younger self.”
The voice pauses. “How much exactly do you know about me, Ms. Ipela?”
“Perhaps you will know when I die,” she says.
“An enigma as always.”
“As are you.”
“I wish you the best of luck as the only sane one remaining in Thille.”
“Perhaps it is simply because I am rather insane as well,” Ipela says as the comms cut off. It is already enough.
She sees the details play out before her, the situation rapidly spiraling out of control. As one who desires control, to have her puppets obeying the strings attached to them, it is, to say the least, a little frustrating to witness a completely new piece snatching the puppets from her hands. Beautiful, but frustrating. She sees the flawless, complete control Avalel exerts to the people, so raw but masterful, so blatant but unnoticeable. A skill born from the pure lust for power itself, surpassing even her own.
She envies it. Think how much more efficient it will be if she can wield such power! The world shall quickly be hers. She had never wanted to serve under an authority. She wishes, for the duration of her long, miserable life, that she can control the world as she deems fit. The wisest, greatest, smartest individual to have ever step foot in Parvilien. The true head of the world. Then at least, she can have the means to protect her daughter, to give what she desires. But it is too late. Ipela can only guess the wishes of Norai, still stubbornly playing the role of a puppeteer, to accumulate more power to eventually give Norai the world, to give her everything, and let her choose what she wants from it instead.
She is a terrible puppeteer, she realizes. She cannot even control herself from the corruption of power.