Out of the Great Old Ones, Enkengelion was easily the least active. Whereas its three peers constantly schemed and meddled, the god of gravity and earth was largely uninterested in the affairs of mortals. It preferred to maintain a hand’s off and transactional relationship with the beings of Manu, offering mundane miracles that enriched depleted soils or created prayer crystals in exchange for tribute. Barring the few occasions it was forced to fulfill its duty as the arbiter of the divine pact, it refused to champion or condemn any specific faction or ideology.
At least, that was the case when it pertained to creatures of the ground and water. The normally apathetic deity harbored an irrational dislike for flyers. It perceived their ability to resist gravity’s pull as a direct insult, and would happily smite them for a modest fee.
The elders had mentioned Enkengelion’s petty grudge against the denizens of the sky, but Shrike had dismissed this information as nothing more than an amusing factoid meant to breathe some life into the least interesting Old One. The few flying creatures that lived within the Fringe were simple animals, so she had never even entertained the idea of anyone using a precious miracle to bring them down.
She dearly hoped that Zhulong and his minions would buy that excuse if they survived this encounter.
As bad as Enkengelion’s displeasure proved to be, it was Viros’ influence that she truly feared. The god of curses was an insidious deity that only appealed to the most loathsome or vindictive mortals. Few of Viros’ followers held any actual affection for him, but the cunning deity was a master of spreading his influence through force. He had no need for genuine devotees when he could just infect them with lycanthropy or vampirism.
The frothing nightmares fought recklessly. Several didn’t even bother rearming themselves before they rushed in. The first one into the engagement aimed for Zhulong’s jugular. The false long repelled the reckless assault with a downward slash that cleaved the luddite’s skull in two.
Blitz caught another werewolf in his jaws. The wyvern shook his head from side to side until the shapeshifter’s spine cracked.
These casualties convinced the rest of the pack to back off and regroup, but their furious bloodshot eyes made it clear they were still spoiling for a fight.
“Now fellas, there is no need for any of these theatrics.” Worry had crept into Zhulong’s voice and his attempt at negotiation only emboldened his enemies. The cursed luddites picked up their fallen spears and hurled them at Blitz. The brute wyvern had chosen that exact moment to flare out his wings in a threat display. His exposed wing membranes paid dearly for that mistake.
The werewolves followed up their volley with another charge. Blitz’s wings, damaged as they were, were far from useless. Roaring, he used them as bludgeons. Zhulong did his best to protect the wyvern’s flanks with a flurry of quick and constant slashes.
A wide-eyed werewolf more deranged than the rest threw himself onto the false long’s blade. Grinning madly, the fanatic pulled itself further down the glaive’s shaft to prevent Zhulong from pulling the weapon out of his stomach. The dying luddite’s companions ensured his sacrifice wasn’t in vain. Three of them pounced on the false long while he was distracted. One climbed onto his back and sank its fangs into his neck. Another pair latched onto each of his shoulders and tried to tear out his throat.
Bellowing, Zhulong lost his grip on his saddle and tumbled down Blitz’s side. His attackers had the perfect opportunity to open his throat but were too shocked to press their advantage. Zhulong’s already disturbing voice had grown even more nightmarish. His scream—which could be best described as a metallic dirge played over a boar’s tortured cries—filled his assailants’ minds with visions of blood and a blazing orange eye.
Zhulong landed a jab on one of his reeling attackers. Fangs sprayed into the air as their owner crumpled to the ground. The werewolf on his right leaped back to avoid a similar fate, but was a hair too slow. He let out a wet gargle when a scaled fist introduced itself to his larynx.
Zhulong cursed as he tried to dislodge the third lycaon from his backplate. More frothing luddites piled on top of the false long. Jaws snapped and claws gashed. Another foe was slain during this frantic tussle but in the end, Zhulong was pinned, with six panting werewolves affixed to his tail and back and another three latched to each of his arms. Another straddled his neck and pushed his squirming snout into the snow.
The alpha—a graying beast that was adorned with talismans and armed with a miasma-wreathed spear—loped toward the struggling combatants. Up until this point, he had stayed out of the fight, waiting for the perfect moment to deliver the coup de grâce. He dove foward, putting the full weight of his body behind his strike.
“▁▂▃▅▆▇▇▇▆▅▃▂▁!”
The sound that came out of Zhulong’s throat was so appalling that one of the werewolves stopped applying pressure to the false long’s right arm. Capitalizing on that mistake, Zhulong flung the slacker off and used his palm to intercept the alpha's thrust. His fist closed around the spear’s shaft, halting the weapon’s momentum just before it reached his eye.
Snarling, the gray werewolf tried to regain control over his weapon. He loudly forfeited the tug of war when a javelin plunged into his back.
Forgotten during the conflict, none of the werewolves had noticed Shrike collecting the weapons scattered across the ground. She chucked another spear at a luddite pinning Zhulong’s neck. The werewolf leaped out of the way. He quickly regretted this decision.
No longer weighed down, Zhulong’s jaws lashed out. In an instant, he bit off the luddite’s face and disemboweled another with his tusks. He tossed the last werewolf still clinging to his left arm. The rest relinquished their grips when his claws bore down on them. Roaring, Zhulong tackled the alpha. The false long’s tail squeezed with such force that one of the werewolf’s eyes popped out of its socket.
The chieftain’s pack mates scrambled to save their leader, but Zhulong fought with the ferocity of a cornered animal. Hot steam wafted off his body, obscuring their vision. His arms, already a blue blur of motion, became impossible to dodge.
A werewolf, too craven to re-engage the berserk false long, set his sights on Shrike. Shrike’s heart hammered in her chest as he bounded towards her. Knowing that the slightest nip would seal her fate, she gripped her spear as far back as she could. The werewolf avoided her thrust and tackled her.
Shrike caught her foe in a headlock to keep him from biting her. Snarling, the werewolf clawed at her belly. Her thick fur coat saved her from disembowelment, but its claws still found her flesh. The werewolf’s head broke free from her weakened grip. Shrike’s breath hitched when she looked up at its reeking pink maw.
There was a deafening bang.
When Shrike opened her eyes, the werewolf was rolling on the ground, hands clenched around his ruptured throat. He continued to choke and gargle until Zhulong bashed it over the head with the flat of his enormous pistol.
“Oh good, you’re okay,” he said cheerfully. Shrike hastily checked her body for any bite marks. She let out a sigh of relief when she found none.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Zhulong coughed loudly to get her attention. “When you’re done fondling yourself, do you think you can help me out?” He raised his right hand. The ominous purple spear was still lodged in his palm. “I tried removing it myself, but to be honest, I kept bitching out.”
Shrike shrank back from the cursed weapon. Her knowledge of Enkengelion may have been limited, but she was very familiar with Viros’ dreaded hexes.
Aware that she was already on thin ice, she ripped off pieces of her clothes with a detached spear blade and tightly wrapped them around her hands. She slowly reached for the skewer. She pulled her hands back when she noticed that Zhulong’s pulsing flesh was already slowly pushing the object out.
“Yeah, I heal fast. Pretty cool, huh? Still, it hurts like hell, so chop chop.”
Taking a breath to compose herself, Shrike carefully grabbed the edge of the shaft and started pushing. Her plan to slowly and methodically remove it immediately went south when Zhulong’s substantial lower body started thrashing around. Afraid that her makeshift gloves would fall off, she shoved the spear out of the false long’s hands. Shuddering, she shook off the rags and prayed that her flesh had not touched the vile object.
Zhulong buried his hand in a mound of snow. Tears ran down his eyes. The cascading liquid only added to his menace, highlighting his bright, predatory eyes. Zhulong wiped them away with a self-deprecating chuckle. “Man, that’s the second time I cried like a bitch this week.” Blitz limped over to him and pressed his snout against Zhulong’s shoulder.
“Man, they did a number on you,” Zhulong murmured as he inspected the wyvern’s tattered wing membranes. He stroked Blitz’s head. “Don’t worry, boy. Dirge should be ringing me up in a few minutes. We’ll get you patched up.”
“The spear has filled your blood with venom; you must cut off your hand before it spreads!” Shrike shouted.
Zhulong stared at her blankly. Shrike grit her teeth. She made a sawing motion with her improvised knife. “Cut it off!”
Zhulong looked at his hand. A new layer of scales already filled the hole. “No need for amputations, little red. I ain’t getting gangrene.”
Shrike doubted that even his regenerative abilities would neutralize Viros’ venom. She continued to shout and gesture. She didn’t even want to imagine what the false long’s minions would do to her if he succumbed to the toxins.
“Like I said, I’m fine. This body is immune to disease I—Why is your hand glowing?”
With no other solution available to her, Shrike offered him her hand and recollections.
Zhulong stared at her palm, head cocked. “Is this some sort of antiseptic magic touch?”
“Just grab it!” Shrike screamed.
Shrugging, Zhulong did as he was told. His immense grip engulfed her hand. She felt like an infant holding hands with an adult.
A familiar electric tingle ran up her arm. The next moment, their souls collided.
Through his watering eyes, Shrike sees a wild-eyed woman wailing louder than he is. His mother hurls glasses and bowls at the wall, cursing the world and everything on it. While her son continues to cry for her attention, she snatches his brother and stomps away. When she returns, her red eye flashes in the darkness.
Years blink by in seconds. A chubby young Zhu tries to outrun a group of boys squealing and oinking at him. The ring leader—proficient in Mandarin—knows why his mother pronounces his name in two different ways and has gleefully clued everyone into the cruel pun. When Zhu’s mother catches wind of this development, they move.
When Zhu is not staring at a wall, a notebook, a cold figure of authority, or a screaming mother, he is looking at a screen. Humanity might be vile, but their inventions keep him sane. With a few clicks of a button, he can get lost in pastel worlds more colorful and gentle than the one he lives in.
The town they move to looks different, but is ultimately the same. The others quickly pick up on Zhu’s obsession for all things sugary and whimsical and single him out. He lashes out this time, but all his defiance does is convince his tormentors to escalate their antics.
A pariah again. With no one to speak to, Zhu aspires to learn the ways of paper and pencil so he can learn to craft his own worlds. His outlines are crude and messy. They say practice makes perfect, so he scribbles away until his mother demands he do something more productive.
His mother is strict but inattentive. She does not notice when he swaps his math books for history books. He wants to know what a world without the great oppressor was like.
Disappointment continues to be the greatest constant in his life. Human history has always been inked in blood.
Just when Zhu thinks he is used to the insults and punches, they find another breach in his defense. His stomach drops when a girl mocks his pitiful excuse for a drawing. The insult is small and petty, but the truth of her words is venom in his veins. He flips through his sketchbook and glares at the dates etched on the pages. Years of effort have amounted to nothing. At that moment, he wants everything around him to burn to ash. He shouts the forbidden word over and over again until they wrestle him down and clamp his mouth shut. His mother beats him for embarrassing her and they move again.
Sadness brings no reprieve. Fury does not deliver retribution. So Zhu smiles when the petty cliques unite against him again. He cackles at his own misfortune, cheerfully commends his tormentors on their creative cruelty, and moans with ecstasy when the girls denigrate him. A persistent bully calls his bluff and tries to crack his armor with brute force.
Zhu giggles when punches rain down on his face. He titters when his attacker’s puffing cheeks turn as red as the blood dripping down Zhu’s mouth. He roars with genuine laughter when the drooling troglodyte breaks his own fingers on Zhu’s forehead and scampers off. His mother does not show her son any sympathy when he returns home with a black eye and chipped teeth. She assumes he has made a fool of himself and viciously upbraids him. She freezes when he approaches her with balled fists. The tension bleeds out when Zhu flicks her nose with a snicker and plants himself on his computer chair.
Zhu pretends he is a god while he recovers. The game, ‘’The Dawn Of Nations’, helps him in this endeavor. He teaches a tribe of pixelated savages the ways of fire and iron. They flourish under his rule. In a few days, their huts evolve into a sprawling metropolis. At first, he is proud of their accomplishment, but peace and prosperity prove to be boring. He summons a tornado and sweeps everything away.
It's amazing what a change in perspective can do. Zhu hardly remembers those days of angst and pathetic self-pity. Self-deprecation is a beautiful way of life and it grows sweeter when he learns how to bounce insults back. To his disappointment, his peers out themselves as glass cannons, and eventually gives his sharp tongue a wide berth. His former tormentors eye him nervously. He towers over them now and his distinct, manic chortle is the stuff of nightmares. Zhu just skips past them with a smile.
His ability to find amusement in everything almost costs him. There is a buzz of surprise and whispers when Zhu emerges from a filthy bathroom with a silver eye. There is talk of imprisonment and lethal injections, but nothing comes of it. Zhu stares at the contents of his old sketchbook with a rare grimace. He throws the collection of lovingly etched scribbles into a dumpster. The world has spoken; he is a destroyer—not a creator.
The barriers between reality and fiction are broken. Zhu carves out a new life in the fantastical world known as Conquest. Hundreds of thousands of others do the same. Within days, the digital landscape is dotted with cities of stone and steel.
What could have been an escape from the depressing rigors of reality becomes yet another showcase of the worst aspects of humanity. Underhanded tricks, tribalism, and constant vitriol drive away anyone unwilling to dedicate everything to this hobby. Before long, fools wearing imaginary crowns ignite a conflict without end, forcing the remaining players to flock to one pretentious banner or another. Every side claims the moral high ground and accuses the others of committing cheap tricks they are all guilty of. Zhu revels in the naked hypocrisy and pettiness on display.
Meaning, purpose, integrity; Zhu discards all those lofty ideals that used to keep him up at night. His debauched lifestyle does not bring him true fulfillment, but it distracts him from his sadness and anger—and that’s all that matters.
In her haste to pull away, Shrike fell flat on her back. She nervously chewed her lip as Zhu silently stared at his palm. When he turned his head toward her, she saw panicked disbelief in his eyes.
“Sputnik.”