“But there's one sound

That no one knows

What does the fox say?

‘Ring-ding-ding-ding-dingeringeding!

Gering-ding-ding-ding-dingeringeding!

Gering-ding-ding-ding-dingeringeding!’”

“Enough that it is ENOUGH!!!!”

If someone had told the king that one day, this would be his fate, he would have laughed. Laughed enough to appoint the man as his jester, the man would perform the spectacle for all the nobles. The show would go on until it was enough and the poor fool was executed for insulting the king. 

King Mortimer Knightsbane the third was a relatively tolerant king, certainly more open-minded than his late father. The old king was as serious as they come, exerting as much discipline in war as he did in his castle and surrounding lands. 

An insinuation of weakness from the king would have been ground for immediate execution, often beheaded by the sword of the king himself. An honour if you would believe the man.

Different times, the kingdom while not at peace had seen a significant decrease in the number of large scale battles and other territories conquests. 

But enough with the past, the situation of the king had reached a level of absurdity that was hard to believe. Never before had the king been bested, be it in the battlefield, or in strategic planning. 

This time he was thoroughly defeated, exhausted, at the end of his rope. The battle had lasted weeks, with only brief moments of respite when his  opponent had to rest. Not a single moment of privacy, the shamelessness of his opponent legendary, clearly having no problem in showing himself in front of thousands of eyes.

This was how this nightmare started; in the middle of a normal speech, in front of thousands of people in a normal town, under the bright sun of a normal day. This man with a sheer obstinacy, beyond anything that would be ordinary or even rational appeared upon my stage.

How he made his way through security, while easily understood with my current knowledge was, at the time, an utter mystery.

This monster of a man then proceeded, without any haste, every one of his movements slow and deliberate, as if he had practiced the short ritual thousands of times before, to unsheath his unholy weapon.   

The crowd gasped, looks of horror and disbelief present on the faces of all the people gathered here.

The security, trained to protect their liege through countless battles and training that would make a regular soldier blanch in horror, reacted in the blink of an eye.

But it was too late, his aggressor too close, and his guards so far away. The horrific liquid flew through the air, shot from the mighty weapon, it’s color an unhealthy tint of pink and orange.

The king stood still shocked, there was no time to react, helplessly he watched and felt the liquid soaking through his pants. The smell followed soon, but he was too enraged to register it. 

Without delay, he unsheathed his sword, always present at his hip, companion of many battles and swung it towards the offenders neck. 

It sliced clean through, no resistance whatsoever opposing the mighty strike of the heavy weapon. The sword was spotless, not a drop of blood present on it, it was as clean as the floor below it.

The man grinned, clearly prepared for such an outcome, the look in his eyes victorious. Those big brown eyes in this big round face with short brown hair. 

His appearance was utterly common, dozens of similar faces in this very crowd. His clothes were those of a commoner equally common amongst the onlookers.

And from this normal looking man, in this normal looking town, during this otherwise peaceful normal day, began my greatest shame.

Publicly urinated upon in front of a massive crowd.

Normally this would have been the end of the story, the king humiliated, the traitor beheaded, head and body mounted on a stick, planted in the middle of the square for everyone to see.

But from the start of this spectacle everything had been anything but normal.

Now the king had to watch his sword passing through the man again and again, soon joined by the spears, swords and daggers of his loyal followers. And it was all for naught. 

The man remained still, undisturbed by the flurry of steel passing through his body, his smile almost manic at this stage of his machinations. 

His pants remained down to his knees, his manhood exposed for all to see. And gaze upon it the crowd did, for only now the shock faded, parents hurrying to cover the eyes of their young ones, too late to prevent the formation of memories that will follow them for all of their lives.

Bards created a countless number of songs, the tale spreading far and wide. It was the talk in every tavern, a man always eager to share this epic with those who still lived in ignorance. 

This was indeed an epic tale, for not only had the man, nay hero, nay legend peed on the strongest man on the continent but he lived to tell the tale.

If you remember, earlier I stated that this was only the beginning of my greatest shame. And what a beginning it was.

The man unwilling to let it stop there, proceeded to follow the king, paying not a modicum of attention to anything, be it weapons, men or doors that stood in his way. He was completely intangible, making his efforts to pursue his prey laughably easy. However, to the despair of the king, the man was not silent, logorrheic would have been too mild a term to describe his tormentor.

The talking was only the beginning of the incessant raucous, singing followed a while after. As if tired of his tirade, the man decided to sing to his heart’s content. The singing wasn’t atrocious, some of the songs downright pleasant, the rhythms and lyrics novel, a guaranteed success in the hands of bards or singers with the appropriate talent. Those were unfortunately only few among many. Come night the songs would be more akin to screams, only the structure and the flow of the lyrics hinting at the possibility of a song. 

Howling to the moon, irritating repeating noises every day when the sun rises, random curses shouted here and there completed the repertoire of the everpresent maestro.

I came to envy the crowd present on that fateful day, able to witness a feat only dreamt of before. I had no disillusion that all of my kingdom loved me, I am a king, I have enemies in every imaginable circle. No, what I envied was what came after; they returned home, alone or with their loved ones, they returned to a place they felt space. A place where normally you were spared from the presence of strangers.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

For weeks and weeks on end, my movements were followed, my actions were scrutinized, my privacy was invaded. My moments of respite, too few, and too short for any man to remain sane.

For me, this man, a stranger was not anymore. 

⚪⚪⚪⚪⚪⚪⚪⚪⚪⚪

Gerard was having a great day. The sun was shining, the town was lively, the streets were full of people, nothing could overshadow the joy he was feeling. 

He had had a great meal, better than he could remember having ever eaten. The wine was delicious, a bit too delicious perhaps. He was slightly more tipsy than he would have wanted but it was alright. The feast had cost a fortune, it would have been a shame not to enjoy it fully.

Among the throng of people, George slowly advanced towards the square. There was time, it was early. The speech wouldn’t start for another hour. 

It was finally time, the day he would have his revenge. Time had passed, a lot of things had happened. Revenge is a dish best served cold after all. The steps to arrive here today were numerous, the obstacles, delays in what was now inevitable.

George had not planned to go down this path, this outcome a result of a series of coincidences and bad luck.

He was reincarnated, twenty years ago in this magical world. Magical in the sense that magic existed, or more accurately of phenomena that only magic could explain. The world was otherwise relatively normal, the farm he grew up in wouldn’t look abnormal in the earth of the past. 

His ensuing childhood was thus completely normal, playing games with children and helping to tend the fields when he was older. 

No system to help him grow stronger, no overpowered skill that would turn him in an undefeatable war machine. He could not even feel mana during his meditations, lazing under the fruit trees in his mother’s garden.

An utterly normal and happy childhood. This all changed on that fateful day, the day the boy laid eyes on the king for the very first time.

The day he stood helpless, watching in horror. The day he vowed that in time he will have his revenge.

The world was mostly normal, mostly being the key word here. In every person lay a latent power, a skill if you will. Unique to each individual, somewhat hereditary available for anyone to use and abuse. This however was if you managed to figure out what your skill was. The number of possible skills was endless and the clues as to what kind of power you might have laid in your lineage.

For nobles this was nothing too bothersome, their libraries filled with knowledge of the past. Figuring out your skill was just a matter of educated guesses, that and training, specialised and perfected over the years training.

Some artisans managed to teach their craft to their descendants, wealth an effective method to ensure your children continue on transmitting their knowledge and skills.

For peasants, farmers and the rest it was a different matter. Generation passed without the discovery of skills. Some lucky ones managed to discover their ability, if it was useful it could ensure an easy life for the years to follow. Some others spent their entire lives in the pursuit of a power that will remain outside their grasps.

It is not surprising that George had not one clue about what his power might be. Looking towards the past did not offer any help, none of his parents or siblings having found what their unique skills were. No one remembered if at some point in the past a member of their ancestors had awakened their gifts.

With this past being of no help, George turned towards his more distant past. The life he remembered despite being in this brand new world.

And with the help of his scientific knowledge and a lot of fiction from numerous modes of entertainment, George got nowhere.

With an arduous training, an inflexible will and the energy of a possessed man, George got nowhere.

The spark that lit the inferno that now is his power happened like by magic, a series of unfortunate coincidences leading to the wonderful discovery.

Like most great tales it started with a glass of milk, this however, was in the morning. Tonight, George’s mug was filled with ale, well, was filled with ale for a short instant. George had without questions drunk too much for tonight. And, as it happens when one drinks too much ale, George had to pee.

Unfortunately or maybe fortunately, the latrines were full at the moment. The latrines, far more disgusting than any public toilet you could find on earth.

With no other choice, George stepped out of the tavern. The ground was muddy from the rain earlier in the day, the sky was now clear with the stars on full display. 

One could marvel at the constellations illuminating the sky, the pale light of the moon shining it’s holy light on the ground below. That is if one wasn’t completely drunk.

George proceeded to relieve himself on a tree, in his drunkenness his gate was unsteady. The ground moving robbing him of his equilibrium, the sensation was akin to being on a boat battered by the waves

Falling forward George caught the tree with his right hand, this should have been enough to prevent a fall, leaving him standing with his bladder empty. Reality however chose a different outcome, George’s hand phased through the tree, with nothing to stop his downward momentum, he fell flat in the muddy ground.

George felt a myriad of emotions in that moment, anger, fear, humiliation, joy, excitement… 

The adrenaline helped return George to a state of being less drunk. With how much he drank, he wouldn’t be sober until morning.

From a recess of his mind, an idea bloomed. This idea was so stupid that were he sober, Geroge would have never thought of it. With a new goal in mind George could start training and planning. Tomorrow after the hangover passes.

George’s training was long and arduous, from morning till night he would train to improve himself. His new goal was clear in his mind, the obstacles in his way easily defeated.

Phasing one hand, phasing two hands, moving through thicker and thicker objects.

George trained until his whole body was able to phase, he trained to maintain it as long as possible.

He trained till he could live the majority of his life while phasing.

While using his power, he needed less food, less sleep.

The initial idea blossomed, and his sweet, sweet vengeance will be all the more grand. 

The time had come, the king was on his platform, his speech underway. The king had the rapt attention of the crowd, some guards couldn’t help and were distracted by the king.

With his power, getting under the elevated platform was easy.

George could hear the king talking above him, his powerful voice still clear below the wooden deck.

His bladder full, his mind clear, the fruition of his long planning and preparations was moments away, George closed his eyes and took a deep breath. A small prayer escaping his lips.

Fully ready, George opened his eyes, it was time, time to rise towards his destiny.

⚪⚪⚪⚪⚪⚪⚪⚪⚪⚪

The king had capitulated, given in to George’s demands. He gave him gold and riches, publicly apologized in front of the masses. He had been defeated.

Months with barely any sleep, not a single moment of tranquility and perhaps worst of all, the fact that he could not, for the life of him, remember what he had done to earn this living nightmare, made him finally crack.

George refused to tell him why he had such a vendetta against him. In the time they had together, there were some conversations. George was smart, an eloquent talker too. This in no way made the situation more pleasant, knowing that if he wanted a discussion could settle our issues made it maddening.

Taking his riches and having the king swore to not retaliate, George left the castle never to be seen again.

The idea of retaliation while very attractive was quickly pushed down. Would the attempt fail, the king didn’t want to imagine what convoluted punishment George’s mind would create.

Twelve years earlier.

King Mortimer Knightsbane the third’s conquest had been successful. Victorious, him and his army rode back towards his castle.

The few peasants on the simple road, gave way to the soldiers.

Ace wasn’t so lucky, in retrospect napping right next to the road was a bad idea, even during calm days it was a bad idea. 

The dog however couldn’t care less about logic, napping was all he cared about after this long day of running.

Ace didn’t stand a chance, armored horses rode by armored soldiers weighted more than he could support.

After the procession of soldiers passed, a boy settled his gaze on the broken body of his loyal companion. He rushed to the scene and embraced his best friend in his arms.

Tears falling down his face, the boy stood up and shouted after the king.

“As John Wick is my witness, I will avenge you, Ace”.