Novel Enduring the Cycle

This is a sequel to 'Perpetual Mania'

https://www.novelupdatesforum.com/threads/perpetual-mania.178744/

Karthuras escapes the horrors of Hettalies machines and into a desolate wasteland. Many years had passed by, he realized. Skepticism plagues his thoughts, believing he is all that is left—this is far from the truth, but the reality of his situation is more dire than he had expected.


Physical and E-book: https://books2read.com/u/3JqYME
Amazon: https://a.co/d/15ouiqK

I will be posting this story on RoyalRoad.com

https://www.royalroad.com/profile/648578/fictions

 

Chapter 1

This machine was created to alternate the mortal shell; mercy was merely a concept in its abstract design. Its perfection sides with the crude artistry of anguish, an overwhelming source of oppression—penetrating the flesh bindings and bone marrow from Karthuras’s anatomy. He could feel the mechanical limbs by the rotation of cylinder blades at his shoulders to his legs and remaining arm. It blends well with the symphony of the cacophony of the endless hiss! The pain subsides gradually with the many days—or perhaps the many years it’s been. Gradually, when the pain simmered to some extent, he pleaded within his thoughts:

Come back to me, faceless one—take me from this pain once more!

She did not answer his call, nor was her scarf seen near his proximity, and this led to an attempt to open his mouth for the hundredth time, thus speaking the words of conjuration. Similarly to his remaining limbs, his mouth was also bounded by the steel limbs. His forceful acts had only damaged the flesh connecting to the bottom of his nose and the edge of his chin.

Those horrible, scrawny beings of flesh and metal loom over to prevent Karthuras from attempting to escape anymore. Faintly, he could see his reflection from the blue-tinted glass eyes. It wasn't much, but as he expected, the process of him becoming a demon had come a long way from his mortal form. He couldn't believe it. Not even the pleasant mind trick of the dreamlands could sway him to think otherwise. No, he had to be reassured by the demoness Hettalies, who morphed into Cresalin’s appearance.

Karthuras’s bitterness reciprocates that continuous smile of hers. Not only did she taunt him with expression, but with her gentle hand, she felt the ashen skin of his exposed cheeks. She whispers:

"Sleeper has not forsaken you, neither have I, my love. So much work needs to be done, and time has already been wasted. As for our son, he is alive and well… He's also eager to meet you."

Such morbid fantasy is discarded from his mind, jaded from his sanity, and his resolve can no longer become persuaded! Again, his mind drifted into the realm of thoughts until he left in his state of eternal silence—this resulted in the whaling cries of those machines, stating Karthuras to be nearly dead.

"He is still alive! Still alive, I say!" The voice came from the Phantom ripped from the Karthuras’s exposed chest! Squirming in the hands of those mutants, he pleads on, eventually sealed in a glass chamber. His heart still sings! I swear it! I swear it!”

The mutants could not discover any signs of reaction within the muscles or his organs. Karthuras had suspended into the furthest deep of sorrow. Not only in his mind, but his body also had to share a similar fate—plummeting into the depths of wasted potential, surrounded by the corpses of men that came before.

In silence, he lays in perpetual reflection of his transgression and the demoness who seduced his mind with promise—the cure to desolation. Such curses had to remain, he bitterly concluded:

I had allowed myself to ignore her lies—permitting my consciousness to embrace the hesitant bosom of paranoia. I cannot preserve myself as one of true purity—only someone who deserves to be severed from this world…

And this very world shifted without his presence, as did his surroundings. A pool formed around his knees, becoming ever taller as the minutes passed. Annoyance plagues him, so he climbs from that abyss into the hall that previously mutilated his body. It was a miserable tunnel of abstract machinery; time eroded their limbs, and bodies caved into dust. The mutants were now nothing more than twisted skeletons and rotting steel.

His path eventually leads him to a curious spiral staircase, held sturdy by the cobblestone steps. He climbs it with caution until he finds an obscure patterned wall. With some force, he pushed, permitting himself to enter the chapel's main room. The light source came from the crimson sun, beaming through the tarnished ceiling and walls. As a mortal, the delicate decorations he grew to respect had withered into dust; the statues were no different. All that was beautiful withers the same by the unstoppable force of time.

Within the scattered shards of glass, Karthuras looks at his reflection, comprehending the horror that stirred over those many years: he morphed into a muscular state, shaded in ash, damaged by the many tools that left marks against his skin. The head no longer holds any strands of hair nor the parts that make him human—only comparable to an unrotten bone, gnawed many times over. And without his left arm bound by that scarf, he becomes concerned for his missing friend. Such concern was undermined when he exited the main door—what a hopeless sight. Lifeless beyond his anatomy. An inevitable evil shattered his world into a chaotic spiral, shaded in crimson: The scorching sun, the endless sky, the lack of vegetation, everything and everyone drowns in the shadowy ocean—creating distorted beings inside its murky waters.

#

Karthuras begins his journey across the degraded lands he once called his home. The miles he wandered, the mile more he began pondering the very existence of human life. This valley of death is a small portion of the true insanity that Hettalies brought to this world. The very essence of optimism is waned by this deplorable circumstance—thus, why is it—would he carry any ounce of faith? Unfortunately, it was only a thread; such fragile designs can only withstand so long.

His ears caught a surprising outburst of war cries in the distance. What befallen his sight was morbid obscenity, watching as the remnants of life striving for the other's death in combat. When he reached the battlefield, the cracked soil was fetid from the abundance of corpses—there were only a few survivors left.

They wear primitive clothing while equipped with weapons from the parts of the human composition. To some extent, they are still human, while others are blended with the features of wild beasts. One of the two sides had dark red paint on their skin, fur, and leather tunics. The other contains a blue shade, wearing head caps with fangs swirling around its cone-like shape. The last survivor of the red side was a human, holding a large bone weapon fitted with fangs inside its assembly. The last three are from the blue side, only having one hulking beast equipped with a blood-stained club.

The three approached him slowly and carefully, ready to end his life with a single strike. The red one puffs his chest to beat it like a drum and says to the three men:

"Honor to the Ring lord!”

Karthuras intervened without a weapon or a fragment of clothing, and he did not consider a plan. Their full attention shifted but not as a welcoming gesture, only expressing a glare of terror from his hideous poise. The beast-man said to the other two:

"Demon! Stand back! Stand back!" He gestured to stay away.

The other one pointed: "Dat arm' nutin there!"

Karthuras finally spoke for the first time, not realizing the dark shift of his voice: "There is no arm there—but believe when I say—that your life will be forfeited if you choose to battle me.”

"Tis bluff—Bluff I say!" the beast man regained his confidence. He charges in with the others by his side. Meanwhile, under Karthuras's breath, he uttered a sequence of words that removed the soul from the beast man's ally and gained control of him, thus dropping his weapon. The remaining one was conflicted by the sudden loss of his comrades—watching as the beast man used his two claw-like hands to rip open his jaw, exposing the throat for everyone to see the inside as the tongue rattles from the lack of support. The last one fell back, crawling on the soil in terror.

Karthuras said: "Is it death you seek or freedom to live on?"

After retrieving his cone-shaped helm with hesitation, he leaves the area and panics back into the wasteland. The red one said suddenly:

"Tis a place of honorable death, for I am not worthy to live on after defeat," he kneels before Karthuras in anticipation.

"There is no need for anyone else to die… can you not see the horror that surrounds us? We should begin to rebuild this world and reunite the people.”

"You speak words of cowardice, Demon… Peace isa damnable way of life. The ring lord will not be satisfied by such ways.”

"Are you a Phader?" Karthuras asked, "Do you know the words in which Sleeper, our ring lord, speaks?”

"I know not of—Phader?”

"That is who I am, stranger, Phader-Karthuras Rotolo. Once, I was a man who spoke the words of our lord, but now I am a demon of—no, it doesn't matter now. Who are you, and where are you from?"

The man rises before he speaks: "I am Gatlis, a great warrior for the Vermiculus-Flumen…" he answered, troubled.

Karthuras finally smiles with his exposed teeth, "I am very fortunate to have met you, Gatlis. Despite this situation, you have done a great service to me. Your people will feel the same when you return alive.”

"No!" he replied, "I—I have allowed my brothers to die here; I cannot return to their wives and children with their blood… I must finish the Flexenmires of their existence!”

"Perhaps in time, Gatlis… For now, let us find aid—and, for me, some clothing. I do not wish to have my cock dangling in between my thighs in combat…"

Gatlis was still confused by these events—leading him to ponder if this Demon was well with his intentions. Without much Hope for himself or his people, he believed taking such risks would benefit everyone long-term. After some thought, he eventually replies:

"Alright, Phader, let us return to my camp…”

 

Chapter 2

The trees of many are particular in their uncanny growth, as their roots are grown in chaotic extensions that intertwine, sucking the moisture from beneath the soil that is now dried—devoid of any life. Such purpose is wasted on perpetual stagnation. Like these trees, the remnants of humanity, such as Gatlis, who opens his skin container, ravenously drinks his blood supply. From that moment, Karthuras became curious and observed his surroundings, concluding that blood had become their only supply of refreshment. And, if that is the case, why hasn't he drained the blood of his warrior brethren and enemies? A question Karthuras had asked hours prior, with this response:

'Our bodies need blood in the afterlife—to sustain ourselves during the journey until we meet with our Ring lord. Sleeper—you call.'

Such traditions are factors of circumstance when there is a problem—a solution must be found for one or everyone's survival. The morbid solutions were becoming more cadaverous as Karthuras learned about these traditions. Within his eyes, he sees brutality from afar, and 'My home' Gatlis mentioned with some delight. The tipis wrapped around trees and boulders, made from the hides of humans, a contradiction to the previously mentioned blood Karthuras had asked. The people are a human and a beast hybrid, sharing labor and fun while playing with the bones and pieces of the human anatomy. He thought:

Would they not also need their skin? No, that is not the right question to ask... Is this their only means of survival? Their people are the resource…

Before, he had the chance to ask many questions regarding these contradictions. To his dismay, Gatlis paces faster to meet with his people, who welcome him in a short period until the questions are asked:

'Where is my husband?', 'where is my son?'

He did not reply with his words, only expression. In return, he was given a barrage of curses and the pitiful sight of internal agony. In these curses, one of the women scolded him by saying:

'You are a coward! In death, you follow! Follow!'

After they began to strike him down with fists and bone, the Demon, Karthuras, intervenes to stop such brutality. And again, the people witnessed his colossal stature.

"Enough!" he demanded. Everyone in the village was shocked as they hesitated to bow before him. "This display of madness will not bring back the dead nor will give them peace for the next life.”

"We are sorry, great lord! Please! Please! Do not take us to the empress!"

Gatlis rose from the ground, wiping the blood from his forehead before he spoke: "Do not worry—Phader is here to help us, not harm."

Karthuras agreed: "I have no affiliation with this empress you speak. I am here from my own volition. So, rise." Together, they stand.

From this point on, he gradually became acquainted with everyone. Considering the population was low, it was easier to remember their names; luckily, he was given a loincloth stained with black soot wrapped to his front, backside, and right shoulder. Strongly hesitant, he was to take it at first, but he wished to be covered by any means sooner rather than later.

Once he could fit the clothing around him, an older woman entered his proximity; she was short as a child, leaning on her staff for leverage and then using her free hand to shift the long grey hair from her muddy face. She asked him curiously:

"Why did you come to us for aide? Why do you not see the empress?”

"Like I mentioned before," Karthuras answers, "I have no ties to this empress you speak.”

"Gatlis had spoken of your wants. To help us in our fight against the Flexenmires—is this true?”

"Not in the way you might hope for… Your people wish for violence, but I wish for peace.”

"Peace—Bah, words of cowardice! The Ring lord mocks our tradition by sending us a coward demon—then turns our greatest warrior soft.”

"If a war breaks into your home, you can be sure I will be here to protect you from harm. Gatlis had witnessed the powers I possess,” he changed the subject: “Why don't we start from the beginning: my name is Phader-Karthuras Rotolo.”

"Melg…" she replied bitterly.

"Well, Melg, I must say it's a privilege to see life once more… I had slept in darkness for a long time, so forgive me if I seem ignorant of the ways of our culture.”

"There is only a lack of wisdom I see in you…" she shrugged, "how much longer do we have until after the courtesan festival?" She left his sight, worried for her people's future.

#

That same night, Karthuras returned to camp after taking a short walk. His thoughts were free to some extent—besides the questions plaguing him. Finding a place to rest, he sits alongside Gatlis and his people, who enjoy the contents of their blood stew. He rejected the bowl he was offered, stating his curse of immortality, preferring that they save it for themselves.

The night lingers on, and the crimson sun falls over the horizon. The tribe began to cover themselves and each other for warmth. Meanwhile, a few got together, placing down small stone statues against the cracked soil. Their designs are uncanny and fearful in expression. Their position was perfectly cast by the sun's flare, a spotlight made for the audience to watch clearly. From behind one of the dead scattered trees, someone leans around wearing a horrid mask resembling the demoness Hettalies.

Karthuras was taken back by the sudden image, remembering his time in the chapel with Cresalin before she shifted into that Demon and took away his mortality. He takes a deep breath and then focuses on the act. Then, the thumping of the drums began.

The woman portraying herself as Hettalies exaggerated her movement as she flicked and played with the stone statues, saying, "There will be no order—there will only be true freedom!" She then drips blood over the statues as her friends tremble the rattles violently. "To live, to create, to my new order you follow!" She tips them over, then circles her movements within the sun's shape. "And now, we begin the new way…" the dreadful silence came as she replaced the statues with disfigured ones. "My creation, beast and man. Become Gramnorians!" She suddenly screamed while holding her lower abdomen. "From my hands, I created a new life, so too will my son be born..."

Karthuras held his left shoulder from his turmoil; he thought:

Damnit, don’t say it… Please... I can't…

The woman raises a monstrous doll made from hair and fangs while saying: "The prince—the phantom of destruction… bow before him or suffer his wrath!" The rattles became increasingly ferocious in their sound as the woman danced, pouring droplets of blood against the soil. Her voice shifted to a deeper tone as she said: "Burn the land so they may never hide! Kill the cattle so they remain malnourished and desperate! Plug the water so they may never be satisfied… From this day forward—you will bow to your empress—and you will bow to your Prince…"

Karthuras was internally mortified at the new world and could no longer think clearly. Only to remember that long night with Cresalin, creating this dreadful event from the concept of love. And in his anguish, the night finally draped over that extensive curtain of gloom.

 

Chapter 3

The following day arrives as Karthuras sits to view the rising sun. He felt his fingers against his exposed teeth and hollow cheeks to remind himself of his disfigurement. He waited for the others to rise from their slumber; boredom, however, contented his patience to a high degree, thus moving onward with his casual stroll. In his time of isolation, he took his time admiring the view of horrific tranquility: The hills he recalled being lavished with wildlife and vegetation are now dry, cracked, lavished in that perpetual crimson shade. Stone pillars that were once hard to see from afar now draw distance eyes, a variation from the long draws of reappearance.

He looks onward to the sky, viewing the ring of Sleeper hovering above this endless crimson sea—staring evermore into the darkness as he spoke: "To why have you cast me here? Why must I live among the disordered dunes I created unwillingly… The temptress fooled me… Did you not see yourself—all-seeing eye?" Sleeper did not respond to his sudden words of quandary.

Surrendering his own time led him nowhere, so he had to return. He rested against the hollow tree, waiting for everyone else to get up and begin their routine. The long hours spiral ever deliberately until everyone else rises. Everyone eventually wanders into their destined places, speaking causally about the Flexenmires who may never venture out here again. After all, there is a demon among them. Still, Gatlis worried about such events unfolding when he least expected it to happen; not only that, but he also pondered the merging of the Phantom prince—who will arrive either next week or the next month. He was not sure when it was inevitable that he needed to prepare. With Karthuras by his side, there may be Hope. He asked Karthuras about his fighting techniques, and his response was 'None.' So thus, he concluded that he and the Demon needed training.

From there, In between the bundle of lifeless trees, he insisted the Demon test his strength against the stones and branches. It was simple enough with his single hand, and too did he carry a bundle. Then he dropped it all at once, leaving only one stone in his palm. Correcting his stance firmly, he throws the stone against the tree, hoping it will leave a deep mark; this is an understatement. He did not leave a mark; he shattered the tree's base with such force that it toppled over, leaving behind a mess of broken twigs and splitting the years of growth.

Gatlis became more curious, thus allowing Karthuras to hold on to a makeshift bone sword. With his heavy swing, the fibers that bound the hilt and bone were immediately ripped as the bone launched into one of the few remaining trees, penetrating the bark. From this point onward, Karthuras learned the basis of his current strength. For now, he had to move with Gatlis back into the campsite. After some time in the many steps of cold silence, he asked the warrior:

"You mentioned before that—you leave bodies for the great beyond with their blood and tools intact. But your weapons, shelter, clothes, and food are from human remains. Why is that?”

"They are not ours, Phader. Tools from Flexenmires and others… but those others are gone now.”

"Others—stolen tools—I suppose you had nothing more to use?”

"That is our way of surviving! What else is there?"

Karthuras was left with more questions than answers, and now he grew more curious about these 'others.' To ask this question, he knew it would not give any more ideas of thought, thus remaining in his oblivious state—having to rely on his intuition by the methods of nature via separation from the weak and strong. Furthermore, Karthuras is tested by his physical limitations. He placed his single hand against the hilt of every tool and tried to replicate Gatlis's work in making weapons. His arrowheads were barely shaped distinctly, nor could they penetrate the skin. As for his 'warrior spirit,' Gatlis found the Demon lacking in this aspect. His idea of peace cannot be seen no matter which outcome the Flexenmires choose. Their numbers were great, and their weapons and armor were more advanced. Their tributes are more than willing to move on. He considered help from a witch who may be able to cure this disease of the 'kind spirit,' turning Karthuras onto the warrior path instead—this became his final decision.

#

Not far from the campsite, a gravel path descends beneath the soil as the faint light flickers within the infested darkness. Infested by objects of morbid design, hanging, impaled, replications of human and beast—half fake and real, skeletons wrapped in oil-soaked leather. The hums resonated with the whaling tune from an older voice. Gatlis and Karthuras enter the main to meet with the source, finding the witch well-adjusted in her throne of sticks and bones. She looks through her face mask, made from a man's face and bound by her grey hair strands—her rippled white cloak stains in crusted black. Beneath it, at her lower abdomen, something moves from underneath. With long fingers pressed against it, she gently rubs it as she says:

"Do not fret my child, the outsider we have been waiting for is here," she then presses her fingers against the mask, "Husband, let us bring comfort to our guests." Taking the clay bowl from her side, she pinches the dust within, flinging the substance into a small cloud. Though the motion was comical to Karthuras, the smell was enticing.

Gatlis spoke with worship at the witch: "Hathor, eldest witch of the dry lands. Will you hear my words?"

She cackled: "Yes—yes, of course!”

"The Demon must possess the power of stone, a warrior’s will! Do you have such remedies?”

"He does not require medicine…”

"What are you asking her for, Gatlis?" Karthuras asked.

His reply: "To make you strong! A demon of true worth.”

"Such wickedness stems elsewhere," She added, "Karthuras knows well, for he is a relic of a bygone era.”

"You know me?" he asked.

"Not much, but your friend often mentions your name in conversation," she pointed to the opening gap where an object wrapped in tarnished fabric is placed.

"No, don't let him take her away!" a muffled voice said.

"Oh, hush now…" she replied, unveiling the growth at her stomach: A development of disorder formed of an infant child, though wrinkly, leathered like an old man with grey streaks of hair laying against his twisted ears. His uneven red eyes look at Karthuras with dismay.

His voice was hollow, deep, youthful in expression: "You cannot have her. She is with us. Not you! Us!”

"Hush!" the witch demanded.

As Karthuras was conflicted, so was Gatlis, who remained still and doubtful of his situation. However, he ignored the words of the mutant, thus unwrapping the object in question, finding not only his withered left arm but the scarf that bound itself to it—the black fabric shivers as the red letters glow from anticipation. Immediately, Karthuras was penetrated by the fabric, and it pulled his back into place! The pain was not existent, but the dreadful encounter made him cower for a short moment. He watches as the flesh ripens, allowing his limb to bind with his body again. The withering decay vanishes with circulation, which matches the tone and color of his body. Now, he was whole again, and more was he connected with a familiar presence. The gentle warmth of the scarf glows as the angelic voice whispers in his thoughts:

"Finally, we are together again…"

He opens his eyes to the lovely scenery: lands filled with bright green vegetation, flowers in full bloom, the dim sky infested with red stars. From a swift breeze of black clouds, the woman reveals her contradicting aspects of macabre and exquisiteness—a ghost among this vista, her smooth face shifts in many shapes without revealing an eye, nose, or lips. Her lengthy red hair flows with her blackened gown, which is ashen by the touch of the wind.

She presses her hand gently on his cheek, "The longing of separation has rid the sanctity of our souls. Together in our shattered state, we shall cross this world through the chaos that Demon left behind… Karthuras, you and I can abandon all and live in absolute freedom."

For a moment, he was silent, grasping the sight of her once more after so many years of isolation, "… I'm afraid I cannot commit to such fear—these people need me. I must bring order to rebuild ourselves and the world surrounding us.”

"They already remain at the pinnacle; have you not seen their ways of life?”

"I have, and yet—there is still more to see. Perhaps indefinitely, I will find remnants that will make our future brighter. I only need time.”

"Time is all we have known, my love… Will the others have similar patience?”

"With my determination, I will face these hardships and Hettalies once more.”

"What about your son?"

He pondered, "I shall deal with this tribal warfare. He and his mother will come soon after.”

"Very well," she accepted, "As long there is no one to separate us, we will overcome these obstacles."

As Karthuras opened his eyes, he directed himself towards Gatlis and asked: "Take me to the Flexenmires; I will do what I can to end this conflict."

 

Chapter 4

Beyond those many miles, the two crossed the rigid mounds—climbing dagger-like mountains to walk alongside the puddle-infested lands; such rare water sights were taken by the hordes of insects more giant than Gatlis, who dreaded the sight. After that, they find the ruined chapel from afar. Karthuras recalled its structure and the Phader who ruled over it. Horton, the very same individual who ignited the curious workings of the supernatural bending of life and death. The reason why Karthuras is plagued with such power. He recalled that instant when it happened, then pursued by the waves of guilt he had forced himself to forget.

"This is far for me," said Gatlis. "Death will chase.”

"Very well," Karthuras accepted.

Gatlis nodded before retracing his steps back. As for Karthuras, he wandered the narrow path for the chapel while admiring the web of décor fitted around the fallen pillars and shattered walls. The blue insignia is painted against the skin hides, depicting a mountain in front of the scorching sun.

It was a vapid plain from the outside, but once he approached the main door, he could hear the abundance of enjoyment from within. The people yelled in sync with the beating drums, words patterned with meaning, none of which Karthuras could understand from the muffled echoes. His knock thundering in the ears with its hollow tune soon conflicted with their rhythm. Their leisure was damned—turned to fear when they opened the door.

The decorated Gramnorian warrior looks up, staring into the Phader's darkened gaze. He steps back, dropping his weapon, and kneels before him. Everyone in the chapel, dressed and expressing their hours of pleasure, was now stained in that similar expression of horror.

He walks forward, protruding the darkness that came from his altered anatomy. No one in his proximity wanted to face him except the chieftain standing before his throne. A monster he was, a grotesque combination of the human form unified with bear traits, such as the head and limbs. Hanging at his shoulder is a tall halberd made from the skeletal parts of his fallen foes, battened from the many battles; its scars were insufficient to shatter because of its reinforced design. His voice growled when he spoke with the Phader, shivering the flesh of anyone near him:

"When my warriors felled, my worry of intrusion aches me. Your presence I waited for, and now, you come unarmed. Why fight me alone, Demon? Will you act with your cowardice ways of conjuration?"

Karthuras replied: "I do not wish for anyone else's death. I came with the hopes of negotiation between the two tribes."

Shocked by his words, he roars with laughter before speaking again: "Demon, want peace? Foolish!”

"There is nothing foolish about establishing order in this forsaken world. Have you and your people not suffered enough? Have your enemies also suffered similar strife?”

"No-no demon, there will only be death for the Vermiculus-Flumen. Our ancestors had fought their kind for many years; those years, death! Death was all they knew when they had the power. And in death, did they slaughter those who chose to rise… You rest at the tip of the highest mountain, seeing the waters flow in one direction. If that head knows much, then you must walk from all.”

"I must remain and take—"

The chieftain interrupted: "Then a fool you are, from life to death… This talk will end in two ways: kill us now, or walk away and prepare for our final fight… No weak-minded demon can face all of us." Everyone stood with their weapons, preparing to strike Karthuras, who remained firm in defeat. Before leaving, he expressed:

"Your efforts will strike the hearts of your people with perpetual blood-lust—when you fall by my hands or by my words—all whom you have sworn to protect will wither."

The chieftain chuckled, "After the prince collects his tribute, prepare for war.”

"No one will listen to you…" The faceless woman whispers in his mind, "Embrace your power once more; show his people the horror you possess.”

He replied without speaking out loud:

Never again will I torment these souls to my whims. Such darkness controlled me in my mortal years and left me in a terrible state of desolation. Therefore, I will find the opportunity I need to solve this problem through my intuition.

For a moment, she was silent: “Very well… But do not allow yourself to be slain by those you wish to protect when the opportunity strikes."

#

He left the Cathedral behind him—weary of the outcome that will fall next week. Karthuras had to consider a plan to stop this war and deal with the Prince's arrival. There wasn't much time left, and—Sleeper was more than willing to allow this tragedy to occur.

Perhaps he is testing all of us… To see if we are worth living in this world. A thought he considered

Such goliaths of events are a rarity in spans, persistent in months following the next. However, the answer is the most significant question, for his surroundings had already decayed, fetid from their affected flesh, its boiling pools of sulfur. At the same time, humanity swims unconsciously through its red waters. A sight plain to see—elder Melg gathered the young woman together to speak of their future, the possibilities of why the Prince would want them for selection, and question if he would give them better living conditions. Melg was persistent and had an optimistic viewpoint. Gatlis gathered the few remaining young boys, no older than thirteen, preparing their wits and arms for the war that would be pursued. The idea of death is yelled into their small ears with a sudden change of religious perspective. When one dies, they will be sent to the great ring—into the land of dreams where they will only know peace and luxury. He was subtle with his words from a more cultural perspective:

"The Ring Lord demands us to fight strong, without weakness… if you fight weak, I will use your corpse as floor to my home. And you, in dark nightmares." The boys became determined by such ideas, but the eternal nightmare threatened them.

As the days strive forward with cruel haste, the village waned by the prospects of their lives. Nonetheless, Karthuras looked for ways to stop the Prince and the war, only coming back with that terrible answer of conjuration. Lost in his realm of ideas, he needed something consistent, and a Phader does not know the meaning of war, for he and his colleagues were never trained in such arts. No, only the ways of life and words ease the mind into a more balanced state. What a predicament it was for him to know the brutal ways of nature had to devolve back into this state of existence. For a short while, he transversed through the Cathedral's rubble, discovering—those familiar books. The same ones that the old man had during his final days before he was slaughtered out of grief.

A complication begins to occur in his mind, and the critique for the existence of Phaders is outlined in a book, paragraph upon paragraph. Though skeptical Karthuras was from this individual's perspective, he recalled his previous encounters—and considered some prospects in which the order may have influenced his life and the lives of many. Though in the beginning, there was a reason—the times of 'True Freedom,' the era in which mortality is damned while selfishness became standard. But once the Phaders grew accustomed to decadence from their own experiences of chaos, they became the problem they set out to destroy. But through the many pages, he learned something about himself and the Archphader; it read:

"There is no doubt that the Phader is a truth-sayer for Sleeper. The words, however, are depicted from the perspective of lies rather than truth. If one can become strong through hard work, why hasn't every man followed this principle? The answer lies in birth; not all can live the same way as the fortunate Phader who was taken to their chapel of delight—As for me and the many others who live among these filthy streets. We live according to our previous actions, but what else is there to life when modernity is common? True freedom, Hettalies described such ideas in our youth; why not embrace these ideas if others are willing to partake in similar delight? To the realm of nightmares will boredom dwell!”

He responded to this idea: I had also seen how people treat others; this era is no different. Despite these barbaric practices, their meanings differ from mine in youth. And again, shall I press the idea of mortality in freedom… Such as the balance of labor and leisure so all can enjoy their life with tempered strife. One must grow, after all.

Again, he presses through the worn pages until he finds something that may help with his thoughts:

"A Phader's leadership is one of knowledge than experience. Books should always be read… these truth-sayers, however, should understand hardship through practice—not observation. Do they understand the plights of feeding a malnourished family through acts of robbery and murder? There was no job, no means of income. Preferably, the acts of brutality and troubadour practices are more beneficial. What did the Phaders do during the years of true freedom? They remain in solitude with their guards and maids… When resources became dry, old, and feeble, they took the wandering bastards so that their practices may repeat the cycle! How long until this collapse happens again? Will their students follow such cowardly ways?" After he read this passage, he considered the ideas while taking this book with two others on his way back. From there, he presses on through those pages and continues to observe while interacting with his surrounding environment.

 

Chapter 5

The sun rises over the mountains with its extensive rays of scorching light. Upon the deathly hills, snarling from his ravenous hunger—a beast of great size, human in form. He transverses the world with only four men by his side, both inflicted with terrible mutations of human and Gramnorian proportions; cladded in heavy armor with golden materials jeweled with ruby stones, crested upon their chest, lies the emblem of a wolf. This beast stands twelve feet tall, walking forward with his hinge legs, licking his long snout from the lack of moisture on his lips. From his steel container, he drinks his supply of warm blood greedily without a single drop to be seen inside.

"What a terrible sight, indeed…" his deep voice trembled his men. Upon seeing them cower, he responded: "Do not fret, for there is more over this very hill. From there, we will take more than just blood," he grinned. Grasping at the hilt of his curved sword, he became anxious to hear the hiss of his blade, imagining the slaughter he performed years before. "Though what a shame it will be—for them to comply with my whims.”

"Will the empress accept such morsels?" one of the knights asked.

"My mother shall have her fill of virgins—that will always be guaranteed. If not for the Mound-rats, we will produce our supply of children. There are plenty of men and women to go around, after all. The capital is sprinkled with your kind after all…" The men held their tongues as the Prince walked onward.

Upon that very mound, they watch at a distance at the Vermiculus-Flumen tribe, unaware of the Prince's presence. With his broad grin forever present, his red glowing eyes protrude from his horn helmet. He enters their domain as they kneel before them while Gatlis and Melg step forward. The Prince spoke first with his enthusiastic tune:

"Melg—Gatlis. It has been a while since we stood together in harmony. Such pleasant company should be granted a gift of hospitality, won't you agree?" Melg gestured her hand at the woman who held a pot filled with blood. The Prince took it, smelling and swirling its contents, then poured every drop inside his steel container. "Such quality, divine indeed… What of your selection?"

With some hesitation, Melg said: "Come forth!"

A well-groomed group of women, brightened by oil, step forward together. All of them share different outlooks on their future. Some are scared, others are hopeful to live in royalty. The Prince felt a certain grasp against his spine, shivering from the cold claws of his own shadow—forming into a monstrous shape, his shadow grasped onto his shoulders, staring at the woman on display. The Prince asked his shadow:

"What do you think of our selection, Phantom?"

He said, "What a magnificent sight, Hettalies will be most pleased… a hearty soul can never be forgotten."

Karthuras remains hidden among the scattered trees, mortified by his son indulging in authority through intimidation. While his anatomy was nothing compared to his, he was instead a beast than a man. His lingering did not last forever, for he had to intervene.

The Prince glances at the Demon for a moment, at first terrified by the random encounter, then questions:

"Who are you, Demon? Are you one of my mother's servants? What is your name?”

"I am a Phader among these people. I don't serve your mother—I serve Sleeper during his perpetual absence."

The Prince chuckled, "You serve a god that doesn't invoke True freedom?”

"Look around this world…" Karthuras replied, "All that once lived withered to dust.”

"All living things must die either now or later… Such as yourself," he turns to his knights, "Go on, bring me his head!"

Karthuras demanded: "If you attempt to strike me now, you will have forfeited your own life. You must reconsider!"

The four did not listen. Thus, the words had to be spoken. In that instant, two of the men collapsed as the last two dived their blades inside their exposed bellies. The Prince was appalled by this as the Phantom protruded closer to Karthuras. He said:

"No, it can't be you! You're supposed to be dead!”

"Will you forfeit as well?" Karthuras pressed on.

"It’s been a long time since I had to use my blade…” The Prince said, “I will be sure to end your pitiful existence!” His sword is removed from his sheath with a deafening hiss. It was coated in blood from his previous foes, rotting from the lack of treatment.

With haste, he charges Karthuras ruthlessly—swinging his curved sword in every direction, his heavy strokes shrieking the air, leaving no opening for a counterattack! Soon, he had to give in to conjuration or allow his son to endure the strength he possessed. Either decision runs the risk of killing him, a risk Karthuras is unwilling to take without a second thought. And within that thought—he had to decide before the Prince landed the final blow. With his hands wrapped around the Prince’s left arm, he pulls it from the socket! Then, bluntly strikes it against his snout!

Tossed on his back, the Prince lies in anguish—while his shoulder streams an endless river of blood. Karthuras drops the torn limb and then takes the sword instead, pointing the blade against his son’s forehead. He considered ending his life here and now.

“You have to commit, Karthuras!” The woman in his thoughts persisted. “He will return to Hettalies and bring an army to destroy us.”

No matter how dire his situation was, Karthuras could not bring himself to kill him. He stares into his child's eyes, a familiar soul behind the beastly exterior. With a firm stroke, he plunges the sword next to the Prince’s long ear, saying:

“Go forth, and never return here…”

He rises back on his feet, grasping onto his exposed flesh. “Remember my words, Phader: ‘When the fifth sun rises, expect these tarnished lands to be rid of all remnants of life. And when they ask who caused such destruction, they will utter your name in response.”

“Your hands already destroyed this world; there is nothing more you can do—But end the suffering you see before you… Will you show them mercy?”

He turned his back against the Demon and stumbled back over the mounds.

“Doom is coming for all!” Gatlis said as he struck against the Demon with his bare fist, “All will perish! All will perish!” Grasping his monstrous hand against his fist, Karthuras tightens his grip as Gatlis whimpers from his crushing strength.

He told the warrior: “Our fate was already destined… From here—from my actions—I will lead this world through its already chosen path. No longer will we all suffer through stagnation,” he let go of Gatlis.

“What of our tribe!” Melg insisted, “Will you allow death for us all!?”

From her question, he recalls his answer—an answer given to him from the many lectures he read in his three books, without speaking its contents out loud:

“It’s no secret that humanity was created through brutality and willpower; those of us who have learned and gained the correct information will lead the simpletons to build the world as we direct them. To establish order through the populace, you must divide and conquer without any thought of comprising… Therefore, when they are separated, terrified, desperate, you can control them by speaking words of promise.”

#

Karthuras had made a promise beyond gold or the cure for malnourishment: the capital, a place of wonder and freedom from outside forces. In a week, he had to find a way to convince them to follow him into the wasteland. On the third night, as the sun falls behind him. He spoke fluently:

“Upon these many days—and many nights you had to succumb to the world that is now, and forever, a rotting carcass. What lies beyond the horizon is a sanctuary; however, it only remains if you are willing to partake in this incredible journey. I can lead you there. But to join me is to follow my whims without question, without a change of heart, without raising your hand. To stray from my path is a violation to our Ring lord, Sleeper… If you are to stray from me, then I will allow these lands to consume you. No one will be there to save you, not I, not your mother or father, not Gatlis, and indeed not our Ring lord… neither can you save yourself from such tragedy… To waste your blood away is a great disservice to your fellow neighbor. An act unworthy for the dreamlands—thus guaranteeing that you will remain in the realm of nightmares.”

He didn’t want to influence their minds through lies. Simple thoughts can only stray so far, unfortunately. No one questioned his ideas verbally—few kept their skepticism to themselves, knowing the others would strike against them if asked—so, thus, they followed along. By the next morning, they had not begun their path to freedom, only the familiar trail that led to the Flexenmires. That previously mentioned skepticism became troublesome wonder as they approached the ruined chapel. The entire clan runs out, weapons drawn, ready for slaughter. They stopped, watching the Phader walk forward with wide arms open and a broad smile on his skeletal face. He said to the chieftain and his people:

“Your vigor is unwarranted—for we don’t share similar desires… I have come to lead us all to sanctuary, and you are all welcome in our company. Let us forget the past and journey into the new… Will any of you follow?”

“We talked before, Demon! I command. You die! Flexenmires, slaughter!” he raised his weapon, gesturing for an onward assault against Karthuras and the Vermiculus-Flumen.

Karthuras thought to himself:

I must embrace the terror once more… So be it.

He said out loud, “Taketh the soul, transverse into the next, become my puppet, and slaughter those who dare raise their hand against us!”

The chieftain watches as his Gramnorian warrior falls over, as his soul runs into his massive body. The pain he had to endure was beyond comprehension; two limbs protruded from his body as his face malformed. His thoughts are corrupted by those words Karthuras had spoken. With his weapon in hand, he begins crushing, ripping all who approach Karthuras and the Vermiculus-Flumen! The Flexenmires stood back as they watched their chieftain stumble with the blood of his tribe; in fear, they kneeled and pleaded for their lives to be spared.

“Do you wish to follow us then? Have you had your fill of bloodshed?”

They all responded with trembling voices: “Yes!”, “Spare us!”, “Our souls belong to you!”

“From now on, you will only follow my path—and no longer will you rise against me or your former enemies. We shall become one and transverse through the wasteland, pass the stones, around the rumble, and beyond the sharpest mountain. Will you deny this path?”

No one denied his offer. And within that same day, the Flexenmires gathered their families and necessary supplies. Following the Demon and this so-called promise of sanctuary, a place he wasn’t sure of himself.

 

Chapter 6

These lands are relentless, concealing threats that crawl against the tenderfoot of anyone who crosses over. Such pain is burdensome while traveling. Karthuras’s flock had to deal with these consequences to a terrible degree. Upon the skin, blood drips from toe to heel, blackened from dirt and gravel. Resting gave them no ease, only the fear of continuation—twenty-five men, forty women, and ten children suffer through this condition. As for him, he rests leisurely against the stone pillar. He couldn’t sleep because of his curse, but in his mind, the faceless woman gave his much-needed rest in the dream world. Instead of that stone pillar, his back gently rests against the tallest tree, his legs against the soft strains of grass, and that woman wrapping her arms around his shoulder with no intention of letting go. From his worried thoughts, he asked her:

“Humanity’s last refuge is not much farther from here—such thoughts worry me: will the capital be charitable enough to take them in?”

She replied: “Are we not aware of their condition? Their barbaric practices will only hinder their reputation. Not only that, but Hettalies will know of your existence and will do whatever she can to kill you and these people.”

“I’m aware… Still, I hope they will be charitable; if not, I shall make a sacrifice that will lead to the Demon’s downfall.”

“What are you planning to do?”

“A being of obscure proportions. Such as the chieftain, who is more complex in anatomy and could wipe an entire civilization.”

“Why do you have this change of heart? Are you not eager to save this world from extinction?”

“The capital is the only place where my withering optimism can be restored. If not the capital, nor the wasteland, then I shall end its suffering—afterward, I will deal with Sleeper’s consequences—by whichever fate he decides for me.”

Without her face giving him a slight expression, her movements still gesture concern, “Those years of darkness had removed your sense of compassion… I still remember those days in the chapel and how eager you were to help others. With such resolve, you were able to help those indeed.”

“I must evolve… I can no longer wither—no more will I need the comfort of food or drink. And to sleep, the very action became nothing more than a foreign concept to me.”

“Just remember who you are as a devoted Phader. The one who takes the concerns of the many and leads them to their goals and freedom from their anguish.”

“I recall well of my purpose… from these present conditions, I am alone with this new responsibility. Not for one destination, nor my own home… I must guide this tarnished land to its final ruin… so it may be rebirthed into something more.”

#

Within the tall, broody walls of the capital lies an ocean of insanity. Upon these many structures, shudders anon to the passing ears from its cacophony. Such cries could be ignored when the eyes focus on mechanical parts in play—a combination of flesh and steel, bone-saturated oil, watchful eyes leering upon every corner. Human and Gramnorian individuals cross the dirt roads without a glance nor gesture in pleasant greetings; no, there was only worry and hidden disdain, thus moving onward with their place of repetition—areas that hold the many bodies used for restocking their blood supply. Not by force are they placed into these cold steel chairs, slowly dying from the lack of vigor. Drip-by-drip, they lend to repay their debts.

Stumbling across the dirt road, the Phantom Prince huffs and tilts at his weak side, ready to pass on into the next life. The golden-plated guards who noticed his sudden appearance approached him and guided him to the castle beyond the scattered machinery, where he was stitched, fed, and bathed.

With help from the passing maiden, he could relinquish the worry of his mind before speaking with the empress. Dressed in his now polished armor and sharpened blade, he meets with his mother in the dim throne room, shown in artificial blue light—decorated in a degenerate alter. Hettalies stands in the middle, drinking from the motorized spider that binds an unclothed woman on its back, slowly draining her blood.

A single drop of blood runs vapidly down her sleek black armor; she catches it from leaving her sight and then proceeds to lick it from her black glove. She did not take on her demon appearance, preferring the form of Cresalin—thus blending the macabre with beauty. Upon seeing her wounded son, she became instantly worried and quickly embraced him in her arms. “Who did this to you!” she demanded to know.

His response: “A wanderer outside these walls among the mound-rats.”

“There is more to the story,” said the Phantom, “It’s an old friend of ours. Karthuras.”

“…Are you certain?” she became speechless.

“Beyond certain—for he performed the conjuring arts against our men.”

The Prince continued: “It matters not who this Demon is, rather how we can get rid of him! How long, if not soon, when this Demon will corrupt our capital?”

Hettalies laughed at the idea, “This Demon does not possess such unfiltered hatred. He is only a kind soul who can do no wrong. That is why the Phantom was first introduced to your fa—”

“The mound-rat…” the Prince corrected.

She continued: “Yes, of course, the mound-rat… As I was saying—he is not a man of true volition, for he and only, will proceed the motions given to him by the Phader code.”

“Still, I must persist, mother,” the Prince waved his armless shoulder, “There is a matter of my lacking worth; I require an alteration to proceed the mound-rat’s strength and ability.”

“The Phantom should be more than enough to stop his act of conjuration. As for your strengths, there is something I can do to change them. Alas, would you be willing to go through such treatment? The body requires a conscious response to every muscle and organ growth. Further on, you will no longer have excess to the pleasures of both leisure and consumption. It’s a similar method I had implanted in the mound-rat, you speak. This method is immensely instant.”

“I cannot have our home taken over. I must protect and serve everyone within these walls, no matter the cost… I’m willing to surrender myself for the betterment of all!”

She turns to the Phantom, who looms over the Prince’s shoulder, “What say you?”

“It doesn’t matter to me, empress… I’m not the one who will suffer through crude dismemberment.”

“Then it has been decided,” Hettalies concluded.

Expectation runs through the Prince’s thoughts, vivid imagination portraying sights of horror—going beyond the realms of insanity; in reality, a severe shiver strangles his spin upon seeing the steel hydraulics and flesh bindings. Its limbs protrude from every corner of the pentagram bed with holes at the limb placements. Gripping at his chest was the mechanical rip cage that penetrated his organs with a black serum while severing the hair from the skin, then from the skin to flesh, then to bone where it is cracked—the pieces reformed to a greater width as the serum fills the empty gaps. Such a process left the Prince sobbing from these instruments of carnage. His limb is stretched, torn off from the socket, and reattached with greater mass and height with steel reinforcement.

The Phantom watches from the side, snarling in delight at the sight before him. Hettalies was no different, and she could see potential in this new design; alas, will her son have resolve? Speculation about the heights of misery is futile—if one does not comprehend such a dilemma.

 

Chapter 7

A desolate howl soars within the grit-ridden storm, a blinding source that closes draw distance, rendering one practically blind. It is an unfortunate time to be hasted to find shelter so abruptly, then pushed together within the small cavern. Karthuras and his flock rest in solitude, anticipating the storm’s end. The surface of these stones gave no sense of pardon, somewhat conflicting the mind to wonder about the outside force that is ‘random chance.’ It all begins with the Demon, who led them down this path of idealistic fortune. He sits across from the two tribes; some causally stare out of malice—as it trickles their minds with imaginative thoughts of paranoia.

With his eyes shadowed by the fading light, he could observe such an expression, wondering if one, if any, would strike him instantly. He thought:

This path has been extended—indeed, I may have led them to doom from my naivety… If one were to give up now, others would follow suit to their fear, controlled by its whims. The talks of peace and promise could never reach their minds unless I plague it.

Karthuras finally spoke to his flock: “I can see those glares from here… A terrible idea must have intervened from the evil that lurks around us.”

The man spoke: “Evil follows us to you!”

“Your road butcher, lead to grave it does!” a woman added.

“To those who remain sane,” Karthuras responded, “As you can see, these non-believers of the Ring Lord are willing to give in to the evil corruption surrounding us. It’s saddening to watch my people suffer… I must ask these poor souls to reconsider!”

“No more talk!” the man said, with only the woman and one other man agreeing as they pulled out their knives. Their people pull them back from attacking the Demon.

“No!” Gatlis demanded, “He speaks the truth! Only truth!”

“Let go, coward! You all must suff—” Before he was able to finish his sentence, he was stabbed by Gatlis.

Karthuras took a deep breath from this occurrence, dreading its outcome. Those same rebellious souls are chopped, drained of their blood, and used for everyone’s survival. Seventy-five, now reduced to seventy-two. He reminded himself:

This is the nature of humanity. There is no better outcome than they will follow willingly. Such restraints were afforded to the few… What am I saying? There are too many inconsistencies, and they are not persistent in the ways of Sleeper. Gatlis and I had—transformed our conviction many times already… Again, I need to focus; we still have a few miles after this storm ends.

When the storm ended, they followed Karthuras’s trail across the mounds until they saw their destination from afar—the capital—a wondrous sight conflicted by the trails of steam releasing from the tall iron pipes. Buildings that refer to the body of spiders, embracing the other in morbid ways of touch. The outer walls are covered, hung in the skeletal remains of a thousand previously departed souls. His very last shred of optimism dissipated to the final scar—fetid with a particular infection. As for his people, it was the opposite: a sight of a new beginning. It is a bizarre difference in comprehension.

The sight of unholy corruption came next over the next few miles. The abundance of steel bolts litters the rotting corpses. He assumes these are remains of other tribes. The hollow screeching of a particular instrument abrupted his focus, and the others all turned to the stranger who made this uncanny noise of distortion. He was tall, seven feet long, holding an instrument of tight, thick strings. With a simple wave of his long fingers, a sound emits a similar cry—not of sorrow, but rather a welcoming expression. His body was bandaged with ebony strips edged with silver lines. The thick black mantel covered his broad, prolonged head—five feet wide, shaped abnormally unlike a human or Gramnorian.

In a short stretch of fingers, the instrument drones a soft tune. Soft enough for this stranger to speak without interrupting himself:

“An old relic of a bygone era arrives in decay—his sense follies to a conclusion. That will come sooner than expected.”

Karthuras replied: “I can tell you’re a demon such as I… But your purpose here, I must question the circumstance.”

The stranger replied: “To guide my fellow Demon to his desired destination… Of course, I must redirect you from making a mistake.” He tilts his head towards the row of corpses. “You will be in the range of the empress's guardsman. All of whom carry cross bolts… What a shameful way to battle. Whatever happened to the parlay of swords or fists?”

“We are doomed!” cried one of the women.

“Must return! Must return!” one of the men added.

“In either way…” The stranger continued, “Hope is not at all transparent—Now, should you walk the mile more?”

Karthuras asked: “What else is there?”

“None…” The stranger answered with a sorrowful pull from his string, “Out here at least, but down below these decayed lands underlies the dungeon of Sleeper. Some had called it the ‘Labyrinth of Foundation.’ I will not force your decision either way, but if you—and your flock wish to find sanctuary, you must transverse the exposed corridors until you reach the sewer system.”

“What do you gain by helping us?” asked Karthuras.

“Nothing… Nothing at all; there is little in life that I need thanks to these conditions of mine. Sooner or later, you will learn to appreciate it, if not already.”

He paused to ponder, “—This dungeon you speak of, I have never heard of it before.”

“That is because it’s supposed to remain in the depths for years to come… But such—are the ways of life when a curious demon explores the caverns of this world. You and I were never meant to go down there either, but the damage is done—so thus, we walk towards the back entrance and embrace the world down below.”

“This could bring worse outcomes…” Melg added, “Should we not try to approach the front gates?”

“By all means…” The stranger added with a jester’s smirk.

Melg turns to one of the children. The boy walks forward with a smack from her staff, rubbing his now soar head. Alone and afraid, he went on for a moment—only for his skull to be penetrated by a swift, finger-length bolt. He falls over, spilling his blood upon the already-infested soil. The cries of his parents ring as Melg is taken back by his death.

“seventy-one…” said the stranger as he adjusted his instrument.

The melancholy tune waves in the air with dashes of idealistic fortune in his lyrics. A song of bitter delight, some would consider it a gamble of outcomes that comes from a pre-selection of variables. ‘Maybe—what if?’ The whats and ifs scatter within the random thoughts in Karthuras’s imagination. Looking up into the sky with his hollow gaze, he stares evermore at the ceding sun in the middle of Sleeper’s ring, much like an eye—it stares emotionless without the presence of its true face.

“This place of foundation—” The stranger suddenly said, “Is a place where it all began, the terror, the harmony, love—hatred—bitter bliss, and so much more, the workings of a mad god who knows only how to create. Either succumbing to the madness of creation or delighted to see its growth… Tell me, Phader. What would you do if given the power to create a new world?

Karthuras responds: “To create a utopia, a welcoming place where anyone and everyone is welcomed. A place where chaos can never loom in the darkest shadow.”

“But that’s it… Chaos always roams when you least expect it to; in fact, it prefers you not to expect! To learn from your environment means you will gain the knowledge needed to see the flaws around you. But then again, if they all live in this idealistic world, they will never know their creation's flaws—and their neighbor's flaws. No, they will all become husks repeating treading the never-ending path.”

“Not unless I am there to create it.”

The stranger scoffed, “I suppose you will learn when you see it all shamble before you… Ah, it seems we made it to our destination.” He points toward the ruins, where a rectangular cavern lies in isolation, its mouth opened as the pillar of ebony teeth cracks from the lack of care. The throat echoes a whaling tune as they approach, marveling at the carved walls, all depicting animals and humans.

He continued: “Beyond the thousand steps lies the capital’s foundation, around every corner, and scattered around every wall—you will eventually reach towards the sewer system, and from there, you will enter the capital.”

“Will you not guide us?” Asked Karthuras.

“I’m already preoccupied at the moment—matters that are very important… Perhaps we will meet again, but I wouldn’t count on it… And, of course, the sun shall rest over the horizon here shortly. Your people need their rest. Would you not agree?”

 

Chapter 8

“Young, Karthuras. Do you understand the fundamentals of which—either man or woman would partake in the acts of true freedom? And what would the outcome be?” The Archphader said.

Young Karthuras replied: “If—if the people are forever lost, desperate to find resources, they will eventually give in to the ruler who speaks of hope through the chaos... The outcome, I—think.”

The Archphader interrupted: “They will be led into the path of standard assurance! A world without an individual will exist; there is only ‘all.’ And if everyone acts as a hive, there are only years upon years of nerve-wracking silence… Hettalies knew of this, but we prevailed—thanks to our lord, Sleeper, may the silver eye never fade from the heavens.”

Karthuras opens his eyes from that distant memory and into the present world. He looks around his surroundings, witnessing the world down below—A city he would dare say if it was still inhabited.

He and his people rest on the highest platform now. Admittedly, he was too enriched by the spiral of morbid beauty—Such as the cobblestone pillars that reach from the most bottomless pit and into the high ceiling. The walls have a pattern of arches with silver statues within the plethora of beings that Sleeper created. The site was undermined when four of the seventy-one had fallen ill and then perished in a short period. Sixty-seven is now the current number—if you could count, the former Flexenmires chieftain is alive in his current malformed state. Stumbling as he may, his lungs wither, still respiring.

They stumbled across a bridge from that high platform, fetid from the decayed mold inside and out of its crevices. The malnourished child is more than willing to consume this black substance without consideration; no one has their eyes pointed to her action—thus withering away as she falls into the depths.

In the farthest corner, turns with absurd illusions led them to waste precious time in their already dire moments. The blood trails were left behind in their wake, printed by Gatlis’s index finger. Their food was already scarce, but this became a necessary step on their journey. And with the dying souls and the change of religious perspective, they can refill once a few of many die abruptly. So sudden it was to watch their family and friends die, without remorse, and in a moment of prayer, their bodies were taken apart, their blood spilled within the empty vessels.

During their rest, Karthuras felt his head against the cobblestone walls as he sat with the faceless woman. His people were separated into different corners and strayed somewhat far from safety. One was troubled beyond measure; sanity held firm by the whims of self-preservation became a substantial obstacle! With his wrist slit and the blood flowing, he scrapes his limb against the wall to form a circle, drawing an eye in between. “Ring Lord! Ring Lord! Ring Lord!” He yelled repeatedly, only hushed by the edge of Gatlis’s blade.

When they decide to move forward a few miles more, their trek confines them in a room of abhorrent melancholy—lively as a beating heart that thumps from its anticipation. The walls are layered with thick nerve fibers stemming from human anatomy. Rotting as the shifting eyes that pulsate in between. A stranger stands in isolation as the many flesh cords bound to his broad head, eyes, and nose are not spared from this fusion; only his crimson lips were given such privilege of freedom. The obscure nature of his being had mechanical limbs pulsating from his back. Into his chest, a consistent rotation hinders him from withering—if that was indeed the case, of course, with such designs, would he be willing to go through the trial of the altered body? Karthuras wanted to remove himself and the others from this being, but he realized his passageway was unfortunately blocked. Without the typical curiosity of a pleasant greeting, the stranger spoke with a chilling echo resonating this expansive room:

“It’s been a long since living beings marched through this labyrinth unaccounted. Sleeper had cursed us into perpetual desolation—it seems now that was nothing more than a bluff! After many years of silence, I often craved the sight of another being, a demon or a human; it doesn’t matter… I am no fool. I know you wish to venture forth—but to do so requires sacrifice, such is the nature of life we are all given, would you not agree?”

Karthuras replied: “I only wish to continue forth without losing any more of my people. They deserve freedom from tyranny, a life free from their miserable circumstance.”

“Life was fleeting from the very start… No mortal—and no immortal can withdraw those lingering strains of sand that fall from the Sleeper’s ring. That curse was cast many years prior… When dawn embraced these tarnished plains with the second wave of humanity, the many gods and goddesses fought for the chance to guide the next generations moving forward. And, of course, you know well of who succeeded.”

“As he gave my ancestors a chance at a new life, so too will guide these people from the madness.”

“I'm afraid your ignorant ways will halter your chance of progression... Without forfeiting a portion of your people, I will have no reason to open this door—thus allowing time to take its course.”

“And what if I take your life instead?”

“My life is forever stagnant, like yourself; there is no soul within me, just a husk. A man shifted by our god’s curious volition.”

Karthuras thought of his decision thoroughly—and in his perception, he had to comply with the Demon’s needs. What came next was the offering of five randomly selected individuals—none of which had their merits considered. It was just a gamble and nothing more. There were no tears shed, nor would they be reluctant to hold the chosen back; no, in their hearts grew a specific criterion of the whims of the Demon they followed, believing he would lead all to that promised land—that utopia that never existed to begin with. When he enters the capital, this leads him into a darkened path in which resolve—or disorder will lead him to his destination.

As the Demon takes these individuals into his bosom, abruptly, the loud—terrible screech of machinery echoes the room, along with its dreadful symphony of cries from their limbs and faces, gnawed by the steel teeth, compacted into the machine, minced into a pile of slop.

The Demon continued: “This is the way—the deliverance of one's self is never forsaken if they know the conditions of humanity… Of course, you will learn this in time… if not already.” Without another word or a shred of expressed empathy. Karthuras and his people walk through the now-open door, holding bitterly to this unfortunate memory.

Fifty-one became the current number.

#

Within the capital, a festering cloud of smog filled the air with its charred scent, and this oppressive curtain blinded the eyes of the many. Lungs became carriers—taking home such burdens, leading all to cough so suddenly. Time and time again—dreading in anguish—collapsing from either one or from the another. The alleyways are particularly derelict of activity; machines remain poised in their withering existence as the cancerous layers of rust erode the surrounding walls. Though dark as these scattered areas are, amidst the dread, the scattered artificial light becomes a place of refuge for the scattered groups of both humans and Gramnorians. Together, they are bundled, rambling in comedic expressions of their lives in the workforce—while they sip the fiery nectar of fermented blood, infecting their minds with momentary relief. One of them stumbled as they said:

“Liquor is the most terrific poison I have ever consumed—ah, it presents my wounds into the fray—and—and I get to decide to either take charge or recoil in agony!”

The opus in the background is a collection of hydraulics, scraping the metal skin with its limbs from the pressure tubes flowing with continuous breath. The ordinary mind dwells in the engineering of the macabre; from birth, they are used to these conditions with little to no doubt!

Among these conversations, a parley of their troubled youth begins—a competition that defines who should be cared for the most. Empathy became a damnable offense with every sip from that nectar that the mind would never allow entrance. Thus, there is no consideration of their environment, no active change against the empress and her accursed son! No—the cycle shall repeat once more with that persistent phrase:

"Once born, blood is drawn, and that’s it!”

Upon a singular road, they take a moment to glance at the looming shadow roaming within the smog. A being of beastly design with rectangular limbs and sporadic mannerisms—shifting speeds as the loud hiss of air seep from every inch of movement, he howls often, a terrible cry that abrupts their passing thoughts. The sirens also echo from his limbs with a flashing red light as the monstrous voice yells from his confusion:

“Move! Work! It doesn’t matter—it's all shit! Back to your mother! Back to the engineer! I can't stand this noise anymore!”

 

Chapter 9

The creation of this dungeon gives Karthuras no ease in speculation, considering he has read the many religious texts regarding those who worship Sleeper and those who embrace the decadence of true freedom. But the basis on which such ideas, thoughts, and growth in humanity were able to believe—or act on these principles is only coincidence? These wall carvings gave no clear indication, only a questionable foundation, such as the orb with tiny planes of vast lands, separated by the great ocean with a few that interlink. Beyond that orb lies many beings foreign to each other in appearance. It is uncanny how similar these people are—humans, animals, and beings of abstraction. Sleeper’s long protruding fingers loomed over their heads, picking them up by the handful and tossing them all into the cauldron. Nothing else is evident from his perspective.

What is apparent is a curious sound, a hum that emits through the cracked stone walls. Only in those moments, when he and his people ventured through the corridors, did he hear that voice again. His flock also became nervous, consistently turning their heads to find only the lingering shadow that perpetually follows.

Upon those expressions, deviations of one’s resolve come to the forefront. Those trembling limbs seem to shiver by the hidden presence. The eyes do not sit still nor focus on Karthuras, who remains erectly poised as he walks forward. As for their imaginations, its limitless sights force the degenerate sense, pestering away until the mind is finally shattered. He finally spoke plainly, hoping to remove their fears:

“Our torches will never wither as our hearts will never cease the chaotic symphony. You will remain under my shield until Sleeper finally accepts my departure.”

Gatlis and the remaining followers are still reluctant to be held by that malic grip. The spiral is forever turning after all—so to be that bone dagger he carried. What became a means to an end develops into an addiction—lustful in the ways of death. The Phader observed that callous stare, having to ask himself when and where he should execute him before going beyond the realm of questionable means. His death could not come soon or too late, considering they may question the Phader’s reasoning for betraying his loyal followers.

From these aching thoughts came a devious corruption. Karthuras succumbs to that sound. Stumbling forward, he had to use the wall for leverage. One of his people had asked him why he looked so burdened, especially now—no reply was given. Not even his faceless companion could reach him. His attention centers on those strange words until they make sense to him, and to some extent, he can comprehend that—familiar form of expression.

“No!” he yelled to himself, covering his eyes. “Never again will I fall into temptation!” The taste of alcohol stains his tongue with a scorching sense. “That phantom is gone!”

He cowers in the shadows as his people linger in their chaotic state. Through the random paths, he leads himself into a room—vastly proportioned upon its velvet sheets. What surrounded him was dream-like: Vessels of liquor were neatly placed on the tables as if a strange—yet beautiful woman caresses the shape. Her dress goes further than the simplicity of a loin cloth. The body is well-masked in an azure dress, finished with gold reptilian scales. Her olive skin compliments the black patterned lines around her lips and eyes, and her long black hair is fitted with emerald green veins. She allures Karthuras:

“Through these desolate walls you had toiled from your confusion, why not succumb to the whims of temptation and become one with I—thus making us intertwine in the ways of euphoria? A Demon like yourself cannot restrain himself from natural desires—neither can I… Come, let us drink.”

“These desires…” he became hesitant to speak, “they do not lead me to the path of contaminant. It only makes me question who I genuinely am… The Phantom that once lingers inside me no longer takes control of my body—so why, now, of all times, do I suffer from temptation?”

She opens the clear, pungent liquid container and pours it into the small glass vessel for him and herself. “Despite our conditions, we must enjoy the necessities of life provided to us. The truest answer you can provide to yourself is how many unmeasured sips are you going to take?”

He sat down alongside her as he spoke: “Is it not the liquor that controlled me to give in the first place?”

“Come now, Phader. You should know by now that the mind is limited when it comes to these actions; you are connected to the circumstance of birth as you are to this—cursed state of being… There is only so much you can do to fix that perpetual mind of yours.” She brushes her fingers against his scarred cheek. “Would you embrace the whims of pleasure, Phader?”

He asked, “Would you allow yourself to take a monster like me?”

She closes her eyes for a second to open them, revealing her vertical pupils. With a slight opening from her lips, he could see the sharp fangs and long, slender tongue. “Are we not all hiding the monster within us?” She wraps her arms around him as she presses her lips against his exposed teeth; their tongues rave in tempo to each other.

With a moment to breathe, he takes in the clear liquid, engulfed by its scorching tang. A small glass wasn't enough; he needed more—unmeasured—he was willing to take in that continuous stream of fire!

With his left arm around her shoulder and right under her knees, he raises her to be dropped off to the nearest stone surface, smooth in its touch. With his strength, he tears the contents of her dress, revealing portions of her naked figure. She opens her mouth again, allowing Karthuras to take in that long tongue—encompassing her black-coated lips. Removing himself once again, he unveils his loins, letting his throbbing cock grind against her inner thighs—to then penetrate with substantial thrust! Her legs locked around his lower back as he proceeded. Again, he remembered those words she said regarding the unmeasured sips. Such emotions of regret do not dwell within his consciousness—he only needed relief to remove the desolate perception.

When she relieves her exhausted breath, the moment of pleasure becomes leisure—and now they rest for a short while in each other’s arms. When Karthuras felt the lower end of her body, he felt something shift; her body became prolonged, and her once smooth skin was replaced with scales. She told him:

"I have waited too long for someone to come…” She somberly said, “My life here is dull without anyone here with me. With you and your people, I can finally be at peace.”

“Tell me, what purpose would they be given?”

She replied: “All men, women, and their children will become part of our great family.”

“And how would you proceed with this motion?”

“First, you bring them here, giving your words of promise so they will look upon my true form without worry.”

“May I see your true form?”

“Why would I show you? No—forget it, I only want you to gaze at this end!”

Karthuras pressed on, “I want to see you! For whom you truly are.”

“No, I can’t show you. You will never love me again!”

‘Love,’ That word rings in his ears, trembling his consciousness back into his surroundings. A terrible wave rushes through his body as he finally realizes his abandonment of his people—to succumb to her whims so easily. He thought to himself:

No, love isn't real—this isn't real. Just an illusion—only—an illusion. How did I allow myself to be here?

No matter how often he questions himself about his faults, the reality is that he has to find a conclusion, either by passing this demoness or removing her from this world; this was a cruel predicament considering the environment. She is not evil in her ways, only rejoiced by the sudden appearance of other living beings. However, he remembers—she is more than willing to trick him once more when the time arrives. Not only did he consider her scheme, but he also had to devise a plan that required the sacrifice of his people.

#

When he rejoiced with the others, their patience had been tested. A plain sight of horror that Karthuras is slowly becoming more accustomed to, expectations for morality are damned in this world, he reminds himself. The well-fed ones stand exposed against the cobblestone wall while their innards are stretched and dripped of their essence. One of them said to Gatlis:

“They need the blood! For Ring Lord, right?”

He replied: “No, living matters the most. Our people need meat now.”

Karthuras had to stand proudly poised before them. His crippling empathy had to be further cut from his consciousness, reminding himself once more of his current culture. “You have done well thus far without my presence, Gatlis. The people will be fed, and I will lead you all to the next cycle.”

Gatlis bowed as he replied: “Thank you, Phader. I honor you! Only you!”

Such praise could ease the turmoil. No, once the remaining gathered together, feasting away their kin. Karthuras led them into the darkness; henceforth did they meet with the demon temptress.

Her almost human side expressed overwhelming joy as Karthuras returned with his flock, “You have returned to me, my love!” That word again—crawls into his thoughts like a cancerous infection. “My heart is pounding; I can barely control myself!” Knowing this situation will have no better ending. He does waste time when he speaks the words of conjuration under his breath. Soon after, the demoness felt something strange inside her, and the overwhelming supernatural presence quickly shifted inside her, controlling her movements to allow herself to drink the endless flow of liquor as she endured every container. The long tail that protrudes from the darkness moves from a different source.

“Why—why would you try to kill me?” a different voice said with a more profound tone; she removed herself from the darkness to reveal her ghastly figure—a goliath in size, an alteration of both serpent and human. Her long black hair lays over her long lips, reaching the back of her skull as her bright, viper eyes shine emerald. She rattles her end-human half from further drinking, stirring her once-combed hair into a bushy mess. The human side is still reluctant, to her dismay. Then, without warning, the monstrous side of her opens her jaw to consume Karthuras, who is protected by the incredible strength of the Flexenmires chieftain, using all four of his arms to hold that mouth wide. The Phader took the war hammer from the mutant, using his incredible strength to crush the serpent’s skull! The Demon lies dead before he and his people, who did not waste time-consuming her anatomy for weapons and food. Now that it was replenished, they pressed forward.

 

Chapter 10

The number of passing days has been under question. The crimson sun fades with every hour; the dark could only linger—giving the illusion of the shifting change of light. Such toil of the mind could withstand this incredible display of this exquisite red sky. A particular ‘thing’ embraces the beams, rolling with the whaling sound of a mechanical symphony. It stands forever erect, with carvings of a wolf butchering more than one figure. At first glance, it was undoubtedly a sarcophagus, a resting place for the dead, royalty in particular. Inside, a harrowing voice emits a subtle hum against the steel.

“Embrace my power… Let us ignite this machine!”

Five motors roar as their bodies tremble from its raging force, and limbs with insect-like qualities stand the sarcophagus from the ground, then titled forward as the lid opens with the screeching hiss of air. The Prince falls to his knees in agony; prideful as he is, he wants to emit defeat of his transformation. With the many tubes circling the blood from his back into the machine, he adjusts the mechanical wheel to control its flow—standing again, revealing the horror that was committed to his body of steel limbs and flesh. He raises his left arm, blasting a thunderous wave at his target, shattering it into tiny fragments!

A loud siren came, static sounds that damaged the ears from its screaming cacophony. What went through the static was the sound of the Phantom’s voice: “I can finally move again! Let us walk forward, Prince. Let us show this sorry kingdom our unbridled rage!”

“Gah…” The Prince stumbled, “My body is weak! Fatigued, I say! These alterations are not suiting me well.”

“You need more ambition, my prince!” He reaches out with steel arms and hands and pushes him forward as he follows behind so as not to disconnect the link between the cords.

The two travel a mile into the streets of the capital. A bystander, humble as any could be. He was taken from the street and held against his will. The Prince adjusted the lever on his chest to protract a long pincer. He jolts forward, allowing it to penetrate the bystander’s head, taking every drop of essence from his body. And now—lying dead on the ground, becoming nothing more than a withering husk. Finding this new sense of life from the consumption of blood, he traverses the industrial roads until he finds a suitable factory that produces higher quantities than most.

Upon the walls lies an artistry of bodies—all fitted with syringes that extract the workers of their essence. Such patterns illustrated a canvas that the phantom prince found amusing—in the ways of rotation—the persistent rhythm of shifting bodies from one side to the next. The barrels alongside them are filled with the perfect measurements, establishing their destined locations, that being the tribes that are scattered across the wasteland. Those same tribes had left days prior. A coincidence was not known to the Prince and workers at the moment. It is a comedic irony when he drinks the vast supply with no acts of rebellion.

The fingers in his gauges rise from the overwhelming supply—and from this point, he traps himself in a cycle of ecstasy—a euphoric indulgence that damns any sense of morality.

With this strong sense, he imagines the slaughter he will inflict on the so-called mound rats. He is pondering which scenario he will inflict—such callous ways of brutality. The terror is never-ending. Almost poetic, the combination of actions and screams is well-suited for the mind to grasp willing. No more—no more did he want to hold himself back.

His Phantom grew within the sarcophagus, grinning in delight from the stream of anger. What a pity to waste it on the unconscious workers.

#

Hettalies is entranced by the macabre of her surroundings, dancing in rhythm to the symphony that plays from the unattended grand piano. Her movements pattern around the mechanical beings connected to the floor, moving stiffly in fixed positions, emitting a calm hum of motors. She gazes at one at a distance, dressed finely in a Phader’s robe, with a stretched bearded face, cut finely, preserved, only to be dressed in this abomination. She moves closer while expressing elegant gestures—her form gracefully matches the sway of the black dress. Corrosion develops on the iron surface; rough crimson shapes grow, withering the once-refined works this human-like contraption possessed. She holds her slender arms around the neck, matching her steps with its fixed alternation. Moments passed—as her gloved fingers caressed the skin of Karthuras’s face. She spoke to the machine:

“Sleeper had forsaken us both, my love… There is nothing else to create, nothing more I can control with my machinery. I’m now left alone—waiting for your return…”

“Love is a form of tragedy…” The stranger said, matching the strings of his instrument with the piano. He plays gracefully from the throne as he speaks to Hettalies. “However—with pure obsession comes a day when the red nights shall persist. From there, some would say a foul creation comes into our reality.”

She continued her formation as she replied: “I suppose you’re here to warn me of the final day.”

“There is no need for warning. I am here to observe before that day arrives. Pondering the end—and future henceforth.”

“What do you see?”

“The greatest tragedy of all… with it, that flickering light called hope.”

“When the day arrives. What will become of me and my son?”

The stranger smirked, “That is for him to decide... Still, he may show you mercy, but there are a few principles he needs to learn. Ignorance still plagues him, gradually withering… he does not condone the esoteric values, only remembering, thus reflecting on his actions and the actions of his flock. As for your mutilated son, I can only foresee his death.”

“As I feared…” she carefully pushes herself away. “And what if he changes his heart for me? What if I can change him as I had in the past?”

“I would not dwell on fiction. You had severed his empathy, leaving behind the false fantasy of his exodus. You will succumb to madness after he leaves his current path and begins reveling in the shadows—then again, there are other outcomes. Perhaps he will show this world peace or embrace the decadence of tyranny.”

She asked: “Would you not embrace it as well?”

“I had a long time ago… in that beautiful world… Where the many gods and goddesses roamed, forever shifting the nature of their destined plains. It’s a shame it had to end so abruptly.”

“You may leave now… return to your father’s ring.”

“My job isn’t done yet. I must be sure the world proceeds this century's conclusion,” he stopped pulling the strings as he turned into a cloud of ash, drifting through the window and into the crimson sky, transversing around the red steam exhaled from the tall cylinder conduits.

 

Chapter 11

The beauty that can transpire behind the veil—revealing the cataclysm is only speculative. This void—this obscure design had been created to obstruct passage, thus forgetting the principle of modernity, and too did it forget. Karthuras and the faceless woman stand as an audience—attending the web of construction: Bridges that intertwine but are unreliable for traversing its carved stoned paths, angled in the ways of inconvenience. The minds often wonder where the path begins and ends. He thought:

Why does it have to end this way… The path I and my people need to cross taunts our perception.

The gaps of soil from above—pave his sight in that crimson shade. It slowly faded over time, releasing the weak patches from its encumbrance—thus creating dirt trails, further blinding their surroundings.

He turns to his people with spread arms and tries to hold his stoic expression, only speaking words of optimism:

“Our paralus path ends here as it seems... Constructed in plight, its foundation of purpose! I am not—and will never be stopped from finding a way to escape from this dilemma. I am responsible to you, your friends, and your families…”

“Words of truth!” Gatlis assures like a yapping hound. “The Phader guides—protects us, never falters.”

The people lowered themselves while waiting for their leader to give the following order. That demand is not spoken promptly. Patience is required; malnourishment is the factor that binds the mind ravenous to the means of survival! They look at one another, not from an empathetic gesture—instead, allowing themselves to decide who they will feed upon next. Gatlis took his prideful stance, assuring the Phader would save them from making that choice.

The faceless woman spoke softly to Karthuras’s ear: “There is no hope to be found among your flock.”

He replied: “You speak as if—"

She interrupted: “You were willing to give in to the embrace of a demon woman. You linger on, wishing for your thirst to be quenched by the single drop of liquor… You are lacking in faith.”

“What would you have me do then? Allow these people to surrender their lives?”

“You decided their fates before. Your influence is all they have left… It is time to decide. They cannot sit and starve forever. You know what needs to be done.”

He thought: I hold the fate of the old and new generations—born inside the desolate fog, devouring the flesh of brother and sister alike! My ignorance has served as an ordeal of strife—and now—I have to cast away the forsaken… Such cruelty, is this why I am still alive? I’m growing evermore desperate!

That specific thought had always been prevalent—to succumb—followed by its whims to consider finally. For what else could he do? But to embrace the darkness and thus—he spoke his final words to them:

“Your path to freedom will be given as promised… To allow entrance, you must offer your bodies into my service.”

His followers question the implications. For the present circumstance does not blind them. One of them asks: “This promise to land, how do we arrive? Our trail is not clear.”

His answer: “Your ignorance blinds you… the path forward only needs your participation to comply with my order, guided by the ring lord himself.”

“What would you have us do, great one?” Gatlis asked without a second thought.

“Allow me to speak the words of freedom… Only by acceptance will you be truly free.”

“I accept!” One answered.

“Ring lord demands! I will follow.” Another one said.

“To paradise!” finally, all had given in.

And now, Karthuras spoke the words of conjuration without hesitation for their mutilation: “Of these many souls—shall depart, refined into a being of length and abundance. As one, shifting upon the cobblestone bridge to the next will be your purpose henceforth.”

His manifestation constructs the people into a melded being, perfectly built to be nothing more than an extension. Its many limbs dive every finger into the gaps of stone, lifting itself from the ground like an insect ready to leap. He walks upon its back, held tightly by the abundance of appendages. Such uncanny display of movement is presented, performing properly to his directions. The Web of Bridges is no contender for this monstrosity.

Upon the final bridge that departs from this place, reeking of sewage. Karthuras turns to the monster after stepping from its back, then speaks his final word to his now-deceased flock:

“Depart…”

It could no longer move—no longer could it breathe—gone evermore. The cold heart is not well established in the empty chasm that is now his heart, similarly leaching as if it were a parasite—perhaps a tool for the path forward. On that dreaded path, no sense of morality is left—only engulfed by the fetid smell of dung, burning a metallic stench, and complimented by the crimson stream. How fitting it is—to have left those souls behind, forgotten in the wake of death. Forgotten as the souls above who drip their supply of essence willing. Drip and drip from those cracked pipes.

The artificial orb of jade light flickers from the Phader’s presence, an ominous shade that weighs the senses from its non-physical pressure. His innards boil with anticipation. His hands pressed against the steel door, thus climbing the steps to his long-awaited return to the surface. What an unfortunate realization he made upon witnessing the sight of the capital.

The greatest tragedy of flesh and hydraulics meld together, the soul corrupted, given to the decadence of this new modernity. There is no end to this chaos…

 

Chapter 12

This city of dread is encompassed by its complicated machinery, shifting and breathing like a living entity. However, it is infested by parasites that keep it alive, both human and Gramnorian. Their burned hands grip the levers and tools, keeping the steel-bound flesh from separating. A bowl of white liquid is spread abundantly against the flesh, keeping the tissue from being infected, for the air carries a weight of corruption not seen plainly at this time of night. With the red lanterns in their hands, the people walk like scattered stars, looking for their homes. Hoping their needs and instincts won’t compel them to act irrationally. Around every corner, deep below the surface, could the whaling cries of ecstasy be heard. The abundance of flesh—in harmony—climaxed by the spastic shifting of muscles. This need derives from the chastity of dull labor—forming an addiction only a few can escape from.

A beastly woman stumbles on her hinge legs and falters into the blood pits of the unmaintained road. Drenched and confused, she climbs down the steel staircase into a dark space with many pipes connecting from the floor to the ceiling. She clenches her arms around one in hopes of keeping herself in balance. Her stomach growls as her joints pop with every inch of movement. Turning her weary eyes towards the darkness, she sees a hooded figure appear and walk towards her. He spoke:

“There are many places to go for shelter, yet you march into the darkness?”

She replied, stumbling on her words, releasing a foul breath of liquor: “I—I can take care of myself! I don’t need… anyone.” Before falling over once more, the hooded man caught her with his large ashen hands.

“One should know their limitations.”

“Shut—up… Let me sleep.”

“And in the dangerous parts of the city, you rest in the arms of a stranger, dreaming away…” She loosens herself in his grip into an unconscious state.

Now, resting in his arms, he takes her to a warm place where pipes violently shiver, producing a comfortable aura of heat. Having removed her clothes, he then wraps her inside his dry mantle. It is indeed Karthuras who rests by her side, forever gazing into the darkness with a blank stare. His thoughts are the shadows of his past, corresponding with assumptions for the capital’s future.

Eventually, the woman awakened in a state of agony, wondering why she lies beneath the city. Her eyes were dazed upon seeing the Phader, whose presence was mysterious. “Home…” She whimpered, “Need—to—be home… Need to sleep—need to work.”

Karthuras told her: "I do not know where your home lies. I would have taken you there instead.”

“Then—did?” she slept again as she stumbled to speak.

“It is a shame to see such a sight, a reflection of my deeds I recall,” he chuckled from his words.

The faceless woman appears by his side, “Why do you waste your time on her? Is she nothing more than an ordinary worker?”

He replied: “She is and nothing more… of solace and regret will the sowing of my labor rise to fruition.”

“All from a single, beastly woman?”

“What else?” he replied confidently, “to push this world towards its conclusion, I must press the teachings of the Empress Hettalies… How ironic.” He smirked.

“Would it not be faster to take the souls of her people, creating a being of destruction?”

He laughed, “The art of chaos does not come from the stroke of a mutilated hand—instead, it will come from the people who cower behind these walls... The empress had spent decades creating this lurid world, slowly ending the lives of those who raised it. Only I can save them. This woman will become the catalyst.”

For hours, he waited until his previously mentioned catalyst came into a sickly state of consciousness. Allowing the burning stream of crimson vile to spread against the stone surface she slept on. He told her with a fake empathetic mask:

“You have finally come to your senses. I was afraid you had fallen ill.”

“Ill—yes…” she muttered, rubbing her face, realizing her current environment. “Did you? Did we?”

“No-no-no! Of course not. I kept you warm and dried your garments.”

“You did all that for a stranger? Who—are you?”

His charismatic tone persisted: “A demon some might call, however, beyond my ashen face lies a man of good intent!”

She takes a moment to readjust herself, and indeed, she is troubled by the sight of him. “Demon…” she whispered to herself in worry.

“A beast such as yourself, not but not reminiscent of one in particular—and certainly not beautiful such as yourself. My deathly exterior is of no contest.”

She was put off guard by his comment, hiding her blushing cheeks from his darkened gaze and crooked smile. He continued:

“Of course, let me gather your garments. Don’t worry, I will look away.”

He turned as she dressed, asking: “You—never told me your name.”

Karthuras replied: “You can refer to me as Genisis.”

“Well, Genisis, my name is Molly.”

“Tell me. What brought you down this path?”

She became distant: “Nothing that concerns you. I can care for myself—I—I don’t need anyone else for guidance.”

“My-my… I had never offered to help. I had only asked a simple question. Perhaps you do need my assistance.”

“What? But I—”

He reassured: “Come now, a young woman like yourself chose a dangerous path with no dagger in hand and no friend in proximity. Alone and trapped in a state of drunkenness.”

She looked away, ashamed for allowing herself to be in this situation. Karthuras returns his mantle, gently guiding his hand on her shoulder, saying:

“Allow me to take you home.”

#

Karthuras gradually was able to comprehend the descriptions regarding this capital. Not only this, but his observations also placed a sturdy mark that outlines every conclusion of his surroundings. Within the empty halls, Molly leads him to her apartment, dense as it is—its spacious décor allows the imagination to pursue its fulfillment. With his curious glance, he finds a peculiar object, richly coated by blood and rust. Familiar as it is but morbid—the being inside the vast silver ring. She notices the Phader's strange interest in her relic, saying:

“It’s a family heirloom. It has something to do with a myth regarding the ring in the sky. I had never believed in him.”

He replied: “It’s been a long while since I had seen the symbol of Sleeper…”

“You know the legends?”

“Legend… It's more than a myth—a guiding path for those needing one.”

“My grandmother mentioned a few of his stories, but I’m afraid to say that I forgot the details.”

Her words sparked him with an opportunity: “If you allow me, I can tell you the stories and their meanings.”

“I appreciate the offer, Genisis. But I do not have enough time for fantasy. I have to work tomorrow so I can keep myself from starving.”

Karthuras removes his mantle and then turns to her: “There is more to life than the endless rotation of dull labor.”

She responded: “And what would that intel?” she looked away from his intimidating stature.

“Life is full of wonders… Of love and strife, beauty and darkness… Would you allow yourself to be alone with thoughts of regret?”

“No one cares about each other, Genisis. Especially not me.”

“If that is true, then why did I rescue you from drowning in a pool of your own vile? Will I be the only one who will acknowledge your severe drinking habits?”

“I…” she stumbled, “I don’t see why you would care about me.”

Karthuras smiled as he brushed her long ear. He said: “In this corrupted world, I must give hope to those in need of love… compassion… Everyone, including yourself, deserves respite—from these woes of society. The future generations will only live in a state of doubt… But I—Genesis will show you a guide towards a better path. Will you join me and rid yourself of doubt?”

“Yes!” she answered in tears. “I want to help everyone! They all deserve to be happy.”

“Indeed, Molly. From this day forth, you will become a Phader among your people. Soon, they will all love you—cherish your heroism and finally embrace the future.”

What began the following day is the sowing of a dangerous seed—of woes hidden by the common eye. As she teaches him more about the culture, he teaches her the fabricated ways of Sleeper, a corrupted new perspective that only serves Karthuras. Not only was she fed his false words, but she was also delighted to the flesh of her species and humans without knowing their origin. To him, it was all by random chance of poor souls who wither from their place of work. During those long nights, did she embrace the art of false love? Such manipulation stemmed deep into the roots of her mind, as in a similar play conducted by Hettalies from his past.

 

Chapter 13

The anatomy of these many complex machines reveals a singular purpose of their intended design. Despite its uncanny—oppressive poise, drumming extensively while corresponding with the occasional hiss and moaning of many voices. They are not transparent to the common ear, but those of an obtuse nature could hear them. A group of men gathered with tools, adjusting the bolts and shifting the parts that make the gears turn. The components of flesh and bone were—regularly doused with a special liquid. Both alive and dead, these individuals are not at all one or the other. No—the repetition and utter dependency beholds their sense of reality. Behind their solace gaze holds the thoughts of the empress, who is their beacon of hope in the darkness. As the tools penetrate their skin, twisting the flesh that binds them to this existence—reveals their smile—a simple smile expressing fulfillment. Finally, their remains are tossed into the fires in death, allowing the long pipes to exhale the dark clouds in the gloomy sky.

These workers take a moment to rest away as the hours pass. Their conversations are filled with meaningless exposition of their day-to-day life. Within the final hour, Molly made her appearance. Her visible exquisiteness brightens their eyes away from the festering decay surrounding them.

The dark shadow of her cosmetics complements her brown eyes. The clothes are modest, deathly in their shade, having a welcoming grasp that ignites the sparks of lust! She walks fluently as her heels clack against the concrete surface. Their ears become alert, thus willing to listen. And her voice—that magnificent tune, an angelic composition. She said:

“Why do you all waste the helpless remains? Are they not deserving of companionship before the end?”

They laughed as one replied: “They are nothing more than scraps for the empress to dispose of. Why would you care?”

“Because everyone, yourself included, should be given a better life. One of fulfillment.”

A different man replied: “If the empress demands our assistance, then we shall strike our hammers and refine the pieces into their desired positions.”

Another: “Besides, what else is there in this life besides working? The capital will suffer if we choose to save the forgotten. The streets will smell, the rot will increase in scale, and surely, there will be more mouths to feed… We still have our families to worry about; I cannot give a helping hand.”

She replied: “By giving the forgotten love, they can run the machines near perfection. By saving those who have slowed down, they will fill our stomachs, unlike the blood caches... How long do we have until our empress turns on us to satisfy their hunger?”

The men took a moment to think. One eventually replied: “We just have to work harder. That is the expectation, after all. By our hands, we will keep these parts alive as long it is necessary.” He turns to his coworkers, “Alright, let's get this done so we can go home.”

All of them followed except for a young man. He was nervous when he approached Molly: “I would like to help in any way I can.”

She smiles while hugging him: “By helping us, you will serve the greater good! Thank you…”

“I… What would you have me do?”

She slowly presses away while holding his hand: “Come with me. I will explain on the way.” The encouragement of the feminine appeal is the only feeling he needs to have to be swayed into darkness—and down the spiral staircase—down into the far reaches where the smell of blood-ridden dung is persistent. He never questioned the implications.

#


The walls hum softly, notable upon close contact. Karthuras felt its consistent stream, containing a curious warmth—breath from many mouths, he realized. By guidance from the machine’s design, he finds the source of its life—of horrible alterations, fitting the many souls in a tight compounded space. Their breaths are heavy, their eyes spacious and dim—the gaze of inner turmoil. The wonder of perfection comes from its synchronization, the purpose within its dismay. With his right hand, he expands the pieces of their flesh, and in return, the cries become absolute:

“Empress! Empress! Have I not been faithful?”

Another piece said: “We have done our part! Our part, we did fulfill!”

“Please don’t toss us! We will work harder, I swear!”

Karthuras smirked as he thought:

Such anguish… A sense built upon the foundation Hettalies had created. What wonderous cries of love—from the false faith! What fools they are to believe in such nonsense. No… Just like myself, we were all pawns. I suppose it doesn’t matter now, and I—shall experiment with your remains to understand the limits of my conjuration.

He takes a step back, focusing his attention on the atrocity, then says:

“Taketh the life half dozen, transform the many—twist and turn, separate from each other, and reveal your insides!”

The lips vibrated as they yelled in the chorus—of torment, and no despair—willing, enthralled to follow his demand did they rip the other's skin! The pulsating tubes move ever so hastily from the singing heart exposed! Damned are the pieces that held the innards in place, slipping away, hissing like snakes!

He spoke within their symphony: “My heart sings with you all! And still burdened by the mistress who cursed us… Within my flesh, hiding the bones of truth that speak honestly, lies my greatest weakness, the tyrant! The contemptuous man! Gone are the days! Gone are the days—that I hope to find… Love, the bastard of all emotions—will keep me in this dreadful spiral until I rot within my perpetual fall…”

And gone is the life of this machine, filled with the excess of blood and torn flesh. He did not learn anything from this rampage, only indulging in satisfaction. His slaughter within the Cathedral of Vow could never compare because the phantom took that sense of pleasure for himself.

Was this the feeling I had ignored for so long? He thought. How marvelous it is—to be no longer the only one suffering in this world.

The wickedness of his mind began prospecting the wall further, having Molly find an ignorant victim for his next experiment under the pretense of ‘the ends justify the means,’ blinded by love, of course. And thus comes the naïve young man, caught by the whims of lust and her curtain of purity. The two crossed Karthuras in his act of indulgence. Without remorse, he mutters:

“Taketh the sol and release the inner thoughts; let me see—let him speak the ways of these derelict contraptions.” The young man fell over without his demands being obeyed. However, his soul transferred to the mutilated machine, refilling the flesh and parts that allow it to function.

Now operating again, it moves the hydraulics and limbs with vigor, synced with the murmuring, and becomes comprehensive, speaking riddles to Karthuras, who could not understand—referring to the names and functions—as if describing the beating of a heart through a deeper investigation. Nothing is clear except the bounds of his conjuration. When he spoke to Molly about her progress towards the people’s willingness to join their new religion, progress had yet to be made thus far. However, her days of practice and observation gave her the insight to control another person’s thoughts.

He considered the machine's limitations, knowing they were not useless and were a fundamental step for the shambling ladder. Despite the signs of it breaking, its willingness to remain only needs a good reason to collapse, and what better reason is there than destroying the fantasies and conveniences both men and women hold? It may take weeks, perhaps longer—but he is forever reluctant, living and striving for Hettalies’s downfall.

He said to her: “I understand what we need to do now… this may take longer than I initially thought, and your beauty does not last forever—so thus, our work must be done with great haste… Are you aware of what you must do?”

Her right ear twitched as she smiled, “Yes, my love—this is for the greater good!”

 

Chapter 14

Community—planned by a single individual for the prospect of union—whichever desire it may be. By all means, the dancing mannequins form wonderfully to the rhythm in the display of surreal sights and grinding cacophony—the lights, tinted in beige, shining upon their tarnished designs. The audience witnessing the display is compelled as it mortifies them—their friends and family, men, women, and Gramnorians alike, are taxidermied for their short relief in entertainment—only a few whimpered, as many remain enthralled. Especially in the sight of Hettalies in her human form, dressed ever so gracefully in black—like a fine sword, rigid in its shape—certainly had embraced the impaling of flesh.

When her lips opened, she sang proudly, with a graceful tune. Her words are strained as they shivered. She perfected. To describe her words visually, one must accept the unknown and be prepared for its possible outcomes—and embrace the darkness, if only for a moment, and in that moment does it reveal an individual true intentions. They hide a devious smile, a lustful wonder, and the curse of their mundane obligations. As for morality, it’s a forgotten value, labeled indefinitely as ‘esoteric.’ Considering there are no prying eyes, public perception is important. Hettalies knows this fact very well.

Outside the opera, the calling for change begins with the simple words of an elderly man standing in front of a statue of the phantom prince. His robes resemble a Phader’s attire—with the two golden ropes tied into a bow, one on both sides. The symbol on his chest became a new addition, representing Sleeper and his ring. He spoke proudly, well-adept in the charismatic arts:

“Don’t all of you see the horror that surrounds—the chaos that stems from the greedy crone that rules us all! Our ancestors followed her words of true freedom—returning once more to permanent conformity. Is it not hypocritical? Is it not concerning that our only substance is from the essence of your neighbor?”

A man asked: “What do you suppose we feed ourselves with? The traditions of the old can no longer be afforded. We have to give our empress everything for the betterment of all.”

The woman added: “Our ancestors have done unspeakable things during the times of true freedom!”

The preacher replied, “No—what I am here to say—to ask: What if we could lower our production and reduce the empress and her son of their obsessive needs? Are there no alternate ways to sustain ourselves? We are starving, deprived of our vigor… There is a way—a way our lord Sleeper has intended.

As he continued his speech, his audience members alerted the nearby authorities of his unregulated dialogue. When they joined in attendance, no mercy was given to the old man, and the final blow of a slow, agonizing death. The citizens watched this demonstration of slaughter out of spite rather than pity.

The man told the woman: “It's people like him that bring chaos, an imbecile, and nothing more.”

“Your words are true,” replied the guard, “These types are why our empress demands more from us. We need your essence to remain vigilant, to keep the peace and these gutter trash away from our sight.”

She chirped: “We thank you for your service!”

In the darkness, behind the rustic pipes and steel limbs, Karthuras watches from the shadows as he thinks:

How unfortunate… I spent a month preparing him for this moment. But they remain in absolute loyalty—even when their fellow man is slaughtered before them.

He transverses deeper into the chasm, underneath the rumbling of machines, eventually stopping at an intersection where the choir emits in echo. His fingers wrapped around a leather mask, staring at its familiar design—a replication of the same one his departed friend Krill had worn during Horton’s medical dismemberment. The leather binds the silver ring in front of the face in a perfect circle, and the surface is crossly patterned to allow the wearer to see it somewhat obtusely. Placing it over his corpse-like face, he hides beneath his black mantle.

He turned towards the left path, pacing himself until he reached the underground sanctuary. His people cheer like dogs for their master. And like malnourished beasts, they presented themselves before him:

“Sleeper! Sleeper!” they begged for his attention.

He replied: “Do not fret, my children—I am here now—willing to listen to your woes…”

From his words, they spoke individually of their concerns regarding their families, not convinced of joining their prayers of worship, asking for forgiveness so that Sleeper may show them mercy.

He laughed in response: “In time, my children. Everyone will accept my love—you must allow the consequences of their misdeeds to be seen; only then will they join us.”

The unfortunate comes plenty as the Empress’s needs become more persistent, dumbfounded by the notions of sorrow, and will give in to labor demands, thus preferring the mundane rotation. Within these circumstances comes the ray of hope—hope belonging to abstraction. Molly learned many things from Karthuras and was able to convince their involvement, and this leads to the machines' slow, decaying components reeking hideously of excrement—death a question of condition. The workers who maintain these parts are oblivious; out of anger, tool in hand, they strike the lively components until they are given a proper reaction.

Unknown to these men, the parts are influenced by the Phader’s conjuration. Instead, he was not wasteful and would experiment with their remains to produce a particular life that could alter the air quality. He could not see the inner makings this flesh provided, a developing organism of remarkable terror—the workers picked at this growth, not aware of its lasting effects.

#

The months continue as the prideful Phader Molly commences her strategy of degeneracy. The memory of her embrace immediately marks the desperation of certain men who chose her widely shared bosom. Those who choose to ignore are ensnared with doubt, a fantasy that leads only one to wonder—of course, burdened by the dreams of pessimism—yearning inside the dark room, forever questioning. The desperation grows within their minds. Similarly, women share a fate of the natural disorder. They are willing to commence the horrors of labor, allowing the persistent flow of their essence in isolation from men. A new sense of being comes into play by the whims of inner desire. Of the eyes—the curious eyes that men hold. Therefore, they leave their post to roam the streets in lewd attire to attract such attention. Sanctity is well-forsaken—freely chosen. The children that spawn from these acts of indulgence are burdened with the sins of their mother and father alike. Without structure or reason, they indulge in this practice or become incarcerated, forced into the dreaded cycle of labor without much compensation for their efforts.

The nature of humanity choosing solitude will only invoke a terrible cost for the empress—the phantom prince was well aware of this quandary, and with his observations comes the severing of the mortal spirit from its husk then into the mouth known as ‘Sleeper’s ring.’ The blood supply is indeed refilled! Moreover, a burden plagues the days of labor, becoming an enclosed space of a harrowing degree.

The years go by, and the children grow—not in ambition, but in willingness to serve the capital—instead choosing quick relief that life brings, such as fermentation of their neighbor's essence. Factually, it’s the cause of the decrease in population.

Women become more lewd, distracting the men from their tasks, who are profoundly unaware of these mannerisms and do not notice the increase of disease plaguing the streets. The adults are lively as of now, but the young are well infected, increasing the death toll. Molly is not reserved from the bio abomination, thus lying dead in a room with many sickly men who are naked, defiled on themselves and everyone else inside.

The guardsmen were ordered to commence a quarantine among the unstable populace, significantly affecting the conditions of the community. They are all infected—in time, gripped by the crawling fingers from death’s cold hands.

These machines of endless shapes intertwined with the buildings and decaying pipes that leak a black resin are the source of this infection, rendering the many production lines useless.

Karthuras takes a deep breath of the rotting air—succumbing to the crimson fog as the artificial lights surround him. A single guardsman collapses in a puddle of his blood before The Phader. Another did reveal himself, this time—not shaken by the crawling of this disease? He approaches this individual, saying:

“The sins of this community are well presented. Your empress's decrees had left you all in this calamity… But you will survive this decay.”

He bows before Karthuras, gazing at the uncanny mask, replying: “I don’t wish for any of this! Why—why would I be spared from this cruelty? To live in sufferance?”

“No…” Karthuras replied, “—in oblivion do you transverse the void, but not forsaken. With me, I can lead you to a greater purpose.” He rests his pale hand against the man’s shoulder. “This is your destiny… to be my chosen, commencing the final act for the capital’s absolution.”

 

Chapter 15

The crimson veil weighs heavy upon Hettalies’s gazes as the morbid design of her industrial city corroded to an unbearable extent. The steam no longer exhaled from those long pipes—no longer did the repetitive cycle of her contraptions produce the blood she craved evermore by the passing year. She turns to her dimly lit room, where the women are stretched, drained of their essence—appearing more as corpses than living beings. The spider-like contraption pushes and pokes these women’s bodies, hoping to obtain a little of what is left.

“I knew this day would come…” Hettalies muttered to herself in defeat, “A fate of my creation, ambition of a greater future… My heart is, however, stained by that curious man. Karthuras—was this your doing? Did I succeed in bringing out the worst in you without the phantom by your side?”

She ventures out into the long halls where the pipes are scattered in intricate patterns reminiscent of webs. Almost impractical, flaws of décor for production. She is not guided by her will, only lost within her labyrinth. By pressing herself against the warm fetid machines, her hand opened the hatch, revealing a familiar sight: That abhorrent maiming of the virus—placed in conditions both living and dead. The many men and women uttered the soft—gurgling tone that echoed from their lips, only ignored by their Empress, whom they had adorned for many years. Only echoing that similar tune, with such melody, comes the prince’s courses. The burden of longing, craving oblivion from the delicate taste of fermented essence— ‘love,’ one might say. The phantom’s power weakens within his metal sarcophagus from lacking that drink. Together, they wither—together in codependency. Whimpering at the sight of his mother, she said:

“We had everything! Why must it crumble down like so? That—bastard took everything from me…”

The Phantom added: “Hettalies, you should have listened to me on that fateful night—we could have ignored this and created our ideal world!”

She did not reply, nor could she in her state of turmoil. Behind her eyes came only that familiar sight of her labor. The birth of her son, from his human form to the monster, she created using morbid artistry. Again, she had to walk away, always herself, to become trapped inside her maze.

Upon such desolation, her wandering leads her to the throne room. The servants lay helplessly on the ground, shivering, hacking until their throats grew sore. There will be no empathy shown; instead, they will express contentment. She pulls aside her black dress to then rest against her industrial throne. Staring lifeless into the darkness, she could faintly focus on hearing the whaling tune. The act of moving is well obscured.

Outside, not far from her place of solace, a being shambled upon the capital, wrecking the industrial parts that once held together in abstract harmony. This being goes beyond purity; indeed, it manifests malice and brutality of all living, including the contraptions of production.

Standing in elegance to the spiraling chaos before him, Karthuras remains with his mask equipped, hiding away his spiteful expression. The whim of darkness is all that transpires in his thoughts. Transversing the rubble and corpse, he eventually enters the castle, where the empress and prince remain. The faceless woman appears by his side, saying:

“It’s a shame this had to happen so… Commencing a tragedy that leaves this world in ruin.”

He replied: “As I had learned before—we cannot save these souls from their deeds of stagnation. This was my purpose, after all… Think I’ll of me, but there was no better option.”

Once inside, he finds himself alone in the dank room, engulfed by the shifting darkness, transversing the pipes and decadent furniture—of the many lives once kept within these walls does the sorrowful chasm weigh its heavy burden. The feeling was faint; he could see that familiar figure before him. Exceptional, her dress is in that moment—of the darkest shadow in the physical figure, her face, a swinging lantern that brings forth the burdened outcast. In her eyes, she stares at the masked man, knowing her end has come. She told him:

“It's been a long while since we last spoke to one another, my love… The cruelty of your actions had left me wandering… wandering what had shaped you into the man you are now. Was it from your transformation? Or the phantom I had developed within you?”

He takes off his mask to reveal his skeletal face, “I had longed in bitter despair when you threw me into the gallows when I had not risen for revenge or any form of malicious intent. No… My infliction for humanity dissipated from this corruption! Why must everyone suffer from your influence? Were you not Sleeper’s chosen protector?”

She walked forward until she was close enough to hold his hand, “Why waste away in sadness, my love? It does not matter anymore, for we are the only ones who remain in this world. You had murdered our son and the entire kingdom. Now, you must forget and let us rebuild once again. And with a new child, stronger than the last.”

He pulls himself away, “Damn you!” He falters in despair, “What have I done to deserve this cruel fate… I don't want any of this to happen! I cannot bear to watch this world suffer…”

She stares deep into his darkened eyes, “Again, I can see the man I remain in love with… Embrace me forever, and you will—”

Before she could finish her sentence, her stomach was gutted by his fist. “There is no love between us… only desperation.” With his remaining hand, he grabs onto Hettalies head to rip it from her torso! In death, she finally parts from this world—removed from that growing burden. Allowing it to grow within Karthuras instead.

Such despair could only linger as his son and the phantom clung to their fading life, a beast of mutilated circumstance enriched by the industrial parts. He clings to the nearest rusted pipe as his father approaches. He could not speak or want to; his breaths were haggard. However, within that sarcophagus, the phantom opens the contraption that opens the seal to reveal himself and the complicated parts that run this machine. Fading within these final moments, he speaks:

“What will happen to us now, eh—the old body of mine?”

“There is nothing more I can say or do… Only observe my only son die in bitter defeat. Perhaps I can give you both a chance to finally rest…”

#

How strangely apparent the sun rises with its scolding gaze upon deadlands so, from the ray of flames—its persistent body can outlast most living things if correctly maintained. Like that of a human or Gramnorian, he breathes and grows.

Within the Phader’s arms, the phantom prince felt the malice of that spreading heat. Was purpose the cause of its eager motion? Could such a marvel be spiteful of any living organism? A lifetime of questions that are rendered unnecessary of an answer.

Answers—the prince wanted as of now. Why would his father take him away from his forsaken kingdom, succumbing to the desecration he caused?

Within this bitterness, that familiar instrument plays to their presence—that hollow tune the stranger is well practiced in, and no longer is he hidden. His head is clear to see: The shape is round as it is vast, imperfect, veiny with curves, and forward stretched. He said to Karthuras:

“My blood—thy blood my father named me; hence the name shall be…”

He replied: “It matters not who you are, only wish to pass through and give my son a proper burial. Then enjoy the everlasting solace.”

Blood continued: “You have all the time you need to contemplate and—manufacture your personalized hell… but for now, you must heed my words… The next cycle will begin, and you will become its protector as Hettalies had before.”

“I am no longer a man of good intention.”

“You are the one of chance and reason. Correcting the fate of stagnation so they will not succumb to its torment—thus is the reason why you are our best candidate. You must understand what these actions will imply; if not, then a demon who is far worse will take over. Allowing your vicious cycle to repeat. Do you not wish for the future generations to move forward with hope and pride instead of sorrow?”

Karthuras thought about his answer. “What do you need me to do?”

“You will know in time, as for now—I have a gift for you.” Blood snaps his fingers, then, from the ground, a steel capsule rises, when opened he says: “Place your son inside…”

Without question, he followed his demand.

Blood spoke further: “Before his soul departs from this world, I shall allow him to be reborn into the next cycle.”

“What about the Phantom?”

“He will always remain within your son, but not wrongly so. When the stagnation arises, you will release him into the new world, allowing him to commence the final tragedy or freedom. I cannot see the future, of course. As for the populace, there is still a large supply of humans and Gramnorians to enrich this land once more. In the meantime, life on the surface must grow… Now, what say you, my friend?”

“From this tragedy—this—circumstance of eternal infliction must I bear? Of gloom evermore will I again choose the populace destined fate… If this was my purpose from the beginning, I shall bear it longer if necessary. I only wish—for my son to have a full life in his rebirth.”