Lukas' life was a tedious one. Born in the slums of Ostria, capital of the eponymous viscounty, from the age of seven he toiled to feed his mother and little sister. The Kingdom of Orloth split commoners into four classes. From lowest to highest: peasants, artisans, merchants, and managers.
Peasants were those that farmed the land—land they didn't own—or hunted on grounds they still had no right to. At the end of the year, they all had to make an inventory of their gains and pay two taxes, 35% to their lord-master, and another 35% to the state, leaving them 30% to consume. Needless to say, their life was an arduous one. If not for Dra lessening food requirements, the majority would starve.
Artisans and merchants faced lower income tax levels, 32 for artisans, and 30 for merchants. But because only nobles could own land, they still had a "lord-master" to pay taxes to.
Above were the managers who, as the name implied, administered large businesses and industries for the aristocrats owning them. Because of their unique status, they only had 25% state taxes to care about, enabling them to accumulate wealth across generations, and slowly set themselves apart from the rest of the commoners. Yet, commoners they still were.
Those were the four registered categories. But below them all, a fifth existed: the iniquitous.
The iniquitous were the bottom of the food chain, those with no registered or dignified source of income. Beggars, thieves, cripples, slaves, prostitutes all belonged to this rank. Lukas' family had been managers for generations. Although their wealth couldn't compare to their noble masters, they still made a good living.
Unfortunately, his father was a gambling-addicted drunk that sank them all into ruin. Having no other choice, Lukas learned to pickpocket, surviving on petty larceny. Thievery was punished by denailing on the first offense, fingers slicing on the second one, and hand cutting on the third...if a third there was.
Hence, law forced thieves to become highly skilled. Lukas survived the craft with just one instance of denailing. But as in many other cases, thief income soon proved unable to sustain the house, leading him into seeking the help of disreputable felons. One thing led to another, and at 12, Lukas ended up the new recruit of an assassin cult: the Desolate Knife Cult.
Across four years, he trained in their killing arts, revealing impressive magical talents he kept concealed from his loved ones. A Lesser Emissary at 16, he started taking assassination tasks, and two years later, was one of the best of his promotion.
Becoming a Lesser Emissary was no mean feat and ensured he could immediately receive a nobility title. But to say nothing of the cult's retaliation, commoners were not allowed to grow as magi. If they ever revealed magical talents, the government would give them two choices:
1) Forsake their relatives for arcane training.
2) Die!
Naturally, most chose the former.
Little did Lukas expect that his rotten luck would turn even worse. Against all logic, he received the task to slay the viscount's only son!
It was a trap. The task ended horribly, with six Lesser Templars lying in ambush. The average Lesser Templar might not be a match for a Lesser Emissary, but the gap was marginal. After all, Lesser Emissaries were quite limited in spell-casting and incantation speed.
Still, Lukas managed to escape the ambush and return with his life—a terrible move. The cult blamed the failure on his incompetence, disemboweled him on the spot, and offered him in sacrifice to summon a Fehl Daemon!
Aggrieved!
He felt so aggrieved!
But as the sacrificial fire burned him to ashes, he knew grievances alone wouldn't change his fate. His final thoughts went to his sister and mother, who—at best—would starve in his absence.
What a lousy life.
Lukas' flesh burned to ashes, leaving behind an unblemished skeleton around which Dark Magic swirled.
Unlike what many believed, Dark Magic had nothing to do with Fehl Magic. It was a self-destructive art that thrived on madness and negativity. Rage, sorrow, hatred, sacrifice, insanity, those were the types of forces that powered Dark Magic. Thus, though quite potent, it held virtually no appeal to those high-ranking nobles.
Naturally, the government heavily regulated it. This didn't stop occultists and all manners of warlocks from practising it in the shadows. For non-fehl magi, Dark Magic Rituals were the only ways to summon Fehl Daemons.
Lukas aside, the barbecued skeletons of 65 other teenagers lay in the room, resting on burning stone altars of nefarious magic, and filling the scene with a horrid, repulsive stench. All fehls had one thing in common—their favorite number—six.
Six, 66, 666, in any fehl related ritual, the sacrificial offering must ring six. That was the rule. But those people didn't understand. Even as they kneeled toward Lukas' skeleton, the primary offering of the event, even as they rattled off occult chants, raised their arms in a pious display and kowtowed with zeal, they didn't understand.
The fehl didn't care for slaughter, didn't care for destruction; their first and primary pursuit had always been pleasure. The source and means to get it differed from daemon to daemon, but ultimately, pleasure was their sole drive.
There was no pleasure in this scene. Unless directly connected to a Fehl Daemon that reveled in massacres, the ritual should have failed. Those low-level magi didn't have the means to find the name of such a creature.
The ritual should have failed...yet, it didn't.
As the abominable chants and incantations unfurled, the flames surrounding Lukas' skeleton burned brighter, changed hues, and from the previous orange, became a crimson red.
Awed by the change, and believing their ritual nearing an unprecedented success, the power-hungry dark magi reiterated their chants with ardent vigor! Elation filled their chests, crimson smoke permeated the underground ritual chamber, and winds of fehl energies gathered around Lukas' skeleton!
Flames, smoke, winds, all forces united in a single blast that sent the seven chanting magi spiraling in the air! All crashed against the adjacent walls.
Meanwhile, a miracle occurred. As strands of red light surrounded it, Lukas' destroyed flesh reformed around his skeleton, remolding into a flawless human shape! Better, his already handsome frame grew more refined, with a masterfully carved face and back-length dreadlocks of a lustrous black.
The rebuilt man's eyes opened, revealing cold, hazel eyes that, alongside his curving lips, gave him a rather chilling look. Kilian shifted into a sitting position, adjusting on the altar to sweep the seven dark magi that now crawled toward him.
"Oh, fehl master, your servants greet you!" The seven magi, all dressed in black-robed and matching cloaks, exclaimed as they kowtowed toward Kilian. His smile broadened, but a jolt of electricity shook his new body, making him close his eyes.
The surrounding scenery changed, and he now stood before the collapsing soul of the dead Lukas.
"Do you have a request? As long as it's reasonable, I shall fulfill it," Kilian directly asked. Having digested the memories of Lukas, he saw many similarities in their experiences. Perhaps that plus their matching age was the reason why Ashera chose his remains as the receptacle for Kilian's rebirth.
"Three things. Kill my father, save my sister, bury my mother," Lukas asked with a polite bow, knowing precisely how his three days of absence would ruin his house. But hearing this, Kilian arched an eyebrow. "You don't want me to kill them?" The question seemed laced with a surge of curiosity.
Lukas straightened his back, stared right into Kilian's eyes and replied:
"I have a feeling that I don't need to."
The words pulled an approving nod from Kilian, and his smile grew brighter still.
"Very well. The request is...reasonable." Satisfied, Lukas' soul dispersed, and Kilian's consciousness returned to the ritual hall. Undisturbed by his current nakedness, he stood up, stepping away from the altar to stride toward the kneeling magi.
Six were Lesser Emissaries, with the leader being a low-level Core Emissary. Without magic or worthy adversaries to protect it, a Core Emissary's all-out attack was enough to raze a town. Yet, as Kilian's eyes lay on the leader, the glint of interest didn't even flash.
"Mhm...is it a lullaby I hear ringing in the air?" Kilian wondered, making the seven magi raise their eyes in confusion. But by the time they registered the meaning of his words, his nails turned into razor-sharp claws, his right hand slashed the air, a tearing sound echoed, and six of the magi turned into minced meat.
The Core Emissary didn't survive the blow.
Kilian's eyes dropped on the only remaining magus, a dazed middle-aged man with scarce magical powers. With a step, he landed before him.
"I need your clothes," Kilian stated, motioning for the magus to disrobe. Awoken to the reality of his situation, the man smacked his forehead on the ground in a succession of kowtows!
"Your lordship, please spare me! We're only devoted servants eager to bask in your glory! If we offended you in any way, please forg-"
*Slash*
Another tearing sound echoed, and before the man could finish his words, Kilian's claws gashed his throat, inflicting a fatal wound in one blow.
"What a mess, you rude little pig," Kilian remarked, robbed the man of all useful items, and as he gurgled on his gushing blood Kilian donned his robe and walked out.