Chereads / Last of The Predecessors / Chapter 1 - Abscond and Reveal Thine True Form

Last of The Predecessors

Red_Shadow_0727
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Synopsis

Chapter 1 - Abscond and Reveal Thine True Form

The wind howls as you stand at the center of an ornate room. Bloodied corpses cover the floor and ripples from multiple crimson pools create a ghastly pattern. The steady drip of blood from your blade creates a separate pool.

Even amidst the howls you hear something, something that should not exist. A figure, bloodied and missing its lower torso drags itself across the now-red floor. Its breathing is laborious yet it keeps going. Its robes are soaked in its blood yet traces of lilac can be seen in certain areas of its upper torso.

You are quick to react and bring death upon it. Even as it dies it still futilely tries to crawl to wherever it was intending to go. You plunge your blood-soaked blade right through its skull with considerable force, blood, and brain matter shoot out of the wound as the sound of bones cracking and something soft being stabbed temporarily overpowers the howling currents, the entity squirms but you simply push your blade further putting an end to its silent misery. You are now the only living being yet you know this is not the end.

A creak is heard and a head pokes out, an aristocrat. Their eyes are wide with fear as tears roll down their cheeks. They focus on the figure whose life you just ended, then onto you. Their eyes widen even further and they quickly retreat to where they came from.

You follow but not before grabbing the corpse that lay before you. Once you reach where they came from, you inspect the area. A wall with a depiction of a long-dead king standing atop a hill with the sun rising behind them. You hurl the corpse at the wall and it completely shatters the wall, revealing a room filled with fear-stricken aristocrats who scream at the sight of the bloodied projectile. The older ones shield the younger ones with their body. Their bravery is noteworthy but it does little to save them.

" Please!" One begs, tears streaming down their face, destroying the facial mask which was held in high esteem by the nobles. " Spare us, we beg of you! "

Some put on a brave face while others cower in fear. They curl into a fetal position, sobbing and whispering words of prayer to a god that has long abandoned them.

You are swift, making sure the cuts are clean as possible. They make no sound as their eyes grow dark and some slump over while others remain in the fetal positions. It is the best you can do without reducing them to an unrecognizable puddle of blood and flesh. There must be nothing left. There should be nothing left. There will be nothing left.

You step out of the room, pull out a small spherical object, activate it, and toss it into the room. Seconds later it bursts into pieces as an azure flame erupts. The room is engulfed in flame but you toss another one into the flames. The second burst happens much faster than its predecessor and the walls are destroyed by the second eruption of flame. The flame engulfs you but you feel nothing. The flames settle but don't extinguish. With the crackling sound of the flames having lasted longer than the unfortunate souls caught within the grasp of the embodiment of destruction, you feel nothing. You leave through the door on the opposite side of the room and head to your next and final destination.

As you continue on your path, you come across a window and decide to look outside. Pillars of smoke rise high into the heavens as the petrified screams of many could be heard in the distance. They brought this upon themselves. No one will come to save them.

You reach a flight of stairs. A group of armed guards standing between you and your target. They stand in two columns, each armed with a pole arm and a shield. They remain unfazed as you approach.

You stop a few inches out of the range of their polearms. You tighten your grip on your blade and wait.

Fighting them would be suicide. Perhaps there was another way. You turn back and walk away. You reach a wall at the end of your path. Two pairs of heavy footsteps can be heard drawing near you. Two had broken off and pursued you. Their armor glistened in the light cast by a nearby flame.

Not a single word is exchanged between them and you. Both know they will die here and yet they came. You simply engulf both in flames, black flames which you created out of pure hate. After all, all you had left was hate, in its purest form and you plan to use every last piece of it.

Returning to the stairway, the space left by the duo that had pursued you had been filled by two more. They remain steadfast, knowing that their brethren were slain by you. The rage that came with the redoubtable furor threatened to break loose from your control.

The memories of what befell your lineage, your abode. They attacked, massacring those who trusted them. And for what? Because a cynical, despot man said so? The gods simply acquiesced, ignoring the dying prayers and pleas from those you called family.

The guards did not wait for you to approach. Forming a phalanx they moved toward you, shields raised. The first row drives out their polearms and aims toward the ground. The second thrust through the spaces of those in front and upward, forming an opened maw.

You know this tactic, the loathsome Oppressor's Maw. A tactic used to force a target between a wall and the pointed ends of whatever weapon was used. The target would be impaled by the pointed ends sooner or later and this cruel fate would usually drive the target to the brink of madness as they desperately sought a way out, which, would ultimately force them to kill themselves.

This would work on most enemies. Unfortunately, you were not among them. You approach them, blade by your flank. You look for the cracks, strong as they are, they are only human, that was the only leverage you had.

You stop, looking at the approaching phalanx, each member stalwart. You find this admirable. You move your free hand behind you and begin to backpedal. With your arm currently sequestered from sight, an iconoclastic pantomime is swiftly committed, an affront to the gods themselves.

Once the deed has been completed, an aberration forms within the ranks. A tear in the fabric of reality opens and a mass of tentacles shoots out, piercing through anyone unfortunate enough to be close enough, which in this case, is the entire phalanx.

There are no screams, only the sounds of crushed bones and the creaking of metal as every last one of the guards is dragged through the tear and into the void from which the tentacles came.

The chaos dies down and you are left alone, dark crimson fluids slowly ebb down the ceiling and walls. You continue, up the stairs and through golden, large ornate doors, and into the throne room. Your target sits on a regale throne, flanked by the heroes of fate.

Only one may leave here alive. And you intend to do so no matter what the cost may be. You have sacrificed everything you had left to make this possible.