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Lennon "Diabolic" Hull
Kneeling in my lavishly decorated room, paid for by my most recent bounty, I sharpen my blade, my devotion, and my determination. Things are heating up, rapidly reaching a boiling point. And if I remain as myself any longer, I will die. I am not enough. Not right now, at least. Not that I have ever been enough.
Kai Vinson is dead. Howard Stark is trapped and dying. Edward Dudley has become an Angel and slayed Ashley Frankling while severely wounding Myriad's operations by bringing the man down to just a handful of splits. Sure, Howard has a chance of living, and Myriad will recover, but the facts remain. Change is coming.
Blackreach is in an uproar, Sinscreak is almost entirely lost, and Starkbluffs is unknown to even be ours or not. All communication has ceased. Vallens is holding, but even Marshall can't stop the future. An era of legends is upon us, and I will not, under any circumstances, let myself fall behind.
I either die now or rise.
Many call me the strongest human. That's not because I'm more powerful or deadly than the Prime or any of the Pillars. It's because they do not count as humans to most. They are Angels, beings far above our mortality, even if they age only slightly slower. Powers, Virtues, and Dominions, gifts of Angelhood that are said to be impossible to surmount by mere mortals, the wave of a hand capable of killing hundreds. To most, that is not human. It is something unsurpassable. To all, a 6th Sigil slaying an Angel is an impossibility, the latter far too above the former.
But it is not impossible. Two men alive have done it, well, one man thought to still be alive at least. Killian Graves and the Prime, whose name not even I have been allowed to know.
But no longer. No quarter. No half-measures. No regrets. No retreat. I am called Diabolic for many reasons, my disregard for safety, my skill of choice, and the form of my blade, a severely chipped and barbed thing that I have carried with me since my very first day as a student to Edmund Dudley.
Few of us, his students, are alive. But I blame not the man; it's the opposite. We, his students, were sent to the harshest, the gloomiest, and the least survivable places after the training. Even his own children. The man had no choice over where we went; he could only prepare us for it all. Laura and I believe it was to weed us out. The higher-ups hated that Edmund only trained those he deemed worthy, ignoring the wealthy who wanted his tutelage. As far as I know, only three remain among the hundreds. Me, a man on the precipice of Angelhood; Edward Dudley, an Angel himself; and Laura Cift, one of the three Claws who guard Gravecross.
He taught me the blade just as he taught me Ether, even if I was ungifted and slow compared to the others. Many laughed and jeered, saying I was so slow I could never master a single skill, that I was a failure. They said even Edmund couldn't teach me. They said I was a useless son of a poet. But just as I was about to give up, the old man encouraged me to pick up the blade and try again and again. Again. Again. And again.
Long nights, long mornings, and long days passed before I learned even a single skill of Ether. And the only one I know to this day, besides my Sigil skills, of course, but even those are difficult to use despite being melded with me.
Adrenaline Surge.
Not that I still call it that anymore these days. Edmund used to tell me something during those long nights when I stayed up with Laura to train, her natural gifts just as potent as her resolve.
"It is not bad to be good at only one thing, Lennon. You have the drive. You may not be like Laura, who can learn something on a single try, or Edward, whose body is almost made for Ether, but you want to know something, Lennon? You remind me of the footless dove."
Back then, I was foolish and didn't understand what he meant. I got needlessly angry as I thought it was an insult. Foolish. Edmund only ever encouraged.
"What do you mean? I'm a dove?!"
The old man just laughed and tapped me on the head with a cane, dodging my retaliation with preternatural swiftness.
"Haha. Not like that. The footless dove has no legs, only wings. It has no choice but to go and fly. The second it touches the ground that means its death."
I still didn't understand his meaning and asked for more clarification as I only got frustrated. I was naive and compulsive back then.
"What?"
He laughed again and swung his cane at me, using Shiver so I wouldn't notice it in time. I was quickly knocked to the ground, my ass slamming into the dirt.
"It is because you will go, and go, and go, but Lennon, the moment you stop, the moment you relish in your strength or your accomplishments, you will die. Unlike others who can waste that time reveling in their lives, you cannot. Cursed with incompetence, you must force the world to bow. So, get up. Another round before you go to bed. No quarter, Lennon. Do as you can to kill this old man. If you don't always push to the brink, then you will die. It is both a gift and a curse. I can only envy what you may accomplish, Lennon, not your struggles."
Only now, as I sharpen this blade with the world going mad, do I truly understand what he meant. I've never slacked a single day following his advice, but it makes sense. I am dull in Ether, for it barely responds to me, and my saturation builds up incredibly quickly. My resonance with my Sigil, Cutthroat, is abysmal, for even the only Sigils I resonated with, Soldier and Rogue, are at the lowest level of resonance, requiring minutes to take in a Sigil alone. Even my skill with the blade was always lacking. Laura used to kick my ass with one despite me training with them for a hundred times as long.
But that has never stopped me, and it won't. I rose from a young man unfit for anything to the premier human in all the lands. There are Angels above, but among men, among Mortals, I am unrivaled. I was worried that Darkstep would surpass me for a while, but with the recent news, I can't believe I never saw it. A Nahullo. Insane.
None of that matters, however. I can never let myself dawdle or settle. Especially now. A leap must be made, not a step. I have no Absolution and no Proof despite my age of thirty-six. Some have had it nearly half my age and still don't make it to Angelhood. But they have not fought as I have.
I will have one chance. One shot. And that is all that I will get.
It is all I need. All I ever wanted. Just a chance. A chance to show who I am. Son of a poet, yes, but so much more.
The noise outside my building makes me stop sharpening my blade as I put it on my waist and look out. There, I see Eden Brown, the Pillar of Qune, the oh-so-lovely hilly region beside Lawless Lake full of corruption and malaise. The dastardly woman strides through the streets to waive people's worries.
For years I have been gathering evidence on this woman. She is truly sinister. The Brown Estate sure does pump 'em out evil, huh? Torture, rape, murder, false imprisonment, and slavery. Those are just a few. Never before have I had the courage to confront her. But today? Today I do.
And it's not because I have determined her to be evil. No, that is not the reason. I would be lying if I said that's why I'm doing it. At first, the evidence was for blackmail in case she came after me, the Curious Face, known for her beguiling and blackmailing charm.
Today is the day I face her for myself. Not for anyone else. Just me.
Today is the day a man either dies or an Angel rises.
I open the window and position myself on the edge of it, peeking out at her. She notices my gaze almost instantly, the Curious Face, a master of emotions and facial expressions. A Conman and Abbot mix. Quite the unique combo, I must say.
Her expression twists in confusion, her auburn hair flying as she fails to understand why I am here. Yet, despite her stupor, I give her no quarter.
My blade comes out with a soothing tang of metal, her eyes widening as I immediately use the only skill I ever learned besides those bestowed to me by my Sigil. A reason why I am called Diabolic.
Niska.
The word for a demon coming from the natives deep in the frontier, and what a Comanche native once called me when I found their hidden valley.
Ether flies through my body at a rate that chars my flesh and protrudes my veins. Steam comes out of my nose as I breathe, pushing the concept of Physical Strengthening to the very limit. My eyes turn entirely red, the veins scarcely capable of what they are doing to enrich my vision and dynamic reaction.
Eden moves first, waving a hand and a string of words that come to me, but I cut off my ears with Focus, the skill given by my time as a Rugrat, and turn that sense toward my sight, sharpening my gaze. Dozens of people turn to me, drawing their weapons as they seem compelled and controlled to fight me. I ignore all that and bend my knees, the window cracking from the pressure beneath me.
And then, I exert all the strength flooding through my body at once, Niska, giving me the temporary strength that no man should have. The improvement does not yet near that of an Angel, however. The bricks crack as I prepare my movement, and when I vault, they shatter into a brilliant shower of stone that follows me.
Like an arrow let loose from a bow, only filled with far more malignancy, I fly toward the Angel, anticipating her to clash back. And she does.
Bullets fly past me in the dozens as I near her, the woman drawing a Colt and Claymore to meet mine. Her Colt raises toward me just before I make it to her, but I predict her target and turn my head a bit to the side, causing her to miss and only cut off a portion of my hair.
When I get near, I swing my Claymore, my blade, my pride, diagonal at her to end her life, but she sidesteps and throws her one blade to catch mine in a deflect. But I twist my blade, breaking her parry. Yet, she is skilled, too, preventing my blade from cutting her as she catches it with her Colt's barrel. We meet for a split second in the contest before she is blown backward into the building behind her. Niska doesn't play around. For if it did, I would have died long ago.
Landing on the ground, I accelerate toward her as she tries to stand. I have no time to waste. Fifty-eight beats remain. Niska, for all the power it gives, has a terrible drawback. It has a single-minute duration, and the moment it ends, I become paralyzed for up to a full day, the length depending on my wounds, the effects of temporary Ether saturation rendering me nigh paraplegic. Merely walking becomes a struggle after the minute.
But one minute is enough. It is fine to ignore what happens afterward as I will be dead or a new Angel, but for one minute, as Edmund said when I came up with it, I'd be strong enough to beat anyone. That was the answer I found to Edmund's challenge to each of his students, how to best defeat another.
Each student was given the ultimate task of defeating each other student at least once. Most answered simply by improving themselves enough to do so. Edward and Laura had no problem besting me, but I struggled to find an answer. That was until I did.
Mine was to twist my greatest weakness to defeat another's greatest strength. They might always be strong, but life or death happens in but a moment.
I swing my blade at her before she even stands, the woman struggling to react in time, yet I know it is an act. All things she does is, and when my blade gets close to her, the woman's nails grow and catch my sword right before it meets her throat to remove her head. The woman growls as she shouts at me, her word somehow turning into a physical concept, a steam train, albeit a small one more aligned with the size of a carriage and not a house, comes straight from her mouth to crush me. Her Power.
Dashing to the side as I feel aches in my legs from the abrupt movement, the conjured train soars past me into a building behind, likely hurting many. Not that I have time to care. This is about me. I have helped many throughout my life, but this is just reality. It's also the beauty of fate. In this world, everyone is a main character in their poems and a side character in another's story. Even a poet's son can hold the quill for others just as he does for himself.
The woman starts spouting more and more words at me as I read her lips to know what is coming in advance, my ears Focused out to not be bewitched.
"Gatling gun."
"Meteor."
"Tsunami."
"Hurricane."
I dash toward her, rushing past the bullets of the gatling gun and trying to move faster than she can turn the weapon, but it is supremely difficult. I use Toughness from my Soldier several times to take the hit of a bullet, the casing only making it an inch or so into my flesh.
The meteor she called is above, a shadow being cast upon me. The object is the size of a house, and I dash toward her even faster as a wave of water carries her away. Just before the meteor crashes to the ground, I jump and angle myself sideways, pushing off the thing of rock with as much force as I can.
Instantly, I fly toward her with great speed, but a hurricane is conjured between us, messing up my velocity and throwing me into a brick building. I catch myself with my hands as I fast recover with a twist and dash toward her, the time ticking. Fifty seconds. She can do this all day. I can't. Faster Lennon! Stronger! How else will you take the leap!?
Gritting my teeth as more and more bullets fly at me, I push Niska even further, veins bulging to their limits as I am sure I look grotesque and demonic to anyone around, the namesake of my title. I can feel the wind against me as I rush toward her, bullets whizzing past.
More words come from her mouth. From what I know, she can't conjure anything living with her power, only the non-living.
"Meteor!"
"Sun!"
"Moon!"
"Zephyr!"
Another meteor falls. This time, however, it is angled differently, coming diagonally as it falls toward me instead of just vertically, so I have a more challenging time jumping off of it. Additionally, a miniature sun appears above, a ball of flaming gas falling toward me as a freezing one emerges behind me.
All the wild, a terrible wind is summoned that fights against my speed, slowing me down and making more bullets contest against my Toughness from my Sigil, something that is soon to break, even with Niska active.
More! I need more!
Internally I scream to myself as more and more things appear around me and as Eden gets further and further away despite my attempts. More and more of my innards fall to the ground as a smile comes onto Eden's.
But I don't give up; even as I am swept by a tsunami, I force myself to move through it, my feet digging into the stone below for friction, the time counting down to thirty seconds left on Niska.
What am I missing? Why can't I beat her? I've been preparing for this skill for decades. Is it still not enough? Still not Dzil? Still not capable of going toe-to-toe with those great Powers?
No. I am merely not committed enough. Slowly, I am breaking, my body and mind shattering before the world's weight. That can not be. I cannot just reach as I fall. I must take the initiative and dive.
To defeat an Angel, to defeat a demon, to defeat a being far beyond you? What must you become? A monster. That is the only answer. That was Killian's, and that was the Prime's. Become a monster so revered that none dare challenge you of their own accord.
Just as I recover and kneel soaking wet on the road of the city of Qent, I make a decision. A mad one. One that only a monster, a demon, a Motherbound would make. One so devoted to a cause they care not for their own safety, another's safety, or even a higher goal. But that is what is needed.
For a man to defeat a genius, an Angel, a demon. There is only one thing they can do.
Become something far, far worse, the monster that scares children, horrifies adults, and leaves even the mighty trembling in their boots. We all have one. Every one of us. Demons can be slain, beasts hunted, and Gods corrupted. But a monster never fades, even after its death. There is no word for what I must become other than a monster.
I can feel the pressure of the world as it is my time. It is now. The Mother Below is watching, betting, and trying to prevent another from rising. An unfathomable presence is descending upon me. It fills me with pride to know that such a divine figure gives me even a speck of its focus. But too bad. Lennon Hull gives none quarter. None.
Ether explodes through my body as I stop the motions and force it all to go in reverse at the drop of a dime, the damage to my body immediately showing itself from the near-suicidal manipulation. Blood spews from my nose, ears, eyes, and several veins even burst from the contortion of Ether. I use the rebounding force of my Ether to compress it further, the gaseous Ether almost detonating on itself as I nearly lose control.
But I do not pause. I give my enemies no quarter, and I give myself no quarter. For most, the mind breaks before the body a thousand times over. For me, it has always been the opposite.
And so, with a roar against the heavens above and the Gods below, I slam a foot into the ground and practically make my core explode in Ether by letting go of my control as the substance creates a cascading detonation within my body, my entire frame detonating with force just as I fly forwards at a speed so fast, I hear again for a brief moment. A singular bang resounds as I appear in The Cabin with no previous sign.
Elation fills me as I take a step forward. One part is done. Two remain. My eyes float to the tome before me, something I was unsure I would ever see again. My resonance with Ether was so low, and my talent with the substance so abysmal I thought I would never advance again in any way. Decades of pushing myself to the edge every day, killing thousands of monsters more robust than me, and barely surviving the wilds were what it took just to get me to the 6th Sigil.
For some, it takes them a tenth of the time, a hundredth of the murder, and a thousandth of the effort. But in the end, I will prevail. Time is running out. And so, I must only squeeze more effort out.
Congratulations, Cutthroat. You have displayed an overwhelming pure resonance to the aspect of the Hellion. You have performed an Act of Absolution in your attempt to overcome your own limits. You brought yourself to your very limit. And then one step further. Again and again, until your very body began to collapse. But within that collapse and stress, a diamond emerges from both you and your Sigil. And so, may your Cutthroat Sigil shift into a purer form, for you, the soon-to-be Hellion, have performed,
The Hellion's Absolution.
You have prematurely resonated with a future step along your path, and as such, your current Sigil shall shift its Absolute Form to match it just as it shifts to better match you. It will never be the same again, and neither will you, Cutthroat. Like an old blade removed from millennium-old rust, your Sigil shall now be more powerful, vibrant, and purer.
From the Cutthroat you once were, now, you are the Hellenic Cutthroat. One who disregards what all others think and strives only for the betterment of himself. A man who goes against what it means to be divine in search of what only he deems true, whether that be diabolic, angelic, or godly.
With this new form, your Sigil shall grant a new strength. A new aid to you in your long journey. One that is premature yet effective.
Your devotion has bore fruit. Your efforts show that you are useless in all yet unequaled in one art. The blade you swing now devotes its whole being to you just as you do to it. From its sheath shall a terror be born, one unlike any other. You must only focus intensely, so profoundly that all turns null, and from there, it shall be shown you have no rival, the blade in your palm the only being worthy of your respect, and the recipient of endless apprehension.
The form of your Sigil shall now be revealed to you, as it is more pure and effervescent than ever before.
I stare at the words and turn my attention to the form of my Sigil; what was once a mishmash of blades and daggers organized for bloodletting is now a single blade, one that looks identical to my Claymore, Dia, with its scratched up and damaged steel. I can feel its single-minded purpose, to cut. A smile is pulled upon my lips as I reach forward, eager to see what lies next.
Is it my death? Or my rise? Will I emerge victorious, a poet becoming a monster capable of rivaling those lofty figures? Or will I fall underneath the tides of fate with an opponent too high above to cross?
I am unsure which will come, but nothing excites me more than the prospect of reaching the peak where few have tread to go even further and jump into the sky above.