Yuri Dragunov
I've been an unceasing observer, an unseen presence amid this abyssal expanse of night. Positioned atop the lofty spire of this cathedral, I find myself a solitary spectator gazing upon the scarlet orb of Mars, its descent mirroring an impending cataclysm onto our realm. The frigid air wraps around me, an eerie accompaniment to the unfolding tableau of war that now unfolds before my unblinking eyes. Here, in this somber theater, I've unwittingly immersed myself, my very skin seemingly steeped in the chilling river of blood that courses through these dire moments.
From the inception of the inaugural dragonoid conflict to the successive tumultuous wars that followed, each one etched indelibly upon my memory, I now bear witness to the inception of the fourth and final dragonoid clash. The sands of time have bestowed upon me the gruesome privilege of observing these blood-soaked sagas from inception to conclusion, and as the Necross Ascension approaches, a sanguinary climax that promises to extinguish the flames of conflict, I stand poised to witness an era's cessation and the dawn of true serenity.
The ethereal battles that embroider the winter firmament with their ferocity present a paradoxical beauty that only discerning eyes can decipher. While the world perceives these celestial skirmishes as an orchestra of anguish, I find solace in viewing them as mere brushstrokes on a grand canvas—a canvas awash with the hues of spilled blood, a composition as complex as it is macabre.
Through the luminal veil of a holographic screen, I am privy to the global stage. This live conduit of information affords me a vantage beyond the empire's borders, encapsulating the planet's tapestry of events. The dragonoids, their ire stoked by the carnage I orchestrated, vent their fury indiscriminately, kindling infernos in human hamlets and brazenly clashing with the empire's stalwart guardians. As the Fourth Dragonoid War reaches its crescendo, I bear witness to this symphony of strife, orchestrated by my own hand, each note resounding with the cacophony of conflict.
Yet, amid the orchestrated chaos, a singular aberration disrupts the meticulously orchestrated opus of our ambitions. Cast beneath me, a mere distance of hundreds of meters, stands the impediment to Alterra's true destiny—Amphere Harrison, an obstinate bulwark, joined in her defiance by the resolute Crimson Dragonfly, Airelina Frembell. The unforeseen alacrity with which they marshal Nox's zombies as their vanguard leaves me perturbed, a disconcerting note in our orchestrated symphony of death. But such deviations, though noteworthy, must ultimately yield to the inexorable march of our design. Mere numbers, 387 more notches etched upon the blade of my purpose, stand as the divide between the realms, the precipice from which the Underworld shall plunge into this abyssal dominion.
Nox poised his sword, its gleam casting an eerie reflection. In response, the infernal circle's incandescence waned, a strategic maneuver to sever his connection to the undead horde he had summoned. The implications were profound, for this disruption would stifle his supply of mana to his ghoulish minions. Yet, this tactical advantage paled before the looming threat of the Dragonoid Saint, a presence that demanded Nox's utmost vigilance. Though the priestess remained concealed from view, I harbored no doubt that Amphere harbored a hidden card, poised to unleash devastation the moment we lowered our defenses.
With bated breath, the clash erupted into existence, battle-lines drawn and destinies entwined. Estoff Wraith initiated the dance, lunging forward with a swiftness that belied his spectral nature, the resounding impact of his savage side hack echoing through the air. Nox instinctively retreated, his evasion inadequate to evade the onslaught. The ominous hum of Nox's buster sword heralded his counter, the blade an unyielding bulwark against the incoming assault, the metallic clash resonating like a thunderclap. Rudolf Azregon seized the initiative, his Chaos Claws raking upwards in a feral scratch attack that found its mark on Nox's arm, disintegrating it upon contact. A triumphant whirl of Nox's buster sword followed, a desperate attempt to shield himself, the weapon pirouetting thrice before thudding against the earth. In death, as in life, these zombie assailants proved to be relentless adversaries, their undead tenacity a haunting echo of their mortal selves.
A discordant tableau then unfurled, the once-loyal zombie knights betraying their purpose as they leapt aside, ceding the arena to Amphere's climactic assault. The gargantuan skeletal automaton, an embodiment of necrotic power and photon-charged fury, unleashed a torrential blast that resonated with a deafening roar. The azure torrent's path was one of obliteration, dissolving everything it touched, consuming not only Nox's flesh but penetrating deep into his muscular sinews. Only his head emerged unscathed from the deluge, a grotesque semblance of survival amidst the scorched aftermath that now adorned his form, as though he were a charred offering.
Yet, Nox clung to existence, his immortality a defiant testimony against the cruel hand of death. He rose from the ashen remains, his form an epitome of resilience. A malevolent grin crept across his features, an acknowledgment that the agony inflicted upon him was but a fleeting inconvenience.
"Predictable, perhaps, that the trio would prove insurmountable," he hissed through clenched teeth, words laden with a mix of bitterness and reluctant admiration. "In recognition of such a dire juncture, I shall cast aside pretense and face you with unbridled resolve."
The spectacle escalated further, Nox's ravaged hand undergoing a grotesque metamorphosis. From the ruins of burnt flesh, tendrils of regeneration took root, sinuous veins weaving an intricate pattern as lifeblood surged to revive the maimed appendage. The very fabric of his being seemed to defy the ravages of time and destruction. With a newly restored limb, he seized his sword, an extension of his reborn self, and through a macabre ritual, he suffused it with his own regenerated tissue. The once gleaming buster sword now bore a crimson hue, a surreal fusion of blood and steel, adorned with unseeing ocular orbs that bestowed upon it an uncanny, unsettling gaze.
A telepathic missive coursed through the minds of the three enemy knights, a psychic communication borne upon the thoughts of their draconic companions who had been mere observers until this pivotal juncture. Responding to this silent entreaty, the knights disentangled themselves from the maelstrom, a collective divergence that allowed Nox a fraction of space. In this momentary reprieve, Nox seized the opportunity, his blade arcing with a momentum that belied its sinister intent. A cataclysmic cleave followed, the impact resonating at a subatomic level, a microcosmic nuclear storm ensuing that fractured the very atoms of the ambient air and birthed a conflagration of infinitesimal magnitude.
Smoke and chaos ensued, obscuring the battleground in a haze of uncertainty. As the smog gradually relented, a new visage of Nox emerged, swathed in a morbid armor unlike any other. This grotesque panoply was an amalgamation of living tissue, skinned muscles pulsating in synchrony with his movements, each motion giving rise to a macabre ballet of blood droplets. The armor, a morass of pulsating flesh, enshrouded him entirely, with the sole exception of his head. In this unholy transformation, Nox's eyes now blazed with a malevolent scarlet, veins of obsidian prominence coursing beneath the surface. The hue of his eyes mirrored that of the dragonoids, albeit intensified, an incarnate emblem of his malefic essence. He stood as an embodiment of darkness, a realization of the ominous prophecies that had painted him as a harbinger of the abyss, though he regarded himself as naught more than a messenger from the nether realms.
He was Necross, a messiah spawned from the infernal depths. A pact had been forged, a sinister alliance predicated on his ability to fulfill my desires. The magnitude of the death toll that would be exacted – a staggering 666,666,666 lives – held no sway over my conviction, so long as the reward was the reunion with my long-lost family and an end to this world's ceaseless turmoil.
Unscathed, the trio of knights stood as a testament to their resilience. Amphere, bearing his shield plate, had seen it weathered, now dimmed to a mere fifty percent of its prior luster. The two zombie knights, bearing their undead constitution, exhibited signs of the conflict in the form of contusions and fractures, though the very nature of their being afforded them a certain insensitivity to the torment. Nox's voice pierced the eerie quietude, a conceited intonation that reverberated through the air.
"Perseverance, it seems, is your forte," he jeered, a tone heavy with arrogance and perhaps a hint of admiration, the clash of titans resuming with a fervor that could only escalate further.
My focus splintered as a newsflash flickered across my screen, summoning my attention to the unfolding world beyond this battle-scarred tableau. Journalists from far-flung corners of the globe converged in a mosaic of live coverage, their lenses trained upon a symbol of golden wings and sword beneath a regal crown—the emblem of Princess Serenity Elkyria. The setting, an hour as inauspicious as the midnight chimes that marked it—twelve resounding strikes that heralded a pivotal hour. Anticipation was palpable; this transmission bore the gravity of a critical announcement, a missive that had the power to alter the course of events, veering them into realms uncharted.
The princess assumed her position upon the dais, flanked by the enigmatic Corasell figure and the Arcadian youth who had turned on his own. The assemblage of media personnel hung suspended in hushed reverence, their collective breath held as the princess's voice rang out, unyielding and resolute.
"Fellow denizens of Alterra," she began, her voice unwavering despite the tumultuous backdrop of discord that permeated the world. "In this fateful hour, we confront a precipitous crisis—a maelstrom of unrest that engulfs our very races. The dragonoids' protests echo ceaselessly, and the fires of war persist, unfettered in various corners of our realm. I stand before you not as a princess, but as an advocate of peace, an instrument of unity. My charge is to mold this empire into a bastion of harmony and equity—for ourselves, for our allies, for our kinfolk, and for our progeny. In this juncture, we shall cease the shedding of blood, both human and dragonoid. Citizens of Alterra, bear witness as I proclaim an end to this mindless conflict! I ordain the Dragonoid Rights Law, effective from this very second!"
The jubilant cries of dragonoids, the exultant celebration of a long-awaited recognition, resounded as jubilant echoes that reverberated across the globe. In their eyes, the ink on that accursed parchment was a covenant that spoke to a future of promise.
My own frame trembled, a cocktail of emotions seizing me. A dissonant laughter erupted, carried away by the currents of the night, an eerie cackle that cast its spectral shadow across the dark expanse.
Fools.
The Dragonoid Rights Law held no dominion over me, nor did it impact my purpose. It was an inconsequential parchment that had no power to halt the relentless march of the Murder Death Count, a tally that inched ever closer to its infernal climax: 666,666,665.