Fate is a bastard of a thing.
Henry Savoy, in his younger years, was a fan of it. He used to believe that, somewhere out the nonsense of it all, is a catalyst that guides. May it be a god or gods, or really just something—there must be a power of order that makes every neat and tidy. For people to meet in the way and places they do, it must be a work of a higher power.
That thought was reasonable, of course.
Everyone could think the same way he does.
He's not that special.
To him, no one is. Not a soul.
After all, what are the chances things could be in the way that they are? The possibility of being born in itself is an odds any gambler would fold at. Say, you are indeed born then, and the way things are as you were seeing and feeling, how does that bode to others? The people you meet have the same sliver of chance of existing. So, Henry Savoy, the bright boy he was, thought that it was fate.
That was then.
Now?
Now he knew better. One thing hit him in the gut, real hard, and knocked all that fate stuff right out of him, made him see it for what it was: a load of crap.
But that's another story for another day.
So, being given a faux choice was not his jive. Henry hated to be told what to do and how to act. That applies to his situation now where he was being told that he has no choice.
So here he was, staring down this Saint of Oberin who had a look on her like she could carve up the whole universe with her righteousness. She'd whipped up all the light in the room, swirling it into this sharp, crystallized weapon, and she flicked it like a dominatrix who'd misplaced her morals. The whip snapped, loud as a thunderclap, and Henry just had to chuckle at the irony of it all.
So much for holy.
Then—
Crack!
—Another hit.
The whip turned all loose and tangled itself around his neck. Lady Saint yanked, forcing him down to his knees, but Henry Savoy, the joker that he was, still managed to laugh through the choking.
"Safeword's 'blackberry pie'," he rasped, chuckling.
This pissed off the lady and the grip tightened on his neck. Henry coughed and coughed, his sight turning into a bleached scene as the air in his lungs stuck—none can get out and in.
"Submit to the will of the gods!" shouted the Saint of Oberin.
Henry Savoy did not. He gripped the rope tightly, trying to pull it out of his neck. When it became clear to him that it was not an option, he kept doing it regardless.
When his lights were nearly fading, a sort of sound ringed in his ears.
Then some sort of tabs appeared, he caught it at the side of his eyes.
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Name: Henry Savoy
Level: ∞
Title: The Chosen One
HP: 25/100
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[Temporary Skill]
Mannalid's Breaker
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[Active Skill]
Ultratolerance (Lvl. 1)
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[Passive Skills]
King of Rot (Lvl. 1)
(Unknown)
(Unknown)
(Unknown)
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Then it hit him, like a jolt straight to the spine. His whole body surged with electric energy, clarity rushing in like a flood.
The whip was gone.
It shattered into a thousand little prisms, colors spraying out across the room, and Henry stood there, blinking through the daze, catching his breath, grinning like he'd just cheated death and won the jackpot.
Everyone remained silent, including the Saint of Oberin, who was now gaping at him as if he'd just pulled a rabbit out of a hat.
"Holy shit, what was that?!" Henry wheezed, still grinning like a madman. "Who knew choking had perks apart from a bone rising?"
The Saint of Oberin too thrilled, frozen with her mouth hanging open like Henry had just defied the natural order. Because he did. That kind of magick was unnatural. It is god-like to shatter magick.
Henry rolled his shoulders, feeling the new energy humming beneath his skin.
"Didn't see that one coming, did you, babe?" he added, his laughter echoing against the stone walls. "Fate is a neglectful cunt, it doesn't look out for anyone, but it looks like today it decided to make me its favorite child."
He stood up, rolling his shoulders again, and taking stock of the chaos around him. If this was what fate had in store for him now, then maybe—just maybe—he could bend it to his will. After all, if the universe was handing out blessings, who was he to turn them down?
The silence hung thick in the air, a tension that felt like the moments just before a storm breaks. Henry straightened, the remnants of the crystal whip dissipating into a swirl of colors, and he looked around the grand chamber as if it were a stage, all eyes on him.
The Saint of Oberin, regaining her composure, narrowed her eyes, her lips curling into a frown that could curdle milk.
"You think this is a game?" she asked, her voice dripping with disdain. "You toy with forces beyond your understanding!"
"Toy? Nah, I'm juggling in this bitch," Henry replied, a cocky smirk plastered across his face.
The door in which Henry Savoy and the holy men once came in shot open. All of the attention was placed there, including Henry's. There entered two columns of armed men, armor in gold and black iron, wielding spears straight. They were disciplined in their march, and they were lined properly like soldiers with much training.
Once they came inside, they halted to a stop and broke in the middle like Moses parting the Red Sea.
Everyone, except for Henry and the Saint of Oberin, kneeled.
Henry Savoy took notice of this and he already knew who was about to come out of there. Someone who commanded much respect must be from some kind of royalty. And his appraisal of this world, hell, an established monarchy must be a thing.
And then marched out of there was a handsome young man—curled, golden hair flowing to his shoulder, bearing a purple cape matched with black formal clothing. The medals on his chest were apparent, too, as it jangled and jingled as he took confident strides with a smile. Though this man did not wear a crown, he was far from a king.
He was far too charming for one.
This was a prince, thought Henry Savoy.
"What manner of trouble brewed in Oberden today? I could hear it from the castle," spoke the Prince. His gaze landed on Henry, and for a brief moment, the world narrowed down to just the two of them. It was a smirk that Henry recognized—the kind of arrogance that dripped from someone used to getting their way. Handling many brats in the Walking Stick, that was a familiar sight. "And who might you be, ser?"
"Henry Savoy," he shot back. "Bartender—uh, alchemist."
He shrugged, grinning. Same difference in a place like this.
An alchemist was a stretch, but in a world unaware of what a bartender is? That's the length he'll go to make people understand his skill. Sure, it wasn't healing in ways medicines were, but it was for the soul to drink. To ravage and become primal, to be driven by your deepest desire and feelings, like spit of the devil himself.
Before the Prince could speak, the Saint of Oberin interrupted.
But before the prince could throw out a reply, the Saint of Oberin, still burning with anger, cut in. "He's the Hero of the Age of Restoration," she spat, "but he's been… difficult. So, I decided to handle him the way I know how."
"Difficult?" The Prince clicked his tongue, still smiling. "Maybe, but is it your place to harm people—especially the Chosen One?"
"But, my prince!—"
With one hand raised, the Prince stopped the Saint of Oberin without even using magick.
"The Codex Oberin stands above all. Isn't that the word of Oberin?"
"Yes, Prince Tylerin," the Lady Saint bowed reluctantly, biting her lips. "I am sorry for the lapse of my judgment."
"Though, if you want to challenge him, there is a procedure we must take. The Codex Oberin states that both shall have a day's preparation before they battle. And whoever wins, may it be through submission or death, may have the last word and righteousness."
"Then I will make this rowdy man submit to the Will of the Gods. I invoke the Ultimatum," the Saint placed her hand on her chest as she spoke.
"Ultima-what-now?" Henry sneered, glancing around.
"She challenges you, Chosen One. And you, in the meantime, will be given a room for the night to prepare," smiled the Prince. "And when the dawn breaks, you will fight her in the Arena of Tyvin as custom."
"As custom," he repeated, snickering. "I've got zero say in this then?"
"None."
"Fantastic," Henry muttered.
"There will be much time for both of you to think how to handle each other. The night and your loneliness will give you solace to the noise," the Prince approached Henry Savoy and smirked at him before gazing at the Lady Saint then the guardsmen. "Lead the Chosen One to his lodgings."
He went out of the room and most followed him obediently. Before the Guardsmen of Oberden went to him, Henry Savoy looked at the Saint of Oberin, a smirk on his face.
"I know how to play my cards. And if that fails, I'll break through," he smirked. "Without all that piety, you'd be a smokin' hot babe."
Then the guardsmen grabbed his shoulder, and he nudged the hand off it. He would walk out of that room, leaving the holy men and the people in the presence of the Saint of Oberin. You would think that she would snap back from her anger, but she didn't. There was in her, a fire flamed of highest proof and she was unsure whether it was right or wrong.
She found Henry Savoy dangerous.
Not because of his actions.
But because of what it made her feel.
And that to her, is a vice most wild.