The Vengeful One lounged sideways on her throne, one leg draped over the armrest while her other hung lazily, her boot barely brushing the polished marble floor. A goblet of deep crimson wine rested between her fingers, swirling idly as she let out a slow, exasperated sigh.
"Sage," she drawled, stretching out as she leaned back against the plush cushioning. "Remind me, am I a queen, a warrior, or just a glorified city planner? Because at this rate, I might as well start drafting blueprints for public theaters to keep myself entertained."
Before Great Sage could respond, the throne room shifted. A golden, ethereal glow washed over the chamber, casting elongated shadows against the towering pillars. The air grew thick with divine energy, a gentle warmth replacing the usual chill that accompanied her presence.
The Vengeful One's crimson eyes flicked upward, one brow arching in mild interest as a celestial figure materialized before her.
At the heart of the light stood Aurelith, the Goddess of Civilization and Prosperity.
Her form was statuesque, clothed in flowing robes of brilliant white and gold, embroidered with intricate patterns resembling the veins of leaves and rivers intertwining—symbols of life and renewal. Her radiant golden hair cascaded like liquid sunlight, shifting and shimmering as though it had a life of its own. Her eyes, deep pools of silver and blue, held the wisdom of ages, ever-watching, ever-judging. Around her, a faint hum of divine energy resonated, an unseen force that carried both authority and comfort.
Aurelith regarded the lounging ruler with a soft smile, clasping her hands in front of her as she spoke.
"You are as composed as ever, my dear Dark Messiah." Her voice was rich, layered, carrying the weight of a thousand civilizations and the warmth of an ancient mother.
The Vengeful One swirled the wine in her goblet, unimpressed by the theatrics. "Spare me the pleasantries, Aurelith. Gods appearing before me unannounced rarely comes without some grand speech." She took a slow sip before cocking her eyebrow. "So? To what do I owe the pleasure? Or are you just here to admire my plumbing skills?"
Aurelith chuckled, a sound like wind through golden fields. "In a way, yes. I have come to express my gratitude."
The Vengeful One's brow arched higher. "For what?"
The Goddess stepped forward, the golden light following her like a halo. "For restoring faith to Ashwynd. My presence had long faded from these lands, their prayers all but forgotten. But now, temples are being rebuilt. Offerings are being made. My name is once again whispered with reverence."
She tilted her head slightly, her silver-blue eyes shining with something unreadable. "That is because of you."
The Vengeful One let out a short laugh, tilting her goblet toward the Goddess in mock toast. "I don't recall making sermons or converting the lost masses. All I did was give the people water."
Aurelith's smile deepened, her knowing gaze unwavering. "And yet, that was enough."
The Vengeful One stilled, tapping a single gloved finger against the rim of her goblet as she considered the words. The thought had never crossed her mind—faith as a byproduct of practical governance.
The Goddess continued, stepping closer. "Faith does not always return in grand gestures or mighty miracles, Dark Messiah. Sometimes, it is reignited through simple acts—through proving that those who rule can provide, protect, and elevate their people. By giving Ashwynd water, you gave them more than just sustenance. You gave them hope. Hope that the world is not yet abandoned. Hope that they can rebuild, stronger than before."
The Vengeful One clicked her tongue, setting the goblet down on the table beside her. "So that's it, then? I improve their quality of life, and suddenly, they think the gods give a damn again?"
Aurelith chuckled again, this time with a glint of amusement in her celestial gaze. "It seems mortals are easier to sway than even you anticipated."
The Vengeful One exhaled sharply, running a hand through her crimson hair before shaking her head with a smirk. "Tch. Well, if that's all it takes, maybe I should start handing out free loaves of bread next. I could have the entire pantheon kneeling in gratitude within a month."
Aurelith's laugh was genuine, but her expression softened as she regarded the woman before her. "You mock, but your actions are not unnoticed, nor unappreciated. Even those who do not yet kneel will come to respect the one who builds, not just conquers. You are not merely a harbinger of destruction, Dark Messiah. You are a harbinger of renewal."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, the weight of those words settling in.
Then, with an exasperated sigh, the Vengeful One waved a dismissive hand. "Fine, fine. I'll take the compliment, if only because it amuses me that clean drinking water has made me a saint in their eyes." She smirked, propping her chin against her fist. "Tell me, Aurelith—how long do you think it'll take before they start carving statues of me?"
The Goddess smiled, the light around her shimmering. "Perhaps sooner than you think."
And with that, the glow intensified, the air thrumming with divine energy. The Vengeful One watched as Aurelith's form began to fade, her golden aura dissolving into glimmering threads of light.
But just before she vanished completely, her voice lingered—warm, knowing, and edged with something almost playful.
"You may not seek their faith, but their faith will find you regardless. Be ready for what that means, Dark Messiah."
Then, she was gone, leaving only the faintest traces of golden light drifting in the air like falling embers.
The Vengeful One sat there for a moment, staring at the space where the Goddess had stood.
Then, she exhaled, shaking her head with a quiet chuckle. "Tch. Gods and their dramatics."
Reaching for her goblet, she took a long sip, her smirk lingering as she leaned back into her throne, her mind already turning.
Faith, huh? If a little water was all it took to bring it back… imagine what I could do next.
As the Vengeful One swirled the last sip of wine in her goblet, the golden remnants of Aurelith's departure still fading into nothingness, a familiar voice echoed in her mind.
"Her words were not far from the truth, my Lady."
She arched a brow, setting her goblet down as Great Sage continued, its voice measured, but tinged with something that almost resembled approval.
"Though you dismiss it as mere coincidence, your actions have already begun to shift the balance. The restoration of faith in the four Gods and Goddesses has caused a ripple effect, however small. The corrupted lands at the kingdom's edges are receding, and the air, once thick with decay, has begun to thin."
The Vengeful One leaned back into her throne, one leg draped lazily over the armrest, her fingers idly tapping against her knee. "So, what you're saying is, by simply giving the people water and rebuilding their faith, I've managed to push back the rot that's been swallowing this world whole?"
"Not entirely, my Lady. But you have begun to slow its advance. It is not enough to make travel through the corrupted regions safe, nor enough to restore what was lost… but it is a start."
She huffed out an amused breath, her crimson eyes gleaming with something between curiosity and satisfaction. "Tch. And here I thought I was just making my job easier by securing resources and cities. Turns out, I've been saving the world without even trying."
"Indeed. However, sustained effort will be required. The corruption remains deeply rooted, and isolated changes will not be enough to undo centuries of decay."
The Vengeful One smirked, tilting her head back as she stared at the ornate ceiling of her throne room. "Sustained effort, huh? You make it sound like I need to start handing out blessings and pardoning sinners. Don't tell me I have to be a saint now, Sage. I don't think I have it in me."
"You misunderstand, my Lady. Faith is a powerful force, but action is what moves the world. You do not need to become a saint—you merely need to continue ruling as you have. The people's belief in you, whether divine or otherwise, will fuel the changes you have already set in motion."
She let the words settle in, her fingers tapping against her knee in thought. Corruption retreating. The land itself responding. And all she had to do was keep ruling as she had been?
A slow, dark grin spread across her lips.
"Well then, that's easy. I was planning to keep going anyway. But now? Now I have even more reason to push forward. If my rule alone is enough to drive the filth away, imagine what will happen when the entire world is under my control."
"The effects would be... considerable."
She chuckled softly, the sound low and rich with amusement. "Then let's make this world kneel, Sage. If I'm a harbinger of renewal, I may as well see it through."
Her fingers curled around the armrest of her throne, her smirk widening as she leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees.
The Vengeful One stood in a modest, open-air training ground just beyond the city walls, arms crossed as she observed the man before her. If she hadn't been told he was the best martial artist in Ashwynd, she would have mistaken him for a beggar who had simply wandered onto the field.
His name was Osric the Threadbare, and he looked every bit the part. His tattered brown robes hung loose around his wiry frame, the frayed edges swaying lightly in the breeze. His sandals were mismatched—one appearing to have been patched together with scraps of leather. His graying hair was unkempt, sticking out in odd directions, and his face was weathered with deep lines, as if he had seen far more than he let on. A scruffy beard clung stubbornly to his chin, making his already disheveled appearance all the more convincing.
And yet, despite all that, his eyes—piercing and sharp as a hawk's—studied her with the kind of calm that only came from absolute confidence.
She exhaled through her nose, irritation bubbling just beneath the surface. She had absorbed countless combat memories through Predator, had mastered techniques through sheer osmosis of experience… and yet, she had come to an unsettling realization. She didn't actually know how to fight. Not truly. She could move, react, and counter like those whose skills she had taken, but there was no real foundation beneath it. No understanding of her own body in battle—only borrowed knowledge.
She hated that.
Osric scratched at his scruffy beard and eyed her up and down. "So, the Queen of Ashwynd has come to learn how to fight properly? That's rich," he mused, his voice rough, yet oddly amused. "You mean to tell me all that slaughter and war you've waged, and you don't even know how to throw a proper punch?"
She narrowed her eyes. "I know enough."
"That's what fools say right before they get their teeth knocked in," he replied, lazily cracking his knuckles. "Knowing isn't understanding. And understanding is what keeps you alive when instinct alone won't cut it."
She rolled her shoulders, already debating whether throwing him into a wall would be worth the trouble. "Are you going to teach me, or are you just here to waste my time?"
Osric grinned, revealing a single missing tooth. "Oh, I'll teach you. But first, let's see just how bad you are."
With a flick of his wrist, he beckoned her forward.
The Vengeful One scoffed. The confidence he exuded was almost admirable, given the power gap between them. Almost.
She lunged forward, feinting to the left before aiming a precise palm strike toward his center of mass.
Osric didn't just dodge—he disappeared.
Before she could register his movement, a sharp impact struck her wrist, sending a jolt up her arm. He had redirected her strike mid-motion, spinning her off balance in a way that shouldn't have been possible. Before she could recover, he slipped behind her, delivering a light, almost lazy tap to the back of her knee.
Her leg buckled. She caught herself just before she hit the ground, twisting to face him, but he was already a step away, hands clasped behind his back, looking as though he hadn't moved at all.
"Hm," he mused. "Yeah. You don't know a damn thing."
The Vengeful One's eye twitched.
Osric stretched, rolling his shoulders. "Alright, Queen. If you want to actually learn how to fight, I'll teach you. But you better be ready, 'cause I don't go easy on royalty."
She exhaled slowly, reigning in the urge to break a rib or two in retaliation.
"Fine," she said, straightening her posture. "Let's begin."
Osric grinned again, already moving into position. "That's more like it."
The Vengeful One spat a glob of blood onto the dirt beneath her, her breath coming in short, uneven bursts. Her arms trembled as she pressed her hands against the ground, trying to steady herself. Every fiber of her being screamed in protest, her muscles battered, her ribs aching from the relentless onslaught she had endured.
She had thought she understood pain. She had suffered wounds that should have killed her, had regenerated from injuries that would have left lesser beings broken beyond repair. But none of those had truly registered—not the way this did.
Not until she had asked Great Sage to strip away her supernatural resistance to pain, to make her feel every strike, every blow, every failure, as any ordinary warrior would. I can't learn if I can't feel. Those had been her words. And now, she was feeling everything.
A rough chuckle sounded above her. "You sure you're royalty?" Osric mused, hands still clasped lazily behind his back. "Crawling on all fours like a dog, spitting blood on the ground? Not very queenly, if you ask me."
She forced her head up, crimson eyes blazing with defiance even as a fresh bruise swelled along her jaw. "Shut up." The words were hoarse, her throat raw from exertion.
Osric smirked, completely unfazed. "Tch. You're stubborn, I'll give you that. But you still fight like someone who's never been afraid of losing."
She let out a slow, pained exhale. "Because I haven't."
"And that," he said, stepping closer, "is your problem."
She pushed herself up, knees wobbling as she sat back on her heels, gripping the dirt between her fingers. Every nerve in her body told her to stop, to yield, to take a moment to let her body recover. But she wasn't done.
Osric crouched before her, resting his elbows on his knees, his sharp eyes meeting hers. "You've never truly fought for your life, have you?" His voice lacked mockery this time—only curiosity, and something that almost sounded like disappointment. "You take hits, you keep going, but you know you'll heal. You know nothing can break you. And because of that, you fight like a machine, not like someone with something to lose."
Her lips curled into a weak smirk, despite the pain. "You're awfully bold for a man who just beat a queen into the dirt."
Osric shrugged. "Hey, you asked for the lesson. You said you wanted to learn. So here's your first real lesson—fear. The fear of making a mistake. The fear of losing. The fear that every time you misstep, it could be the end. Until you understand that, you'll never truly know how to fight."
She said nothing, still breathing heavily, absorbing his words.
After a moment, he sighed and stood back up, rolling his shoulders. "Get up."
She didn't move immediately. Her body wanted to collapse, to let her unnatural healing take over, to end this pain.
But she had asked for this.
So she forced herself to move.
Her fingers clawed into the ground as she dragged herself upright, her legs screaming in protest as she pushed herself to her feet. Her vision blurred for half a second, her head spinning from exhaustion. But she stayed standing. Wobbling, battered, bruised… but standing.
Osric grinned. "That's more like it."
Then, without warning, he struck again.
The Vengeful One lay face-first in the dirt, the taste of blood thick on her tongue. Her body was wrecked—her clothes, once pristine, were little more than tattered remnants clinging uselessly to her battered frame. Her arms refused to move. Her legs felt like lead. Every inch of her skin throbbed with bruises, cuts, and the deep ache of overused muscles screaming for reprieve.
The sky above was shifting in and out of focus, the pale light of dusk casting long shadows over the training grounds. She had lost count of the hours. She had lost count of the fights.
All she knew was the number. 1,292,025.
That was how many times Osric had broken her down. How many times he had floored her, disarmed her, flipped her, outpaced her, shattered her balance, and made her eat the ground.
Her vision blurred again as the crimson-stained sand filled her sight. She could barely breathe—her ribs ached with every shallow inhale, and each exhale sent another wave of exhaustion crashing over her.
Still, she had never said stop.
"Well, damn. You actually stayed conscious this time."
She barely registered Osric's voice, somewhere above her. Footsteps crunched against the sand as he approached, his ever-present amusement tinged with something else—something like approval.
He crouched down beside her, resting his elbows on his knees. "I'd tell you to get up," he mused, rubbing his scruffy chin. "But I'm not sure you even can at this point."
Her fingers twitched, barely managing to shift the grains beneath them.
"Ah," Osric grinned. "There it is. That stubborn-ass refusal to stay down. Gods, you're worse than a stray dog in a meat market." He sighed and leaned forward, his shadow casting over her limp form. "So? You learned anything yet?"
She wanted to answer. Wanted to snarl something at him. Wanted to push herself up and keep going. But her body—her mortal, pain-ridden body—refused to obey.
Osric smirked. "Thought so."
A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant sound of the city beyond the training grounds.
Then, he shifted, lowering his voice just enough that it almost sounded like an afterthought.
"You're not fighting me anymore, you know."
Her blurred vision twitched, barely processing his words.
"At some point, you stopped fighting me, and you started fighting yourself." He let that hang in the air before standing, dusting off his ragged robe. "Figure out what the hell that means, and maybe next time, you won't be eating dirt by the end of the day."
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving her there, broken, breathless… but still alive.
She lay there for a long moment, processing.
Then, with agonizing slowness, her fingers curled into the dirt, gripping the sand like it was the only thing tethering her to this world.