THE SECOND QUESTER
Hale gazed at the man who had approached him — clad in a cloth whose design reminded him of the history lessons from his early years.
Those brown embroideries, leather tights, heavy boots faded over rusty times, and ground-flowing cape — all made Hale's brow crease as his gaze sharpen.
Unknowingly, merely by the sharp, though weakened glare he directed at the man, the latter retreated to rejoin his companions — a circle of twelve figures whose sole purpose seemed to be to pierce his soul with their stares.
Their faces were stoic, almost as if they were waiting for a moment… a very slim moment they dared not miss, not even for a blink.
'Hmph,' Hale sniffed the air, searching for the least distasteful air he could manage.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Hale found himself shivering under these scrutinizing gazes. His thoughts spun as if he were trapped in an interrogation room.
Yet amidst it all, one thought tethered him to reality.
'These men… they're on my side. Or at least, on the side of the man who used to own this body.'
Turpin West.
Turpin West, better known as the "Slave Master," was the literal founder of this group — the HellStriders.
They were an occult, worshippers of a god Turpin claimed to have encountered once in his life.
From the little Hale could piece together from his fragmented memories, this man lived his life for one sole purpose— completing his supposed mission for this deity.
A mission that involved the annihilation of this empire — Norvenia.
Turpin West had been dark. So dark that Hale wished some of the memories he'd inherited from him would simply vanish.
And yet, despite the dread that the man's life evoked, Hale felt a peculiar connection.
A resemblance between him and the body's previous owner.
Their extreme lust for power — or rather, justice — manifested in their own ways.
Turpin's obsession, however, had been his downfall. The weight of his divine mission made him a target in Norvenia — an empire blessed with a powerful deity and heroes, born to deter minds like him.
Turpin was simply a man who could never survive long in this world.
'He lived for his mission,' Hale reflected, 'and he died because of it.'
Hale couldn't linger on these musings for long. He needed to assess his current situation.
The HellStriders had clearly attempted to resurrect their master.
Hale's own memories, combined with the mountain of corpses surrounding him confirmed that.
Now, the twelve leaders stared at him, watching closely for any sign of failure — any clue that the ritual had gone wrong.
And unfortunately for them, it had.
The Slave Master was no more. It was now only Uranus Hale.
Among the group, Hale turned his focus to the man who had approached him earlier.
From Turpin's memories, this man was the most loyal, devoted to the Slave Master with unwavering faith.
'If they realize I'm not him,' Hale thought, 'they'll kill me on the spot.'
He had no choice but to play along, to weave himself into their expectations and use the cards Turpin left behind.
'For now, I'll have to play this game,' he decided, 'Let me just know my situation first.'
"Seth?" Hale croaked, his voice weak but calculated.
The sudden taste of metal filled his mouth, and his first instinct was to spit it out. But he swallowed hard, knowing that maintaining the Slave Master's composure was crucial.
'This is what Turpin West would've done,' he reasoned. 'And luckily for me, I'm not so different.'
Hale could have sworn he saw the man's eyes glisten, but Seth held firm, refusing to be shakened before his comrades.
Clearly, this cult wouldn't be easy to manipulate.
"Come on!" He barked, snapping his gaze toward the group.
"I'm tired. Get me out of here."
The metal taste lingered, but Hale persevered. His act seemed to work, convincing the twelve.
Like a dam breaking, they surged toward him.
Some wept openly, while others patted his shoulders with reverent smiles.
"The Slave Master is not weak. No one stands a chance," Seth proclaimed, his tears flowing freely.
Hale remained stoic, accepting their assistance as they guided him out of the room.
But inwardly, his thoughts simmered with satisfaction.
'To think these people are the slayers of Norvenia's saviors… Tsk.'
He suppressed a smirk as they led him to his quarters.
***
The group escorted Hale from the chamber to his quarters, and soon enough, they arrived.
The moment they left and shut the door behind them, the weight of the day crashed over him. Without even pulling the covers over himself, he succumbed to unconsciousness.
Hale opened his eyes to a blackened sky, its ashen clouds swirling like the smog from a mine furnace.
He tried to move, only to realize he was plummeting through the air from an unimaginable height.
'What the hell is this?!'
Panic surged through him as he flailed, the momentum dragging him helplessly toward the ground.
Thud!
Hale hit the surface with a sickening crunch. He saw his spine eject from his back, and his golden jawpiece swing far away.
He laid there, a mangled mess of blood, and broken bones poking through his flesh.
And yet, he felt nothing.
No pain, only numbness.
From somewhere behind him, a voice echoed,
"And this is how the Slave Master visits?"
Hale's eyeballs moved to meet view with the person, but his shattered body refused to move.
It continued, "His body, nothing but fractured shards of bones."
The words carried such force that Hale shut his eyes.
Quite a feeling he had only just remembered.
'What kind of nightmare is this?'
Within moments, his body knitted itself together, leaving him standing as though he had never fallen.
"Now tell me, Uranus Hale," the voice continued, closer this time. "How much time do you need to complete what the Slave Master could not?"
Hale turned to see a figure inches from him— a man with jet-black hair that cascading down his back. His silky robe gleaming in the oppressive darkness.
'So this is the god?' Hale thought, his brow furrowing.
His smug expression ignited a strange anger within Hale, a repulsion he couldn't quite explain.
'First person I hate,' Hale mused. 'Wish I could peel that face off.'
"Thinking ill of me?" the god asked, his tone calm.
With a fluid grace, he glided from the ground unto the air.
"I've barely spent an hour in your Slave's body," Hale retorted. "Let me figure this out at least."
The deity smiled faintly. "Then consider this an urgent matter.
You know what i want— or not. Your local Empress wants Norvenia... which is the world you have been transmigrated into to be her personal god-space. And everyone within its borders as her subject.
But I think she should not be that selfish, and at least, allow other gods to intrude—"
"So you are a trouble-maker?" Hale held to his detested frown. His gaze not hesitating to pierce through the latter like new-made arrows.
"Does it matter?" The deity appeared in front him, holding eye contact for a while before floating yet again into the air,
"I need her crystal. The one embedded to her heart. And I'll like to have it at most... fifty days."
Hale remained unfazed.
If this god by whatever sought knew he wasn't Turpin West, couldn't he just leave him alone?
Or maybe he could be the one abandoning him... and his quest.
"Don't think I'm playing a game Uranus Hale," a feign smile protruded from his lips. One so cynical if forced Hale to soften his gaze,
"My punishment for failure is very dire."
'Fuck this!' Hale cursed under his breath.
This deity was wrapping him too deep in an energy that made his spine shiver.
'Fifty days to do whatever shit this is? I don't even know the slightest about this world.'
Hale gazed at the opposite god for a while. This man did not look like someone he could compete with anytime soon.
And that left him in huge trouble.