On a remote island, the floor of the ancient castle groaned and shifted.
Floorboards creaked and began to splinter, while dust sifted down from the slowly crumbling walls. Small sounds punctuated the silence as mice darted along the edges of the dark shadows.
Twelve men, draped in white robes and wielding black claymores, entered a dimly lit room. Inside the room was a portrait of a man whose face was cut off by the shadow.
The men walked up to the portrait. As they stared into its shadow-covered eyes, an immense aura filled the room.
They were forced onto one knee, in a prostration position.
The robed man in the front, wearing a broken crown, struggled to open his mouth. Blood splattered on the ground — he had bitten his tongue and was now finally able to speak. He began his invocation.
"Oh, great master, the most powerful being in the universe, the Archon of Authority. Forgive us, for we have let the wretched hunters kill more of your blessed children." He spoke in a tone riddled with fear and guilt.
Tears streamed down the rest of the men's faces. However, they could not wipe them. It was like their bodies were frozen in place — like the portrait itself rendered them immobile.
Their white robes had an emblem; it was of a golden crown with a black claymore through it.
The man who spoke before bit his tongue again, spewing blood on the ground. Slowly, he got up. The rest of the men followed. The sound of blood splattering filled the room.
The only way to resist and snap out of the portrait's sheer dominance was through self-harm.
The men gripped their obsidian-colored claymores, faces dark with anguish. Slowly, the swords began to get unsheathed. A coil of dark purple aura wrapped around each one.
No one spoke. All that was heard was the buzzing of their swords. The broken-crowned man gritted his teeth and declared,
"Men! By the Archon's powerful will, we shall scour the enemies! Achieve what he so wishes! Avenge the dead, cement the glory of the prominent Day Dynasty!"
The men, who held their claymores in ready stances, affirmed in unison. "Let us avenge our fallen brethren—"
Before they could finish, a thunderous shockwave came from outside. The walls around them shook violently.
In the blink of an eye, the entire castle turned to rubble.
In the distance, there was a figure, shrouded in dark purple fog.
He was waving.
They couldn't make out what he looked like. They could only see his hand, waving side to side. As the castle around them turned to dust. The men quickly went on alert.
As the broken-crowned man looked towards the figure, the blood from his face drained. His pupils constricted, and the air around him felt freezing. Cold sweat covered his back.
This was a look of pure fear.
"…Icas," the robed man hissed, his claymore buzzing fervently. He swung the blade vertically, creating a powerful current of dark purple wind.
The ground beneath was cut deep, leaving behind a large, jagged wound in the earth. Icas, with a wave of his hand, dismissed the attack.
"Whoa there~" A smile was hidden behind the purple fog.
The broken-crowned man staggered, shuddering from head to toe. Then, with both hands trembling, he drove his weapon into the ground. "Obey me, Aglana!" He commanded.
The ground around them started to crack and rumble; after a couple of seconds, four massive pillars of dirt erected in four directions, forming a square around Icas and the 11 men behind him.
Four men sprinted towards each pillar, pointing their weapons upwards. The remaining seven men pounced toward Icas, their eyes lit with fury.
The fog that once shrouded Icas dissipated; however, his face was covered by his hood. The seven men circled Icas and began trading blows. One by one, Icas would send them flying back. However, they valiantly fought back, even though the fight was one-sided.
A thunderous roar shook the area; the four pillars had collapsed and crushed the four robed men who were running towards them. The broken-crowned man struggled to pull his claymore from the ground.
"I've been meaning to try this move." Icas giggled.
Icas flexed his fingers, then with a slow, wicked motion, he curled them into a fist. A silent pressure folded space around them; every joint snapped at once.
The seven men were crushed to death.
"Icas!" the final robed man remained. He gave up on pulling his weapon from under the ground and went into a ready stance with just his fists.
"Did 'He' send you here?" He asked.
Icas did not respond. He flicked his hand, and in one motion, the broken-crowned man's head slowly slid off his body.
The decapitated head fell on the ground, and as it rolled, dirt started to clump around the wound.
Icas snapped his fingers.
The ground beneath him fragmented before dissipating completely. What was left was a field of air all around him, and it was now as if Icas was floating in the air.
He raised his foot before lightly tapping the ground. Beneath him, many dark purple lines, like pathways to a maze, emerged.
While his face remained covered, he spoke in a cruel, sinister tone. One completely opposite of what he was like before.
"Finally, the massacres will start. The eradication shall begin with the killings of that vile beast and his children. Supreme Leader, ruler of the Unseen Fragment, Archon of Imagination, your wish, like always, has become life."
Icas took one step forward before vanishing into thin air.
. . .
Trila, Theales. Year 2601.
In a bustling hospital, a man wearing worn-out jeans and a button-up t-shirt maneuvered through a crowd of eager visitors.
He's almost here! My son!
The man was Darian Vaughan, a 40-year-old civil servant. Darian and his wife, Elara, arrived at the hospital on Sunday evening.
Unfortunately, Elara's forgetfulness was made clear by the fact she forgot their documents. So Darian had to clumsily rush home and retrieve them.
Because it took Darian a couple of hours to travel to and from the hospital, he had to wait again in line, causing him to miss the birth of his child — which happened deep into the night of Sunday.
Monday morning, the line to Trila Municipal Hospital was the biggest it's been this year.
After the assassination of Emperor Magnus Van Selwyn IV's wife and kids, a chain reaction was caused.
1,830 murder attempts have taken place in the last 3 days. 2 of Trila's 6 major hospitals have shut down, and it seems like TMH is about to as well.
Darian's grip on the documents turned sweaty, the ink gradually fading.
After ages, he pushed through and made his way to Elara's room. The worn oak door seemed to stare back at Darian. Alright, moment of truth.
His shaking hand reached for the brass knob and slowly turned it.
The room was silent. The doctor sat with her arms above her head.
W-what... W-why are they like this? Emory was born... They should be happy... right?
The doctor, who was an older woman with short black hair, raised her head when she noticed someone entering.
"Mr. Vaughan...?" Her tone was quiet and somber.
"Y-yes," Darian couldn't help but quiver. He was generally an airhead, but even he had enough intelligence to understand what was going on.
His wife was dead.
The papers hit the ground. Darian's large shadow covered them as he slowly walked towards the bed. Elara's face was covered with a cloth, but the rest of her body was open. He took his wife's cold, pale hands and covered them with his trembling hands.
"Why...?" It was all he could manage.
"It was... unexpected. Her vitals and health were fine right before and during the birth. But the moment he left her womb, she died of a heart attack. We tried to resuscitate her, but it was to no avail."
The doctor couldn't look the trembling man in the eyes.
"I'm going to give you some space to deal with... all this. Your son was born healthy and is in the nursery at the moment. He will be brought in shortly."
She quietly left the room. Darian stayed in silence for a while. He removed the cloth that was covering her face.
His eyes red, his mouth shaking, he slowly kissed her forehead.
He began to remember each moment he had with her.
Whether it was a fight they had, their marriage party, or the moment they knew she was pregnant — she was always with him. She always had a firm grasp on his hand. Her smile lit up the room. And it especially lit his gloomy, unappealing face.
"I'll raise him right, my love. I'll raise him just the way you wanted, the way you dreamed of raising him. I just know he's going to be the spitting image of you. If he looked like me, he'd have so much trouble finding a gorgeous wife, haha."
Darian always had a problem with putting himself down. It wasn't until he met Elara that she told him to love himself for who he was, like she did.
He rested his face on her palm and tried to smile. The bedsheets were stained with his non-stop tears. "Why couldn't it be me? Why wasn't it me? I—it should've been me."
He couldn't help crying into her hand.
Darian! What did I tell you about putting yourself down? It was her — he could hear her in his mind. She was holding baby Emory in her hands and looked at Darian in disappointment.
He couldn't help but cry harder. Elara's expression softened as she sat beside him. She placed Emory in Darian's lap.
You're going to be such a good father, I know it. Don't worry, I'll be here. Whenever you need me, I'll be looking at you. Just don't forget about me, okay?
"Mr. Vaughan."
A nurse's cold tone woke Darian up. He quickly tried to rub his eyes and hide the tears.
"Y-yes?" She was holding a cooing child; it was Emory.
"Here is your child. You will be able to take him home today. Please have everything prepared before exiting the hospital. We shall take care of the woman's body. Please select a date for the funeral on the way out."
"O-okay..."
He took Emory into his arms, his face surprised at the fact babies weighed almost nothing. He felt something grab his finger. Looking down, he saw the baby's expression. The baby stared at Darian with a strangely still expression — as if analyzing his face.
"Emory..."
Doing everything possible not to cry at that moment, Darian grabbed everything he needed and exited the hospital that day.
Elara's funeral was going to be in two weeks.