The cacophony of the Aethelburg marketplace was, as always, a symphony of trivialities. The pungent aroma of overripe starfruit mingled with the metallic tang of a nearby blacksmith's forge, the sweet perfume of Lumina flowers from a vendor's cart, and the less pleasant, earthy smell of livestock being bartered a few stalls down. Shouts of merchants hawking their wares, the laughter of children chasing a stray glimmer-cat, the murmur of countless conversations – it all blended into a familiar, chaotic hum. A hum I, in my current guise, was supposed to find… normal.
I, who had spun galaxies from the void with a thought, who had breathed life into concepts so vast mortals couldn't even name them, was currently haggling over the price of a loaf of rye bread. Or rather, I was letting the baker, a portly man named Borin with flour dusting his impressive mustache, believe he was winning the haggle.
"Two copper pieces, young master Zero, and not a shard less! Freshest bake in the district, this is!" Borin boomed, slapping the slightly misshapen loaf.
I sighed internally. The concept of currency, of assigning arbitrary value to processed grain, was still amusingly quaint. I could transmute the entire stall, Borin included, into solid gold with less effort than it took to blink. But that wasn't the point of this… experience.
"One copper and a half-eaten sunapple?" I offered, my voice carefully modulated to sound like that of a slightly weary, unremarkable young man. My current form was just that: tall, but not imposing, with hair the color of twilight shadows and eyes that most found unsettlingly deep, like wells without a bottom. I usually kept them half-lidded to avoid undue attention. My clothes were simple, durable, the kind a commoner would wear. Zero. A name I'd plucked from the concept of nothingness, the canvas upon which I'd painted existence. It seemed fitting.
Borin scoffed, but his eyes twinkled. "A sunapple, you say? Is it at least sweet?"
I produced the fruit, a perfectly ripe, crimson orb that shimmered faintly with latent solar energy. A minor creation, a snack from a forgotten star system. He wouldn't know the difference.
He took it, sniffed it, and his eyes widened slightly. "Hmm. Alright, deal. But only because you're a regular, Zero."
I passed him the copper piece and took the bread. The warmth of it was… pleasant. A simple, fleeting sensation. I had witnessed the birth and death of suns, the silent waltz of cosmic dust clouds coalescing into new worlds. This bread was, in its own way, a marvel of intricate biological and chemical processes, processes I had set in motion eons ago.
"May your ovens always burn bright, Borin," I said, a traditional farewell that carried a literal weight he couldn't comprehend. For an infinitesimal fraction of a second, the aetheric currents around his stall pulsed with vibrant, life-giving energy. His next batch of bread would be legendary. He'd attribute it to luck.
As I turned to leave, a tremor ran through the cobblestones beneath my worn boots. Not a physical tremor, not an earthquake. This was a ripple in the fabric of local reality, a discordant note in the symphony of existence. Subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone not attuned to the true currents of the cosmos. To me, it was as loud as a dying star's scream.
The cheerful market chatter faltered, then died. A hush fell, pregnant with an unnatural dread. The air grew colder, not a crisp, refreshing cold, but a damp, clinging chill that seemed to seep into the bones. Shadows in the alleyways deepened, stretching like grasping claws, their edges unnaturally sharp.
"What in the Void's Maw…?" someone whispered, their voice tight with fear.
Then, from the mouth of the narrow lane leading to the old Tannery District, it emerged.
It was a creature born of nightmare and shadow, roughly humanoid but grotesquely elongated. Its limbs were like twisted branches, ending in claws that scraped against the stone with a sound like nails on a chalkboard. Its skin, if it could be called that, was the color of a starless night, seemingly absorbing the light around it. Two pinpricks of malevolent crimson light burned where eyes should be, radiating an aura of pure, unadulterated malice. A low, guttural growl, like stones grinding in the belly of some abyssal beast, rumbled from its unseen throat.
A "Shadow Blight," I idly cataloged. A minor parasitic entity from one of the lower astral planes, typically feeding on fear and despair. Not particularly powerful in the grand scheme of things, but more than enough to terrorize a marketplace full of unprepared civilians. Someone, or something, had deliberately summoned it here. Interesting.
Panic erupted. Screams tore through the sudden silence. Stalls were overturned as people scrambled, a tide of bodies desperate to flee. The scent of fear, acrid and sharp, filled the air, a delightful perfume for the Blight, which visibly swelled, its shadowy form becoming more defined, its crimson eyes glowing brighter.
A squad of City Guards, identifiable by their polished steel breastplates emblazoned with Aethelburg's griffin sigil, pushed through the fleeing crowd. There were four of them, armed with short swords and round shields. Their leader, a woman with a stern face, fiery red hair pulled back in a tight braid, and eyes the color of storm clouds, bellowed, "Civilians, clear the square! Form ranks! Archers, take position on the rooftops!"
Her name was Elara Vayne, Captain of the City Watch. I'd observed her before. Efficient, brave, dedicated. Utterly outmatched.
"What is that abomination, Captain?" one of her men, a young lad barely old enough to shave, asked, his voice trembling despite his attempt at bravado.
"Doesn't matter what it is, recruit! Just know it dies today!" Elara snapped, her gaze fixed on the Shadow Blight. "Mana-weavers, prepare containment runes!"
Two guards at the rear began chanting, their hands weaving intricate patterns in the air. Faint blue lines of energy started to etch themselves onto the cobblestones, attempting to form a barrier. The Blight let out another guttural snarl and swiped one of its elongated claws. The nascent rune-lines shattered like brittle glass. The two weavers cried out as backlash energy coursed through them, throwing them back against a fruit cart, scattering apples and oranges everywhere.
"Damn it!" Elara cursed. "Engage! Try to sever its limbs! Don't let it reach the main thoroughfare!"
She charged, her sword a silver blur. The other two guards followed, albeit with less conviction. Their blades met the Blight's shadowy hide with dull thuds, sparks flying as if striking obsidian. The creature barely flinched, retaliating with a sweep of its arm that sent one guard flying into a drapery stall with a sickening crunch.
I watched, still holding my loaf of bread. The scene was… dynamic. The raw terror, the desperate courage, the interplay of mundane steel against otherworldly shadow. It was a microcosm of countless conflicts I had witnessed across unnumbered worlds.
The Blight, energized by the fear and the futile resistance, focused its crimson gaze. Not on the guards, but on a small child, no older than five, who had tripped and fallen in the chaos. She was frozen, tears streaming down her face, looking directly at the advancing horror. Her mother, a few feet away, screamed her name, trying to reach her but blocked by the panicked throng.
Elara saw it too. "No! Kael, intercept!" she yelled at her remaining conscious subordinate.
Kael, the young recruit, hesitated for a heartbeat, then, with a desperate cry, threw himself towards the child. He was too slow. The Blight's claw, impossibly long, impossibly fast, lashed out.
This was becoming tiresome. The child was insignificant in the cosmic scale. Her life, her death, a blink. Yet, her terror was… aesthetically unpleasing. And the creature was overstepping. Such minor entities should know their place.
Without conscious thought, without any overt movement beyond a slight narrowing of my eyes, I willed it. A subtle shift in causality, a minute recalibration of local physics. The air molecules directly in the path of the Blight's claw increased their density a thousandfold for a microsecond. The claw, moving at speed, struck this invisible, momentary wall of hyper-dense air.
There was no sound, no visible effect, other than the Blight's arm stopping dead in its tracks as if it had hit an invisible mountain. The creature itself, propelled by its own momentum, stumbled, its balance thrown. Its other, flailing arm, in its attempt to correct, swung wildly and connected with a precariously balanced stack of iron pots at the blacksmith's stall.
The pots, each weighing a good twenty pounds, cascaded down. One, the largest cauldron, struck the Shadow Blight squarely on its vaguely defined head with a deafening CLANG.
The creature shrieked, a sound far more pained and surprised than its earlier growls. It staggered back, crimson light flickering erratically. For a moment, it seemed disoriented.
Kael, the young guard, seized the moment. He scooped up the child and scrambled back towards Elara, who stared, dumbfounded, at the Blight clutching its head, then at the pile of fallen pots.
"What in the…?" she muttered, then shook her head. "Archers! Fire at will!"
A volley of arrows, some tipped with silver, others glowing faintly with imbued light magic, rained down. Most bounced off the Blight's hide, but a few found purchase, sinking into its shadowy flesh. It roared, this time in fury as much as pain, swatting the arrows away. Dark, viscous fluid, like liquid night, oozed from the wounds.
It was then that a new presence made itself known. The cold in the air intensified, and a palpable wave of necrotic energy washed over the square. From the same dark alleyway the Blight had emerged, a figure glided forth.
He was tall and gaunt, clad in robes the color of dried blood, intricately embroidered with symbols that writhed like captured souls. His face was skeletal, with sunken eyes that burned with an unholy, violet light. A staff topped with a grinning, rune-etched skull was clutched in one bone-thin hand. The aura he exuded was far more potent than the Blight's – an ancient, festering evil, reeking of graveyards and forbidden knowledge.
"Pathetic mortals," the newcomer hissed, his voice like dry leaves skittering across tombstones. "You struggle so pointlessly against the inevitable. My pet was merely an amuse-bouche."
Elara Vayne, despite the clear and present danger, stood her ground. "Identify yourself, sorcerer! You are under arrest for unleashing a dark entity within the city walls of Aethelburg!"
The sorcerer threw back his head and laughed, a chilling, grating sound. "Arrest? Me? Vorlag the Defiler? Child, you address one who has supped with liches and bargained with demon lords when your ancestors were still daubing themselves with woad!"
Vorlag. The name resonated with a faint trace of infamy even in my detached observations of this world. A necromancer of some repute, known for desecrating holy sites and raising armies of the undead in the borderlands decades ago. Presumed dead. Clearly, reports of his demise were exaggerated.
"So, the old dog still barks," I murmured to myself, taking a bite of my bread. Still warm. Excellent.
Vorlag raised his skull-topped staff. "My little Blight was merely a distraction, a tool to cultivate the exquisite bouquet of your fear. Now, experience true despair!"
The skull's empty sockets flared with the same violet light as Vorlag's eyes. Dark tendrils of energy, crackling with negative power, erupted from the ground around the remaining guards, including Elara. They twisted and writhed like vipers, seeking to ensnare them.
"Shield wall!" Elara commanded, her own sword glowing with a faint, protective golden light – a paladin's blessing, or perhaps a divine warrior's innate ability. She and Kael managed to deflect a few tendrils, but the sheer number was overwhelming. The tendrils wrapped around Kael's leg, and he screamed as he was dragged down, the life force visibly draining from him, his skin turning ashen.
Elara cried out his name, trying to cut him free, but more tendrils swarmed her, coiling around her sword arm, her legs, her torso. Her golden aura flared, resisting, but it was dimming rapidly.
"Your courage is admirable, little captain," Vorlag sneered, "but ultimately futile. Your life force will fuel my next creation."
The marketplace was now mostly empty, save for the fallen, the dying, and a few brave (or foolish) souls peeking from behind barricades. The Shadow Blight, recovering from its pot-induced concussion, lumbered towards the struggling Elara, its crimson eyes fixed on her with predatory glee.
I sighed again, a sound lost in the sorcerer's gloating and Elara's grunts of effort. This was escalating beyond a mere local disturbance. Vorlag was a genuine threat to this city, perhaps even this region. And he was… noisy. Disrupting my attempt at a peaceful afternoon.
Elara, pinned by the necrotic tendrils, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her face pale, looked up. Her gaze, astonishingly, was still defiant. "You won't win, Defiler. Aethelburg will stand against your darkness."
Vorlag chuckled. "Noble sentiments. They'll sound wonderful as screams." He gestured with his staff, and the tendrils tightened. Elara cried out, a sharp, pain-filled sound.
Alright. Enough.
I took another bite of bread, savoring the simple taste. Then, I spoke. My voice wasn't loud, no louder than my earlier haggling with Borin. But it cut through the air, through Vorlag's monologuing, through Elara's pained gasps, like a shard of absolute silence in a storm.
"You know," I said, addressing Vorlag, "it's generally considered poor form to interrupt someone's lunch."
Vorlag, Elara, even the Shadow Blight, froze. Every head, living or undead-adjacent, turned towards me. I was just standing there, by a toppled flower cart, bread in hand, an utterly unremarkable figure amidst the chaos.
Vorlag's sunken eyes narrowed. "And who, pray tell, are you, commoner? Some gutter-born hero with a death wish?" His tone was laced with contemptuous amusement.
"Just a man trying to enjoy his bread," I replied calmly, taking another bite. "And you're making a rather dreadful mess. Terribly inconsiderate."
A flicker of annoyance crossed Vorlag's skeletal features. He was used to cowering fear, not nonchalant critiques of his decorum. "Insolent gnat! Do you not realize the power you face? I command legions of the dead! I wield energies that can unmake your very soul!" To emphasize his point, he gestured, and a wave of sickeningly green energy, smelling of grave dust and decay, pulsed from his staff towards me. "Die!"
The wave of necrotic energy rolled forward. It was potent enough to instantly kill and reanimate a dozen healthy men. Elara, even in her bound state, gasped, "Look out!"
I didn't move. I simply watched it approach.
From my perspective, the universe is a tapestry of energies, laws, and possibilities, all woven by my will. This little burst of necrotic energy was like a child throwing a fistful of mud.
As the green wave neared, about an arm's length away, it simply… ceased to exist. It didn't splash against an invisible barrier. It didn't dissipate. One moment it was there, a roiling tide of death, and the next, it was gone. Utterly and completely erased from reality, as if it had never been cast. No flash, no sound. Just… absence.
The square fell into an even deeper silence. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Vorlag stared, his jaw (if he still had one under that desiccated skin) slack. The violet light in his eyes flickered, for the first time showing not malice, but a dawning, horrified confusion. "Wha… what sorcery is this? A deflection? An absorption ward of incredible power?"
"Neither," I said, finishing my bread and dusting off my hands. "Just… tidying up."
I took a step forward. And with that single step, the ambient atmosphere around me subtly shifted. It wasn't a grand display of power, no visible aura erupted. But for those sensitive enough – like Vorlag, like Elara, even like the primitive Shadow Blight – it was as if the fundamental laws of reality around my person had become… denser. Heavier. Impossibly ancient and absolute. The air itself seemed to press down, the light to bend infinitesimally around my unassuming form. It was the universe itself acknowledging its Creator, albeit in a whisper so faint only the truly aware could perceive it.
Vorlag stumbled back a step, his earlier arrogance vanishing, replaced by a primal fear that transcended his necromantic undeath. The violet light in his eyes pulsed erratically. "What… what are you?" he stammered, his voice no longer resonant with power, but thin and reedy.
The Shadow Blight, an entity of pure instinct, reacted more viscerally. It let out a high-pitched, terrified screech, a sound utterly alien to its previous guttural growls, and tried to scramble away, to melt back into the shadows. It was like a cockroach suddenly realizing the boot descending upon it was the size of a mountain.
"Stay," I said, my voice still quiet, yet imbued with an authority that brooked no disobedience.
The Shadow Blight froze mid-scramble, every shadowy fiber of its being quivering. It was pinned, not by any physical force, but by a will so absolute it was indistinguishable from a fundamental law of existence.
I looked at Vorlag. "You spoke of unmaking souls. An interesting concept. Tell me, Defiler, what do you imagine happens when a being that defines souls decides one is… superfluous?"
My eyes, usually half-lidded and placid, opened fully. For a fraction of a second, they held not the dim light of the marketplace, but the swirling nebulae of newborn galaxies, the cold, infinite black between stars, the impossible geometry of creation's dawn. It was a glimpse into the abyss of infinity, into the heart of raw, untamed omnipotence.
Vorlag the Defiler, master of necromancy, who had faced horrors that would break ordinary minds, let out a choked, whimpering sound. The skull on his staff cracked, then crumbled into dust. The dark tendrils restraining Elara and Kael dissolved into harmless wisps of smoke. He dropped his staff, his skeletal hands clawing at his own face as if to tear away the sight he had just witnessed, or perhaps thought he had imagined.
"No… no, it cannot be… such power… unthinkable…" he babbled, his eyes rolling back in his head. Actual, physical terror was causing his magically sustained undeath to unravel. Patches of his desiccated skin began to flake away, revealing true bone beneath, then even the bone started to glow with an internal, consuming light.
"You have overstayed your welcome in my reality, little flicker of corrupted life," I stated, not as a judgment, but as a simple observation of fact.
With a soft, almost inaudible pop, Vorlag the Defiler ceased to be. Not exploded, not disintegrated in a shower of light and gore. He was simply… gone. Erased from the pattern. No ash, no lingering energy, no trace he had ever stood there. One moment, a cowering necromancer; the next, empty space. The only evidence of his presence was the discarded, now inert, wooden staff on the cobblestones.
The Shadow Blight, released from my silent command now that its master was no more, let out one final, pathetic whimper and dissolved, not into shadow, but into nothingness, like a bad dream upon waking.
Silence. Absolute, stunned silence.
Elara Vayne had pushed herself to her feet, her breath still ragged, her face a mask of utter disbelief and dawning terror. She looked at the spot where Vorlag had stood, then at me. Her hand, still trembling, went to her sword hilt, but it was a reflexive, uncertain gesture. Kael, the young recruit, was coughing, the ashen color slowly receding from his face, but his eyes were wide with a similar shock.
I glanced around the marketplace. A few brave souls were peeking out. Their faces reflected a confused mixture of relief and a new, deeper kind_ of fear, directed not at a monster or a sorcerer, but at the unassuming young man who had just made them… vanish.
"Well," I said, my voice returning to its normal, placid tone. "That was rather more excitement than I anticipated for an afternoon stroll." I bent down and picked up a slightly bruised Lumina flower that had fallen from a cart. Its delicate blue petals glowed with a soft, internal light. "A pity about the mess."
Elara finally found her voice, though it was strained. "Who… what… in all the heavens and hells… are you?" Her eyes, those storm-cloud grey orbs, were fixed on me, searching, demanding, yet also terrified of the answer.
I offered her a small, enigmatic smile, the kind that could mean anything and nothing. "Just a commoner, Captain. Like I said. Someone who appreciates a good loaf of bread and a reasonably quiet afternoon." I tucked the Lumina flower into the band of my simple tunic. "Though, it seems quiet afternoons are becoming a rare commodity."
I turned and began to walk away, weaving through the debris of the interrupted market day. I could feel every eye on me, a weight of awe, fear, and utter bewilderment. They wouldn't understand. They couldn't. How could a gnat comprehend the mind of the storm that birthed it?
My internal monologue, however, was one of mild satisfaction. This incarnation, this "Zero," was proving to be… diverting. The raw, unfiltered emotions of these fleeting beings were a fascinating counterpoint to the eternal, silent hum of the cosmos I knew so well.
Perhaps, I mused, I might stay in Aethelburg a while longer. It seemed this little corner of my creation had developed some… interesting pests. And pest control, on any scale, could be a surprisingly engaging pastime. Besides, Borin owed me a truly exceptional loaf of bread next time, whether he knew the reason for its perfection or not.
The "godly vibe," as they called it, wasn't something I actively projected. It was simply an inherent truth of my being, leaking out at the seams of my carefully constructed mortal disguise whenever I deigned to exert even an infinitesimal fraction of my will. For those attuned, it was like feeling the silent, irresistible turning of the entire universe, focused into a single point. It was the silent thunder before a storm that could unmake all of existence, a storm held in check by nothing more than a whim, a fleeting moment of cosmic ennui, or perhaps, just the simple desire to finish a good loaf of bread in peace.
Yes, Aethelburg might just be entertaining enough for a while. For now.