It was almost enough for me to surrender, his words, I mean.
They reached into the marrow of my being, tempting me to accept the quiet finality of death.
Yet it was that very rejection, that refusal to yield, which fed my greed. And oh, how boundless that greed was.
I do not like to admit it often, but it was my greed that saved me.
It became the vessel of my meaning, the anchor that held me to existence when all else sought to tear me away.
For all I ever desired was everything.
What is the value of a life? How does one weigh such a fragile, fleeting thing?
Many have asked this question, and it has shattered them, drowned them in philosophy, madness, or despair.
But me? I think life is valuable, immeasurably so, and yet, paradoxically, not worth craving.
Why, then, do I cling to it so desperately?
Because beneath the grandeur of ideals and the illusion of virtue, we are creatures of appetite.
Filthy, ravenous, beautiful in our corruption.
Born to hunger, to fight, to strive for power, for recognition, for the glimmering lie of fulfillment.
Yes, I wanted it all. Wealth, strength, glory, eternity.
I longed not for the world itself, but for the life within it, a life I could call my own, though I knew it would never truly belong to me.
I weighed this life above all others, above kingdoms, above souls, above even the ethereal promises of transcendence.
I could laugh in the face of its fragility, mock its worth and its weight, yet still covet it endlessly.
For until I have seized that life, until it is truly mine, I must continue to live.
And so, as his sword moved to claim me, the world itself seemed to halt. Time bent under the gravity of my resolve.
My words, once imprisoned within the silent cage of my heart, broke free.
They rang out, not as a plea, but as a declaration of defiance against death itself.
"Eternal King of Greed: Midas."
My body began to transform. Gold ran up from my fingertips like liquid sunlight, coating my skin in divine radiance.
My armor shifted into a gleaming white form, sleek and regal, while my spear dissolved into a golden crown that settled upon my head.
From my shoulders unfurled a long cape embroidered with the emblem of an eternal serpent devouring its own tail, a symbol of endless hunger.
Panthor did not appear surprised. He had anticipated this.
In moments of desperation, when the will to live eclipses reason, when you crave victory so. A miracle happens.
Mortals and deities alike grasp for something greater, power drawn not from the heavens, but from the core of their own desire.
A memory surfaced then, an echo from the soul of Midas himself.
A wandering man crossing a boundless desert beneath an unforgiving sun, a single gold coin glimmering in his palm.
His lips trembled with temptation, aching to bite into the coin, to test its truth.
But he knew that if he did, the illusion of its worth would vanish.
So he resisted.
Yet in time, greed gnawed through restraint. He bit down, and as his teeth met the soft metal, a new coin appeared in his hand.
The desert did not end.
His hunger did not fade. Smiling faintly, tasting the phantom of that first coin, he walked on, forever trapped in the cycle of wanting.
"Oh, how greedy I am," he whispered, as eternity folded over itself once again.
Oh, how greedy he was. And yet, his greed paled before mine.
I returned my gaze to Panthor, who stood still, resigned, perhaps, or simply aware that his end was now inevitable.
I reached forward, my hand breaking through his veil of spiritrons, shattering his obsidian blade like brittle glass.
Two fingers, my index and middle, rested gently against his forehead.
"Bask in that endless illusion," I said softly. "I doubt you will ever break free."
And with that, I cast him into my inner world, an infinite desert where his soul would wander without reprieve.
There, he would chase gold that turned to dust and thirst for water that turned to mirage.
For in the moment he ceased to hunger, he would cease to exist within this cruel, magnificent reality.
***
[Aubrey Molotov.]
Now that the war had officially begun, or at least descended into something resembling order amidst chaos.
Madikai, despite his limited interaction with the living, had taken it upon himself to pester me endlessly.
Since only I could perceive him in this half-existence, he was free to do whatever he pleased.
He strutted about, insulted soldiers, meddled with officers, and made a spectacle of himself wherever he drifted.
Though, truth be told, he did all those things even when alive, so nothing had really changed, except now I was the only one cursed to see and hear it.
As I sat polishing my sword, ensuring every inch of the blade gleamed, he sighed with that same theatrical annoyance he'd always worn like armor.
"My blade never dulled," he muttered, shaking his head. "You're lacking, my supposed successor."
I glanced up at his translucent figure and frowned. "Then why don't you do it yourself?"
He crossed his arms, the faint shimmer of his spirit flickering with faint defiance.
"I've lived my life. I've seen Heaven, and I rejected it. So forgive me for critiquing your polishing technique."
I paused, letting his words hang in the cold air.
To reject Heaven… that was no small thing. Especially for someone like me, it was ludicrous.
Heaven was not merely a paradise, nor a reward.
Heaven was the consummation of all things, the end of conflict, contradiction, and desire.
It was said to be a realm beyond all measure, a place so absolute that even thought could not exist there, only being.
It was beauty unblemished, truth without fracture, eternity without decay.
A domain where the concept of above or below lost meaning entirely.
And yet he had looked upon it, and turned away.
To reject Heaven was to defy perfection itself, to choose the chaos of becoming over the stillness of completion.
I smiled faintly, tracing a finger along my blade. "You're a fool, Madikai."
He smirked, faintly proud. "That I am."
A fool, yes. But a fool I could not help but love.
The war had unraveled faster than any of us dared predict.
Dangu's forces swept like a black tide, towns and cities rent as if paper, armies shredded into ruin.
In less than a week the map had bled itself raw.
I stole an hour of quiet before returning to the line, the briefest concession to a body that wanted nothing but to keep moving.
I would hold the western front until Horia could breathe; that much I owed him.
Madikai drifted to my shoulder, his presence a pale lantern in the dark. "Forward," he said, voice soft as a grave. "
Straight. There is a concentration of men there, stronger than the rest."
He swore the crossing back to anything like life would be impossible while we remained trapped in Earth's patterns.
All the more reason to end this quickly, to break the tether and find some other strange horizon.
It was a selfish dream, yes, but not without merit. The children.
The surgeons bent to their work. The mothers and old men who leaned on rickety sticks.
They needed someone to stand between them and oblivion.
If trying could be called salvation, then I would try until my hands bled for it.
I rose, tied my hair, set my helm, and moved.
Speed became fractions inside fractions; distance folded like a page.
In moments I stood at the edge of the opposing host.
He had been right, this cluster of men carried the bearing of saints: worn courage, sharpened will, an aura that tasted of old battles.
Since the so–called Unholy War began, power had swelled in strange places, not merely by the release of arcane force but by the loosening of fear.
Death, and the terror of it, had become an engine.
Still, beneath that engine ran something older and steadier: love.
It was love that made men fight on even when reason had fled.
It was love that steadied my hand as I drew my blade.
One million to one.
Their faces twisted as though my very presence were an insult, as if my existence alone had spoiled their amusement.
It filled me with a quiet joy, one I dared not admit, a joy born not of victory, but of release.
The act of unburdening myself.
My legs began to tremble as my blade quivered, its faint metallic hum rippling through the desolate field like a warning.
Madikai covered his mouth and laughed. "Damn it, you fucking freak. You're even worse than me."