Year 562, 6th Veloth of Julius, in Marivannia, within the domain of Lord Jack de Brothkovic.
5:32 a.m.
A veteran rode along in a cart. He wasn't blind, literally. Yet anger fed him. A nauseating desire twisted his heart and soul. He was going to kill.
"The sun's rays light the road. The fairy-tale landscape seems to herald the end of my journey. I am neither a hero nor even the devil. Water runs to my right, a current; being upstream is an advantage," murmured the enraged old man. Clearly, he could no longer contain his passions. He had fought, and the soldier was not ready to let go.
He stopped, stood from his cart, and walked to the load. A tarp covered the goods: trinkets shaping a vaguely humanoid silhouette, like a corpse or a suit of armor.
"You think you can do anything. You think yourself worthy. You deserve nothing. Death awaits one of us."
9:14 a.m.
The Magus rose early to clear his head by hammering iron. Kratos, meanwhile, readied himself for adventure. Emilia, surprised at her husband's initiative—curious and anxious—decided to follow the "brave" adventurer. Becoming a widow was but two steps from the forest, even with Sol.
12:02 p.m.
Kratos knocked at his friend's door, decked in eccentric armor. His wife and the villagers stifled their laughter as best they could at the ridiculous sight. When Lumen opened up, he laughed until he cried. The receiver walked like an automaton.
12:56 p.m.
Emilia gave up spying and joined the party. In any case, her army of bees was discreet, but the queen was not subtle. The man of letters protested: his honor could not bear it. But the blacksmith did not refuse; he knew she would guard her husband far more fiercely than he could.
5:36 a.m.
The old man pulled the cape from the goods: a corpse. He hefted it like a sack of potatoes and set it on the ground.
"You served a monster. A being like me, but without conviction. Scum."
The veteran took a knife and made an incision in the belly.
He slit his own throat, letting his blood pour into the opening. The two bodies were stacked; the corpses seemed to blend into the landscape. They had nothing. Blood began to flow like an infusion. His heartbeat—but the veteran's beat with rage and resolve.
Faces seemed to stand out beneath the soldier's skin. His soul was tormented, and the flesh, cursed. Fingers began to tremble and legs to twitch. Saliva spurted.
Then, after a few convulsions, the old man stood up.
His bodily fluids seeped into the remaining body's wound.
For him? Not even a scratch.
As if by magic.
1:04 p.m.
Gravel bordered the fields. The wheat stood so tall it nearly touched the heavens.
The three made quite the sight: a ball of steel strolling as gracefully as a hopeless drunk, a pretty woman teasing the clumsy automaton, and a megalomaniac blazing with bright colors, gold, and perfume.
The group radiated optimism; even Lumen seemed to follow Kratos's smile. Yet the receiver's grimace lay hidden behind a visor as impenetrable as it was ridiculous.
Bees buzzed around them. The party was ready for anything.
In one of Emilia's pockets, a watch stood proud.
Each revolution brought them closer to the bridge.
7:29 a.m.
The corpse drifted in the current. The river was strong this time of year. The flow submerged its hair. Its back was visible to all, but the rocks snuck behind the golden brush.
The body was wedged beneath a brick structure. The hand began to move, like a revenant. Yet its muscles swelled with each motion, like a water-filled balloon with an inner frame to move it. It was as pale as night and at the same temperature as the air. Each step was unbalanced and clumsy. It ended up falling and decided to crawl to reach the bridge.
1:10 p.m.
Their walk halted. A pale figure stood on the bridge. He looked drunk; he could barely stand, and each step was an ordeal.
"Kael!!!" Solis cried with camaraderie. "Where's the caravan? You didn't lose it, did you?"
The head whipped a violent 180°, like a mechanical owl. The face was waxy and ashen, like a drowned man.
"What happened to you?" Kratos asked, advancing step by step.
Emilia's fighting instinct awoke; he looked dead—better not approach.
"Stop!" she shouted to her husband. "He's clearly sick—look at him!"
The armor-on-legs began backing away with caution. He watched the living corpse's lack of reaction with palpable concern.
"Ssss…" came from the sick man's mouth.
Lumen was dumbfounded; he didn't understand what he saw. His page looked so dead—but impossible, no? To fall that far in a few days? he thought, with a shred of hope.
"Oooo…"
Solis felt a surge of hope at the murmurs. Maybe his friend was still in there? He started to run to him to give aid. His two companions were stunned by this impulsive leap from a tactical genius who prizes caution above all.
As his foot struck a brick of the bridge, Kael drove a dagger toward the Magus's heart. The blade hit the steel plate over his chest, and the wrist dislocated under the force. The bees stung the attacker in unison. A potent neurotoxin spread through him; the dose was so high his diaphragm could no longer receive nerve signals. Yet, on the bridge's far side, a second strike sped toward Sol's throat despite the poisoning.
As the Sun-Mage liquefied the iron blade, the river to his right moved strangely: vibrations, almost like scales, rippled beneath the waves. The river leapt of its own accord, forming a gigantic water serpent. A massive creature joined the fight. It hurled an attack toward the bridge. The beast closed fast, and Kael grabbed Solis by the left arm. The abomination was mere centimeters from Sol when the undead leaned back to counter Lumen's momentum. He could not react in time. Time froze, and death walked. Death was near, and a distant memory stirred.
427 A.P.
His first love was an enchantress who loved him. A young magician wept; she was finished. They were under cover, but she wanted him to get out. She laid her hand on her beloved's cheek and became a statue of ice. The two were frozen in the moment—but only one for eternity.
1:12 p.m.
Kratos tackled Solis to knock him out of the path of the strike. The serpent swallowed him before a breath could be had. One could see him thrash inside the river-dragon's body. Water invaded the poor man's insides. Emilia screamed mountains. With hatred, she sent an army of bees to assault the water golem. Solis attacked and vaporized a straight line to behead the thing. The head, under gravity's rule, crumpled and burst on the ground like a cork balloon full of water. The receiver, formerly prisoner of the beast's maw, kissed the ground less gently than the monster's head. Without his armor, a fracture would have been guaranteed.
Kratos coughed. He had shared a cup with death. The creature regrew its head instantly. The bees that had futilely attacked were absorbed. When the water managed to enter the insects, the poor victims exploded. This revelation didn't escape his analytic eye. To say he was terrified would be an understatement.
Solis, meanwhile, was pinned by Kael. He was having a panic attack. He did not want to hurt his page—no matter how cold and dead he seemed. The river was about to gulp them both. A shared smile could be glimpsed on both golem and zombie.
"You took my family, my neighbors, and my village from me…" the body murmured, water in its throat. "You think yourselves beyond demons—look at you…"
538 A.P.
A Magus bearing the authority of water saw his entire life, title, and loves to go up in flames. All because they committed the crime of protecting one of their own from an unjust execution: protecting him from prejudice, from hate, from a world that did not deserve him. Nothing would stop the retribution he would impose upon the earth. No matter the price.
1:13:04 p.m.
The river was prepared to devour the mage and the page. Its jaws opened wide for a proper surface—Kratos dove at the two with his sword. The body's arm was swollen, with some liquid accumulating there, seemingly the source of its animation. Kratos stumbled on a brick and clumsily drove the blade into the body's arm. The blade had passed dangerously close to the sorcerer's face. The shock snapped Lumen out of his panic. The first thing he saw when his gaze turned lucid again was the creature's open maw about to swallow all three. Instinctively, he vaporized that piece of river. Then he noticed his dear friend's reaction: the utter lack of response to the metal lodged in his arm, the burned hand still gripping part of the liquefied dagger, the absence of humanity.
The page was dead.
The revelation woke him.
The warrior of flame awoke.
His fist clenched, then closed.
He exhaled. The jaw set.
The maxillofacial muscles tightened.
His teeth fought the stress.
Then, at last, he struck Kael's left flank. The impact was so significant that the ribs shattered and pierced the lungs. Any human would be dead. The sack of meat flew, slammed against the ramparts on the side where the water was monstrous—literally. The body contorted on impact; the shoulder that had absorbed the blow clearly dislocated, the right arm dangling. The hand was fused to the metal shard that had been a dagger. Yet he seemed asleep, almost motionless; behind him, the golem rebuilt. As the head appeared, the body crouched.
An epiphany struck the fire: this was the attack of an enchanter whose authority was oriented around manipulating water.
1:13:14 p.m.
The author of the scene laughed. This old man stood proud—on the river? The veteran watched the scene through binoculars. He had done the impossible. The situation caught him off guard. Surprised his plan failed, he saw it spiral quickly. His heart pounded. Maybe the chief wasn't so crazy, he thought. Yet, despite the euphoria, he began planning a counterattack. The puppet's arms were ruined, but its legs were primed.
The mage had always been fascinated by cockroaches and their spectacular ability to leap at dizzying speed. Few asked why. But he knew. The secret lay in their… hydraulic muscle fibers. He only had to imitate that marvel beneath the doll's flesh.
The quadriceps femoris, hamstrings, triceps, tibialis anterior, adductors, and many more muscles from the thigh to the ankle were filled with water, tripling and then quadrupling in volume. The rest of the body began to mummify rapidly. Water rushed frenetically toward the pelvis. He became a skeleton with monstrously huge thighs. In three seconds, he curled into a ball; then his unbalanced body toppled forward like a mallet. His skull struck the ground as his feet braced against the bridge's stone parapet.
Kael's jump was going to dismember Lumen.
And yet, two fountains of blood painted the clouds—instead of a spectacular leap. Emilia's bees had begun tunneling into the holes in the legs, pre-emptively. Within milliseconds, the wheat field on the antagonist's right flank ignited spontaneously.
The veteran understood Sol's intent: he wanted to close the gap, draw within ten meters. Smoke was excellent cover.
1:14:25 p.m.
The old man wiped his tears. The smoke blinded him. His grip loosened from the backhanded shock, dropping the binoculars. He realized it was time to change strategy. He no longer had a visual, and the target was closing.
Meanwhile, Kratos stood facing the golem and the mummy. The twin columns of blood spurting from Kael's thighs persisted and stunned him. He filled his lungs like a hero about to act. Then he pointed his blade at the monster poised to lunge. A cry roared from Kratos's throat.
The monster liquefied almost instantly. Embarrassment filled Kratos's face.
Lumen ran among the flames. The choking cloud was a perfect distraction. It blinded, yes, but sight was not required. He'd already built a rough map of his assailant's position. He had understood who it was.
538 A.P.
A venerable figure stood proud. He laughed. His black rage shielded his heart from pain. He fixed his eyes on Akwa, his stepson. Demon-hunters had him in chains. The young man could not hold back tears. His mentor—his father—was given to the pyre—the man who had given him everything turned to ash.
The old man stood majestically, as the mayor he was. His body burned, but his soul endured. His village would burn, but Akwa would live, for it was Akwa—the bearer of the authority of water—who would carry their vengeance. He turned his gaze upon his torturer. Despite the smoke, the cinders, the abominable heat, and his body now little more than coal, he did not scream. He drew a breath. By a miracle, perhaps by divine intervention, he filled his lungs with air. He cried:
"Akwa! My son! My child! You are the last!"
His eyes began to boil. One could see the fluids trying to escape them. Flames invaded his airways. Each word burned him from within. And still he continued.
"Carry our vengeance, our tears, our values! There is no demon! Only children like you! You will tear out their gaze! You will open their eyes!"
One of the hunters, enraged by the monologue, hurled a jar of oil directly onto the old man. At last, he screamed. His skin fried. His half-charred skull caught fire.
Akwa's heart took on the rage and hate of the dead. To say he was powerless is an understatement. He was bound by fifty chains, all tight. He could only watch. He fixed upon the executioner, the plague who had thrown the oil. Another magician who bent iron at will. A vile being, selfish and hypocritical in his eyes.
"You think you can do anything. You think yourself worthy. You deserve nothing," he murmured to himself repeatedly.
1:14:32 p.m.
The veteran took a step back. The impossible—so close. He'd lost the bridge to the smoke. He couldn't risk a blind strike. He was only sixty meters from the bridge. The young man in armor and the girl with bees weren't a threat, he thought. But Solis was another story entirely. From one second to the next, Solis would strike, and he'd be simply dead.
Akwa had no time to think; he submerged beneath the river. Then a mass of water rose. At its heart stood Akwa—only an old man; he is the veteran of this tale. The fluid behaved like living jelly. It could move by manipulating its own texture at the surface of contact. He readied himself, gripping the handle of his whip. Then he began to move toward the fields in the direction where Solis would likely be running. All of that took only five seconds.
1:14:38 p.m.
Sol's muzzle met, literally, a gigantic ball of water. He didn't understand. He hadn't even taken ten steps into the grain and—poof! —a ball of water!
Akwa's arm was oversized; he struck instantly with his whip. The speed of the leather split the air and parted the water. He aimed for the neck—his aim simple: take the head.
Solis, surprised to be blinded by a blue sphere, stepped back. He tripped on a rock. The whip, instead of opening his tonsils, carried on toward the mage's eyes. Sol's fall saved him from being slitting.
The second the weapon touched the iris; he vaporized the water blocking his view. The force dismembered Akwa from head to foot. The veteran died. And yet the whip continued its path despite the explosion and the decapitation of its wielder. The tongue sliced across the orbital region from left to right like butter melting. From cornea to retina, nothing was spared: even his optic nerves were damaged. The whip flew on and carved a line through the grain.
Akwa's head hit the ground. His face looked upon the fruit of his labors—a valiant defeat.
He was finally at rest.
And for Solis de Lumen,
despite the loss of his sight,
he looked at the sun.
He smiled.
Like a child.