The stage felt cold, empty. The thunderous applause I had hoped for was only a deafening silence. It didn't go well. Not at all. They, my audience, the Yellow Mens with their expressionless porcelain faces, were not entertained in the slightest. One by one, they shook their heads in a cold, synchronized motion, then rose from their seats and left, leaving me alone under the spotlight that suddenly felt so accusing.
Why? Why did they all leave? What went wrong? I stared at my masterpiece, lying silent in the middle of the stage. What is wrong with you?
Don Quixote... Dorothy... Faust... her works. The Yellow Men loved those, they adored them, they were entertained by every word she strung together.
I hate, truly hate, those who are born with all the light within them. They arrive like comets that burn across the sky, then vanish just as quickly, leaving a trail of empty shadows to haunt those of us left on the ground. Shadows that forever look up, waiting for that spark to return, never realizing that the light will never return for a darkness that consumes itself. I... am one of those cursed shadows.
Why? Why do you keep waiting for something that has clearly forgotten you? Waiting for an Author who has long since departed? Why do the Yellow Men love her so much? What does my creation lack? What is wrong with me? Why… why do they…
Love her?
Why not me? I can do what she did! I can write, I can create worlds! Why do your gazes never fall upon me the way they fall upon her?! Why am I not the one worthy of that adoration?! Hahaha... HaHaHaHa!! Agh!! My head feels like it's going to split open! I've gone mad! I've truly gone mad!
Forget it. Forget all of this. I am sick of being a shadow longing for a parasitic light. I will become my own light. I will carve my name upon the stars. I will tear down the sky that separates us, and I will drag you down from your throne, Author.
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The Blind Dog
Once upon a time, there was a rusted fairytale whispered from one generation to the next, of an era they called the Iron Age. Humanity, in its arrogance, had managed to touch the sky. Towers of steel that scraped the clouds, colossal machines that cleaved the earth, and sonic jets that streaked faster than sound were monuments to their genius. But every gleaming sword has two edges. That progress birthed its own shadow, the darkest monster in the history of civilization: the "Great War Machinery."
The war was no ordinary war. It was a beast of metal and fire, an organism that consumed nations, cultures, and races. The leaders, their eyes blinded by the glint of power, vied for supremacy. A horrific racial war erupted, burning everything to ash. The great races preyed upon the small with unspeakable brutality, creating a hell on the earth they walked. For the ambition of a handful of rulers, the lives of minority races were sacrificed like lambs upon the altar of arrogance.
It was amidst this fire and despair that a mysterious figure rose from the rubble. He was not a king, not a general, yet his words were a fire that reignited hope in the hearts of the oppressed. He united the broken smaller races, forming a valiant rebel alliance. With blazing spirits, they succeeded in conquering a large part of the continent now known as "Europe." This group, born of blood and suffering, grew into a fearsome, colossal faction. They called themselves "Rans Augumm."
At first, Rans Augumm was a new dawn, the liberator. But power is a slow-acting poison. They began to deify the leader who had "saved" them, turning him from a hero into a god. Their once-hopeful vision rusted into hatred. They, the Einghanger people, began to see themselves as the superior race, destined to rule, while other races were merely invaders unworthy of breathing the same air. The Luszha, deemed an inferior and filthy race, were fit for only one thing: to be annihilated, down to the very last root.
Ironically, the fall of Rans Augumm did not bring peace. It only turned the wheel of hatred once more. The Luszha, once scorned and hunted, now rose from the ashes with a vengeance burning in their veins. They, in turn, took power, repaying every cruelty with an even more brutal one. Humanity's destruction never came from a falling star, from a plague, or from the wrath of nature. That destruction came from within. Humans are ever-evolving creatures, and the only thing that can truly annihilate them is the eternal hatred they create and pass down.
The iron train finally let out a long groan, a dying moan of old metal. Its wheels screeched deafeningly before coming to a complete halt in a city that had become a mass grave. The air that drifted through the broken windows carried a piercing scent: gunpowder, old iron, burnt ozone, and the metallic tang of dried blood.
Luszha: "Move it, dog!"
On one of the torn passenger seats, a blood-soaked shadow stirred. His body was a canvas of brutal torture. With a slow, stiff movement, as if his very bones refused to obey, he lifted his head. Like a corpse undergoing a slow, horrifying resurrection, he rose from his nightmare. Several Luszha soldiers in tattered uniforms immediately surrounded him, the muzzles of their rifles never far from the figure who walked with a weary gait. His name was Oldred. No, that was too simple a name. His full name… Oldred Vas Linsman. A name once spoken with fear and respect, the name of a monster from the most vicious genocidal fascist empire in history, Rans Augumm. He was living proof of the success of their super-soldier experiments, and at the same time, a walking monument to the failure of that horrific, now-crumbled regime.
Oldred walked, his steps steady despite his stagger. He passed sights that would make a normal person's stomach churn, but his gaze was empty, hidden behind his mask. Perhaps he had no more emotion left to give. Perhaps his soul had died long ago, leaving behind a shell of a killing machine. He saw a Luszha soldier casually douse a pile of civilian corpses with gasoline, then toss a torch. A greedy orange flame licked at the pile of cloth and flesh, spreading a sickeningly sweet stench. Down another street, an Einghanger woman stumbled as she tried to flee into a dark alley, her panicked howl chased by the low growls of several released K9s. Her piercing scream was cut short, swallowed by the oppressive silence of the city. In a corner of the square, several pikes were erected as a warning. The rotting heads of men were impaled on their tips, their eyes bulging toward the grey sky. They were all Einghanger.
Crack!
A rock flew from a crowd of Luszha onlookers, striking the side of Oldred's head. Thick, dark blood immediately trickled from his temple, crawling down like a hot red snake over his cold skin, soaking the collar of his shirt. But he did not flinch. There was no wince of pain, not a single jerk. He just stood there, unmoving, as still as an obsidian statue carved from hatred.
Luszha civilian: "Heh, you filthy traitor! How does it feel, huh?! To see the divine regime you worshipped shattered to pieces along with you?! What's it like to lose everything, just like we did?!"
The bitterest fact was that Oldred himself was not a pure-blooded Einghanger. In his veins, the "filthy" blood of the Luszha and the "sacred" blood of the Einghanger waged a ceaseless war. He had betrayed his mother's race for an empire that, in essence, hated half of his very being. He had slaughtered his own people for a blind loyalty to a master who, in the end, wanted to destroy him too. He was no hero, nor a noble super-soldier. He was just Oldred, the "Blind Dog."
A Luszha soldier shoved his back with a rifle butt. Oldred's steel-hard body shifted slightly, but his stride became firm again. He was not a dashing or charismatic figure. He resembled a slaughterhouse machine more than a soldier. His frame was tall and sturdy, wrapped in a dark military coat, its color faded, with a few worn-out medals refusing to fall off. His pants and boots were also dark, a stark contrast to his entire right arm, which was made of cold, black bionic steel, etched with fine lines that were not the least bit artistic—a killing tool that confirmed his monstrous status. A dark military cap with a cracked clock symbol covered his head, and a thick black belt was cinched around his lean waist.
His face was completely concealed by a steel mask, without a single slit, not even for his eyes. The black-and-red mask had a complex design, a fusion of blooming rose petals and a precise clock face—a symbol of bloody eternity, fleeting glory, and the cruel fate that was the central emblem of Rans Augumm's ideology. His pale grey hair hung, dirty, at the nape of his neck. The visible skin of his neck was corpse-pale, adorned with prominent red veins like a map of suffering and patches of black, necrotic flesh, as if he were a corpse truly risen from the grave.
Suddenly, a strange yet familiar voice whispered directly inside his skull. The calm, authoritative voice of a man, yet always accompanied by the faint growl of a dog.
???: "What is it, Oldred? You're finally feeling it too, aren't you? Loss? What was the point of all the suffering you created? Rans Augumm was your life. Rans Augumm was the reason you had the will to keep breathing. You belonged to them, and now, you have failed them..."
The deep, calm voice suddenly cracked, morphing into a raw, savage, and uncontrolled scream inside his head.
???: "FAILURE! FAILURE! YOU ARE A FAILED DOG!!"
But he kept walking, ignoring the demonic whispers of his past. He was the most wretched creature on the face of the earth. He was not known for his power or his influence, but purely as a dog in the eyes of both sides. To the Luszha, he was a disgusting lapdog of Rans Augumm. To Rans Augumm, he was a "filthy"-blooded mutt who was never truly accepted. No matter where he went, he was just a stray dog.