Chapter 3: My contact with god in this new world
Why me? Why would god let this happen? The question clawed at the fragile remains of my sanity as I sprinted through the suffocating darkness of the castle's hidden corridors. The answer, however, was already etched into the horrific reality around me. I knew it was the work of Count Sapien. It had to be. The timing, the venom, the sheer brutality—they were his people, his monsters. He had stood in our great hall just hours ago, a harbinger of the massacre that was now painting my home in the blood of my family.
I dashed blindly through the narrow, serpentine secret entrances built into the very bones of the fortress. These were the same dusty, forgotten tunnels that Bridget and I used to play in as children, our innocent laughter once echoing off the damp stone. Now, every corner I turned, every shadow that stretched across the floor, brought crippling thoughts of her broken, mutilated body in the guest wing. The phantom scent of her ocean-blue dress, now soaked in crimson, threatened to paralyze me, but the primal urge to survive forced my legs to keep moving.
I finally burst out into the cool, unforgiving night air, finding my way to the castle's main gate. It was completely decimated. The massive iron portcullis had been torn asunder, the jagged metal parts still attached to the hinges, grotesque and decorated with the fresh blood of the royal guard.
As I rushed out of the castle grounds, stumbling over the cobblestones, a deafening explosion erupted from the top floors. I spun around, my breath catching in my throat. It was my room. The epicenter of the blast was the very chamber I had fled from moments ago. The fiery shockwave blew out the stained-glass windows, sending a rain of razor-sharp shards cascading into the courtyard. The flames spread slowly at first, a creeping, hungry orange beast that began to consume the ancient stone. I could only stand there, a helpless, hollow shell, watching as the only home I could remember since I first awoke in this world was brought down by an inferno.
They hadn't just come for my father or the kingdom; they had targeted my chambers specifically. They wanted the anomaly. They wanted the boy with god's blood.
Then, piercing through the roar of the collapsing masonry, I heard a scream.
It was a sound of pure, unadulterated terror, and I immediately knew it belonged to my mother. Queen Eleanor. I whipped my head toward the perimeter of the courtyard. In the flickering, hellish light of the burning castle, I saw her. She was battered, her royal nightgown torn and covered in soot, but she was alive. Her hands were bound tightly behind her back with thick, blackened chains, and she was being violently dragged toward a heavy, armored carriage bearing the obsidian crest of Cypris.
"Mother!" I shrieked, my voice tearing my vocal cords.
I ran toward the carriage, hot tears streaming down my face, my screams blending with the chaotic din of the dying castle. I didn't care about the holy gene, the laws, or the fact that I was an unarmed boy rushing into a slaughterhouse. She was all I had left.
But before I could close the distance, a colossal shadow stepped into my path. A Cyprian soldier, his muscles bulging obscenely beneath his dark armor, blocked my way. His eyes were the same vacant, venom-filled obsidian as the beasts inside the castle. In his massive hands, he wielded a long, crude sword.
The sharp edge of the blade had been replaced with horrific, grinding, rough edges, almost looking like the merciless face of a chainsaw.
Before I could even open my mouth to utter a desperate, "Release my mother at once," the soldier swung the massive weapon.
There was no clashing of steel, no heroic parry. The serrated blade cleaved effortlessly through my collarbone. It didn't slice; it gnawed. The mechanical, jagged edge chewed through my flesh, shattering bone and tearing muscle as it carved a diagonal trench all the way down to my heart. The agony was beyond human comprehension—a white-hot, blinding fire that eclipsed the burning of my home. As the towering beast brutally yanked the sword back out, thick chunks of my own flesh and shattered ribs followed the jagged teeth, splattering onto the cold cobblestones.
My legs gave out instantly. I collapsed to the ground, a crumpled, broken heap of a prince. The world began to dim, the vibrant oranges of the fire fading into a muted, fuzzy gray. I could hear my mother screaming my name, but the sound was distant, as if underwater. Blood pooled beneath me, warm and vast. With my final, fleeting breath, staring up at the smoke-choked sky, I muttered to myself, "Why, god?"
Then, there was nothing but the void.
But the nothingness did not last. Almost immediately, I awoke. But this was no peaceful afterlife. All the agonizing, excruciating pain that my brain had mercifully shut off as I died came flooding back into my new, spectral body all at once. It was a torrential downpour of agony. I screamed, clutching at a chest that was no longer torn open but still felt every ghost of the serrated blade. I awoke with tears streaming down my face, tears that felt thick and heavy, almost turning red with the dark tint of blood.
I was no longer on the cold cobblestones. I awoke to a blinding, oppressive brightness. The space around me was infinite, a realm of pure, sterile white. And hovering before me was a figure. He was not a man, nor a beast. He was an entity clothed entirely in light, as if a star had been woven into a garment. The sheer magnitude of his presence was suffocating.
"Arise from the ashes, my child," the figure uttered.
The voice did not come from a mouth; it resonated from the very fabric of the realm, vibrating through my soul. It was a god-like voice, absolute and eternal. I was trembling, my ethereal form shaking under the weight of his words.
But as I forced myself to stand, staggering on feet that felt both weightless and leaden, I realized something profound. As I looked upon the creator of this universe, standing in the literal presence of god, what I felt wasn't adoration. It wasn't admiration, nor was it the instinctive, holy-gene-driven urge to get on my knees and worship.
What I felt was hatred. Pure, unadulterated, venomous hatred. It was as if this divine being seated before me had personally, meticulously handcrafted the brutal demise of my family for his own amusement.
"You..." I started, my voice trembling not with fear, but with a rage that eclipsed my pain. I took a step forward, my hands balling into fists. "You did this! It was all you! You let this happen!" I screamed into the blinding light, unleashing seventeen years of hidden resentment and the fresh, raw agony of my slaughtered family. "You sit up here in your perfect light while my father is torn to pieces! While Bridget is slaughtered! While they take my mother! You are no god, you're a—"
"Silence! Now kneel."
The command was not loud, but it carried the weight of a collapsing mountain. The moment the words left the light, the holy gene within my soul betrayed me. As if he had absolute, puppeteer-like control over my very essence, my knees slammed violently into the unseen floor. I was forced into a posture of complete submission, my head bowed against my will, though my eyes remained locked on the radiant figure, burning with defiance.
"You harbor a fascinating contradiction, Devin Trangdar," god spoke, the amusement evident in the harmonic vibrations of his voice. "Born with the mark of absolute faith, yet your heart remains a barren wasteland of disbelief. You curse me for the actions of men, yet you demand salvation from the very hands you despise."
"I demand nothing from you," I spat, fighting against the invisible force pressing my face toward the ground. "I want to kill them. I want Count Sapien to choke on his own venom."
The light seemed to pulse, a slow, rhythmic throb that felt like a heartbeat. "Revenge. A deeply human, deeply flawed pursuit. Yet... undeniably entertaining."
The invisible pressure vanished. I gasped, falling forward onto my hands, panting as if I had just run a thousand miles.
"I do not intervene in the squabbles of monarchs and monsters, little prince," god continued, his tone turning cold and vast. "But your defiance amuses me. You were meant to be a vessel of my will, but you choose to be a blade forged in hatred. So, I shall let you be a blade."
I looked up, narrowing my eyes against the glare. "What are you talking about?"
"I am returning you to the board, Devin," god proclaimed, the light around him swirling into a blinding vortex. "But your original vessel is ruined meat on the courtyard stones. I shall grant you a gift. The ability to cast your essence into the vessels of others. A wanderer of flesh. You will take what is not yours, wear the skins of your enemies and allies alike, and weave your bloody tapestry of vengeance."
The concept was vague, terrifying, and completely alien. Moving into other bodies? Swapping my soul? Before I could ask how, or what the price of such dark magic was, the blinding light began to condense, searing into my eyes.
"Show me this hatred, Devin Trangdar," god whispered, the voice now echoing from within my own mind. "Entertain me."
The white realm shattered like fragile glass, plummeting me backward into a terrifying, rushing abyss of darkness. The sensation of falling was absolute, my consciousness spiraling back toward the mortal plane, hurtling toward a new, unknown vessel.
As the rushing wind deafened me and the void swallowed me whole, only one coherent thought pierced the chaos of my resurrection.
Did I just make first contact with god in this new world?