Roll a die. Flip a coin. What does it matter?
I can only lose. What a game to play,
this affair of affecting. You have me
at your fingertips, dangling; desperate –
how can I play my pieces, how can I
deal my cards? Whatever I do, I lose.
Well, you’ve won without even needing to try;
outplayed me on all fronts without playing –
I’m at your mercy, if it pleases you,
though of course all this stupidity means
nothing to you. Sometimes even I laugh
at the joke that this all is, but somehow
I play on like the fool that I am in
this endless game which I can only lose at.
There exists a maelstrom within his heart that stirs so violently, so uncontrollably that it often cripples him till he falls to his knees, weeping in the impenetrable silence of solitude. He reaches out and wails for help, but it is not a storm the heart can purge simply by translating into words, which falter, wither, and fall in incomprehension. For most of the time the intimations of the heart are too cryptic, too indecipherable for words to carry, and that is why human communication falls short – because language is incapable of bearing the weight of the sentiments that the heart tries to convey and therefore, the deepest meanings end up being lost in translation.
That is why music exists. Amidst the mellifluous formlessness of music, the encryptions of the heart are not broken down as it tends to be in language. Emotion can exist within the stream of song in its purest form, untainted by the connotations of translation. Therefore, during the transient period when the melody flows, the storm within his heart abates at last and dissolves – even if just slightly and temporarily. Arbitrarily, there exists in music itself a heart that sings the song of emotion that his heart resonates and reacts to, and in letting the music enter him and live within him, there forms a commune between his heart and the heart of the music; a reticent mutual understanding which he can find nowhere else. And within this space of shared emotion in which his heart coexists with the music, at last he finds a companion to which he can lament the cataclysms that rage on within his heart, refusing to be placated.
He cannot be considered to be a true connoisseur of the art behind music for he is ignorant of its complexities and mechanisms, but for the unconditional friendship that music offers him, he is eternally grateful.
I don’t know why I’m writing informally on this blog, but whatever the heck. So, about that little story I just started a while ago, Unhearted. This time I did close to no planning and just wrote. Originally, it was meant to be a slow, sad and bleak story; a mediation of loneliness and love in its most despondent and despairing form. But I have no idea what I’m doing with it.
It frustrates me to no end. I have all these thoughts and emotions that I feel like translating into writing, but I simply fail to muster the words to. At this rate, no matter how many times I re-conceptualise them or re-write, I’m never going to end up getting anything written.
I always feel like writing something with a very low mood… something slow, unfaltering in its bleakness and sadness… something like Waiting for the Barbarians, which created a bleak atmosphere so damn well. I always wish to do something like that for some reason, but somehow I always fail.
So yep. I think that’s ANOTHER project abolished. FML
The more he writes, the greater his sense of ennui at doing so seems to become. Increasingly, he realises that he is but a layman playing at the game of the intellectuals, a plebeian pretending to be a part of their exclusive society. He would like to think that all the time he has spent dabbling in his little word sketches has had some meaning. He would, if it were possible, like to be able to declare proudly when someone asks that he is a poet, as Wordsworth, Keats and Eliot were. However, the true poets have somehow mastered the unfathomable power of calling forth words that possess souls, as if they were sentient entities from which one walks away feeling more wholesome.
On the other hand, there is something about the words that come from him that he cannot help but find incomplete, inchoate. Unlike the words of the true poets which caper with life and dance about in their inherent rhythm, the words that come from him manage at best to ambulate awkwardly like the wooden limbs of strung puppets. It frustrates him to no end, that no matter how hard he tries he cannot find the gift of poetry within himself. What does it take for one to find that gift? Is it perhaps not even about whether one has that gift, but rather about how far one is willing to tread on forbidden territory, how unabashed one can be in depicting the most licentious of sex and the goriest of sin?
If that is what is required of him, he will get nowhere. Ideally, he would like to convey his heart into his words, that thereby the emotions that rage on within him could somehow be translated and set free. He is far too powerless to succeed at doing so, however, and the words he gives birth to end up having to suffer the fate of being commanded by so inadequate a master.
Author’s Note: I wrote this last week, but was too lazy to post it. Anyway, this is going to halt again because I’m now spending all my time on Chrono Trigger DS. Whether or not I’ll even bother continuing, I honestly don’t know, so lulz.
Chapter One – A Quiet Life
As per routine, I trek through the dense undergrowth of the forest that lies just beyond the outskirts of Al Tholden to the southwest. The earth is soft and my legs sink into the mud with every step, dirtying my boots, but I venture on. It is a ten-minutes journey I make each day after my duties in the military are done with in the evening. The route is directly opposite to my walk back to the village of Emerael which lies not far from Al Tholden to the east, but the extra effort is completely worth it.
Eventually the grasses become thinner, the trees less convoluted and the earth firmer as I emerge in a clearing – a meadow which extends without boundary as far as my eyes can tell. It is not a particularly scenic location. Though technically a grassland, I see more brown than green. The grasses are parched and dried up, and most of the terrain hardly has grass to even speak of. Yet, I have come to love this place inexorably. Promptly at about 5.30p.m each day, I arrive at my usual spot and lie supine on the ground. I do not sleep, not exactly, but I let my conscious mind slip me and simply possess myself in the halcyon atmosphere of nature, breathing its air and basking in its warmth.
For half an hour each day, I enjoy the only true serenity I can find in my life.
Then I march my way home, back to the small brick hut which I share with my two aged parents. As the door creaks open I catch the whiff of dinner already served on the square wooden table that sits in the middle of the living room, dimly lit by the stray rays of twilight that steal in through the windows. My mother welcomes me home, makes small enquiries about the day, as she always does each day. I smile, respond that it had been normal as I always do whether or not that is true, and seat myself at the table. My father puts aside the stack of wrinkled papers – the biweekly publication of news on Estaea – on the study desk and joins us, making little conversation. It is a simple homespun fare, but I savour every mouthful gratefully, even the offal. In ten minutes I am done. Politely I excuse myself, about to go to the room to change out of my military outfit when a few gentle raps come from the door. From the pattern with which whoever has come visiting is knocking the door – mild, rhythmic, in fact even a little dulcet – I already have an idea of who it is.
I fetch the door, which opens to a lady all too familiar to me.
“Hello, Firaea.”
“Hello,” I smile, turning to inform my parents, though they give me a nod before I have begun to speak, so I turn back to her. “Shall I change first?”
“It’s okay. Could we go someplace quiet for tonight?”
Curiously, I nod and follow her out. Quietly we stroll down the street, watching as children are ushered indoors reluctantly by parents. Night has begun to settle, and the commotions of day have gradually died down into faint susurruses. The duty patrol scurries from lamp to lamp, illuminating the streets point by point with his torch. Meanwhile we walk reticently to the northern edge of town, towards a small but cosy teahouse which we frequent. Upon our entrance the waiter smiles and proceeds behind the counter. There is a peaceful, undisturbed air to the place, perhaps because visitors are sparse so there is little noise save for the occasional whisper and clanking of cutlery. We seat ourselves by the corner, after which we are served the usual jar of chrysanthemum tea almost immediately. Bowing courteously, the waiter serves us each a cup of the tea from the jar and excuses himself after. I look at her, waiting for her to speak, though she does no more than gaze at the table, lost in thought. At last I take the initiative to break the ice.
“You’re unusually quiet today.”
“Hmm, am I?”
And the conversation halts again. I sigh mentally, sipping from my teacup absent-mindedly, scalding my tongue. Unconsciously I begin to admire her: first the long, velvety hair that flows to her bosom with cute curls at the tip, then her pale peach complexion – not perfect, but pleasant nonetheless – and finally her round, resplendent eyes. Such a fine lady she has become from the days when we were but children playing at tag – I smile, thinking back through the long way we have come from those bleak beginnings; from a mere playmate, she has become so ineluctably dear a friend to me. Then, she jolts me out of my reverie.
“Hey,” she whispers. I look at her expectantly, but she merely sighs.
“You seem bothered by something,” I probe, stating the obvious. I sip from my teacup again while giving her time to bring the words to her mouth. The tea has cooled, though a sharp, uncomfortable sensation remains on the tip of my tongue.
“I’ve completed my course at the Academy,” she mumbles hesitantly at last.
“Isn’t that cause for celebration?”
“Kinda.”
“What’s the matter, then?”
Again there is a gap in our conversation. More and more I feel perturbed. From the uncharacteristic reluctance with which she had been speaking hitherto, she seemed to be trying to tell me something but was afraid of doing so. Possibilities run amok within my mind. Keeping my composure, I speak again to encourage her.
“Chiara, it’s alright y’know. Just say what’s on your mind.”
I hear her inhale deeply. She looks me in the eye.
“I’m… leaving. I’m going to Al Kezia to further my research.”
Abruptly I freeze. My mind goes blank, as if I had just been battered on the back of my head by a stiff, brutal rod. I feel a weight heaved upon my chest that my lungs have to push against to expand. So it has come to this at last. It is not something I have not already expected and steeled myself against since long ago, but still the revelation has come like a storm, sending me reeling in from its impact. All that time spent in drilling this inevitable outcome into my head, all that time spent in self-consolation and pseudo-optimism – all that has been for naught after all.
After registering the news, I speak at last after five seconds.
“That’s great,” I manage to smile.
“Yeah…” She sighs, looking down, “still… I’ve lived here for 26 years.”
“It’s not like you won’t be able to visit right? Besides, Al Kezia’s the perfect place for you… you’ll have all the resources you could ever need,” I speak, aware that I am being patronising, sickened by my own words. She merely nods with a faint smile. Too afflicted by the news am I to further manufacture words of affirmation, but I press on. “Are you worried about your family?”
“Kinda. And I’ll be all alone there.”
“But you’re bent on leaving?” The words leak out of me. She hesitates to reply, but manages to.
“…yes.”
The answer does not surprise me.
“In that case, don’t look back. Just keeping moving forward!” I look away for just a brief moment, then give her my most reassuring smile possible, “everything’ll work out.”
For the rest of the night we make small talk, discussing past, present and future. Would there ever be another chance for us to bare our hearts – though I am guilty for having kept my deepest sentiments unrevealed – on nights as peaceful and poignant as this? What if this is the last, or the precursor to the last, such meeting we would ever have? I try to immortalise the night that thereby it may continue everlastingly, but like floating bubbles that burst no matter how hard I try to preserve them with my hands, the night grows mellow and the teahouse draws its shutters.
We walk as slowly as possible, taking in the boundless night in all its majesty. She dons a modest purple dress that gives her an air of delicate daintiness. Though a year my senior, she looks more like a younger sibling beside me, one to whom I feel a strange but overwhelming obligation to protect.
“So, when’re you leaving?” I let the question which I had lacked the guts to ask slip at last.
“In about two weeks.”
Way too soon, I immediately think. My mouth then translates the thought, “I see.”
Though I have never walked slower, we seem to arrive at her doorstep sooner than ever before. Reluctantly I bid her goodbye as her abode’s door unlocks. Her younger brother smiles politely at me when he fetches the door and lets her in.
I drag myself home. That night, I barely sleep.
Author’s Note: I’m trying to start something again, but this time, I’m going to give less than two fucks about editing and all that because I end up never completing anything anyway. So I’m just going to write my bullshit and post it as soon as it’s done. Tbh I think it’s kinda lame, but whatever, I just feel like writing and will write whatever comes to mind. I probably won’t end up completing it anyway, so whatever the hell man.
Prologue – Long Ere It All
Three centuries ago, there lived an emperor whose name resonates when spoken and strikes fear when heard even today. So terrifying was he that his reign, though short-lived with a span of only two years, became the most iconic, most recorded, and most dreaded one in all of the continent’s history. To this date, this man’s name remains a scar on the Empyreal Emblem that sits above the throne of Al Tholden’s castle as the fifteen emperor of the jurisdiction, Emperor Thorass.
The era had been a time of great strife for the continent as the four superpowers, Al Tholden, Al Kezia, Al Jezema and Al Lucies warred without end – each to satiate their thirst for authority and resource. Though blood soiled nearly every patch of earth on the land, no conclusion could be arrived at. That was, until the then ruler of Al Tholden, Emperor Leyard, was assassinated by enemy spies. Details of the proceedings are scarce, but this was when Emperor Thorass rose to power. At the time, Leyard’s death had been seen as a sign that the war would at last see an end, for Al Tholden had been the primary reason why the war had been inconclusive – its immense military might had kept the three other superpowers at bay, such that they were neither able to thwart Al Tholden nor turn on each other.
Indeed, the war ended less than a month after.
Within a month, the entire continent had been subjugated by Emperor Thorass. So drastic had the turning of tides been that historians still dispute over how he achieved such an impossible feat based on the scarce records – all of which had varying tales to tell. Some records even claimed that he had resorted to arcane powers beyond the fathoming of human beings, and although most have dismissed the claims of sorcery as ludicrous make-believe, there remains a group of people who find there to be no other plausible explanation as to how he accomplished it. Al Lucies, City of Lights, was completely wiped off the map with not a single trace remaining. Al Jezema, City of Cultivation, was so irreparably damaged that its land has yet to recover even now, three hundred years later. Al Kezia, Archive of Wisdom, was the only nation that remained largely intact – for resisting Al Tholden’s invasions most valiantly but ultimately for choosing to surrender.
So began the reign of the first ruler to lord over the entire continent of Estaea.
War had finally ceased, but the true nightmare had only just begun. Men as old as 70 and boys who have yet to even hit 10 were forced into military draft, regardless of their nationality or even of their health, where they were driven into unending labour or put through inhumane military training until they dropped dead – mostly of exhaustion or of diseases. Anyone who even harboured the thought of resisting against the order was beheaded on the spot – often in front of their families who at best ended up losing their minds. The women suffered no less. Upon his ascension, Emperor Thorass dissolved all laws governing sexual restraint, relegating women to mere commodities which he utilised at his pleasure. Raids were conducted almost daily, where squads would be sent out to various residential areas to abduct young ladies by force to be offered to Thorass. Their carnal desires egged on by the nihilistic governance of Thorass, these personnel had become morally depraved as well and would often commit rape as and when they wanted to.
In spite of how execrable the entire situation was, no one ever rebelled against Thorass’ rule – no one could, and no one dared to. The Empress, dismayed at her husband’s tyranny, had once made an attempt to persuade him into mending his ways. However, all she had to do was breach the subject for the Emperor to send his sword right through her heart personally – guised under the pretext that she had committed high treason. Thus lived the people of that era in a fate that was little different from Hell. Crimes were rampant and each day, corpses were discovered everywhere – mostly from suicide.
It was an age of total despair – an age of absolute godlessness.
However, two years later, a man tore through the nightmare and brought new light to Estaea with his blade. Emperor Thorass had – for the first time since his crowning – led a highly elite military unit personally and marched towards Al Kezia on a highly classified operation which remains covert to this day. Midway through, he is said to have been intercepted by one who is none other than the Crown Prince, Vichovskar. Along with a personally assembled team which included his brother, Julius, and several others who had previously served Leyard, Vichovskar fought a fierce battle against Thorass. The battle between son and father became the one most significant historical event, so much so that there is no end to the amount of lore surrounding it. However, factual accounts are close to non-existent, with all that is known being that Vichovskar had wrestled Thorass’ blade over and with it slew him. Yet, with the same blade that was tainted both his mother’s and his father’s blood, he slit his own throat immediately after.
Prince Julius then ascended to the throne as the sixteenth Emperor of Al Tholden. Though he immediately set out to return law and order to the land, Emperor Thorass’ reign had such a drastic toll that crime remained rampant and people remained bitter and distrustful of the royal family. It was hardly their fault – almost every family had lost at least a loved one in the hands of Thorass. Julius did not falter, instead focussing his efforts on reconciling the damage that had been done by Thorass. He made efforts to restore cultivation and began establishing trade routes between the three remaining major nations as well as the smaller villages and cities that scattered throughout the continent. He dissolved the military draft, keeping only those who were healthy enough to remain and willing to. It was a slow and rugged path to recovery, but Emperor Julius’ efforts did not go in vain. Though the land remained scarred by the time he was on his deathbed, the continent had become sufficiently stable. His final order which he passed over his last breath returned autonomy to Al Kezia and Al Jezema.
Throughout history, no other Emperor’s passing had been mourned as tragically as Julius’ – whose death had roused the tears of people throughout the continent. Since then, peace has prevailed and the nations have existed harmoniously without discord. Today, three hundred years later, Prince Vichovskar and Emperor Julius have become figures of worship – pieces of art depicting them are considered avant-garde, and temples erected in their honour never run out of visitors. Meanwhile, Emperor Thorass and his reign are still shuddered over even now – three hundred years later…
In the deep, deep jungle of the city,
roaming the melancholy streets alone,
wading the dense growth of people, searching
for that which I long dearly, searching always…
It never stops snowing. Shivering, I
climb all the way to the canopy and
look towards the flickering horizon,
but you are not there.
Dawns shatter dusks, twilights snuff the days out;
I huddle by the window seat, breathing
into my hands, passing puddles after
puddles of light, searching, searching always…
Wherever I go, wherever you are,
I hear the same music, the same lyrics
playing and reciting repeatedly –
for the presence you’ve left me is just too dear.
He has always believed that at the deepest level, at the heart of all human experience, lies human relationship. Love. It is a word he utters with hesitation. Too overused, too abused has the word been that it has lost its truest meaning; lost its footing in language. A tragedy – that the soul of a word which once was so weighty, so full, has departed immortally. He mourns its death.
Thinking back to the past, he cannot help but feel the pang of melancholy. Through every stage of his life, he has had people who were dear to him, people whom he had felt affection for back then.
But where are they now? Have they left him, or has he left them?
When he relives his memories, he can still feel warmth from them. He still smiles when recollecting the squabbles, the jeers, the wild games of tag – memories of his first ever crush back in elementary school. It is an affection that, he is aware, was reciprocated, no matter how childish, how rudimentary the affection was. He loved her, whatever love had meant to the him from back then, and in her own way she returned the sentiment. So innocuous – and yet so naïve – were those days when love was just love, even if it was strictly an inchoate form of love.
Along the way he has fallen victim to the same spell more than once. Nothing good has ever come out of these crushes of his. Perhaps nothing good ever will. They have never given him much more than grief. Why he never learns his lesson, why being bitten once, twice or thrice seems to make little difference, he cannot explain. Perhaps it is the constancy of loneliness which haunts his days and nights that causes him to reach out blindly, stupidly for hope, even if it is fabricated. So in his stupid way he builds his castles just to watch them slaughtered.
As a friend he has been inadequate, he knows. He senses that his closest friends fail to obtain from him what they expect him to give and therefore turn away from him. He can sense their unspoken disappointment at his inadequacy. It fills him with a sorrow, a despair which he cannot express, but apart from that he knows nothing that he can do. What he does know is, if as a friend he has proven so insufficient, he can only fare worse as a lover. What does he know about love, after all?
No matter. If that is the life he must humble himself to, he can only accept.
Author’s Note: Here it is, the re-writing of Devoveo Genesis - The Man With No Tomorrow which I said I’d work on. Each action scene I work on seems to get progressively longer than the previous - I have no idea why exactly - ‘cause just when I thought my previous record of 6.6k (An Arrow Alone - Forgotten) was already over the top, I hit 7.1k this time.
At this rate, I’d soon be over 9000, literally.
And I know I said I’d post it in parts, but I can’t really be bothered since it’s kinda pointless so I’m just going to post the whole chunk.
In working on this project, I’ve tried to polish the language as well as the flaws with the pacing in the original version, which felt fragmented. I tried to make the whole battle more seamless. In essence it’s sorta like an ‘Advent Children Complete’, I suppose. I’ve changed quite a lot, down to how the battle progresses, the dialogue, and even the skills.
I must say I really enjoyed working on this little project of mine, so I might look forward to writing more such scenes. I already have a few ideas, but I doubt I’d get started anytime soon, if I will at all.
DEVOVEO GENESIS – Futureless
“Sire… Please, I’m begging you, reconsider your actions…” A middle-aged man whose usually immaculate hair was now dishevelled and whose usual tidy black suit was now unkempt and crumpled, pleaded despondently. He had a neat line of deep brown moustache above his mouth which normally gave him a distinguished look of wealth and wisdom, but now he seemed no more than a tired old man. A low but resonant rumble shivered dreadfully across a darkened sky of clouds whipped into painstakingly slow motion by the winds which wailed across the barren, war-torn land.
“Morrison…” A relatively younger man beckoned softly and without expression, his back to the middle-aged man. He had on a pair of black trousers and an unbuttoned dark blue windbreaker which revealed a white tee beneath. On the back of the windbreaker were the words distinctively sewed on in scarlet red, ‘Triquetra – Secondary Captain’. On his right side hung a sheath long worn out from years of wear and tear and in it, a thin sword slept, awaiting the call of battle to rouse it from its long slumber. “I’ve credited a huge sum to your account. I’m sorry if it isn’t as tactful as it ought to be as a display of gratitude, but it’s the least I can do for your years of service and care, Morrison.”
“Sire… pardon my insolence, but allow me not to speak as your butler but as the man who watched you grow up on behalf of your father. You’ve barely just recovered from the previous skirmish… What sense is there in going up against a foe like that? Please, reconsider… It’s not too late…”
An uncomfortable pause; a period of silence that swallowed them both in its suffocating abyss.
“I will not stand by and watch an entire village sacrificed in the name of what is supposed as the ‘greater good’…” At last the man speaks, his voice tinged caustically.
“I know it’s hard to accept, but King Arzien is not an undiscerning ruler, Sire… Tactically speaking, there’s simply no other way… The southern and south-eastern directions are currently warzones, and as it is it’s impossible to escort them southwest, over the mountains and through the jungles… Attempting to defend Hecaz would cost us too much…” Morrison, pausing to heave a sigh of hopelessness before he continued, “Hecaz should not mean anything to you…”
Another uncomfortable period of silence.
“Hecaz is her hometown.”
“Johan… it’s pointless needing someone who doesn’t need you…” Though he pleaded without relent, his heart had long died – ceased to hold on to hope. Who but he could understand Johan Verion’s character better? No one, not even Johan’s father, not even King Arzien, would be capable of dissuading him from doing something he had willed himself to do, much less his butler.
He knew this, knew this so well that it filled him with despair. Yet, no matter how hopeless it was, no matter how resigned he was to his absolute helplessness, how could he possibly watch as the child he had been entrusted with seventeen years ago – when Johan was but eight – walked right into the path of unequivocal doom? Surely, the defence of a minor village was not a cause worth the life of Triquetra’s Secondary Captain, of a man possibly within the highest leagues of Halcon’s finest elites.
“Don’t continue with your folly, Joe… Please!” Morrison grabbed Johan’s arm, but it took nothing more than a mere fling to shake Morrison off – even sending him stumbling backwards. “I… have to stop you… I don’t know how but… I have to…” Morrison whimpered, choking on his tears by now.
“I’m sorry.”
~~~
Johan Verion vaulted up a hill, frowning elaborately as he stood from its peak and studied the remnants of his home country. Just barely he was able to make out and recognize the tiny dot very far in the southwest direction behind him – Antrulean, home to himself and to Triquetra’s Headquarters. Anthos, a shorter but still considerable distance towards northeast in front of him, had already been reduced to debris; a macabre of gargantuan metals protruding through it.
He had not quite pictured it well at first from the tales he had heard, but now that the enigma of his nemesis’ ability was in plain view, he found himself suspended in a well of disbelief from which he was unable to evict himself.
Morrison ought to be a safe distance away by now…
Johan turned behind and looked into the distance again. Diminished but still visible was the town of Hecaz, in perfect condition despite its simplicity, with hardly any high-rise buildings, only small rows of antiquated cottages in disorganised clusters. So infinitesimal, so frail were they from where he stood.
He turned back again. An oppressive aura; a presence so ominous that it struck apprehension even within Johan – the man long respected as Triquetra’s Secondary Captain – had already made itself palpable even though the monstrosity of his foe had yet to make a physical appearance. When was the last time he had felt such an unbearable weight in his chest? When was the last time he felt fear in battle? It was such an obfuscating feeling, one he had experienced so rarely that he had trouble registering it.
Perhaps death was not what he feared. Perhaps what he feared more than his own mortality was the unimaginable fate of Hecaz if he had fallen here. He clenched his fist tightly over his sword’s hilt.
Grimly, slowly, Johan drew the thin sword from its sheath and shoved it into the ground. The sword had no embellishments to it: merely a plain, normal blade which one could probably purchase practically anywhere for hardly any price worth mentioning. Compared to some of the blades wielded by some of Johan’s comrades, all of which were gifted with the most sibylline abilities possible, his blade was nothing short of abysmal. Still as slowly as ever, Johan then fished out a thin needle from beneath his windbreaker.
Gently, he rested the sharp edge of the needle against his left thumb and pushed it through his flesh, immediately withdrawing it after. Crystals of blood oozed out of the wound and onto the ground, creating a deep red stain that gradually grew and enveloped the area surrounding his sword. Lightly, Johan tapped the sword’s hilt. Streaks of a glaring red hue coursed through the blade vertically upwards in an intricate pattern which faded towards the sword’s handle.
The Sun flickered in a wavering crimson that gave no more than a dim, dark glow to the grey lands on which disaster itself was imminent. Towards the horizon, the lone shadow of a figure’s menacing approach had become inescapable from his view.
At once he had not a single doubt.
Too calm, too composed was the gait of this impending silhouette that Johan could asseverate without query that this was the monstrosity which had been spoken of so fearfully even amidst the highest elites of Halcon as one so impossibly powerful that he transcended all human limits.
Johan steeled himself, awaiting the ineluctable advance of an abomination whom he knew would prove far more redoubtable than he had been capable of imagining.
~~~
“Johan! Don’t be impetuous… This beast… he single-handedly killed Vilern Ares, whose combat prowess you know far better than me… You’re not his match! You’ll be killed!” Morrison cried out desperately and grasped at Johan’s legs even while he winced on the ground.
“What does it matter, Morrison?”
“She’s not even in Hecaz at the moment… Why go to this extent, Johan? Why? She’ll still be safe even if Hecaz is destroyed… You don’t have to do this! Please!”
“And what of the thousands that live there? What of her relatives and friends that reside there? What of… him?”
“Johan… Don’t be foolish…” Morrison frowned, tears welling up and wetting the aged eyelashes that had long forgotten the meaning of tears.
Foolish. How could he possibly deny that his endeavours were foolish, worse than foolish, senseless even? Was this all to end in nothing, absolute nothingness? He gave it a long thought, then heaved a long, slow breath, motioning a few steps away from Morrison, back still facing him.
“There has never been a future worth speaking about for me… but maybe, just maybe, I can secure a future for many more people, especially…” Johan whispered, more to himself than to Morrison. Then, turning, he walked gracefully towards Morrison and helped him up from the ground apologetically. The forlorn, despondent look on Morrison’s wrinkled face caused his heart to ache, but even so he did not relent. Taking in a deep breath, he deepened his voice, lending it strength.
“Whatever the outcome… I will not regret my decision.”
~~~
At the foot of the hill now stood a man so tall, so imposing that Johan felt at once stifled by his mere presence, as if a void somewhere had manifested and sucked away the atmosphere, causing it to thin drastically. Strands of his unkempt, blood-red hair crept out from beneath his hooded cloak which shrouded his entire body in its darkness. An elaborately grotesque scar, still fresh with faint traces of bloodstains, extended diagonally downwards from the top right of his face, ending just before it touched his neck.
From his eyes shot a glare of overwhelming asperity straight into – through – Johan’s eyes. So frighteningly bloodless were those pupils that seemed to tear into Johan’s soul that he could detect not the slightest vestige of humanity from them. Whoever – whatever – he was up against was not simply just another in the long history of opponents he had crossed paths with before, not even just another particularly challenging one.
The creature before him was on an unequivocally different level from anything he had ever faced before.
Johan traced the lurid scar with his eyes, staring mutely. How could a human or even a creature possibly survive a blow as devastating as Vilern’s Laceration? His eyes shifted, noticing the pair of earrings carved exquisitely in the shape of an arrow piercing through the blade of a sword which the man wore – it was exactly as Firaea had recounted.
Abruptly, the hill on which Johan stood burst into pandemonium as countless stalagmites of metal exploded all over it from beneath the earth. The cataclysmic move made no distinction, rupturing flora, fauna and rocks alike, reducing the entire hill into a metallic grave.
By now, Johan had already leapt into the sky, momentarily levitating with his sword poised in the direction of his foe. A disc of fire wide enough to encircle Johan formed at the sword’s tip and from it poured a shower of fireballs so rapid that the ground where his foe stood was wrecked into a mess of smoke and flames in seconds.
His counterattack did not end there.
Even before his previous move had settled, a gigantic spear completely enshrouded in raging flames had already coalesced in his left hand. A split second after, it was already soaring downwards murderously, tearing a visible path through the smoke.
An earth-shattering reverberation of metal being wrecked filled the skies.
Descending onto the ground, Johan monitored the clearing smoke intently. The squalid cloud of grey dispersed slowly, gradually unveiling the remnants of three massive palladium walls which had been erected in defence against his test-assault, from which he had held nothing back.
The first wall had become no more than a mess of metal which had melted and re-solidified.
The second wall was abysmally shattered, with only its base remaining.
The third wall was thoroughly cracked, with pieces and chunks falling off from the top of its curved structure. Just a few moments later, the entire wall collapsed.
“Is that all?” Austerely, the man stood behind where the walls had previously sat and spoke for the first time since their initial skirmish. Johan felt a chill run through his spine. Even the breath exuded from this beast was terrifyingly unearthly, being simultaneously frosty and fiery in a combination so quintessential that it was hard to believe.
“…what are you?”
“I am the one who heralds God’s Armageddon, Hell.”
That was all to their conversation. With the mere flick of a finger, Hell sent a myriad of metallic icicles projected towards Johan, who swiftly raised the sword to erect a barrier which deflected the icicles easily.
That however, was not enough – not nearly.
Using his sword as a fulcrum, Johan shot himself into the air, evading the countless stalagmites that erupted from beneath the earth just one moment later. Kicking off from the surface of one of the metallic stalagmites, Johan fired himself towards Hell, sword poised to kill. From beneath, more stalagmites exploded upwards, all savagely aimed towards him. Johan swung the blade and fended himself against the relentless onslaught, using the recoil force to propel himself back onto the ground.
Just barely had his feet brushed the earth before he broke into a rapid sprint sideways. Serrated metals continued to emerge from underground and chivvy behind him. Even as he evaded the unending aggression, he kept a consistent eye on Hell who had hitherto not moved an inch.
Not the slightest sign of spell-casting and he can manage moves of this insane scale…? The further this drags on, the greater my disadvantage will be…
Abruptly, a spear protruded at him from ahead, forcing him to sidle away from his original course, dodging sinuously to avoid the catastrophic assault. Placing both hands on the sword’s handle firmly, Johan held the sword close to himself, retreating backwards from Hell while still evading his techniques.
Possess in me the blade of undisputed victory… Excalibur…!
With resurgent might, Johan advanced once more.
A pale purplish glow shrouded the sword which he held horizontally, as if it were a shield, and smashed straight through the metals that encumbered his path.
In mere seconds, he was upon Hell.
At last forced to move, Hell side-stepped to avoid Johan’s belligerent blade which did not for a moment cease its furious onslaught. Superb both in speed and skill, Johan assailed Hell relentlessly. Yet, with equal finesse, Hell evaded every swing and every thrust perfectly.
Taking a leap backwards, Hell began his retaliation, forming in front of his hands three metallic spheres which he wasted no time in tossing towards Johan. Instinctively reacting, Johan somersaulted backwards several times. The spheres exploded into metallic projectiles which he swiftly deflected with the blade’s barrier. Chanting silently, he raised his blade upwards. Flamma Avis.
From the tip of his sword emerged an enormous falcon composed entirely of fiery red fire. With apoplectic fury it crashed downwards and swept right through the stalagmites of metal which Hell called forth. The flaming falcon made for its prey ineluctably, its beak opening to consume Hell in its razing conflagration.
Johan smiled.
Just an inch away.
Suddenly, a curved slab of metal protruded out of the ground just in front of Hell. Instantaneously, he made a huge leap backwards by kicking off the curved surface. Stray flames from the falcon caught his cloak, which he tore off his body upon landing, revealing the sleeveless silver vest and black combat pants which he wore. The fire had burned the cloak down to cinders in a matter of seconds.
Quickly, he raised both hands at the falcon which had by now advanced towards him unsparingly once more.
Just an inch away.
“Dusk.”
At once the falcon crashed onto the ground cacophonously, completely enveloped by silvery fumes which had snuffed out the flames from outside. The silvery fumes that gathered in great concentration around the falcon glowed orange from the heat and a few puffs of smoke could be seen rising, but nonetheless, the gigantic bird was wholly immobilised, its fire extinguishing with each passing second.
Metallic fumes… Shit!
Instinctively reacting as quickly as his reflexes were able to, he pushed himself backwards and shielded his neck with both hands. The gruesome sizzle of flesh being sliced into seared through the skies, and blood splattered onto the soil.
Johan heaved and panted heavily, blood dripping off the rims of his mouth. Hell spared him no respite. Grimacing, Johan was again forced into motion by the unrelenting stalagmites that assailed him immediately after. By now, he had already become inundated by wounds, his white shirt almost completely red, his trousers torn and tattered. Even so, he manoeuvred adroitly, evading Hell’s merciless assault with an acrobatic leap into the sky.
A flurry of metallic projectiles were then flung towards him.
At once he swung his blade, still retaining its purple hue, and sent a crescent-shaped blade of energy towards Hell. Following right behind it, he shot himself downwards with his blade held in an offensive stance. Abruptly as he flew through the air, he caught a brief glance of the small ornamental sword that hung from the zip of his windbreaker at the corner of his eyes. It was unprepossessing: a figurine of a sword as commonplace as the one he wielded.
And at this most inopportune of times, in the middle of what was indubitably the fiercest battle he had ever faced, he found a memory resurfacing and invading his mind inexorably.
~~~
“What’re you drawing?” Johan sighed, trying for the sixth time that day to catch a glimpse of what she had been drawing so surreptitiously on her canvas for the past hour.
“Shh…” She smiled, shifting again to keep the contents of her drawing clandestine.
“I could always snatch it over, y’know.”
“Do you dare, Mr. Captain?” She gave him a pseudo-threatening glare and then smiled again. This was the only time he had ever cowered from a challenge; the only time he had ever lost. Helplessly he lay himself down on the meadows, closing his eyes, enjoying the velvety sensation of the grasses and the gentle morning shine.
He had fallen asleep, for when he opened his eyes again, she was no longer at her canvas. Instead, there she was, lying down right beside himself. Stirring, he sat up, his heart thumping furiously, his body overheating.
“Are you finally done?” He mumbled, standing up and slapping his clothes.
“You were sleeping really soundly,” she chuckled cheerily, getting to her feet and cavorting to her canvas. Swiftly she picked up her drawing and capered towards him, pushing it into his hands eagerly. “Happy Birthday, Joey!”
Stunned, he gave a blank stare at her for a second before accepting the gift. He gazed at the large piece of paper, admiring its majesty: a beautifully sketched portrait of one he could recognise as no one other than himself – the hair, the facial shape, the fashion style were distinguishably his.
The only thing he did not recognise was the gallant smile worn in the portrait.
“You should look that way more often, y’know!”
He smiled.
“That’s more like it!’ She returned a wide grin. At the bottom right of the portrait was her signature and a small ornamental sword hooked into a small hole. Gently, he caressed the figurine and then grasped it tightly in his hand, dearly.
“Thank you…”
~~~
A gargantuan slab of metal summoned to thwart his advance jolted him back into reality as his sword crashed upon the colossal metal shield. The blade screamed cacophonously as it pushed with all its might against Hell’s shield, barely leaving a scratch where it struck.
So this was the monster, the abomination that Hell was. Even after having witnessed it for himself, it was unfathomable that there existed a creature so impossibly invincible, having survived Vilern’s Laceration; having reduced Anthos into a macabre of death single-handedly; and would without a doubt raze Hecaz to ashes if he failed to stop the invasion.
If anything, the one who heralds God’s Armageddon might have been an understatement.
He gripped his sword more tightly, tensing his muscles to exert maximal power.
“What do you hope to accomplish with a blade as measly as that?” Hell’s voice loomed arrogantly with a suffocating air of supremacy. “Against I, even the wielder of the Black Hole proved to be trash.”
…trash, huh? Johan frowned, anger stirring in his heart. The purplish glow on his sword began to augment, growing larger and denser till the blade began to shiver. Foams of purplish-yellow coalesced around the blade, engulfing it in its entirety. Excalibur… Exceed!
The next second, the massive slab of metal shattered into bits deafeningly.
Immediately, Hell propelled himself backwards, creating a huge distance between them. However, in the fraction of a split second, Johan had already broken into a breakneck sprint towards Hell, dashing and crashing right through the copious slabs of palladium metal that were called forth by Hell. It was an onslaught beyond measure in brutality to watch as Triquetra’s Secondary Captain wrecked, using his very own body, gigantic slabs of metal over ten – perhaps even twenty – times his own size.
“How foolish,” Hell raised his palms calmly, imperiously, “let us see how long you’ll last with those wounds.”
Fumes of silvery metal swirled around Johan – a move he completely anticipated. The overflowing foams of energy on his sword began to spread, swirling around him protectively such that the fumes were utterly incapable of even nearing him.
Time was not on Hell’s side.
Before he could react further, Johan had already come upon him murderously, his blade tearing right through a large block of metal. The purplish-yellow foams coalesced and faded into the sword which now emanated a resplendent golden light instead. Caliburn…!
The blade continued its path unstoppably, firstly through metal but ultimately through blood and flesh – through the heart of a monster.
“I underestimated you,” Hell murmured under his breath. A dark circle of red diffused and expanded around the sword on the vest he donned on, and blood dripped profusely off the sword which had expended its energy completely in empowering the impact of the stab. Johan’s wounds, on the other hand, had suddenly become far less grievous. There were no more than several superficial cuts on him and a few patches of red on his white shirt. “To think you had managed a barrier against my technique and simultaneously cast an illusion over yourself to make your wounds look more aggravated… all in that second when those fumes should have shredded you.”
“You realised too late,” Johan held the sword savagely, glaring triumphantly into Hell’s eyes, “and now you’re done for.”
“Not nearly bad,” Hell commented, though his tone of voice and his demeanour revealed not even the faintest tinge of fear or defeat. He was much too calm, much too composed for someone who had just been impaled mortally on the heart.
Johan frowned, tightening his grip on the sword.
He was being forced to do so. Slowly, but surely, his sword was being pushed out of Hell from inside Hell. With all the strength his arms could afford, Johan tried to force the sword to remain in place, but he was gradually giving way to the immense push which resisted his efforts.
His eyes widened with disbelief.
A block of metal protruded out of Hell’s wound and pushed his sword out entirely. Pirouetting, Hell flung a power-packed kick upon Johan, sending him flying backwards and crashing forcibly upon the ground several times.
How could this be…!? Johan winced. An acute pain struck his right palm as he grabbed instinctively onto a metallic stalagmite that had been raised to impale him as he crashed. It pierced skin-deep into the back of his diaphragm area, but he had reacted just in time to prevent it from scoring a severe or even fatal blow. As he expected, a cataclysm of metals burst out of the ground. Struggling against the searing sensation of his wounds, he leapt away from Hell, enduring a few cuts and slashes. For no matter how far he seemed to withdraw backwards, the stalagmites of palladium did not cease to pierce upwards from the ground wherever he went, thirsty to be drenched in his blood.
I hit his heart… I had it wrecked…! I crushed it! He can’t be alive… There’s just no way…! Johan frowned, his mind a cluster of thoughts entangled into one gigantic mess.
Compelling energy into his legs, Johan sprinted with extreme speed and leapt over the entire hill. For quite a considerable distance he continued retreating backwards, until at last the stalagmites ceased to chase after him. Immediately he flicked his sword and conjured several discs of fire on the other side of the hill. From these discs rained a shower of meteors to keep Hell busy and buy himself a moment of respite.
The fierce battle against Hell had vitiated him severely, leaving his body utterly debilitated. His limbs had turned numb and feckless from their numerous injuries and from exhaustion, and even his breathing had become laboured. Yet, Hell seemed completely unaffected. He had been aware from the onset that Hell was a monster beyond comparison, an opponent defying all definitions of a human’s limits.
But how could he be so exceedingly powerful?
Even with my abnormally large supply of magical stamina, I’m left weakened to this extent after all the spells I’ve pulled off so far… Yet he doesn’t seem to show any trace of exhaustion from casting those insane moves of his… To top that off, he survived a direct stab to the heart from Caliburn… a move that possibly surpasses even Vilern’s Laceration…
…what in the world exactly am I fighting?
“Why persist so mindlessly against your inescapable judgement?”
At this rate… even a stalemate may be too much to ask for…
“Embrace your death and spare yourself the futile resistance,” Hell bellowed balefully.
No matter…
Johan shut his eyes and breathed in deeply. He held the ornament in his left hand, caressing it gently, endearingly. Then, he clenched it in his fist firmly.
One more gamble…
Johan exhaled heavily, composing himself to avert the stalagmites which had began to pursue him once more – Hell was on the move. With stunning agility, Johan thundered up the hill, nimbly avoiding the countless stalagmites that obstructed his path. As he reached the peak of the hill, he squatted for just a brief moment.
The next second, he fired himself into the sky with speed so overwhelming that he flew behind Hell in mere seconds. He then used the momentum to soar upwards, away from the stalagmites of metal that had once again pierced upwards from the ground.
Johan swung the sword, unleashing an invisible air slash at Hell, who had by now become trapped in a circle of flames owing to the meteor showers Johan had called forth. The attack itself missed, but its recoil propelled him further backwards, creating a massive gap between himself and Hell. Looks like my gamble worked. As thought, his abilities can only go so far… Even whilst he dodged my blade previously, he never was able to call forth those metals while in motion…
“Incendia,” Johan chanted under his breath and pointed his sword savagely towards Hell. Thin lines of smoke rose from the blade of the sword which began to burn red hot.
To think that he, alone in a situation as disadvantageous as this, could figure out the one flaw behind my ability… For a mere moment, Hell’s loftiness faltered.
So now that I’m out of his maximum range, if I use a move with an even longer range… I’ll be able to stop him!
Finally, the entire sword exploded into flames. Innumerable flame bullets which travelled with speed so extreme that even Johan’s naked eye could not discern the motion of the individual bullets burst all the way in the direction of Hell. Every single stalagmite which stood in the path of the technique was vehemently torn down by the indomitable power of the raging projectiles which annihilated everything that stood before them. In mere seconds, Hell’s body had been perforated a few dozen times by the incomparably lethal bullets which devastated every organ and every bone it fired through.
Even one bullet from Incendia is nearly impossible to survive… He’s definitely done for this time… He has to be!
Johan did not manage to remain sanguine for long. A gigantic metallic cylinder suddenly wrecked the ground beneath Hell. It rose with massive strength – diagonally and in the direction of Johan.
He stared in mute horror. The gigantic cylinder had sent Hell soaring towards Johan in the direction of a parabola.
At this distance… I won’t be able to get out of his maximum range in time! Johan’s eyes widened in absolute disbelief as Hell descended divinely from above the skies, as if Armageddon had indeed hailed upon him…
…as if Hell had come to pass judgement on him.
Hell raised both of his hands to face Johan even whilst he was suspended in the air.
He can’t possibly be able to use that move in mid-air…! Wait… those hands… they’re different from before when he used the metallic fumes!
This time, it was no longer his open palms that faced Johan. Hell’s fingers were bent downwards, such that his palms and his fingers were all directed towards Johan.
Abruptly, the world around him was torn asunder. The sky had turned into a cloudless void of sepia; the earth a bloodied marsh into which Johan’s feet sank. Johan tried to move his legs, but they were irrevocably mired. He looked around himself in obfuscation, unable to make sense of what had just occurred. There was no boundary to his surroundings – the sea of the same bloodied marsh on which he stood on seemed to continue indefinitely, and in all directions there was nothing at all except whiffs of smoke that seemed to rise from beneath the earth. He felt no wind at all, but a ghastly howl echoed throughout the space.
The atmosphere had turned stifling, and an intolerable heat wrapped his entire body. His wounds festered and burned, crippling his entire body with an excruciating sensation. His sword had fallen out of his hands and was floating atop the mud, slightly submerged. Gasping for breath, he raised his head and looked towards Hell, who stood about ten metres away. His body had numerous perforations from Johan’s previous move, but even so he seemed completely unaffected.
Most astonishing of all was that the wound inflicted by Excalibur was completely healed.
Incendia… is my fastest, deadliest and most unavoidable spell… ten fires per second… each bullet travelling at thrice the speed of sound… Impossible! Impossible! Johan winced, gasping for breath in the suffocating atmosphere.
“Welcome to my domain… Hell.” Slowly, menacingly, he took a few steps forward, approaching Johan. “A foe whose skill rivals yours is unprecedented for me… Never before have I called upon this dimension in battle… but against I, any amount of power is meaningless.”
In front of him, a chain suddenly descended from the sky, its bottom tied to a spear whose tip glowed red hot. A quake shook the entire plane as, to his right, the marsh opened up and from it emerged a gigantic Cerberus – a hideous monster with three bestial heads which drooled blood from their sharp fangs. To his left, an army of ghouls formed from the mud of the marsh rose, growling horridly.
“How shall you die?” Hell enquired sadistically with a frightening air of heartlessness. He raised his hand authoritatively.
Trepidation shook Johan as he stared, wide-eyed, at these fiends which he never once believed existed. He watched despondently as the spear inclined backwards, as if it were a pendulum. It then stopped and remained suspended midair. Johan squirmed, trying to free himself but to no avail.
Hell brought his hand down.
The spear moved along with his hand, swinging vehemently, malevolently, towards Johan.
“GWAAH!” Johan shrieked in pain as the spear’s burning edge tore through his diaphragm. His vision went blank from the intensity of the pain, and blood seared up his throat, spurting out of his mouth and his nostrils. Just as his vision began to clear, the spear was drawn backwards, sending another surge of pain that knocked him out almost entirely, leaving only fragments of his consciousness.
~~~
“Johan… you do have a tomorrow… Why, why can’t you see…? There’re still many people who await you… Firaea… your comrades… even your father, from somewhere on this earth… even her,” Morrison continued to plead, refusing to let go of even the faintest thread of hope, “do you really think that she’d be happy that you walked down this path?”
Johan was silent.
“No matter what, you’re still a friend – a very dear friend – to her… Why can’t you see?”
“It’s exactly because of that that I choose to walk down this path, Morrison,” Johan responded calmly. “That future… that tomorrow… never existed for me… That is why, for her tomorrow… for her future… I will fight for as many todays as I have, even if this is my last.”
~~~
I… Johan willed power into his hands, raising them in spite of the crippling weakness that perpetuated through his entire body and ate into his soul. Gruellingly, his shivering hands were raised to the level of his shoulders. …was not born for hope or bliss.
“So you struggle even now,” Hell smirked, directing his hand forward. The Cerberus shrieked, moving forward hungrily. Simultaneously, the spear began to swing forward once again and the ghouls began crawling towards Johan bloodthirstily.
I… Still his hands moved, higher and higher, until eventually they were above his head – unsteadily, weakly. …was born to dream… so let me slumber… and be guided into sempiternal dream by Morpheus…!
Out of nowhere, hundreds – thousands – of ethereal swords which glowed in a translucent purple formed in the sky and in an instant, rained down vehemently. The chain which held the spear was sliced apart – and the spear itself further wrecked by the raining swords which ravaged everything in their way.
Hell raised both of his hands instantaneously. A black-coloured shield formed in his hands, acting like an umbrella which shielded him from the unrelenting shower of swords. Yet, even his inviolable defence shook uncontrollably from the tremendous impact that struck it from above.
The Cerberus scowled as countless blades ripped through the diabolical creature. In seconds, its entire body had been so thoroughly torn apart that it simply disintegrated into mud which rained back into the swamp. The army of ghouls too was reduced to nothing in mere seconds.
Moving his body by sheer force of will, Johan directed his hands downwards, pointing them straight towards Hell. From his hands fired a volley of swords that flew calamitously towards Hell. The black shield expanded, morphing into a dome-like structure that protected Hell completely.
“Grr…” Johan compelled every last ounce of energy he had into this final bid for victory. For the first time, Hell had to strain severely just to defend himself against Johan’s monstrous onslaught. Thousands after thousands of blades flew towards Hell, who quivered from the sheer impact of having to keep the dome intact. Slowly, inexorably, the dome was giving way. Cracks had surfaced on its exterior from the unrelenting impact which was simply too much for it to withstand. The cracks magnified exponentially –
– until blood suddenly shot up through Johan, blinding him.
S-Shit…! He staggered for a moment, his technique discontinuing. Instantaneously, Hell motioned forward, both hands raised towards Johan.
There was no longer any time for Johan to react.
A circular barrier now completely overwhelmed Johan and within the barrier, dark green flames swirled like a tornado around Johan’s body along with another tornado whirling with storms of blizzard. The polymerisation achieved between the apex of fire and the apex of ice was impossibly flawless.
“Uwwaah!” Johan grovelled and grimaced in intense agony. The attack burned and ate into Johan’s skin, seared into his flesh, bit through his bones – all of that coupled simultaneously with the cruel crunch of frost that paralysed his entire body. The indescribable pain of this savage and insane move was unendurable.
Hell walked right in front of Johan, who now squirmed and winced and yelled and screamed within the barrier in excruciating pain.
“A brave fight, only to end in naught… Slumber in the embrace of Deva’s Naraka.”
Johan’s tears were forced out of his eyes from the unbearable torment that desecrated every single cell within his body. He forced an eye to half-open, glaring at Hell who stood outside the barrier, both of his hands still raised.
Johan shut his eyes, clenching his left hand tightly. Abruptly, a vision flashed through his mind.
~~~
He saw Hecaz in all of its antiquity – a truly beautiful village. Rustic and simple, it did not have the embellishments or luxuries brought about by urban development. Yet, it had all that mattered – happiness. The morning was full of hustle and bustle, particularly with the early morning crowd of adults fighting to grab the freshest vegetables and meats for the day’s meals.
Elsewhere, young children laughed happily while they splashed about in the mud, their shirts stained thoroughly by mud and sweat. Frustrated, a mother chastised her child from afar, but he was too preoccupied with playing tag to pay attention. Though sighing, the mother smiled.
And at last, she was there too, smiling, waving at him from afar. Beside her stood a man whose face was turned away, and whose hand she held.
So dearly she held his hand.
~~~
Enduring the thorough paralysis and the intense pain that had crippled his body, Johan willed his right hand to move. It twitched painstakingly, strenuously.
A little would do – just that little bit would be enough…
His entire body convulsed unstoppably, especially the right hand that took almost everything he had to move just an inch. He bit his lips, steeling himself to twitch his finger just a little more – every remnant of energy he had left, just to move an inch to point the finger at Hell.
And that was enough.
Blood splattered on the ground.
A glowing purple sword had sliced across the right side of Hell’s neck and part of its blade remained within his neck. The circular barrier previously torturing Johan was dissipated as Hell lost his concentration and released his hands due to the abrupt and unexpected move Johan had pulled off as a last ditch attempt. The hellish dimension was dispersed as well, and they were transported back to the real world in a flash.
“I… missed…” Johan collapsed onto the ground, his body completely paralysed. “So that was where your weakness is after all…”
Hell frowned, clutching his neck with both of his hands. The purple sword had dissipated as well, its energy having run dry.
“You are indeed much too dangerous a foe to keep alive…” Hell muttered, his voice revealing a tinge of pain. “Triquetra’s Secondary Captain… Leave me your name… for you are much too worthy an opponent not to remember.”
“Johan… Verion… the man who failed… to stop you…” Johan whispered, his voice dry, weak and so faint that it was barely audible.
“Johan Verion, Secondary Captain of Triquetra, you shall be remembered,” Hell grunted and shut his eyes. A shroud of black smog covered his body. For a moment, in Johan’s delirious state, he seemed to see another face amidst the black smog. By the next second, Hell had vanished from Johan’s sight.
In the end… this is as far as I went… I couldn’t… stop him…
A stream of tears overflowed from the rims of Johan’s eyes, rolling down the sides of his face as he lay on the ground motionlessly.
I’m not afraid… No matter… what the outcome, I’d not… regret. Or so that was… what I said… Then… why do I feel this pained… and scared… as I lie here, dying… alone… like this…
I… so… so… so… want to see you, even just one glimpse… just one…
The overcast skies begun drizzling.
…just one last time.
Drop after drop of rainwater; drops after drops of rainwater showered onto his conflagrating body.
For so long… have I merely… been drifting, waiting for a miracle… for a tomorrow that has never been possible…? That’s right… I knew all along… didn’t I? From the start, I knew that the future I desired…
…was impossible.
But… I accepted that… and I lived with it, until the day came… when I had to make a decision…
I chose to fight.
I chose to fight so that she would have a tomorrow with the one she loves… Is this… perhaps stupid of me…? Is this… a mistake?
Johan pulled his sword, which was almost as badly damaged as his body, closer to himself. This alone was an onerous task for his body which had by now sunken into complete ruin.
No… even now, I don’t regret it…
Looking back… I’ve… never been important, have I?
My father left me when I was but eight… Even if news… about me reached him… he won’t care… All my life, I’ve merely… drifted… drifted… honing my abilities… becoming the Secondary Captain… of Triquetra…
…but what did it matter?
I was never irreplaceable. Firaea would soon be the perfect candidate to take over me… Heh… even though I trained all my life… becoming an elite… gaining a level of skill that no one in Halcon would dare to challenge…
A pink stream of blood diluted by rainwater flowed down his body and onto the soil, seeping into it, disappearing.
…I still failed in the end.
And now… here… I am… dying… all alone… with no one to cry for me… no one to tell me to hang on… no one to give me one last embrace…
I’m… really a failure.
And… what about you? Would you remember me…? For how long, and in what way…? I… really wish things… could’ve… turned out differently… If only… if only I could… at least… watch over you from afar…
I’ve… never said this…
Though drained of strength completely, he tightened the grip on his left hand, trembling. His eyelids shivered as exhaustion and pain chipped away at his consciousness.
…but I really love you.
Maybe… this isn’t so bad after all. This… will be a long, long sleep… perhaps I’ll see you in my dreams… perhaps… I can dream… of a future between us… for the rest of time…
Tears coursed down his eyes even as they shut, as light was snuffed out from them. Slowly, inexorably, the tight grip he had hitherto maintained on his severely burnt and charred left hand relented and loosened to reveal an ornamental sword which now rested serenely on his left palm…
…it was in perfect shape.
-END-
Whenever he has to mingle with people, he cannot help feeling utterly alien; anomalous. In an abstract way he senses that they reciprocate his sentiment and, hidden beneath their constructed smiles or otherwise nonchalant expressions, pass judgements of him which can at best be guised by euphemisms. Yet, is he not inexorably a child of this earth, born and raised for his entire life on the same soil, ingesting the same water, inhaling the same air as all of these other people? If so, why then does he feel so irreparably estranged amidst a society of people fathered by the same land, people whom he should have been calling his brothers and sisters?
His only answer is that he must be defective in some way. Perhaps, when he was first conceived in his mother’s womb, his soul had met with a mishap on its way to him, leaving it permanently damaged. That, or somewhere along the process of his growing up, his soul had contorted and became different. Different, though still human, nevertheless. However, the other souls must have, in reaching out to the souls around them as all souls are inclined to doing, sensed that his soul was inexplicably different, foreign and therein rejected him. Or is it perhaps the reverse: that he, being different and incapable of conformation, has therein chosen to exclude himself?
There are times when he does not truly mind the way he is, but at the same time he wishes to belong somewhere. He used to cling to the belief that somewhere in this world so vast there must be a community in which people like him can thrive, that somewhere down the road so dreary he will eventually arrive at a door and be welcomed into it, no questions asked. However, after numerous changes in environment and no such door found, he has become more and more disillusioned. He is simply not made for this world – a world where one relies either on solidarity or solitude to survive in. He is not suited for either. He cannot help feeling extraneous and left out when he tries to practise solidarity, while solitude on the other hand leaves in him a melancholy that is too heavy, too crippling for him to live with.
He needs to be sheltered, protected. This, he keeps buried as deeply as he is able to in his heart and tells nobody. How laughable, how disgraceful, should word go about that this perfectly healthy young man is this cowardly! That is why he believes that he does not belong to this world, that no matter how hard or how long he looks, he will never find that rarefied community he naively used to believe in. Yet, because there is no other world except this for him to live in, he silently hopes that he will not live his entire life this way. He hopes, even if he may never find a community in which he will belong, that he will at least find a space in which he can live the way he is, perhaps even with someone who is willing to share that space.
Let him at least live with this hope, however frail it may be.
