Hey everyone, you may know me as h0ll0wnight002, the author who'd wrote the Devil Slayer fanfic. Yeah... I forgot my own email and password account... Fantastic -_-
Anyways, sorry that I had took a year hiatus and suddenly had the gall to change the story altogether. I promise, this will be the last time I change the story. Thank you for being patient with me and again, sorry for wasting your time on waiting.
Let's begin!
Prologue
Pain.
That was the only thing he felt.
That was what made him to move forward.
Screams of pain and anguish echoed across the sky, all falling on his ears, yet he paid no heed to them.
His eyes were set forward, never turning to gaze the encompassing inferno.
And whatever lies beyond it.
...
...
Hazel eyes snaps open in panic, followed by tears streaming down. They soon close once more, remorse grimacing on tanned face.
"I'm sorry," calloused hands went to wipe the tears away, all the while whimpering apologies. "I'm so sorry..."
After managing to calm down, the young man sat up straight from his bed, which made the blanket to slid off from his tank top covered body. Looking around his small room that only houses a cabinet, a worn table, and the rickety bed he is currently sitting on, the young man stood up, letting his shorts clad legs to pushed against the wooden floor, which emanated small creaks and groans.
Striding forward to the cabinet, the young man reached inside once he was in front of it. His arms then carried different objects, consisting of a towel, a toothbrush, and tooth powder. Alongside the bath assortment, he also carries dark colored pants and dirty white long sleeved shirt.
Another creak, louder than the previous ones, emerge from the door. The sound of a closing door signals a brand new day for him.
...
...
Great pillars of ashen smoke clawed the moving winds, partially obscuring the morning sky in dust and sulphur. Roars of machine bounces off wooden and red stone walls, only to be drown by the bustling activities of men and horses.
Greenish-brown orbs gaze the busy streets before them, all the while moving along the flow of men and women, whether they be aristocrats, beggars, or workers.
Spotting a particular group that had burns on their person, the young man hastily tailed and entered the group, drawing several of their attention on him.
"Ah, Tim!" a baritone, Scottish accented voice spoke up right next to the young man. "Good mornin', lad!"
Tim cast his eyes to the source of the voice, which was from a towering hirsute man with red beard, wearing a buttoned up shirt, red-black checkered kilt, and leather boots.
"Finlay," the younger of the two said, giving the older man a small, polite smile. "Good morning as well," he returned the Scottish man's greeting with his own.
The huge man drew Tim closer to him, letting out a laugh to escaped from his beard covered mouth.
"Haha! I'm surprise ye stick around. Here I thought ye pick a more suitable job for yer wee body," Finlay commented, his tone contradicting his somewhat harsh words.
While the Scotsman was larger than most of the surrounding workers, Tim was by no means a small young man. Compared to the others, he was far more healthier.
Perhaps it has something to do with his unassertive demeanor.
"Ahh," Tim gave a chuckle. "I rather move around than sitting somewhere in a small room."
"Yet, a factory worker is quite dangerous," Finlay pointed out, his emerald eyes showing concern.
"It'll be fine," Timur reassured.
However, that still wasn't enough to convinced the Scotsman.
"Ye forgot, laddie?" he began. "Ye were bedridden cause ye work yerself too hard!"
"It's only been three days," the younger man softly countered. "Besides, there were others that need help."
There lies the problem.
Finlay sighed out, emphasizing his frustration by rubbing his auburn beard.
"For God's sake, Tim, ye need to take a rest," the Scotsman laid his large hand on the young man's shaggy coal hair. "That kind of outlook would only get yerself in trouble. Others will take advantage at ye."
Tim was in silence, showing no sign of retorting the older man's words.
Inside of his mind, however, shows what he trully thought of those words.
'I do not care, Finlay,' there was absolute certainty in the words he was thinking. 'I do not deserve to have a rest. There are others who are more worthy for it.'
The group notices their work place was only a few blocks away, thus they hastened their pace.
Three blocks.
The gentle winds spontaneously glide harshly, snatching hats from many men, startling all.
Two blocks.
Animals within the city cried out, their tempered instinct alerting them of imminent danger, which only serves to confuse the ignorance of men.
One block.
A streak of brown pushes through the crowd, knocking many and eliciting curses at it. As those who were thrown steadily stood up, they were pushed again by dozens of white streaks.
Only a mere feet away of entering the factory, Tim's heart beats a thousand strike, sending adrenaline to course into his system.
There was no rhyme or reason if the mind tries to understand it.
Yet, the body does not need to.
After all, it has experienced this similar, if not almost familiar event.
The young man crashes his body to the Scotsman's, making him to squawk in surprise, sending them to the ground.
Then, the world was consumed by wind and fire.
...
...
Tim woke up with a start, breathing raggedly, only to cough up copious amount of ichor, his lungs protesting the need to breath.
For a short moment of inhaling the air, the scent that lingers was unmistakable.
It was burning sulphur.
"Nngh," the young man let out a pained groan, experiencing pain not only from his chest, but also from his entire body.
'What happened...?' he turn his head from left to right, yet with all of the smoke and dust floating around, his field of vision was reduced to a mere feet away.
"Where-" Tim began to speak, which turns out to be a grave mistake.
No sooner the first word was uttered, he coughed up more blood than before, which was followed by the familiar, burning sensation on his throat.
Once he managed to control his cough, the young man assess his current situation.
'Where am-?' he was cut short by a scream.
A scream of anguish pierces through the dark fog, and vanished as fast as it had come.
'Someone needs – Wait, where's Finlay?!' Tim just realized that his friend was no where to be seen.
He tried, yet futilely failed to find his friend. For each time his body made a single movement, the pain throbs like wildfire, impending his desire to move even more.
However, there was some silver lining for him.
A sudden gust of wind throws the fog away, bringing the airborne sulphur along with it.
He carefully let out a sigh, relieved to have a small reprieve. Now all he had to do is gather strength so he could help anyone-
His mind finally registered the scene before it.
He, Timur Aslan, had somehow was in the Strand, nowhere close to the Whitechapel.
He saw men – no, soldiers – in leather armour and white attire marching away from him, only to be thrown away by a great, fiery tempest.
What trumps all of it was the dead bodies littered across the broken street, some burned beyond recognition, while others were torn into pieces. Various manmade structures were currently burning.
Dead bodies...
A hand shot through the rubble, grasping his leg. Yet, it soon went limp.
Death...
The scent of charred bones and skin polluted the air. A nauseating scent it was.
"No..." the shock had made him numb of other sensation, no longer registering the pain or his coughing fit.
"How could you left them?!"
Timur grasped the sides of his head.
"Are you this selfish?!"
Words were muttered, yet they were nothing more than a jumbled mess.
"Why did you live, while they don't?!"
"Aaaaaaah!" he woed. He woed into the heavens.
"A single person would've lived that day if you weren't so self centered!"
His woes turns into curses. He cursed everything he could think of. He cursed the sky deity that remains deaf and blind to the suffering around him.
"The one whose at fault is yourself! No one else!"
He cursed himself. Cursed his own weakness. Cursed his own selfishness.
He cursed himself for still living after all these years.
"My my..."
Someone spoke. Something spoke.
"Such despair that surrounds thy heart, heathen."
The voice continued. The human – inhuman – voice was laced in mirth.
"Have slaying thy kin made thou fall into sorrow, hmm?"
Timur's cries died at those words. He finally notices that there was a looming figure before him.
The man – monster – can only be described as 'the living incarnation of royalty'.
He stands tall and proud like a king, his appearance only further enhanced by the kaleidoscopic red-black-white robe he wore. Unknown glyphs were etched into his rich brown, powerful arms. Golden ringlets also adorned said limbs. Upon his smooth face were a long mane of white and radiant golden eyes.
His entire being reeks of power, silently demanding all to bow to him. To worship him. Such imposement would have made the young man follow through it if it weren't for a sudden urge he had gain.
A sudden urge to kill this murderer.
"Mayhaps thou want I to end thy suffering, yes?" He let out a deep chuckle, a perversion of the nature of joy.
As those words left him, dozens of fiery smoke appeared on either side of the murderer. The clouds of ember abruptly shifts and condenses, forming vague shapes of warriors holding ancient instruments of war.
The young man's vision was filled with red, and darkness soon follow.
...
...
Hazel eyes groggily fluttered, slowly but surely returning to the waking world. A tired groan escapes, and some incoherent mutters were uttered.
Those same eyes suddenly widened in suprise.
"I-I'm not dead..." Timur also realize he wasn't feeling pain anymore, in fact, he feels more stronger than usual, more resilient. He quickly checked to see his wounds, which there was none.
And he also find he was clothed in a purple-gold sleeping attire made from the highest quality of silk.
"What the..." he look around and saw he wasn't in a hospital.
The room he currently occupied was a large bedroom with a huge chandelier at the center of it, hanging above an intricate design long table that was surrounded by chairs. Royal amethyst paint and wine red drapes decorated the walls. Fine quality of red-gold carpet covered the floor. Cabinets filled with liquor rest at the corner of the room.
To simplify the description, the young man was in a room made for royalty. Perhaps even for a king.
He tries to remember what had happened during his encounter with the murderer.
He vaguely remembered he tried to shoot him with a discarded revolver in his rage, yet it only serves to amuses him.
He could almost recall of striking him with a sword that once belong to one of those white clothed soldiers, finally managing to wound him.
Yet, afterwards, the only thing his mind memorized were incredulous shouts in foreign language, wind and ghouls surrounding him, and finally the murderer laying on the street, head nowhere in sight.
"What happened to me?" the sound of small creakings draw the young man's attention to the door.
It was a maid, standing stiffly and eyeing him with evident fear.
"M-My Lord! I d-didn't know you have woken up!"
Timur furrowed his brows.
'Lord...?'
The maid's form almost sways like a leaf subjected under a harsh wind. She hastily bowed low.
"F-Forgive this lowly maid for her dalliance!"
Her actions only confuses the young man even more.
'I better calm her down,' he discreetly cleared his throat.
"I-It's fine. Umm, can you tell me where am I exactly?"
She returns to stand once more, clearly trying not to waver.
"Y-Your Highness is currently at t-the manor of Lord Henry," she stammerdly answers, her face still pale. "P-Perhaps M-My Lord wants to meet hi-him?"
Timur nods his head. "Yes. Thank you."
She jolts and bowed once more, leaving him alone.
The young man began to process his previous interaction with the maid.
"Why did she call me 'Lord'? I certaintly wasn't born in an aristocrat class. And why does she seems to fear me so," his mutterings ended as he felt something in him.
Something that was foreign, yet at the same was not.
Focusing that strange sensation, an image of himself appeared before his vision.
He was surprised at first, then he eyed it curiously, seeing it as nothing more than a reflection.
He was proven wrong the moment his mirror copy bare his eyes to him.
Gone were his eyes, now replaced by twin pools of deep azure, akin to an ocean trapped within two small confiments. He found his pupils were still there, only they were illuminating white light. Surrounding them were ancient words, bearing the same white luminescence, perpetually moving in clockwise motion.
He had never seen those words, yet he could read them.
On each pupil, two sentences revolve around, repeating twice if one were to read from two eyes altogether.
"Glory be to Him. Nothing beyond Wisdom," Timur read the sentences with such surety, it was almost as if he had known those words by heart.
Before he could continue his musing on the blue eyes, the familiar sound of creaking hinges brought him back to reality, altering his focus to the door, finding an elderly man in lavish Victorian outfit sweating like no tomorrow
"You must be... Lord... Henry," the young man's greeting died down the moment his eyes drifted to the second person behind the man.
Danger!
His senses were screaming, alerting him of an immediate enemy.
Standing tall and hard, the Middle Eastern man was garbed in brown clothing with leather and metal platings over it. A curved sword resting in its sheath were strapped to the belt that was secured around his waist.
Danger!
His muscles fastened and hardened, preparing him for battle.
The moment the man's dark brown gaze landed on his own, he could see they were harsh, yet calm. Ruthless, yet merciful.
Fight!
His body had sprung into action before his mind could register.
Timur jumped forward, coalescing his fingers and swiftly brought them down to the Middle Eastern man.
Only for the man to disappeared before he could touch him, and gravity suddenly multiplying five times over, dragging him to the ground.
"Argh!"
"Calm yourself, Godslayer," a voice was heard above him.
Craning his neck the left, Timur found the man had pinned him down.
"What is your name, Godslayer?" the man questioned.
Against his better judgement, he answered, "Timur. Timur Aslan. Yours?"
The man narrows his eyes, small glints of white entering dark brown orbs.
"Khalid bin Walid," he replied.
Phew, took sometime to come up with that. Welp, hope you enjoy it and review it if it you like it or not.
Finlay's appearance is based on Samurai Jack's loveable Scotsman. Everyone will miss ya, you insult master you!
Khalid's appearance is based on Khalid from Omar Series, you can check it out.
Anyway, I'll see you folks later, peace!