Story Adherence: Drakengard 3, Branch D/ Shi ni Itaru Aka (partial)/ Judgement (partial)
1094 A.D.
Zero knew this feeling anywhere: she was being reborn. It was a bizarre sensation, having her body rebuilt from the ground up, but she did not have to bear the discomfort for long. The regeneration process had always been quick, and before she knew it, her body was whole again. The first thing she became aware of was the frigid stone floor beneath her body, a mediocre way to start off her new life to be sure. Stale, dead air filled her lungs in what was easily the most disappointing first breath she had ever taken. For whatever reason, the world seemed bent on putting her in the shittiest mood possible. She couldn't blame it, given what she had done, but just because she understood didn't mean she wasn't pissed.
Irritated, she picked herself up and tried to rise to her feet, eager to be just about anywhere else. Standing, as usual, took a while to manage properly. Her newly constructed muscles took time to adjust to, but Zero prided herself on being faster to master her new bodies with every new incarnation. The tradition continued as she was fully acclimated in a matter of seconds, feeling not even a bit out of place in her new vessel.
She should be overjoyed to be alive again, but there was something about the way it happened that concerned her. Zero didn't know how long she had been sealed away, but for nearly all of that time she had been fighting. It took everything she had to keep herself safe from the Flower's oppressive influence, and sometimes even that wasn't enough. She had been brought to the brink more than a few times. In the moments she was weak, in the moments she questioned the worth of her struggle, she could feel her mind begin to fade. Slowly but surely her thoughts would grind to a halt, and for great spans of time there would simply be nothing. No thoughts, no fear, no regrets… Only the void. Then, like a spark in an endless black abyss, she would fight her way back, unsure of how long she had been subjugated, and terrified of when she would slip again.
When her opportunity finally came, it presented itself as a brief respite. It was as if suddenly, the weight of the entity's attention had been lifted, leaving her barely enough strength to exist of her own volition. Without thinking, she clung to this new strength and immersed herself in the comfort it brought. Then, she was here. She couldn't imagine what could have allowed this, but she had been a student of the world long enough to know it couldn't have been anything good. Perhaps knowing where she had reappeared would shed some light on the situation.
The white haired woman surveyed her surroundings, finding herself inside an enormous stone chamber with only one exit. There was no telling what this place was designed to contain, but it sure as hell wasn't her. This room was large enough to hold hundreds of people; she doubted they would waste the effort of building it on a single wayward goddess. The only hint she had as to its purpose was the faint magical energy lingering in the air, but it was ultimately wasted on her. Someone like One would be able to get quite a lot of information from analyzing the magic, but Zero never had any aptitude for the arcane. Aside from the power of song that was literally forced upon her, she was about as mundane as they came. Seeing no use in staying put any longer, she decided to look elsewhere for her answers.
Zero passed through the chamber's gateway to be met with a hauntingly familiar sight. A cityscape of buildings far beyond the means of man stretched across the horizon, and an endless horde of wyverns danced across the crimson sky. This was without a doubt the Cathedral City, or at least what had become of it.
Once again, she stood on the stage that hosted the climax of her life. All manner of emotions began to well within her, threatening to bring composure crashing to the ground. She had lost everything here: Michael, the disciples, even her own life. If it was up to her, she would rend the city from the face of the planet and never look back. The only thing that was stopping her was the fact that she would be forsaking the world so many she cared about had given their lives for. This world didn't deserve their sacrifice, but she respected their choices nonetheless. Some of them were cruel fiends, some were perverse deviants, and all of them were fools… but they faithfully followed her into hell. They gave everything to a worthless woman like her, someone that could give nothing in return. This was the least she could do to repay them.
Even a vile human like her would still her own rage in their memory, so then what was this?
What gods would allow such a cruel fucking joke?
How could a world they fought so hard for repay them with this insult?
The intoner Zero fell to her knees in tears, for floating over the city was a great black flower.
I don't care what happens, just come back to me alive.
Caim held his eyes closed as his sister's plea echoed in his mind. Even now he could clearly see Furiae's young face twisted in fear as her brother went off to war. To mar the visage of an innocent child with such a great and terrible trepidation… to him, the Empire was guilty of no greater sin.
They marched across the continent, bloodied blades in hand and flames in their wake. Tens of thousands had met pain and suffering at their hands, and all of them were left wondering what their sorrow had bought. As far as anyone could tell, the Empire's advance was without purpose –slaughter for the sake of slaughter. Now their onslaught had reached all the way to the Land of Mountains, and Caerleon stood ready to fight for its fate.
The prince opened his eyes, struggling against the harsh sun to see the enemy before him. Thousands of soldiers stood in perfect lines, pristine imperial steel glistening in the light of the day. Their apparent discipline and equipment were more than enough to stir unease in Caim's heart. Although the brilliant military mind of Lord Ipris stood with him, Caerleon's army paled in comparison. They were a noble lot to be sure, but were outmatched in nearly all factors a good general would consider. Training, equipment, numbers… the forces of Caerleon were left wanting for it all. Some would say one or two good leaders on the field could shore up the difference, but Caim was young and knew naught of how to stir the hearts of men.
"Tell me boy, how does it look?"
Caim stirred from his thoughts, turning to face the man that addressed him. The scarred face of Lord Ipris met him, his experienced eyes Caim's one bastion of hope in the face of the coming battle. The man looked like more like a thug than a noble, but Ipris had once been his father's greatest rival, and was second in Caerleon only to King Gaap himself.
"'How does it look?'" the prince repeated.
"The battle… how do you think it's going to go?"
Caim looked to the battle lines behind him to ensure none of his men were within earshot before answering. "To be honest, it doesn't matter much what I think. They can match us three men to one, and their every soldier is clad in plate, head to toe. I have no plans to lose, but I doubt even myself in the face of such odds."
The balding veteran shook his head in disapproval. "You've honed your body and blade well under my guidance, but I see we've neglected your mind. That drivel you just spouted is exactly what the enemy thinks. Hell, they probably haven't even drafted up a decent strategy."
"And you have?"
"Don't need to," the man said, pride practically pouring out of his smug grin. "We just have to get out there and show 'em what we're made of."
Caim wondered if his mentor wasn't guilty of the same overconfidence he accused the empire of, but he knew better than to challenge him on such things. If Ipris was so sure that fighting the imperial forces head on was the best way to go about the battle, it was unlikely there was a better alternative. The prince struggled to wrap his head around the logic, so he would have to make sure to live long enough to see the plan in action.
"Come to think of it, this is your first battle, isn't it boy?"
"Not quite," Caim answered, his voice far more somber than before.
The events of the previous year came rushing back to Ipris's memory, and he wondered how he could possibly have forgotten. "Ah, that's right... the riots. Perhaps you're more prepared for this than I am."
It had been only six months since the vagrants called One and Nero brought the red eye disease to Caerleon. For nearly a week, the kingdom became hell on earth. The castle had broken out into mania, with victims of the infection brutalizing everyone they could get their hands on. Caim had fought desperately through that nightmare to keep Furiae and her maid Shirley safe, running through guards and servants he had known his entire life.
In the end, the castle was brought under control through hours of paranoid slaughter, and the outsiders expelled. The disease did not spread far beyond the castle walls, but for the following days it was not uncommon to hear of a spontaneous killing brought on by the outbreak. The kingdom had come far to recover from these tragedies, but the red eyes weren't done with them yet.
A strange motion in the lines of the imperial forces caught the eye of the Prince, and his nerves flared with anticipation once he realized what was happening. One after the other, the soldiers of the empire raised their blades above their head, each mimicking the man next to him in perfect synchronization. The display was as beautiful as it was intimidating, and in a matter of seconds the army of thousands had their weapons readied.
"Remember why you bare your blade, Caim," Ipris began. "Not to slay those before you, but to protect those behind you." With those words, the veteran raised his blade, inciting a fierce roar from the defenders of Caerleon. The voices of his comrades shook Caim's body to the core, but he did not join them, his focus instead on the circular charm he wore around his wrist. The prince's resolve was silent, but strong. He was prepared to suffer any manner of injury if it meant keeping those he loved safe. Furiae and the others had seen enough for one lifetime. This madness would end here, by his hand.
The empire began its advance and Caerleon charged forth, closing the great distance between their forces with dauntless courage and blades steadied by staunch determination. It quickly became clear to Caim that the imperial soldiers had no intention of giving ground to his charge, meaning he would have to create room himself. The prince readied his two-handed blade, singling out the poor fool that would be the first to fall to his advance. The two armies clashed in a deafening cacophony of screams and clashing steel, Caim dispatching his chosen target with a single swing through the man's barely exposed neck.
The world faded into a blur as the imperials descended upon him like raindrops in a thunderstorm. He panicked when faced with the sight of the enemy army's size, but with every blade he matched, with every life he took, his consciousness slowly faded into obscurity. Before long naught but instinct guided the prince's sword, sending red eye after red eye to an early grave. Their strength was phenomenal, but just like the infected during the riots, it was ultimately their greatest weakness. They attacked with simple and predictable strikes, seeking to overwhelm their foes with their inhuman power alone. Such unrefined blades would never reach him.
Caim was still young, but he had spent more than a decade honing himself into peerless warrior. There was no grace that a peasant would come to expect from a swordsman of royal birth. Absent were the great sweeps twirls one would see from a showman. Instead one found that his movements were swift, minimalist, and above all, lethal. The lack of wasted motion left Caim ready to adapt to his needs on a moment-to-moment basis. His sequences, although resembling patchwork more than regal swordplay, kept him untouched and left his enemies dead.
Steel rent flesh and bone as Caim withdrew his blade from his latest opponent. He knew not how long he had been fighting or how many he had killed, but he wasn't going to stop now. He readied himself to receive his next foe, but a foe never came. Instead of continuing their assault, the red eyes were backing away from the prince, weapons still at the ready. He could only assume they had realized that challenging him was unwise, and had stopped to reevaluate their positions. As they fixated on him, soldiers of Caerleon crashed into their ranks with the fury of a typhoon, claiming far more than their dues in imperial blood.
The young man smiled to himself as he finally came to understand Ipris's plot. Numbers meant nothing if an army's morale had fallen to pieces. The proud empire marched into Caerleon expecting complete and total domination, but was met with steadfast resistance. The faster a cart travels, the greater the upheaval when it is disrupted. In that same vein, every second that Caerleon held fast subverted imperial expectations to a greater and greater degree. Eventually they would come to doubt themselves. What could they do but panic when the tides of such an advantageous battle turned against them? With his own display of martial mastery and the valiant efforts of his countrymen, the spirits of the invaders had been shattered.
A look around the battlefield confirmed his suspicions. All across the battle lines, the imperial forces were beginning to retreat. A cry of victory was raised to the heavens as the three-eyed banners of the empire began fading into the distance. Caim was not sure if he was happier to be victorious or alive, but joy colored his spirit nonetheless.
He would normally be eager to join his comrades in revelry and merriment, but doubt had sewn its seeds in his mind. While the empire had only suffered a scarce few defeats, he had never heard of the red eye army retreating. In every reported loss to reach his ear, their forces were routed to the man. During the riots, he had known them to lose themselves in their frenzied rampages, even in situations most would deem suicide. Why, then, was this the exception?
As much as the questioned threatened to drive him to paranoia, he had other priorities. The wounded on the field needed tending, and the dying had to be given their last rights. Traditionally, there would also be a search for captured nobles or others that could be ransomed off, but the red eyes may as well have been a swarm of flies. Not a soul that marched under the three eyed banner was worth anything to the empire, and their minds were often too far gone for interrogation to be of any value. As such, the imperial wounded were sent to their gods, nameless and rotting on foreign soil.
The valiant sons of Caerleon would return home heroes, Caim and Ipris foremost among them. The entire nation celebrated, but the prince's mind would not settle. He was overjoyed that their victory had seen Caerleon safely into the future, but the empire was far from defeated. The giant still loomed at their borders, and Caerleon could not hope to stand against their full force. The king and his lords would indulge in their triumph and Caim would play along, but he was no fool. A war was coming. Live or die, he would face it prepared.
A/N: I had two different scenes planned as potential candidates for Chapter 1, but struggled to expand on either them long enough for them to reach full chapter length without feeling unnecessarily drawn out and boring. In the end I decided to chop them both down to their essentials and release them simultaneously as a prologue chapter. It's still a lot shorter than I would have liked, but I think it does its job of laying the groundwork for the story well enough. Actual chapters coming soon. Thanks for reading.