Cupiditas (latin for 'greed')

Disclaimer: I do not own Knb

Blinded by his own overwhelming ambition, the Emperor seeks redemption in the solace of his cell.

Tablet of Destinies hold the power of creation and destruction

Yata's mirror represents wisdom

Statue of Themis (Lady Justice)

Diarmuid Ua Duibhne - young hero from Irish mythology

Yellow Shaft inflict wounds that one cannot recover from

Radix malorum est cupiditas - A biblical quote in Latin "greed is the root of evils."

Silence was everywhere, wrapping its fingers around every flicker of life and muffling it with a squeeze. Under the quietude, the sun crumbled and bowed. The sky surrendered its crown, the heavens above no longer infallible. The last streaks of moonlight disappeared into nirvana and night fell. For centuries, it remained this way. The mirth withered in the quiet like an autumn rose with the dawn of the wintry nightmare. Under his rule, all the worlds, small and large fell to his feet. Inferno tore through the woodlands of lush green, drowning away the screams forever. Up in their celestial domes, the deities frowned at the crimson rivers as they flowed through the labyrinth amidst the skirmish. The clouds were painted a deep scarlet as fumes of death rose into the air. As he stood before the Tablet of Destinies, he watched Man's universe collapse into ruins.

In the Altar of Paradise, a lance pierced Yata's mirror and it shattered with a deafening clatter. The blindfold concealing the statue of Themis fell from her eyes, revealing a storm of onyx.

Diarmuid Ua Duibhne's spears have impaled Heaven and Hell, demolishing every strand of hope there was left. The world had sunk into an abyss of demise of no recovery. No divine being - no immortal nor fairy could undo the damage. The scales have tipped and all the goddesses have fled in their violet gowns. Now, no one was left to pluck the golden harp and there would be no more melodic chanting to fill the emptiness. Amber streams of rain have soiled the fields of resplendence and mandrakes scattered the barren lands. There was no life, only the remnants of an unforetold massacre. The grim reaper roams the earth, its scythe posed in ready, a semblance of the French guillotine.

However, the autocratic reign of the Emperor lasted no more than two winters.

Almost with time, nature struggled with the mist of quietus and warred with the illusion of infertility heavy in the air. Eventually, buds of daisies and delphiniums poked through the darkened soil and there, among the poison thorns of the cassava, the first signs of life since the descend into darkness bloomed. He had been incredulous as he witnessed the speck of green sprout above the grey. Frozen by the porch, he remotely remembered the rain sliding down his pale skin and the first emergence of a lit sphere. Its blinding rays were of a golden satin as the Yellow Shaft broke into two. And then, there was white light.

It persisted for less than a second. White sparks, tipped with orange showered upon the stark plains without mercy. The darkness morphed into light as the ashen fields came alive. It was magic. Rivers of azure ran through the expanse of the land while verdant grass sprung up from the sepia-coloured dirt. The silence elapse in moments as the sounds of young birds chirping filled the breathing sky. The sun rose higher than all, glimmering with radiance as it overlooked its creation. He had been beyond stunned. Everything he had worked for, all the probabilities he had made true and the fruit of his efforts ... gone with the wind. It was over. Nature had reclaimed her kingdom and proceeded to thrust him off the throne with a tempest of life. The deities returned to where they belonged - Poseidon in the oceanic domain, Hades in the mystic underworld and Zeus in his ethereal sky above.

He watched as the light faded and the ashes that had strewn the murky grounds rose up. Suspended in the atmosphere, the cinders swirled and drifted up like stardust. The burnt flecks solidified into a busy town, almost like sorcery - the men in their coattails walked with their canes down the bustling streets as glasses clinked when ladies in corsets elegantly lifted their cups to their rosy lips. The laughter of children fuelled the joy as they danced around with their petite hands joined. Everything had been reversed; back to the way they were before. Unbelievable. The Emperor stared at the smoke curling up from the steam trains with wide eyes. Impossible. It had to be an illusion. Yet the spectacle didn't go away, even when he blinked multiple times. The people continued with their lives, as if they were there the whole time, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. His heterochromatic eyes froze and settled onto the figures making their way towards his palace, to him. The crowd had parted like at the mouth of a flowing river and smiles graced their faces as the figures passed them with steadily calculative strides. All faces were bare, but the single cloaked figure who glided across the sandy crescent. Even from this distance, he could tell who it was. Theia, the goddess of sight. But what was she doing here?

He remained where he stood with his eyes narrowed as she neared. Her robe was thrown to the ground when she reached the base of the steps, disclosing her staff. Glistening in the sunlight, its pearl was a vibrancy of hues. Pointing it up towards him, she waited for his response. He gave her none. With his chin tilted up, the sovereign refused her proposal. He would not admit defeat. He would not surrender the absolute power he had garnered. He had prevailed for so long ... he would win now because if he let go now, everything would be lost. He would not let such trivial things sever the string of jurisdiction.

As he looked up to the clear sky, Akashi noticed a rainbow that swept through the sapphire. Except, it wasn't a rainbow as there was no red, as though it represented a world where no blood was spilt. Running a gloved hand through his own maroon-coloured hair, he mused, '... is this the end?'

Perhaps his fate had been decided a long time ago.

His eyes returned to the goddess, just in time to see her mouth a few words. He couldn't make out anything she said but the sympathy on her tongue was virtually palpable. As though it were a spell, a flare of blue surrounded him. He offered no resistance as his skin tingled with the spark. There was a sharp pain in his eyes and he felt the world spin as his vision clouded.

And then, there was only darkness.

...

Solitude. He was alone but how long has it been? Days? Or perhaps centuries? He didn't know, he had nothing to keep track. He had lost count a long time ago. Time no longer held any significance; it meant nothing to him. All he knew was that he had lost the war, lost the will to fight. Time would not change anything, would not ease the scars of defeat etched deep into his soul. He was no longer king, just a mere fool bounded forever to the lurking shadows of his cell. Sometimes, he wondered what life was like out there. Was it full of ecstasy? Or was it a hole of endless misery?

Alone, embraced by the hollowness, he had become accustomed to the absence of sound. It was like a vacuum. He couldn't even hear the sounds of himself breathing. He couldn't feel the rhythmic thump of his own heart, buried deep inside his chest. Silence alone reined the darkness, the world a sea of black. He couldn't see anything, not even when he waved a hand before his face. Or at least, what he assumed was his face.

His eyes, sealed shut were to remain unseeing to the world for eternity. It was a fate he had brought onto himself.

His rule had been of great urgency. Once he had gained the authority, nothing else mattered. The absolute supremacy ... he needed it. Only one thing made him go so far ... her. His dying mother who laid with a sickly pallor with a thin rugged blanket covering her shuddering frame. Would she blame him for his incompetence? The last time he saw her was just before he had rebelled against the heavens. Her eyes had crinkled with happiness despite her feeble health as she leaned heavily onto the doorway. He had turned away from the rundown shack. Steeling his resolve, indifference washed over his body as he went away. Memories of her lingered in strands of blue ... her features obscured by a stroke of a brush. Was she still ... waiting for him? He remembered the chalky strands of hair that bleached her thin tresses. She was so weak ... so very delicate. Seeing her crippled him ... and that was when he knew what to do.

He needed power, wealth and support. Quickly amassing hundreds of followers, Akashi had began planning a coup. It had been the only way, the only choice he had been presented with. For her, he poisoned the rivulets and cursed the land. He slit the throats of the innocent and called upon the Devil. For his mother, he sacrificed the world without a second of hesitation. It was a roll of the die, victory bordering luck.

But in the end, it wasn't enough. She had died before he succeeded. Like a white orchid, she wilted with age. He had rushed to her bedside, abandoning everything without a care. As he held onto her calloused hand, he listened to her last words. 'When the gods come, don't fight them. The world does not belong to you, Seijuro ... it belongs to everyone.'

When Theia raised her staff, he knew what was going to happen. A curse, the punishment of sight. Without it, he was effectively restrained, his abilities quelled into a hinderance. Without it, he was a broken doll - a puppet waiting for commands that would never come. Without it, there was no hope. As he fell, his senses dulled and he felt nothing. There was no agony, no fire within his soul ... only vast emptiness. It was as though the God of Death had claimed him and confined him to Hell.

Banished from the starlight, he was plagued with constant reminiscences. The memories of his mother's death haunted his days and nights: the light fading from her youthful eyes, her skin diminishing to an anaemic tone and her voice cracking with unshed tears. He would never forget the way she looked at him. There was love and affection hidden behind those ruby orbs, and they were for him. But then, his plan had almost come to fruition and lives were shrivelling with torment at every dusk. No one lived to appraise him for his efforts, only those remained fought to foil his uprising. Nothing changed. Every rising of the moon meant the soil was bathed in a deeper crimson and more spirits shimmered to damn his very existence. Even so, his mother had regarded him with tenderness and stroked his frozen cheeks with gentle and prayerful hands. She desired for him to attain salvation. Each sunset, she would crease her brows and clasp her hands in orison.

Left with his thoughts, they wasted no time in wandering freely in his mind. He began to doubt his decision. Had there been an alternative? Could he have saved her in time? The wrath of the gods had only served to quicken her end. Akashi had, of course at the time been oblivious to this until the last petal fell. There were no words, no comforts for his grief. He had been abandoned, in a world so cold. Life was bleak and the unknown was unsettling ... everything had been taken away from him. Like a beseecher, Akashi trembled on the streets as the people walked by without a backward glance.

And then, he recalled the colours he had glimpsed just before he lost consciousness. There had been no red, just shades of yellow, green, blue and purple. The sky had been teal on canvas, the light shade of blue seemed to gaze at him with watchful eyes. Even the heavens had been wary of him, ready to be rid of him.

Was it wrong, to want well for the one he loved? Was it wrong, to give all he had to his dear mother who had raised him with not a pence in her pocket?

Were these reasons not enough to defy the very teachings of the deities in worship?

There was peace. The clouds drifted along the pale cerulean with a flap of the wings of an angelic seraphim dressed in white. It has been a millennium since the fall and the worlds have settled into an unchanging routine: birth and life, loss and love, death and grief, reincarnation and renewal. The cycle was everlasting and never ceased its continuity as new generations gave life to new eras. The memories of the fall have been gently pried away from fragile minds and now, all the people could remember was an endless peace, willed and overseen by the gods. After all, it was all they have known in their lifetime.

In the beginning, just months after the destruction there had been wary glances and rigid stances. The air was alive with tension and scepticism ran deep in every stream and river. Every man had pinned their neighbours with intense hawk-eyes and glared at the other, daring them to rebel. It was almost humiliating to the deities. The order they had failed to induce in the human race, an ordinary human had managed in just a few months. He had wormed his way into every heart to instill fear in all. He hadn't even met a third of the people and yet he had worked wonders in evoking undying loyalty in a select few. Just the sound of his name made the youth stiffen with horror and every mother weep for mercy as they enclosed their beloved children in a protective embrace. Indeed, it was a time of irrefutable terror.

October 8th. The people had deemed it important to remember the day, the day when they had finally glimpsed the fiery orb of the sun for the first time in two years. On the same day every year, they celebrated the Festivial of Novum Aurora. With their hands joined, they gathered at the heart of their villages and danced in a swirl of red. With laughter ringing in every expanse of the illuminated land, every soul celebrated the 'New Dawn.' The waters diluted as history faded, many do not remember the legends surrounding the origins of the festival. In spite of this, it was better not knowing as the insurgent who had instigated the revolt was held not a hundred feet below them.

...

Autumn leaves fluttered like a pinioned finch in the seasoned breeze. The sky was clear, wisps of white clouds smudged evenly across the map of blue. High up in every man's paradise, laughters of the festive mood from down below echoed through the boundless gates of heaven. The pair of angels who guarded the monstrous entrance paid no heed to the euphonic murmurs, their stance sturdy. Deep within, in a garden with florets of every shade and of vivid sweet aromas, six figures hovered in a ring. Surrounding them, pillars of marble rose into the air and vines of verdant were wounded around them. On the raised platform, they seemed to be deep in thought, as they were unshaken by even the distressed calls of untamed beasts that rose from the seven hells below.

"Perhaps it is time?" A figure dressed in yellow broke the silence, his beauty mark visible from under his hood, "to loosen our grip on the rebel, I mean." The suggestion had formed on his lips after much consideration.

"What are you talking about, Mirage?! Are you insane?" A redhead yelled in anger, almost launching himself at the other. His outburst did not come as a surprise to his companions, but rather remained a stark contrast to the stoic composure of the other. His exclamation was to be expected, however as the rebel they spoke of had single-handedly turned the tables against them and brought about horrific destruction none thought possible. The prospect of freeing such a criminal was beyond absurd. Why would one even entertain such a thought? Who knew what would happen with such a powerful tyrant walking around free of shackles and chains?

He is just like him ... A rosy haired girl attired in a long midnight blue gown looked at the redhead wistfully.

"He does have a point though ..." Seated by a small colourless table, a short dark haired man had his legs crossed and a hand reaching out to the plate of strawberries situated at the centre of the suspended furniture. His brows were creased, his trademark stern expression in place, "wouldn't that be disastrous? What if he tried to rebel again?"

Another girl with short brown hair interjected quickly, slapping a hand over the table and making it quiver uncontrollably, "the guy is too weak to do much now anyway. It's been years, his will to fight would have been broken by now."

There was a chuckle from their left. Leaning against a pillar, a man with messy ebony hair and slitted eyes smirked darkly. "If given the opportunity, the snake would strike without a moment of hesitation... Radix malorum est cupiditas." The man intoned with a distinct accent lacing behind his words, his eyes opening for a quick second before they slid shut again.

There was a short silence as they individually considered all the options presented to them, their inner battle waging on soundlessly. The only one who had yet to speak, a bespectacled man finally intervened. "We could always keep tabs on him, have a few guards on him so he wouldn't try anything funny." He sat heavily on the chair across Mirage and crossed his arms over his chest. "But why are we even discussing this? Wasn't this matter over years ago?"

"Well," the brunette paused, the tone of her voice uncertain. "There has been rumours going around about how the Quintus is planning to break him out."

The bespectacled man froze, the others quickly following. Someone gasped and the rest frowned in unison. The Quintus? It has been years since they had heard from them. Originally, there had been eleven of them: the Onze, united by God under the Southern stars. Together as one, they sowed peace and governed the land. But then, when the revolution hurled flames of alarm and panic at the innocent, five left their ranks without a word. It was only later that they discovered the Quintus had joined the rebel, Akashi Seijuro. Then, when he was captured they fled the cities and had remained hidden from them ever since. No winds carried news of their news, nor their whereabouts. All they knew was that they were not dead, just dormant.

Before anything more could be said, the sounds of brisk footsteps ascended the elongated stairway. A messenger arrived, panting with his arms flailing about. One of their greatest fears was that one day, the five would return to free the rebel and unleash terror onto the streets again.

"The rebel has escaped!" Their fear had been made real.

...

There was red everywhere. Red flags were flown at the city walls and curtains of red and gold decorated windows. Young girls with their blonde hair bounded tightly with red ribbons skipped to the markets as red wine were served with humility by handsome waiters. Beneath the city, a maze of infinite tunnels weaved through one another like a twisting serpent. There was no light and darkness was the nightmare of all living souls. Five figures cloaked in black descended into the silent passages, their footsteps making no sound as they quietly make their way to the heart where all the tunnels were led from. To any other, the identical pathways would have been bewildering but to them, it was as if the way had been engraved into their minds. They blended into the shadows as mist lifted to wrap itself around them.

"Tch. What if they find out before we get there?" A hoarse voice spoke roughly, its head tilting up to the ceiling. The others did not respond immediately.

"Don't be ridiculous, Ace. Our movements have been kept a secret," another stated irritably and the sounds of glasses being adjusted rippled through the hazy air. "It's impossible for them to stop us now anyway."

The sounds of dripping water were clear and as though through telepathy, their strides hastened at the same time. They were near.

"What if he doesn't remember us?~" A cheery voice suggested in the silence.

As the five continued their way, the tallest of them was at the end of the group. "Akacchin would never forget us," he claimed confidently as strands of violet hair peeked through his grey hood.

It was bizarrely frosty. The cold seemed to seep through his thin ragged shirt and bite into his skeletal back. Shivers wracked his frame and he buried his head into his chest. It was futile, the cold was magma in an explosive volcano ready to consume him. He was going to die soon, he was going to see his mother soon. His frail lips twitched and lifted minutely as an image of his beloved mother fleeted through his mind. His once red hair had faded into a sickly pink as trails of blood streamed down from his sealed eyes. His head rolled back, his bangs fell pass his eyes and his cracked lips parted. A puff of air. Two puffs of air. He was so thirsty. His lungs constricted and his breathing was strained. It took much effort to just lift a finger. It was nearly the end. His journey was nearing the final hurdle.

The shadows called out to him, extending its long tentacles around and into him. A strike of fear. A slice of pain. It wrapped its arms around his soul and yanked. His eyes snapped open as a wave of agony ripped at him. He couldn't see. Red. Red. He felt something wet slide down his frozen cheeks. Forcing himself to swallow, his throat burned. Sharp needles whipped at him and his hand went to cradle his head. He groaned. Stop!

Miraculously, the pain dulled but the ache was still there. His head throbbed and his eyes stung. He felt a pressure on his spine but in his torment, he ignored it. Pushing his eyes into his palms, he prayed for the discomfort to ease. There was a hand pressing onto his back and it ran pass his shoulder blades and up to the base of his neck. Akashi smiled grimly, 'just like what she did.' His mothers soothing touches were one of the things he loved about her. Like a guardian angel, she had tended to his distress.

The hand was gentle and warmth spread through his body almost instantly. He sighed through his dried lips and he lifted his head. He blinked and through specks of black and crimson, he perceived four figures before him.

"Akashi Seijuro." His name rang out across the cavern, the voice thunderous to his sound deprived ears. Akashi blinked again. Was he hallucinating? His ears captured the pulse of other hearts, the pressure on his lower back seemed real.

"Who ... are you?" His voice came out raspy and weak, unalike his former glory.

One of the silhouettes stepped forward, "Midorima Shintaro." It was the one who had spoken before. Midorima raised his hands and pulled back his hood, revealing emerald hair and virescent eyes. The others did the same. Violet, blue and yellow. Pale and tanned. None of their faces meant anything to Akashi, they seemed unfamiliar. They must have seen the confusion etched onto his features as the blonde came closer and whispered, "Akacchi?"

His brows furrowed. Who was he? Who were they? How did they know his name? What did they want from him? Were they here to kill him? Questions of varying degree ran through his head, yet no memories nor answers came to relieve the perplexity. The hand on his back disappeared. It was only then that he realised that there was someone beside him all along. The figure stepped towards the others, his edge of his robe tickling his thigh.

"We are here to free you, Akashi-kun." His hood lifted and there was a rustle of cerulean hair. The redhead's eyes widened. Sky. The pale skin ... baby face ... wide innocent eyes. Age-long memories flooded him in tidal waves. Crimson blood ... burning cities ... wilting flowers ... The Quintus.

They were here, to save him. After so long, they were here. Enthralled by his thoughts, Akashi hadn't noticed that they had vanished from the underearth and materialised at the balcony of the sole castle located within the city. Cheers of a million filled the air and he peered down to see the ecstatic crowds. They have raised their bands of red to the heavens, chanting a single phrase. A phrase which would once again bring down the towers of paradise and have history repeat itself...

Hail and rise, the Emperor of creation!