Disclaimer: I do not own Tales of the Abyss.
Summarized A/N: This story is Jade-centric, with a bit of Peony thrown in. I have completed the draft of this story, and there will be 12 chapters in total, including the prologue and the epilogue. My goal is to publish a chapter once per week, though this is variable depending on how busy I am and how interested people are in this story I am about to tell. The first chapter is exempted from this, as I plan to have it up by Sunday once my beta reader gets around to checking it. If you want to read the long version of this A/N, please check the link on my profile. Feedback, as always, is greatly appreciated. In any case, I hope you enjoy this story!
ND2019, the forces of Kimlasca-Lanvaldear shall march northward, through the Rugnica Plains. After inflicting atrocities upon the villages in their wake, the army shall surround the fortress capital. Within a fortnight, the city shall fall. The Kimlascan army will stain the Malkuth throne with the blood of its last emperor. Their howls of victory shall resound throughout the land.
"I, who stand in the full light of the heavens, command thee, who opens the gates of hell."
A glyph formed beneath the cloaked man's feet as he paused before a large doorway. Corpses donned in red and blue alike surrounded him, the hallways stained with their blood. Yet, he remained unperturbed as he continued casting his spell—as if he was used to such scenes in his life.
"Come forth, divine lightning!" Sparks began to crackle and dance in the air, visible as the density of third fonons increased. "This ends now!"
Two parallel glyphs appeared as he raised his arm upwards, and with it an increase in volume.
"Indignation!"
With a loud explosion, the door to the hall flew open, and with it, the end for those souls still inside. Lightning burst inside the room; its dissonance accompanied by the haphazard melody of screams and groans of the fallen as they were mercilessly struck down by the storm that overtook the hall.
The cloaked stranger entered the hall as soon as the storm died down. Cold red eyes swept the battlefield as its owner unblinkingly wove through the sea of corpses left by the arte's wake. Oblivious to the stench of death that surrounded him, he stood in front of the bloodstained chair that used to host Malkuth's emperor in the once-majestic audience hall of the Malkuth Imperial Palace.
...The Kimlascan army will stain the Malkuth throne with the blood of its last emperor. A mirthful smile escaped him. Those fools really did follow that goddamned Score to the very last letter. Whatever happened to creativity nowadays? Well, he thought, if that was how they wanted to play their game, so be it.
Turning on his heel with his cloak following in a sweeping motion, he proceeded to exit the room when a movement caught the corner of his eye. On instinct, he was about to draw his weapon when a realization hit him. The spell earlier definitely would not have left anyone alive. He made sure of it, putting every ounce of power into that already powerful arte. If it was not an enemy, then—someone he marked as a friend a long time back? No, it couldn't—given the power of his spell and his lack of direction—but it was possible in one out of about a hundred or so cases.
There was only one way to know for sure. Shaking his head, as if to get rid of the annoying spark of hope that crept up his chest, he turned back again and approached the source of the movement. Hope was a useless emotion, just waiting to be stamped out once reality had its way—the professor, Luke—what good did hope ever do for them?
Yet, as he sighted a familiar blond crown in the sea of red and blue, just once more, he dared to hope.