Wrapping up
Armour: Brimflame
Weapon: Winter's Fury, Undine's Retribution, Stormfront Razor
Acc(11/11): The Bee, Celestial cuffs, Mana Flower, Sorcerer Emblem, Cryo Wings, Ankh Shield, Deific Amulet, FrostSpark Boots, Grand Gelatin, Amalgamated Brain, Evasion Scarf. (Unlimited Buffs)
Health: (500/500)
What a complete disaster.
Maybe he should have expected this. How stupid he was to go against The King. It wasn't as if he could claim ignorance, The Lunatic Cultist was well aware of how powerful The Tyrant was, having served him for many years as the court's chief mage. He had seen The King's cunning, his endless ambition, his relentless drive. He was a man with no love for his people, and his willingness to throw away lives make him all the more terrifying.
The King was a man who considered everyone and everything expendable to his goals.
And that goal?
Power.
The King chased power. He was single mindedly devoted to amassing to himself all manner of strengths. Despite being outrageously strong in constitution, he constantly upgraded his cybernetic exosuit and studied all manner of eldritch magic and forbidden spells to further bolster himself. His army was filled with powerful warriors, some natural - most manufactured. Indeed, the dungeon and the sulfurous sea were filled with the rancid corpses of men, women and creatures who lived and died to test these various enhancements. Specimens that survived were granted great power. Some were even inducted into The King's service. But rumor had it that the lowest floor of Draedon's laboratory was filled with cages and monstrosities. Vile amalgamations that would never see the light of day for how terrible they were.
And although The Tyrant did not boast of his great power - in fact, he went to great lengths to conceal his most secret projects; his strength and the fear thereof was all but steeped into the minds of his subjects. The whole world trembled at Lord Yharim's name. Even those that rose to rebel against him cringed and cursed at his image, knowing well that death awaited them at The Kings hand. The Resistance was nothing but a pile of rats. They milled around, encouraging each other with empty words, puffing themselves up with lies and air. Together, they convinced one another they were strong - but at the very moment they saw danger, they scrambled to flee and hide behind one another. It was cowardice, yes, but if one's enemy was The King, even the bravest of men would not fault them.
Yet even knowing all of these things, The Cultistwas still brash enough to betray The King.
Perhaps it was his own ambition that fueled it.
His devotion to The Moon Lord certainly played a part.
Maybe he just did it because he was sure he'd succeed.
For The moment he discovered the method to summon a Terrarian - those terrifying monsters of old - he knew he had suddenly become the most potent threat this world has ever seen. It was as if he were suddenly given a button to detonate every power structure on the face of this continent.
This dreadful little monster...
Becuase that's the type of creatures 'Terrarians' were. Their origins have always been mysterious. Nobody knew where they came from. Nobody knew what their substance was. Perhaps they were agents of this world's will, or a race of strange amnesiac deities... regardless, there was one thing that was sure. Terrarians were ridiculously powerful, and their entire purpose was to gain power. They didn't do so by studying, nor inventing, nor creating...
No, they amassed power by destroying other powerful beings.
When a Terrarian appeared - and historically, they only appeared at the height of some great ruler's reign - everything came tumbling down. First, slimes, bats and the trees of the forests. Then powerful beasts in the plains, the small militias, great yetis and jungle monstrosities, beasts, dragons, armies, kings. Any being that raised itself up as a god was butchered. The blood of cosmic invaders was sprinkled to water the earth. Ancient threats did well to hide and tremble in their deep caves lest The Terrarian seek them out to consume them. For although each Terrarian (apparently) had their own personality - all of them did exactly the same thing.
They roamed the land like roaring lions, seeking for anything to devour.
Yharim was powerful - but he was only a mortal.
If Yharim was relentless, The Terrarian would hunt him relentlessly. If he was ambitious, The Terrarian's innate hunger would surpass him. By the sheer force of attrition, The Terrarian would cut down The King and crush him beneath his heels. It was destined to come to pass the moment he was born - for A Terrarian could not die. He would not grow weary, or faint. To Yharim, he was an unrelenting hound of hell with eyes for his throat.
It was supposed to just be a matter of time before all of these expectations came to pass. The Hero was supposed to go forth and destroy the increasingly powerful enemies of The Resistance under Braelor's command. He was supposed to fulfill The Cultist's deal with The Titan Commander, such that he could raise The Dreaming God. He was supposed to unify that motley band of rebels beneath his banner and cause them to rise in fantastic revolution against the king. He was supposed clear this world of all substantial threats - then once everything was finished, like The Terrarians of the past, he was supposed to simply... vanish.
Nobody knew why they vanished. The Two Terrarians of old had been so eye wateringly powerful, one could not image anyone could oppose them, much less kill them. And even if they had been killed, what good would that do? Even The Hero - in his tender age - had been slaughtered a thousand times, yet came out with little more than a fear of worms and the combative edge of a split personality. A fully fledged Terrarian? Death could not hold them down. Perhaps they... 'starved'. There were no more powers to destroy. Nothing more to consume? In any case, The Cultist didn't particularly care why The Hero was supposed to vanish, all he cared was that he did.
Because at the moment it happened, the entire world would be ripe for the taking. The Lunatic Cultist would rush into that power vacuum and seize the kingdom for himself. He would be the most powerful person in the land. The Moon Lord would lend him his cosmic strength to subjugate the world and transform it into a temple fitting for The Dreaming God's worship. All the peoples would gaze upon his terrible, maddening glory. That lumbering spread of those massive - yet rudimentary wings. The pulpy tentacled head that would blot out the sun for its horrifying size. The grotesque scaly body that filled the vision and the mind, and the whispers and dreams that filled him with equal parts awe, terror and adoration. The Lunatic Cultist craved it. He would rule this land as a high priest for The Moon Lord's awful majesty.
"Hero!"
And so... even though things... haven't gone according to plan at all. The Cultist was well aware there was no going back. He had already betrayed the king. The only way he would survive this war, was if The Hero won it for him. It was only the two of them now - huddled in a countryside in the southern plains. It was only a matter of time before Yharim and his innumerable spies found them - and The Hero...
The Cultist clapped the textbook shut - issuing forth a puff of ancient dust - and scorched his student with the most scathing glare he could muster. In the past, The Hero would leap at this sort of silent admonition, but today he rested his chin against his breastplate and stared listlessly through the floorboards. The sun's golden beams sent shafts of light through the tower's narrow windows, lighting upon dilapidated furniture and crowning The Hero's head of white hair with a gentle glow. He was slumped in one of the old, creaky chairs (The Cultist hadn't lived in this tower since taking employment with The Tyrant many years ago) and despite that the temperature in The Southern Lowlands was significantly more amicable than The Northern Mountains, the boy was pale as a sheet.
Regardless, The Cultist was wroth. Like an annoyed schoolteacher, he jabbed the hefty tome at him and hissed.
"Hero, if you are so comfortable daydreaming during my class, I reckon you should already know the intricacies of mixing Light and Dark element-"
The Hero interrupted him, his voice utterly monotonous as if reciting an excerpt from a textbook. There was a curl in his lip as he spoke.
"-opposites magicks, yet one does not exist without the other. The difficulty is not in the clashing of the two spells of different elements, but rather in harnessing them simultaneously within oneself. To grasp both the light and shadow without losing focus on either is the key, and failure to do so when employing powerful spells can result in severe bodily harm. One should ensure they have the appropriate wards set up before experimenting. Renown spellcrafter, R.J. Chron recommends the following: A modifi-"
"Fine, fine! Enough!"
The Hero had given him sass before, but never was he quite so bold about it. It had been an entire day since The Frosty Bastard had been slain, and The Cultist thought he had allowed the boy ample time to mourn. Clearly it wasn't enough, but time was short - and with short time came short tempers. The Hero snapped at him, suddenly becoming animated as he seized the arm rests with such force, they splintered beneath his fingers.
"The Archmage already taught me this! I don't need your lessons! I don't need you!"
"Oh?"
The Cultist scoffed and tossed the heavy book atop one of the many piles scattered across the floor. He was well aware this was a grief fueled outburst, but he had neither the empathy nor the patience for it. He raised his voice.
"You don't need me? Ho- Child, how do you imagine you'll face Yharim as you are!? Do you think you can defeat him without further bolstering your sorceries? What will you do when he comes after you, eh? Ah, perhaps you are not afraid - but if you are not afraid, aren't you at least angry? Will you allow the Archmage's death to go unavenged?!
"..."
The Hero slumped back into the chair, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. He turned his face back towards the ground, but raised his eyes so those flickering coals burned into him. Anger. Good.
The Cultist continued to egg him on.
"Did you not care for The Archmage? Did he not care for you? That Old Mage has spent the last hundred years fighting against The Tyrant until he was finally slain by The King's hand. He defended you to the very end... Surely you intend to simply accept his death simply walk away?"
The Cultist had never really considered The Hero a 'person'. He didn't need to be a person, he needed to be a machine that did as it was told. The Archmage - that old fool - had tried to appeal to The Hero's 'human' side (what a joke, if only he knew the only human in The Hero's formulation were the hundred who lay desiccated in The Crimson village) and was more apt to treat him like a toddler than a weapon of mass destruction.
"... No, I...I..."
But that foolishness was now paying dividends. The bond they had forged seemed to now be working in The Cultist's favor. The Hero was distraught afresh. His face twisted in a way a human's face should not twist; he bared his teeth all the way to the gums. That fiery glare followed his every moment as The Cultist carefully chose his words.
"Child, Let me help you. I understand you may dislike me, but do you not owe me your life? I gave you breath; I brought you into this world. I saved you once from The Worms, again from your doppelganger, again from The Tyrant... come, be reasonable." He made his voice gentle and gestured to the piles of books scattered about the old tower. "Why don't we choose another topic?"
A long, long silence. A breeze gusted outside the narrow windows. The scent of grass and wildflowers wafted in through the open door. Those burning eyes slid shut as The Hero's brow became pensive. He remained like that for a long while before finally speaking in a voice so low, it might have been a whisper.
"... Cultist?"
"Yes, Hero."
"I gave myself a new name."
The Cultist blinked. A new name? Having a name - a unique name - was reserved for the very rich or very powerful. Furthermore, they were always bestowed, never chosen for oneself. What a strange turn the conversation, The Hero wasn't the type to sidetrack so wildly like this. The Cultist bit back a rebuke and took a deep breath. Just this once, he would humor him.
"Interesting, what sort of name have you chosen for yourself?"
"Faze."
"Phase? As in phases of the moon?"
"No! It's not spel-"
"Lower your voice. Stop acting like a child."
"..."
The Hero was clearly annoyed by the admonition and showed his displeasure by the sharpness of his stare. He ground his teeth and propped his cheek against his fist to glare out a window, but periodically glanced up at him as if to make sure he was still watching. The Hero took a deep breath and tried to speak again, but there was a tremor in his voice. Grief and anger wrestling with one another, until his eyes were blown wide and blazing and that quiet voice became an increasingly a venomous hiss.
"Faze is my name. Don't call me The Hero anymore. I'm not your Hero, not the Resistance's, not the Archmage's. No one's! I don't belong to anyone! I don't need you! I don't need this!"
The Hero bared his teeth and leapt to his feet so violently, the chair toppled behind him and lost a leg. He was snarling now, with a noise far more guttural than what the human throat could produce. The draconian pupils were burned like dark coals in his head.
"Revenge!? Duty?! Responsibilities and missions?! All my grief and all pain has come from these these ties and bonds! What good does it do for me?! Why Do I subject myself to it! All of you," The Hero jabbed an armored finger at The Cultist, "None of you are worth it."
Alarmed, The Cultist cut in.
"What?! What do you mean, Hero!? Where are you going!?"
*crunch*
The door was kicked open with such violence, it flew off its hinges and nearly cleared the horizon. The Hero walked out into the open field and spread his wings. Frozen feathers chilled the air and dropped sparkling crystals into the wildflowers. He didn't turn to respond to The Cultist. He simply raised his head to stare into the wide, open sky.
"... I don't want your chains, Cultist!"
"Hero! Get back in here! Since when have you been so reckless!? Don't you know the danger? You have no idea wha-"
"I'm cutting myself free!"
And with that, Arc 1 is finished :)
Thank you all for reading. I think I'm gonna do a Summary Chapter to Cap off the ARC - but will do my chapter-to chapter summary on chapter 150 per usual.
much love!