--Prelude--
Nobody thought the move was made so boldly in broad daylight, right up to the Prontera walls. The sour smell of an incoming rain together with the massing grey clouds accompanied the presence of the Exalted One as hailed by the foul minions from the Square of Darkness. It seemed that the Dark Lord, once a venerable God, was too confident judging from his numbers. Trailing behind him was a meagre score of Ghouls and Raydric Archers that was dwarfed by the columns of Prontera's very own priests, crusaders and knights, standing before the Dark Lord in defiance.
A mild rumble of thunder sounded across the sky, mixing with the resounding gongs coming from the grand church. Though a renowned fortress that could hardly be broken, the mighty frame of the Dark Lord alone was enough to surface doubts among the holy defenders, aside from the fact that a former God could even accomplish anything as well as a real God. The entire city of Prontera could very well be reduced to powdery rubbles in a snap of fingers.
The south gate of Prontera was seriously threatened. The Dark Lord swept misgivings despite the distance, and the constant glowing of those crimson, fiery eyes did not made it at all comforting. Bright blue lightning crackled softly around his long bony fingers, as if ready to char a body in case someone made a pre-emptive attack. His purplish cape looked like it was fluttering on its own rather than being blown in rhythm with the growing wind.
Brown leaves were picked up from the field, tossed briefly in the air and fluttered off elsewhere. The Dark Lord looked more amused than impassive. If he wanted, he could eradicate whatever structure before him, including those puny humans who thought their grand assembly would finally drive him off. But that was not the case. The Dark Lord's purpose today was not to start a war.
"My armies are fast rampaging the north, capturing slaves, usurping governance over towns and villages alike faster than running water. There will no more occurrence of Ragnarok under me, I suggest you imbeciles submit to me peacefully. Without aggression." The Dark Lord sneered.
The columns still stood still with distrust. In the first line of the knight squad, the captain, named Ikan, strode forward with the sheath clanking against his thigh.
"Whether you come in peace or not, Prontera will not be intimidated or destroyed! I say, you give it up."
A few knights could not help suppressing a gasp but stare at their captain. They did not know whether he was being stupid to confront a former God like that, or just brave enough to defend the rights of Prontera.
The Dark Lord cackled vigorously, the cape fluttering ever madly.
"Human, I admire your courage, but that is not going to stop me from conveying my message," the lord boomed in a demonic voice. "Al De Baran, the famous Clock Tower, should be conquered by my armies by now. The capital city is important to my goal, and you humans had better not ruin or delay it in any way."
Some of the defenders shifted uncomfortably at the statement of colonizing Al De Baran. The captain still stood tall and straight as if the Dark Lord was someone he had already and would defeat him again. But Ikan's cool composure was betrayed by the nervous fingering of his sword hilt.
"That is why you were banished, Dark Lord. That is why you were demoted to today's plight. I shall repeat; Prontera will not give way to your dark deeds."
When Ikan and his squad of Prontera's very best knights expected another laugh of amusement from the former God, a bright flash of lightning that lit up the entire land momentarily, then thunder boomed threateningly. The slow drizzle evolved into a roaring slash of thick rain drops.
The Dark Lord gave a provoked snarl, holding up bony fingers to signal the ghouls and raydrics behind him.
"It is so hard to budge, it looks, just like as long as this city's history… your fellow neighbours are going to hate you for that, pathetic vermins."
He waved the group of Shades closer, then pointed a long index finger at the gates. The rain drowned out the creaking of the bowstring stretching. Raydric archers, grey-armoured beings without a face and not much of limbs, released their war bows. A dozen thick, grey arrows went head on the gates made of solid bars of metal, and the defenders thought it would hold.
The harmless looking arrows that looked like it could only pierce a cotton shirt at most smashed open the metal gates surprisingly.
"I did not want to end up like this, just like I said. Submit to my will peacefully, that would be the most advisable option right now," Dark Lord rasped.
The effortless breaching of their south gates took quite a long while to register on the knights and crusaders. Many have tried, but with no avail. Let alone doing it within a span of less than a minute. If that was only the beginning, it could be better if they withdrew before the sour stench of the rain would be drenched with a concentrated smell of charred bodies and burnt metal.
Ikan's refusal to be afraid ended following the blasted gates. The Raydric archers had fitted another thick arrow, training it into the opening. One wrong move or word, death would befall fast on the front man. The knight captain stepped back involuntarily as the rain continued to slash down hard, dampening the knights that were already left with a void feeling in the presence of the Dark Lord.
Captain Ikan was at loss for words as he stared fixedly at the jagged pieces of broken metal bars made too tough to be broken by human means. Raising his head slowly, he struggled to flee under the intimidating red orbs in those black sockets. Every backward step he made, his squad did the same.
The cold look once again turned into one of amusement. The Dark Lord dropped his right hand that was poised in readiness for a quick spell, gave another sharp command that made the Raydrics keep their bow.
"Your fellow neighbours are going to hate you for that," the Dark Lord repeated, although soft, but enough to be heard in the heavy downpour. "Ragnarok last occurred more than a hundred and forty years ago, tearing the world asunder. The Tear of the World… the product of the eternal struggle against the dark side. A good many years were spent shaping up Rune-Midgard…"
"What is your point?" Ikan shouted through the rain, trying to hide the slight quiver in his voice. The captain opened his mouth to add something more, then decided against it to allow the skeletal mage to finish. Though it was uncertain if his death was coming or not, it was better to refrain from provoking him. Not just yet.
"It won't be too long before this holocaust happens once again, and the fault lies with the blasted Council! They have yet to reckon my capabilities to make that the last Ragnarok, make that the last Tear of the World, make me the supreme of all Gods ever existed!" the Dark Lord spoke with fervour, his hands turning a bright purple glow from the spark of the velvet lightning. "And being influential as they are, you vermins tagged behind their backsides, and there I stand before you now, the supposed villain –"
"If you weren't the outcast, the villain, you wouldn't be ravaging across Rune-Midgard with thousands of stinking Shades doing the dirty work for you!" Ikan dared spoke, taking a step forward. It was all too wrong.
The Dark Lord trembled with bolts of velvet lightning fluttering off him. Those red eyes flared a bright ruby, obviously instilling fear into Ikan from his jaws that were dropped past his neck. It was none too difficult telling if the squad shared the same sentiments.
The thick drops of rainwater took to purple glow. Sensing something unusual, Ikan looked up –and before he could assimilate anything, a powerful slam of a purple lightning bolt pounded the captain's spot, splitting into smaller bolts with a sickening buzz. Several knights sidestepped to avoid being hit by the smaller bolts.
A choking smell of sulphur drifting from a charred body burnt beyond recognition intensified the sourness. The pounding of rain created a soft sizzling noise from the degenerated captain.
"Shut up, fools! Shut up!" the Dark Lord roared with undying rage. "That was just a puny sample of Prontera's destiny, and tell your beloved chump King Tristan to reconsider his options. And because of your insolence, this would be insurance to your choice of affiliation…"
The Dark Lord's words trailed off as he shot both hands skyward abruptly, forming a greenish projectile. The projectile widened as it soared into the ethers, and higher into the dark skies, before vanishing in a blink.
The columns muttered noisily from trepidation, if not curiosity, seeing a distinctive red glow emanating from a bloating orb. The rain had yet to dwindle, but the strange orb was clearly visible from the dark background.
The red orb seemed to inflate at a fast pace, or it seemed to, as far as they could observe. From somewhere at the back of a rank of crusaders, a man yelled with a hint of realization.
"Run! It's a meteor! Run, damn it!"
Not many moved despite the man's shout. Either they froze in a rigid stance, refusing to confirm what they comprehended or they regarded him as a madman struck with terror. The truth would be too much to bear.
"And I shall take matters into my own hands, then. A God of supremacy should not be terrorizing this town and that, but little vermins just fail to understand, fail to foresee the brighter road ahead," the Dark Lord continued. "Tell your accursed king, his city will survive no more than sixty days. And tell him that the Lord Phorton before you, the exiled Dark Lord, will stop at nothing, even twisting innocent mortals into Shades, crumbling towns into heaps of powder, including this very capital."
The Dark Lord, or rather Lord Phorton, paused before continuing.
"If learning the hard way exists as a torture, an early compromise could very well be your salvation."
The red meteor hung ominously from the sky above, even though it was about a good twenty miles above ground. Every time someone risked a glance skyward, the meteor suspended in the sky looked ready to be let loose anytime, like a time bomb ready to lay waste and bloodshed anywhere without a person expecting it.