Before he had even realized it, two entire years had passed Epros by, and not a single person of Triste was of enough interest to him to pass the time with. He couldn't care too horribly, though. He was too busy surviving week to week and obsessing over the dusty, scribbled notes of the scholar whose name he shared.

Where he sat, in the apparatus room, he was practically drowning in the journals and notes of the deceased scientist. From what he had gathered from somewhere around the billionth time he studied the journals, was that this man was attempting to create a new type of magic –actually, it would be so powerful it would be a new classification- that would give someone unlimited power, in exchange for a good majority of their sanity. Each chart was a table for deciding how different variables would affect the same formula, and each was just as equally fascinating as the last.

A bag of nuts sat in the teen's lap as he gazed at a journal that he had labeled 'formula f, part 13'. In total, there were eighteen formulas, each one with parts ranging from two to twenty, and each one was so wonderfully interesting. His mouth was parted slightly as he skimmed over another formula chart for nearly the twentieth time, still absorbing knowledge about how each part contributed to the whole.

Behind him sat a massive, machine bound journal that he bought from a wonderfully bland merchant in Triste, and he was hastily looking back and forth between each of the dusty journals, scribbling notes and formulas as quickly as he could comprehend them.

With the two years he had been working on this new classification type, the one that his name-bearer hadn't been able to complete, he felt so very close to a breakthrough. However, he had been feeling that for the past six weeks, and so far nothing had happened.

Another thirty minutes or so elapsed, and his nuts had been habitually eaten, and he was in need of more of the salty stress-relievers in order to occupy his mouth – a while back, he learned that keeping his mouth chewing kept his teeth from grinding due to anxiety. Anyone else may have thought he just needed company, but all he wanted was more snacks.

Making his way up the stairs, floating up them in order to avoid tripping on his slightly-too-long sleeping pants, he reached the supplies room. By now, he had stopped using the lower bedroom as a bedroom, but rather as a storage room for his supplies and food. It made it easy when he didn't want to go out to catch anything to eat, or float over to Triste for a bite to eat at one of their perfectly forgettable restaurants.

However, just as he was about to reach the snack of his desires, in order to continue his research, he stopped dead in his tracks. On the wall opposite to where he stood was the dirty mirror, somewhat cleaner now, after one of his futile attempts last year to clean the tower, and the reflection in the mirror was exactly what he didn't want to see.

His blonde, wavy hair, which he had once desired to grow out to ridiculous lengths, was now exactly where he used to want it, and he felt so disgusted by it. A voice in the back of his mind said 'you look just like your mother', and it was true. There was no doubt that his hair, all golden and down to the small of his back, was making him look like the one person he hated with every fiber of his being.

Without a second thought, or hesitation, he grabbed a knife from his butchering set –one that he had bought from Triste, like everything else that he hadn't brought with him from home, years ago- and yanked a fistful of hair. Knife met hair, and he only felt content after hours and hours of this repeated process.

The hair that once reached his wrists now barely came to his shoulders, and he couldn't be happier. The shirt he wore, so simple and blue, was now coated with bits and pieces of his golden locks, but he simply stripped it off, shaking it clean, before buttoning it back up.

Now, he was becoming the person he wanted to be.

With his vigor renewed, and a weight off of his shoulders, he continued to grab his snack and continued on to complete his research for the night. His obsession for magical power wouldn't allow him to stop.

He sat down in the center of the hurricane-shaped pile of journals and picked up right where he left off, formula f, part 13. Every night for the last year and some odd months, he would sit in this room, surrounded by the journals of a man long gone, and emerge himself into the scrawled notes. Every word was worth a million sukels, and even if no one could appreciate the meaning of it but him, he couldn't care less.

This new magic –classification, he would remind himself, over and over- would make him more powerful than anything his parents could have ever hoped to get from his 'wonderful, talented, little sister.' With this new power of his, he would spit on everything they've worked for, and cackle when they begged for mercy.

'Well. That certainly was a new thought.' He casually mused to himself, testing how he felt about the idea. In the end, he reckoned that he felt indifferent about it, and settled for picking up a new journal, this one being from formula b. Not even new ideas, scary and horrific, could deter him from configuring the formula for this magic circle which would, inevitably, give him the magical power he always craved.

'Always?'Epros bit his bottom lip, pulling himself from the research as he tried to figure out just what it was his subconscious was getting at. When it silenced, he reemerged himself in the notes, scribbling variables and symbols, patterns and diagrams. He didn't have time for nonsensical thoughts.

This went on well into the night, and before long, he found himself waking up the next morning, a piece of paper adhered to his face by –what he assumed to be- dried drool. 'Gross' he thought to himself, red eyes squinting in disdain as he realized that he fell asleep on his journal. Of course, since he had no one to live for but himself, staying up late and sleeping well past noon was hardly of consequence. However, sleeping anywhere but the fluffy king-sized bed upstairs left his back feeling tense and knotted. Though, when he checked the clock on the far side of the room and found it wasn't even morning, he felt a bit more at ease.

That didn't matter though, since when he looked down, he remembered exactly what he achieved the night before; the final formula in the magic circle. Sparks lit up in his eyes, and he reached for his pen. When he found it –for some reason- on the other side of the room, he willed it to him with his powers, and scribbled the formula several times over, with different number values for each variable. When each repetition of the formula checked out, he smirked maliciously to himself, a cackle beginning to form in his throat.

It had been so long since he had used his voice for anything other than quiet transactions that he nearly forgot what it sounded like. A violent joy filled his heart, as he laughed harder and harder. In what was a flurry of papers, he cleared all of the notes and journals away from the apparatus's floor wiring –he wasn't sure what would or wouldn't affect this, and with himself being the first and only test subject, he had to take the utmost precaution.

Across the room was a box of white, enchanted paint, which he knew was used for magic circle inscribing. A man in Triste sold it to him at a high price, and was so cautious about selling it that he told Epros that "even one drip of paint can ruin an entire circle, so take the utmost care when creating whatever formula you're planning." The man seemed nice enough, and Epros made sure to take his words to heart.

Paint and paint brush, the teen couldn't trust his shaking hands to draw the circle, and controlled them with his powers. The action wasn't physically draining so much as it was mentally exhausting, but before he could even realize it, the circle was coming together, piece by piece, one variable and formula at a time.

The white paint almost completely covered the machine's floor wiring, every inch of the circle being filled by a formula of sorts, with lines forming geometric shapes that would act as commands. Everything about this magic circle was carefully calculated over months of Epros's research, combined with what he assumed was years of work of his predecessor.

Red eyes scanned the magic circle when he triple checked and quadruple checked it over, making sure that he didn't leave out a single formula or variable. This could possibly be the end of his existence, but he wouldn't let that stop him. The sun was going to rise in less than an hour, and he knew he would see it, just like he did every day before then.

One foot after another, he stood atop the apparatus, and released the energy welled within his body. The circle glowed white, before engulfing him in a bright pink light. Tingles were sent up his spine, and he could feel a pressure of power that he couldn't even fathom in the pit of his gut. This was most certainly what he had slaved for months over, and no doubt what his name-bearer had given his life to. This power, of unimaginable proportions, was what he would give his very sanity for.

When the light faded, everything seemed to return back to normal, save for the feeling of magical pressure sitting warm and proud in his chest. Scanning the room, he noticed that the once white paint was now a much darker color, almost charcoal, and he figured that it wouldn't be able to be used again. That didn't concern him too terribly, though.

He made his way upstairs, his back somewhat straight, even as he glided –pride filling him to the very brim. When he opened the double doors of his bedroom, he saw that the sun was beginning to peak above the desert horizon. That interested him for all of a few moments, however, as he soon realized how exhausted he was from sleeping on the cold, mechanic ground – if only for an hour or so. With the flick of his wrist, one of the black curtains that adorned his bed was pulled back, and he flopped gracelessly on the fluffy mass.

Sleep came just as easily as the first of his nightmares did.

(x)

The next time that Epros went to Triste, to restock on snacks and other weekly necessities, people were suddenly more than their usual bland selves. He began to notice the smiles on some of their meek faces, and the discontent of others. Suddenly, the perfectly boring residents of this perfectly bland town became these emotional, real people.

'Either I'm becoming as boring and bland as these people, or something has happened to them to wake them up.' In all honesty, he couldn't decide which one sounded scarier, but settled on the idea that something had happened to them.

Talking to the street vendor like he did every week and a half, he noticed that the usually silent, bored looking man was chatting to him vigorously, as though a fire was sparked in his mind. However, every time he would finish a statement of whatever boring opinion the teen found he possessed, the man would end it with "Wouldn't you agree, Phantom?"

In fact, with every person Epros interacted with, that's all he would hear them refer to him as, despite how he knew that they all knew him by name. However, he couldn't let their inability to call him by his actual name alter his mood; he was on top of the world and was determined to remain there. Without so much as another word out of his mouth, he took his usual bounty of nuts, fruit, and basic, household necessities, and went on his way. People would give him stares as he proceeded out the back entrance of the town, all of them shocked and catty that he could leave while they were all stuck to live their boring non-existences in the temperamental, snow and sand infested town.

Passing over the stone maze and other worldly obstacles, he made it to his tower in little to no time, compared to the long trek he had to endure when he first found his would-be home. Humming a sweet tune to himself, he made to open the door of his tower. However, the sound of shuffling behind him made the teen rear his head back, weary of being ambushed –he learned his lesson about half a year back that every sound was worth investigating.

Before him stood an older gentleman, dressed in a red suit and with yellow eyes that practically burned into the teen's soul.

"I've heard that you have changed your classification, all on your own." The older man's voice was as aged and silver as his hair, and sounded as equally malicious as it did inquisitive. Epros's fists clenched, and if he hadn't been carrying his weekly groceries and supplies, he may have already gone for the cards that were now dancing around in his spacious pants-pocket.

"Indeed, I have, and what business is it of yours?" Voice like quicksilver, he was having none of this suspicious man's questioning. Only two nights prior had he changed his classification from 'run-away teenager residing in a tower' to whatever it was that he was now, which he had yet to decipher from his predecessor's notes –the name of the new classification had been smudged from something that had happened in the past.

"What classification have you put yourself under?" The man was having none of his attitude, and stepped forward a few steps, trying to appear menacing. In this new angle, Epros noticed that the part of this man's eyes, which should have been white, were black as night, and with the way his mouth curled down and eyebrows furrowed, he was a force to be reckoned with. However, that excited the teen just the slightest, because many months ago all of the enemies of the area had become too weak for his satisfactory fighting; sometimes he would kill monsters just because he could, and it was a great way to get out of the tower and get a bit of color on his pale skin.

"I don't know, but I know that it isn't any business of yours." He backed up all the while the man was advancing, and mentally cursed when he felt the familiar doorknob bump into his back. Of course, he would never let it show just how horribly he was at a disadvantage –he was a true fighter and a gentleman, and neither of those would let on to anything less than being the best at what they did. In a briefest of moments, Epros tossed his supplies to the side, careful so that they didn't flood with sand – if this was going to end badly; he was at least going to start it fairly.

"As the sole creator of this world, I believe it is. Now answer me, what classification do you believe you have placed yourself under?" A desire for blood boiled in the area where his power now resided, and the teen had to grip at his black slacks to keep himself from decking this arrogant son of a bitch right in his oversized nose. Of course, it wouldn't do to get blood on his new, white dress shirt, but sacrifices could be made, he rationalized.

"I'm not-"

" ." The words dripped out of his mouth like venom, poisoning the teen's mind."Now what faction would you like to be; what title would you give yourself?" Time stopped for a long moment, as Epros thought about what he could possibly call his classification – naming things was never something he enjoyed, despite his love for the poetry that his tower's previous owner kept in the study.

"Phantom."He spoke, without a second thought. "Phantom Evil King." Everyone in town was referring to him as such, so why not make it an official part of his identity –at least, that's what he was thinking to himself as it rolled off his tongue.

"As you should be." He murmured to himself, but just loud enough that the newly dubbed 'Evil King' could hear him –if the teen didn't know better, he might have thought it was on purpose.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Words tear from his mouth, and he prays that the sheer nastiness in his voice is enough to make this pretentious douche step off, but he knows it won't. Doesn't hurt to try, and it helps soothe his aching ego a bit –being considered as a 'brother' of the members of Triste has never been one of his life goals. If anything, it had almost been an anti-goal of his, something he worked against.

"Now, I can tell that you don't have a clue how to use your powers, so as a trade-off, I'll cast a spell on you that will make them easier to control, but…" At this, Epros's face contorted to one of mock-approval, because the nightmares he had been experiencing as a result of it were simply too much to bear much longer. Whatever it was that this grey-haired menace had to offer, the teen was glad to take it.

"'But' what?" Contracts always had their downfall; he knew that for a fact.

"You must rhyme everything you say from now on; treat your words as if it was poetry." His voice was deadpan, and for the briefest of moments, the blonde was debating bursting out laughing. To think, he thought that this man was even partially sane. What a joke!

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard." Under a veil of equal, deadpan, stubbornness, he hid his internal fit of laughter. After all, he may be a teenager, but he could feel the magical pressure that emanated off of this man, and knew that he was not a force to be reckoned with. At least, that's how he felt some of the books he had recently read would word it. Personally, he felt that the phrase 'back the fuck off' did the trick nicely.

"Try it. Insult me -but rhyme it."

"You're the most stupid person on the planet, I'm sure you'd even name your son Janet." As soon as the words left his lips, he could feel the intense pressure in my chest being reduced to a gentle force, hardly even noticeable.

"Do you feel it?" A smirk danced over his lips, and if it weren't for the fact that he now owed this man for his stupid curse, the teen would have drawn his cards and smacked his shit-eating expression clean off his face.

"This is truly ridiculous." Even with the gratifying feeling of the weight of his powers being lifted from his chest, he pretends to have pride, and dismisses the old man. His fists have uncurled for the most part, but are still holding tight onto his supplies.

"It's a charm that I've been working out the kinks of, and it seems to be a winner." The old man flashed him a dark smile, but quickly wiped it from his face. It seemed that his smile disgusted even him. Epros couldn't help the small chuckle that erupted from his mouth, his lips contorting into a crooked, disgusted smirk.

"Wow. So I was a Guiney pig?" Malicious and passive aggressive, he tried as hard as he possibly could to contain the temper that he never realized he had –must be the heat, he thought to himself amid the heated conversation.

"Maybe not today, but one day you'll thank me, and you'll seek me out, to repay me." And without another word, just a knowing look and the snap of his fingers, a cloud of black and red engulfed the grey-haired man. When the mist subsided, he was gone, and the teen looked around, a violent malice forming in the pit of his stomach, the weight of his powers returning once more.

"Like hell I'd thank you for a stupid curse!" He yelled indignantly into the sky, but with no one to hear it but himself, he quickly gave up. After all, nothing indicated insanity like a one-sided screaming match with the sky. He hastily grabbed the bags tossed into the sand, unlocked the tower's front gate, and slipped inside –relocking the front door once it was latched closed. Once he was safely in the foyer, he slid down the metal door, exhausted by his trip and exasperated by what just happened.

'Evil… King? What does that even mean?' A vision of terror invaded his mind's eye, and he curled up into a ball. This wasn't what he wanted, at all. He wanted power, but not at the expense of his humanity. However, the nightmares that visited him at night had different ideas, as did the thoughts that would invade his mind during the day. Visions of bloodshed and the ringing sound of screaming, and he may have been okay with it in a half-asleep daze, but he simply couldn't dismiss them in the sunlight.

(x)

Years passed by Epros, so many years, but he did not age past his prime, and the people of Triste changed with death and newcomers. After a while, the Evil King no longer bothered to learn faces, let alone names. Rhyming his words became second nature, after he had spent so many nights awake cowering from the nightmares that his powers gave him. And, despite how he thought the curse would affect him, it didn't ruin his reputation so much as it adds to it; a fanciful wizard who speaks like a brilliant poet.

Even if he wanted, he couldn't remember the face of his parents; the ones who taught him to be the person he never wanted to become. They were the people who had driven him to succeed above all else, and he couldn't even remember what they look like.

Soon after he realizes this, he finds the air in his tower choking, as opposed to freeing.

For the second time in years, many, many years, the old man who gave him his curse visited him. Nothing was said, simply because Epros could tell what he wanted just by the look in his eyes –he had come to collect the debt the young man owed.

Without another word, the young man gatheredup all of the materials he needed – several changes of clothes, the expensive circus-makeup that he had bought on one of his few trips to the Pospos hot spring, his deck of cards, and all of the money he had saved up from years of hunting. This wasn't anything close to how it was when he had left his parent's house, so many years before, because this would always be his home.

He gave one last, almost procrastinating look in each room, to guarantee that he wasn't leaving anything behind but the dusty, long forgotten journals of his predecessor and the books in the library, all of which he had read several times over by now. Taking the rusty, gear-topped key in his hand, he locked the door for what he felt would be the last time, at least for a very long while.

"All set?" The man's voice was far less sarcastic now, presumably because of how time had shaped him. However, Epros never bothered to ask, so he wouldn't know. The young man nodded slowly, taking a moment to double check that everything was in order in his bag. When he was satisfied with that, he confirmed with another nod, this one worlds more confident.

"What is your name, and for what have you came?" The young adult had never bothered to ask before, and felt that now was an appropriate time. After all, he was going to be in service to this man. Epros watched his face go from something of mirth to an almost pained, reminiscent smirk.

"Beiloune."Even though the question had two parts, the grey-haired man never did answer the second half, and let it hanging. However, neither of them bothered too horribly, since they had to depart from the desert. Just like how it happened, many years past, a black and red cloud engulfed him, but instead of dissipating, it continued on to Epros's form. In a matter of second, darkness enveloped his vision, and the tower of gears and the comforting heat of the desert was now just a memory.