He sat on the throne, for he was deemed a hero of his people.
"Oh what mighty bravery you wield, Braelor."
"I couldn't be more grateful for your courageous deeds to our prosperous city."
Omelus Harbor is a city shrouded in its own narcissistic high, its utopian happiness conceals the frail, war-struck outside world. Its economic power rises and topples even the Yharim's golden days of his capital Citadel. A perfect equilibrium between its people and its stubborn resentment of change. And he was the hero to protect the people.
They praised him like a god. Carved statues of him and framed paintings of him across their courts. The praise they sought as blessings from a deity, yet in truth just deeds to stoke the flames of war. He was nothing but a False Idol, and people were blinded by their thriving lives and too subdued to their own welfare to even care.
As the world turns, the whole world burns.
To think that HE could even be named a savior to this world. Tch. Pathetic. He fights the war in which he keeps up, and he causes the genocide of hundreds every day for his own selfish ideals. Even if Yharim is unjust to some eyes, there is no 'good' or 'evil'. No Light or Dark. We all only fight for our beliefs and ideals and those only. No such thing as a 'saving grace to cleanse the bad' occurs within this cruel world. Braelor was proud to comply with the massacre of many for his ideals, even if it was his own men. Many from the other side say he is a ruthless monster, which he cannot deem false.
"Master Braelor, I carry news from the spies."
"What is it."
"Yharim has begun forming a new special forces subject, one that is rather...concerning."
"And what is this certain subject's significance?"
"The Godseeker Knights, Yharim's old legions armored in colossal mechanical worms, demolished in an instant. He has gained power over Abyssal Lacerates, eldritch weapons that haven't been traced in history since the deific era, overwhelmingly power tools of war during The Ends."
"...Yharim's glory days are long gone, but now he has slowly climbed up in power. We must weaken his forces before they grow beyond our extent. Thank you for bringing me this news...you are now excused."
He was struck silent and crumbled down onto the desk, planting his head within the storm of blueprints and documents. Raising his fist, he slammed in down on the wood as it cracked, sending papers flying.
Terraria...may we give our blessings...for soon enough we'll all be rotting in hell.
It was a strange feeling, not having an unspeakable horror in his head, yet rather comforting. A ringing that always sat at the corner of his mind disappeared and he felt I bit more secure.
His body felt warmer, but mostly just in temperature.
Yharim had ordered him to a lesson of sorts, right after the cardiovascular checkup. The Jungle King explained it vaguely, just as a way to learn some basic fundamentals. The military ship drifted across the jungle canopy and landed down at a clearing posting up a wooden deck. The pilot excused Ren from the ship and he hopped down the deck.
A narrow pathway nearly overgrown by encroaching greeny led to a forest of bamboo. Mounds of bones were piled all around the bamboo thicket, and skulls from deer and ox to humans were huge up on wooden poles. A tremendously long ribcage surrounded the forest, one of some sort of giant worm. In the middle of the thicket stood a tall man dressed in a tailored suit.
Well, this is concerning...
Laurence approached him and he stood in the opposite direction, not moving an inch. The wind grazed the dirt and lifted dust up dancing.
he spoke in a grungy, slowed tone.
"...Tell me...do you believe you are fit for this job?"
"...no?"
The tall man turned towards him and stares with tired eyes. He was a middle-aged man, his upper lip and entire jaw were augmented in a metal bracing, with his gums skinned and his throat visible from the outside. Long bangs covered up most of his upper head and from what he could see his eyes were brimstone red with orange and pink rings. Overall his aura gave off a stern and menacing tone.
"...well...of course you aren't...If you rejected, they would've split you apart and let you choke on your own blood...or whatever sick shit Yharim would do..."
"What is this place, why am I here? Who are you-"
"Cleary...you don't even bare any grasp of what this is. If this puts you in the correct mood, this is the graveyard...every prisoner of that tyrant has the same fate of being incinerated and wasted away within this domain. Scavengers pick these bones up to possibly supply their starving villages in the outskirts...sigh...The name's Ars, I'm the head of the Godseeker Front, every division."
He's the head?!
"A scrub like you isn't at all prepared for the real world...and with your powers, the resistance wouldn't waste much time trying to hunt you down...so I'm here to train you up on the basic fundamentals, what a real fight is..."
...what...
"...so... let's start. Try to strike me with a lacerate or any fancy thing you know."
The man was dazed but did what he was told. He opened his fists and hurled out a lacerate for every finger, narrowing and sharpening them in a rapier strike to the neck. Ars pulled out a knife from his suit and before Laurence could blink had spliced every tentacle into evenly cut ribbons.
...eh?!
Ars clenched his arm and delivered a blow right to the bicep, sinking in the blade all the way through with the speed of a bullet. Laurence grit his teeth and flinches away from him, grabbing onto the wound.
"You may not feel the pain as much, but flesh wounds like that aren't of your body's highest priority. Effects still take a toll on you."
Laurence wiped away the blood and ran back. He swung the furicus across Ars, him ducking almost instantaneously once the pitchfork began moving. Planting his hand on the dirt, Ars kicked up his leg to knock away the pitchfork while striking Ren in the face in the process. The knife punctured him between the ribs, the sheer force hurting more than the stab.
Ars pushed him away as he fell onto his knees, kicking the furicus to him.
"...You run blindly into the eye of the storm. You strike without thinking about the consequences, that'll lead to nothing but failure."
Laurence growled and dug his fingers into the ground.
Yharim wasn't the same, not after all he had witnessed.
Even the walls of this stronghold were hexed with the ravenous spirits of the thousands it took, restless and unwilling. The melody of somber wails to agonizing screams stuffed the air more than the rancid stench of the decaying corpses left buried in shadowed pits. What used to be a district of the diffusion of divine influence, became The Dungeon, a prison for all to waste away in.
He knew the spirits would never pass on, yet he simply turned away. Now he was ready to see the consequences. Yharim thought they would all eventually die down. He was wrong, oh so wrong. Its patchwork metal armor creaks and moans and twists. The amalgam cries out, and all of Terraria can hear it sing.
A living and breathing nightmare constructed out of necroplasmic tissues from the anguish of thousands of restless souls. An endless cycle of torture only to fuel blind rage.
A monument to all his sins, steeped in the bloodshed of thousands.
"Everything you've done comes back to bite you, don't they Godslayer?"
"Tell me where The Polterghast is now."
Even behind his avian mask, Yharim knew he bared a wicked smile. The Cultist was a sick man. His cult devoted to the Lunar Phantasmal was merely a scheme to grow his own power. He captured hundreds of innocents to supply his immoral projects. Whether it be the legions of undead sprawling mindlessly through the dungeon hallways or the abhorrent abominations created through the ancient blood of The Dreaming God, no empathy was taken through these creations.
"We've managed to barricade it in a room through rubble brick," The Cultist snickered, "it won't be long before it claws its way out again, won't it?"
"...What else...?"
"Of course, you'd know that is not all I need, such simple work is not fit for a king like you, eh? That young man in your possessions. Bring him back to me. He is of my property."
"Laurence is now mine. You threw him away, I now possess him."
"Since when did this world have rules for possession? Such power and potential, if you do not hand him to me, I must take him."
"You know you are not a match against me. I don't even know what you're tampering with."
Well, would be a shame if I leave all my work here? Best to take everything with me, once I leave this reality, hmm?"
"...What..."
Laurence collapsed on the floor, quivering.
He had lost count of how many times he was stabbed, kicked, punched, or cut, yet Ars had not been even touched by him. He just stood there, no expression on his face, leisurely stretching his arms.
"You ready to give up?" Ars asked,
"...H-hell...no..."
Nothing pained him enough to not go on, but he felt his joints getting rusty and sore, his limbs weak and his nerves dampened. He picked up the furicus with all his strength and recounted what he had learned. Everything Ars said was correct, he hadn't predicted the opponent's moves and just rushed in mindlessly. Over the last dozen of attempts he had memorized several outcomes and figured ways to avoid them. If he comes in with a single strike, he gets hit anywhere that isn't shielded by the polearm. If he tries striking with the lacerates Ars cuts them apart and leaves him vulnerable.
He had to come up with a way to combine his opportunities into one. Over some contemplation, he readied himself in a fighting stance. Ars loosened his neck. Laurence ran in, grabbed the pitchfork to the near blade, and prodded the prongs forward. As he suspected, Ars tried to jab the knife. He quickly spun the furicus around as the blade clashed against the steel, protecting him from harm. Ars, still holding a blank face, prostrated his arm forward and bashed his knuckles into his face, knocking Laurence away instantly.
Spitting out the blood from his mouth, he bolted back, holding the pitchfork like a ram. As he neared Ars, who was ready for another stab, he immediately ducked down to his knees. The slide across the mud took him directly to the waist as Ren swung the pitchfork across for a gash. Ars noticed even before he swung and backed away, leaving him trailing across the mud.
*(WOOOSH)*
Laurence whipped out the lacerates and shot them out with great length. Ars pulled his entire upper body down and away from the cleaving proximity. A single tentacle of five flapped down and etched its smallest tip over his cheek, then whipped back to Laurence's grasp.
It didn't even bleed, he didn't think it could be called a cut. Just a mark of the shallowest layer of skin. Ars seemed unphased, no amount of activity could bring it to his attention.
"...Welp...guessed that's all for today," Ars said.
"Wait...What?"
"You've managed to touch me on your first day. You've surpassed hundreds of other soldiers. I think that can count as a wrap-up. You'll be doing these every day from now. See you later."
...Did...that just happen?
"What are you planning."
"Silly Godslayer, do you not realize this world is ending? The deed has not been done."
"..."
"The Beacon has not been lit. The Primordial Light does not shine."
"...What...Madness do you speak of."
"The King of Entropy watches. Soon you will find your land succumbed in nothing but Calamity."
"The second coming of The End."
Weapons: Void-forged Lacerates (not an item just magic), Furicus Pitchfork, Abyss Shocker, Blood Thorn, Black Anurian
Tools: Magic mirror, Necronomicon stage: 1
Armor: (no armor)
Accessories: (no acc)