CHAPTER 7 | DEATH'S HOUR
No mortal shall endure see Me and live. The first decree that birthed order. —And the Ancient spoke unto the High Seer, declaring, "Thou shalt not perceive My true form in this moment, lest the dread of My presence be awakened against thee and thine kindred, and I cast ruin upon thee and thy bloodline; for none who gaze upon Me now shall remain unscathed, for they are drenched in the filth of their sins."
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"Tell me, what lies before you?" The voice, though soft as a whisper, reverberated through the cavernous hall that stretched beyond the peaks of the Divine Mountain, a place where wavering mortal eyes dared not wander.
In the grand, darkness-cloaked chamber, where even the light of the full moon was swallowed by the obsidian walls, a figure stood at the center, draped in robes of darkness. The air was thick, icy, every breath a struggle against the cold that seeped into the bones. Above them, a crystalline ceiling reflected the void, a vast mirror that seemed to hold the very sky at bay.
"What do you perceive, my King Eliheid?" The Pope of the Church of Saints, Ishtar Langbard—accompanied by a circle of robed figures—pressed the king's consciousness with a ritual older than the memory of man, disguised by their fervent devotion to the God of Creation, Ehit. With every heartbeat, the temperature dropped further, and Eliheid's skin prickled with dread, every instinct within him screaming to flee from this accursed place.
Before them loomed an unfathomable darkness, an abyss that devoured light and hope alike. It pulsed with a life of its own, a rhythm that echoed the heartbeat of something vast and ancient, something that should not be. Eliheid's gaze was drawn to it, his mind recoiling even as his eyes refused to look away.
"I… I see nothing," Eliheid murmured, the words tasting like ash on his tongue. But as the lie passed his lips, the truth clawed at the edges of his mind. In the depths of that suffocating void, something stirred.
Ishtar's hand, cold as death, clamped down on Eliheid's shoulder, his fingers digging into flesh with a vice-like grip. "Look closer," he whispered, his voice dripping with feverish anticipation. "Peer into the essence of Ehit, He who dwells beyond the limits of mortal understanding."
The robed figures began to chant, their voices merging into a discordant harmony that resonated with the deepest fears buried within Eliheid's soul. The language was not of this world, its syllables twisted.
With hands that trembled as if gripped by an unseen force, Eliheid reached for the curtain of darkness. The fabric—if such it could be called—was colder than the depths of the ocean, leeching the warmth from his flesh. As he parted it, what lay beyond was beyond comprehension, a sight that defied the very nature of existence.
It was a face, yet not a face, a visage of swirling chaos—bone and shadow intertwining in a mockery of form—with eyes vast and empty as the void, like collapsing stars, and a maw that yawned wide, promising an end to all things. It grinned, a grin that spoke of the end of worlds, a hunger insatiable.
"Behold," Ishtar exhaled, his voice heavy with worship, "the true face of our Lord Ehit."
Eliheid tried to scream, but his voice betrayed him, caught in his throat as the abomination's gaze fell upon him. This was no god; it was a nightmare given form, a cruel jest woven from the beliefs of countless souls lost to madness. In its ghastly features, Eliheid saw every evil, every dark thought, every twisted desire he had ever harbored, only infinitely darker and more callous.
And it saw him in return.
For in confronting the abyss, the abyss consumes you.
It was a grotesque imitation of divine majesty.
A terror beyond words.
Its eyes, twin abysses, bore into his soul, exposing every hidden shame, every buried fear. Eliheid felt his mind unravel, his very being dissolving under the weight of that unbearable scrutiny.
"Do you grasp it now?" Ishtar's voice seemed to echo from some distant place, no longer bound to reality. "This is the cost of forbidden knowledge, the truth that lies beyond the veil. We are but dust motes in the gaze of an indifferent world, playthings of a deity beyond our comprehension."
Eliheid's sanity shattered, his mind unable to reconcile the horror before him with the world he knew. His vision blurred as the blood vessels in his eyes burst, staining his face red. He tasted the metallic tang of blood in his mouth, felt the wet warmth of it dripping from his ears.
His consciousness slipped away into the cold embrace of madness.
The chamber descended into a suffocating silence, broken only by the soft, rhythmic drip of blood onto the stone floor. Outside, far beyond the mountain's peak, the stars dimmed one by one, as if snuffed out by an unseen hand, leaving only the void. And within that emptiness, something ancient and unspeakable stirred.
※
"Hm. Fine as wine, if I must say," Lymur whispered as he observed his face while holding his jaw, occasionally tilting from one angle to another in front of the mirror's surface.
The sounds of dripping water from the faucet above the sink were the only source of noise in the otherwise empty bathroom.
A rhythmic, almost hypnotic patter that seemed to count down the seconds of a greater measure.
Although, as common as it was in many places, "It stinks as hell." The acrid smell of poor sanitation and cheap cleaning products assaulted his senses. He combed his long silverly blue hair and snorted, then turned around and opened the door.
The racket of the city hit him like a physical force. The rough advertising of vendors at the side of the streets, their voices competing in a discordant symphony of commerce. The noises of consumers haggling and chattering, a constant buzz of human interaction that felt both familiar and alien to Lymur. The occasional marching of guard knights added a metallic rhythm to the urban orchestra, their armor clanking in time with their steps.
A true mercantile city.
It's been a while since I've walked among humans like this, Lymur thought as he calmly chased through the pavements. He moved through the crowded streets like a shark through a school of fish, the sea of humanity parting unconsciously before him.
There he was. A being—a god amongst men. A being whose very existence challenges the whole species' sense of priority in the universe.
As he walked, Lymur's universal sense took in every detail of his surroundings. The worn cobblestones beneath his feet, smoothed by countless footsteps over the years. The architecture of the buildings, a mishmash of styles that spoke of a city built layer upon layer, each era leaving its mark.
He passed a group of children playing with a makeshift ball in a narrow alley. Their laughter, pure and unburdened. A street performer caught his eye, a juggler keeping half a dozen daggers in the air with impressive skill. Lymur paused for a moment, watching the performance with a critical eye.
Not bad, he thought, for a human. He could see the years of practice in every flick of the juggler's wrists, the dedication it took to master such a craft. It was almost admirable, in its own small way.
A commotion up ahead drew his attention. A merchant and a customer were engaged in a heated argument over the price of a bolt of silk. Lymur watched with detached amusement as the debate grew more physical, voices rising and hands gesticulating wildly. Such petty concerns, such limited perspectives. Did they have any idea of the true forces at work in the world?
Distant words echoed in his mind.
"I've come to remind you of who you were. Of who you still can be, if you allow yourself to remember."
Involuntarily, he slapped his own cheeks and rubbed it. Curse you, Chloe. Am I retarded?
As he passed the arguing pair, Lymur's presence seemed to cool the tension. Both merchant and customer fell silent for a moment, their dispute forgotten as they stared at the figure gliding by. Lymur paid them no mind, his thoughts already elsewhere.
He found himself at the edge of a grand plaza, dominated by a towering statue of what he assumed was some local hero or deity. He just stood there in the bustling city. He was a part of a world of life, and yet he stood above it all, observing with the eyes of a being who had seen civilizations rise and fall like waves on a shore.
He shook his head absentmindedly, trying to shake off the lingering thoughts. Lymur took off to the air. Surprisingly enough, nobody noticed his departure. No gasps of awe, no cries of alarm. A god among men indeed, but one who walked - or in this case, flew - unseen when he chose.
He sped off through the blurring world of colors as he ripped through the atmosphere with great speed. The land below became a smear of greens and browns, punctuated by the occasional glint of water or the gray smudge of a settlement. Wind howled past his ears, but Lymur barely noticed, his body impervious to the biting cold of high-altitude flight.
A few minutes later, he found himself approaching the Hoelscher Empire's capital. It was large and stretched far over the horizon, a sprawling metropolis that dwarfed even Fuhren. Massive buildings towered over others. Walls of gleaming stone encircled the city, dotted with watchtowers and grand gates.
The purple membrane of luminescent light that covered Lymur every time he took flight vanished as he let gravity take hold of his form. He descended with the grace of a falling star, touching down on the outskirts of the city without so much as a whisper of sound.
The sun was setting, painting the sky in a riot of oranges, pinks, and purples. Lymur made the decision to stay the night - even if he had no need for sleep.
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As twilight deepened into true night, Lymur found himself wandering the streets of the capital. The nightly street lamps cascaded down the streets in parallels, creating pools of warm light amid the encroaching darkness. The lingering scent of sweat - the day's labor and commerce - clashed with the fresh smell of damp oak carried by the frigid night air.
The moon hung high above the sky, round as a circle, and bright enough to give lighting to the more populated parts. Its silver light bathed the city in an aesthetic glow, turning familiar sights into something almost magical.
It was deep into the night - very deep - and it was almost midnight, perhaps past it. The grand clock tower at the city's center had long since tolled the eleventh hour.
There were still a few people walking down the pavements of the main streets. They varied, but oftentimes women who were just done with their nighttime services and equal parts the men who sought solace in the embrace of a brothel. Their faces told stories of desperation, of fleeting pleasure, of lives lived on the margins of society.
Lymur Tempest walks such streets, alone and silent. Stray cats pause in their prowling to watch him pass. Late-night revelers unconsciously step aside, giving him a wide berth without quite knowing why.
As the time ticked by, the streets gradually emptied. Lymur continued his leisurely stroll, occasionally pausing to examine a particularly interesting magical artifact in a shop window or to pet a stray magical creature that crossed his path. His demeanor remained relaxed, almost bored, as if he were merely killing time.
The grand clock tower in the city center began to chime, its deep, resonant tones echoing through the empty streets. One... two... three... As the final chime faded away, Lymur's eyes radiated with an eerie light.
"Ah," he said, stretching languidly. "It's showtime." It was time for what he had whimsically dubbed death hour.
With a relaxed, almost lazy smile, Lymur began his hunt. He moved through the streets with a languid grace, his golden eyes scanning the surroundings for signs of criminal activity. It didn't take long. The capital, despite its grandeur, was rife with corruption and crime, especially in the dead of night.
In a narrow alleyway, a group of men surrounded a cowering figure. Their laughter echoed off the walls, harsh and grating. Lymur approached silently, his steps making no sound on the cobblestone. He observed them for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. There was no justice in his actions, no righteous anger—just a whimsical sense of amusement and a twisted conception of right and wrong that he claimed did not bind a deity like him.
Altering his gaze, his bright golden eyes turned an eerie crimson. A magnificent starry red line of pure heat shot out, slicing through the air. The first man's head disintegrated before he even realized what was happening. The others turned in shock, but they had no time to react. Lymur's volatile heat vision cut through them with precision, their bodies collapsing in heaps, the alleyway filling with the stench of burning flesh and blood.
He walked away without a second glance, his face devoid of emotion, his eyes returning to their golden hue. To him, this was merely a diversion, an amusing way to pass the time.
As he continued his casual patrol, Lymur encountered more scenes of crime—thieves, assailants, and those who preyed on the weak. Each met the same fate, their lives snuffed out by his cold, unfeeling gaze. The streets became littered with the remains of those he deemed unworthy to continue their existence.
Finally, in the deepest part of the night, Lymur stumbled upon a truly heinous scene. In a secluded part of the city, a group of gangs had just had their way with a woman. Her lifeless body lay discarded and desecrated on the ground, a stark contrast to the men who stood around, laughing and congratulating themselves on their depravity as they fixed their clothes and attached their belts.
Lymur's eyes narrowed, a hint of something—disgust? Annoyance?—crossing his features. His eyes turned crimson once more, and he stepped into the clearing. The laughter stopped abruptly as the gang members turned to face him.
"Who the hell are you?" one of them snarled, stepping forward.
Lymur tilted his head slightly, a lazy smile spreading across his face. "Just a passerby," he replied casually. "And I think you've overstayed your welcome."
Without warning, his laser vision activated. The leader was the first to fall, two red lines with the diameter of pencils cutting through him with brutal efficiency. The others tried to scatter, but there was no escape. Lymur moved with eerie precision, his eyes cold and unfeeling as he dispatched them one by one. Blood sprayed across the ground, the scent of burning flesh mingling with the cold night air.
When it was over, only one remained—a young boy, barely in his teens, the son of the gang leader. He stood trembling, tears streaming down his face, as he looked at Lymur with a mix of fear and hatred. He had his turn with the now lifeless woman, and he was still nude down below.
Lymur regarded him with a detached curiosity. "You're doomed, you know," he said softly. "Helpless and bound to die. But I suppose that's just how things go, isn't it?"
The boy didn't respond, his eyes wide with terror. Lymur turned away, his interest already waning. A delusional smile spread across the boy's face—trembling but otherwise happy.
But for reasons he himself did not know, or had no chance to know, the world turned upside down. He watched Lymur—and everything else—become upside down as drops of crimson red spread out across his view. He's dead.
He failed to realize it was his severed head falling to the ground.
As Lymur walked away, the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, casting long shadows on the blood-soaked ground. The city would wake soon, to find the aftermath of Lymur's Death Hour.