Pov: Zero
The moon is beautiful tonight. A perfect, cold pearl in the velvet sky. The breeze, carrying the chill of the high mountains, whispers through the leaves of this misty jungle, a symphony of nature. How wonderful it is to be alive again. To breathe air that doesn't taste of ash and decay. Truly, this is a beautiful display from my God. A world reborn, a canvas waiting for a steady hand.
These four years have been… enjoyable. A necessary tedium. Traveling the breadth of the continent, sowing my name like a farmer sows seeds. It was wearisome work, playing the part of the wandering savior, the solver of petty squabbles and slayer of local monsters. But the end result is much more than I thought it would be. They don't just know my new name "Grimfray"; they whisper it with a reverence bordering on awe. I guess this is the true power of a sinless person; when you carry no past, no visible greed, no discernible vice, people project their own ideals onto you. They see the blank slate and paint it as a hero. It's almost too easy for a perfect person like myself.
Now that my first objective is complete. The foundation is laid. But there is so much more that needs to be done. My second objective is to find the missing races. The historical texts I've acquired as far I have seen and read, there are only elves, beastkin, and humans left.What happened to them? Did they truly vanish in some forgotten cataclysm, or are they hiding, driven to the very edges of the world? I have to find a trace. A single thread to pull.
But unfortunately I don't think there are any demons left. The very word is a curse here, spoken in hushed tones with wide, fearful eyes. They fear demons like it's the end of the world. I would change that, of course. Diversity is the cornerstone of a robust system. I would welcome a demon, just one, to prove the point. But until then, my search continues. I have all the time in the world to find the pieces and remake this world in a more perfect, orderly image. After all not even death can stop my ideas.
"Hm?" A thin, grey finger of smoke rises in the distance, staining the pristine sky. A campfire. Bandits, most likely, or perhaps a merchant caravan grown careless. Either way, it represents a deviation from the quiet order of the wilderness. A potential data point. Let's check it out.
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POV: Narrator
"Fuck, man, what is this?!" a bandit shouted, his voice cracking as he pointed a trembling finger at the iron cages. Inside, things that were once flesh and bone writhed in a pulsating, amorphous dance. They had no clear form just blobs of meat and sinew, twitching and shuddering as if trying to remember a shape they had long forgotten.
"Calm your tits! It's just our new piggy banks!" the Captain of the bandits roared, his laughter a harsh, grating sound that did nothing to dispel the unease settling over the camp.
"How the fuck is this worth anything?" the man retorted, his face pale. He hurriedly grabbed a sheet of soiled canvas and threw it over the cages, unable to bear the grotesque sight any longer.
"Meh, I don't know the specifics, and I don't wanna know," the Captain shrugged, taking a swig from a leather flask. "I just know there are people in high places who pay a king's ransom in gold for this… stuff. Now get your ass back to your post before I decide you'd be more valuable in one of those cages!" The threat, though delivered with a smirk, was real enough to send the bandit scrambling away.
"Captain! Someone's coming!" another bandit, standing guard at the tree line, called out, his voice tight with nerves.
The Captain's grin returned, wider this time. "It's alright. Let them through. Our payday has arrived."
The guard lowered his spear, allowing the stranger to walk past. As the figure moved by him, a primal, inexplicable fear seized the bandit. It wasn't the man's weapons or his attire; it was the silence that clung to him. The guard began to shake uncontrollably, his knuckles white on his spear shaft.
The stranger was a study in worn black leather and shadow. Tight pants, a jacket, heavy boots, and gloves, all looking well-used. A tattered cloak, its front deliberately shredded into long, dangling strips, hung from his shoulders. His lower face was obscured by a form-fitting leather mask, and a battered, wide-brimmed cowboy hat cast his upper features into deep shadow. On his back was an old leather pack and a one-meter-long rifle, ancient and rust-pitted, with stained cloth wrapped tightly around its muzzle.
"W-what a surprise to see you here, sir Grimfray!" the Captain stammered, his bravado evaporating. He recognized the infamous mercenary's signature look, but it was more than that. He was a man attuned to the flow of mana, the life force that animated all living things. From this man, he felt… nothing. A perfect, absolute void. It was like standing next to a walking corpse, but one that moved with a predator's grace. 'I can't feel his mana... so the rumors are true! He's not just skilled, he's an abomination!' The thought screamed in the Captain's mind, his blood turning to ice.
"And you?" Grimfray's voice was flat, devoid of inflection. His cold blue eyes, visible beneath the hat's brim, locked onto the Captain, freezing him in place more effectively than any spell.
"I-I'm the Captain of this lot, sir. Of course, the Cult would have a man of your… talents… on their payroll. Now everything makes sense," the Captain babbled, trying to ingratiate himself and explain away the terrifying presence.
"What do you imply?" The cold eyes seemed to sharpen, the void around the man seeming to suck the warmth from the very air.
"I-I mean no disrespect, sir! Please, your 'package' is right here, sir!" the captain said, frantically pointing at the cloth-covered cages. "See? Safe and sound!"
Grimfray stepped forward and, with a single, swift motion, threw the canvas aside.
And he saw it. Again.
The sight tore a rent in the present, and a memory, sharp and sudden as a shard of glass, stabbed into his mind:
The sound of shattering glass behind him. He didn't think. In one fluid motion, he spun on his heel, his custom revolver clearing its holster. He fired a deafening crack that echoed in the confined space. But there was nothing there. Just glittering fragments of a broken window and the settling dust.
"A room? What is...".
"Captain?" A hand was placed on his shoulder. The touch was wrong. It was cold, the cold of deep earth and rot, and the grip was too strong, the fingers too long.
"Get away from me!" He snarled, shoving the hand and the figure away with a burst of raw, panicked strength.
"Captain, are you alright?" a man asked, his tone layered with genuine worry.
"Huh?" Zero blinked. The memory shattered. He was not in a dusty room, but in a ruined city street. The man before him was clad in futuristic armor painted with red and white patterns. "Right. Sorry, I was just… lost in thought." He looked around at the corpse of Pyralis. The air was thick, cloying, a red miasma that stung the eyes and lungs. All around them, thick pillars of pulsating, veined flesh were wrapped like grotesque ivy around the skeletons of skyscrapers. The sky was a permanent, bloody red, dominated by a massive, swirling ball of absolute darkness at its center.
"Sir, as planned, we have eyes on the targets. Should we begin?" the soldier named Jacob asked, his voice filtered through his helmet's comm.
"Yeah. Lure them this way. Authorize the shooting." Zero's voice was all business now, the momentary lapse sealed away.
"Yes, Sir!" Jacob sent the message immediately, his gauntleted fingers tapping a console on his wrist.
"...What's your name?" Zero asked, the question.
"Jacob, sir."
"At ease, soldier. No need for formalities when it's just us," Zero said, sitting down on a chunk of collapsed permacrete, the picture of nonchalance amidst the apocalypse.
"...Are you coming on to me, sir?" Jacob asked, his helmet tilting, the faceplate giving nothing away.
"What?"
"What?"
A moment of heavy, absurd silence passed between them, punctuated by the distant, guttural roars of the city's new inhabitants.
"Sir, can I ask you something?"
"Sigh. Ask away."
"Sir, with all due respect, I wonder why you would risk your life on the surface. You're too valuable to lose in a skirmish like this."
"Because I feel like it, Jacob. That's it," Zero said, his tone utterly flat, devoid of any heroic sentiment.
"That's… it, sir?" Jacob replied, the disappointment clear in his modulated voice. He'd expected a speech about duty, hope, or at least a tragic backstory.
"Yep."
"Damn, you're boring," Jacob muttered, the audio pickup just sensitive enough to catch it.
"What was that?"
"Nothing, sir!"
The ground began to tremble. A low, rhythmic pounding that grew steadily louder. A massive horde was approaching, a tidal wave of corruption.
"They're here," Zero said, standing up with a sigh, as if annoyed by the interruption. Jacob raised his plasma gun, the weapon humming to life, its muzzle glowing a soft blue.
As they drew closer, their shapes became clear a horrifying army of fused races, a blasphemy against biology. A human, its jaw unhinged and dragging a mass of growing, tumorous flesh behind it. A four-meter-tall elf skeleton, its bleached bones studded with the mashed, screaming faces of humans and demons. A four-legged human, running upside down on its hands, its stomach split open to reveal a second, smaller mouth lined with needle-teeth. An army of nightmares given form.
"SSSSSSHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTT!" From the front of the horde, a demon was sprinting for his life. He was Zagan, his body sheathed in a chitinous exoskeleton, enhanced with inhuman speed and defensive magic. In less than a second, he skidded to a halt in front of Zero, his chest heaving.
"I'm hah here hah." Zagan gasped, leaning on his knees.
"Just in time," Zero said, his eyes fixed on the approaching tide, calculating the distance, the speed. He was waiting for the perfect moment.
"...Sir?" Jacob said, his voice tight. The stench of the horde was overwhelming, a mix of rot and ozone.
"Hold," Zero commanded, his voice calm.
The horde was nearly upon them, a wall of gnashing teeth and clawing limbs, flooding the four-way street from every direction. Their collective screeches were deafening.
"Sir?!" Jacob yelled, his finger tightening on the trigger.
"...Now!"
As the first wave of monstrosities was mere meters away, the world erupted. The ground beneath the horde and the structurally compromised buildings on all sides collapsed in a perfectly synchronized, devastating explosion. Fire and shrapnel bloomed upward, swallowing the abominations in a tomb of rubble, dust, and purifying flame. The roar of the detonation was followed by the immense crash of collapsing architecture.
A long, ringing silence followed, broken only by the patter of falling debris and the crackle of young fires.
"Wow. That was… easy," Jacob said, lowering his weapon, his voice full of confused awe.
"Easy for you to say!" Zagan protested, still trying to catch his breath. "I was the bait!"
"Now then," Zero said, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. He put a hand on each of their shoulders. "Let's get back to base."
""..."" Neither of them said a word. The silence stretched, becoming uncomfortable. Then, simultaneously, they spoke, but their voices were wrong hollow, and layered with a ghostly echo.
"You wish for this?" Jacob asked, his helmeted head tilting at an impossible angle.
"To paint yourself like this?" Zagan echoed, his demonic features seeming to melt and sag.
"What? What are you talking about?" Zero said, backing away, his hand instinctively moving towards his revolver.
"Why did you do it? I was only here to clean up the survivors after the detonation. There was no risk of infection for me," Jacob said, his voice now a wet gurgle. He reached up and took off his helmet. There was no head inside. Only the meat and bones of a severed throat, the vocal cords vibrating to form the words.
"You lied to me. You said I would make it before the explosion. You said I would live to see my daughter again," Zagan said, his own voice a dry rasp. He removed his helmet to reveal a face that was half-melted, one horn broken off, his single remaining eye slowly melting.
"N-no! I didn't do this! THIS IS A LIE! I'M NOT LIKE THIS! DON'T LIE TO ME! DON'T YOU FUCKING LIE TO ME!!!" Zero cried, his body shaking, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white beneath his gloves. The calm facade shattered, revealing the raw, frantic terror beneath.
"I wanted to live for my mother," Jacob's headless corpse said, taking a step closer.
"I wanted to see her smile again," Zagan's ruined form whispered, also advancing.
"S-STOP! DON'T YOU DARE GET NEAR ME! DON'T YOU DARE, YOU MONSTERS!!!" Zero was paralyzed, his body locked in a solid state of terror, his mind screaming that this wasn't real, it couldn't be real.
But they didn't stop. They shuffled closer, the stench of their decay filling his nostrils. "Killer. Monster. Sinner. Yes, you're a sinner," Zagan hissed, his ruined face now inches from Zero's.
"DON'T YOU DARE CALL ME THAT, YOU PIECES OF SHIT!" Zero roared, his rage finally breaking the paralysis. He lunged forward, his hands closing around Zagan's throat. "WHAT NOW?! SPEAK, YOU MONSTER! WHO'S THE SINNER NOW, HUH?! TELL ME, YOU GARBAGE!!!! TELL MEE!!!" He slammed the figure to the ground, punching again and again, the impacts wet and sickening. He was screaming, but the sound was lost in the hysterical, tearing laughter that erupted from his throat. Was it the joy of killing a monster? Or was it something else the raw, unfiltered sound of a soul tearing itself apart from the inside? Maybe it was just… madness.
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"…" Silence. Heavy and absolute.
Zero looked down, his chest heaving. Beneath him was the bloody, pulverized head of the bandit captain. The man's face was a ruined mess, unrecognizable. Zero's leather gloves were soaked crimson, and his arms were splattered up to the elbows.
He got up from the corpse, his movements slow, mechanical. He surveyed the carnage around him. The other bandits lay where they had fallen, their bodies broken by an unseen, brutal force. The camp was a slaughterhouse, and he was standing in the middle of it, drenched in its proof.
His gaze, hollow and drained, fell upon the cages, the pulsing flesh within now still. He picked up a fallen torch from a nearby fire pit. Its flame flickered, casting dancing shadows across the scene.
"Burn," he whispered to the abominations, to the memory, to everything. He drew his arm back to throw it.
But a hand, cloaked in black slime that seemed to drink the firelight, snatched the torch from the air mere inches from his grasp.
A figure stood beside him, where there had been no one a moment before. Hooded and shrouded in darkness, her presence was as silent and profound as his own.
"We need to talk"