Chapter 2: Chapter II: Control
Darkness slid over Corenduilar's vision as the feeling of plummeting endlessly enveloped his body. The feeling was more than familiar to the man, who lived on the edge of death for hundreds of thousands of years.
Suddenly, the ground reached up and Coren slammed onto it hard, knocking the wind from his chest. Soon after landing, he heard another loud thump next to him. Once his vision returned, he could see the figure groaning next to him.
It was Wilric.
Coren scrambled to his feet as a booming voice echoed through the dark space surrounding him. "𝘞𝘩𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘴 𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯," the voice said as Wilric began to stir. The space was dark, and the ground felt like it was rubber, or maybe mud.
"𝘐 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘥, 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘴 𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯!"
Coren turned in the direction of the voice and responded, "those who travel in Mist, harrowed with never ending grief..."
The voice 'harrumphed' and said, "more louts to bring to the cellar, aye? No matter. Come with me."
The room brightened and Coren had to squint his eyes, but he could still plainly see the looming figure of a man with four arms, each as wide as a tree, with crimson skin, two golden tusks sticking out from his mouth, a wide, muscled chest, and a clean shaven head with golden eyes.
Coren glanced back at Wilric and sighed before bending down and grabbing the man by the arm and hauling him up to his feet. Wilric sneered and jerked free of Coren's grip before rubbing his eyes and stalking off after the four-armed man.
When the man stepped through a large, polished wooden door, a deep hallway lined with cells on both sides, extending up the wall for as far as the eye can see. The man stopped, and that's when the voices hit Coren and Wilric.
Hollow wails and terrified screams resounded across the walls and mixed with various cursed and cries for help. It was deafening.
"Welcome to damnation, a place for everyone with cursed blood," Coren said without looking at Wilric. He could tell the man was terrified, and he knew he had to think faster. Though Coren wanted to die, he would prefer not being in damnation.
The large man opened a cell door on the left and Coren and Wilric suddenly found themselves inside the cell as the door was closing.
"Oh great, I get to spend my time in the afterlife with the world's greatest dad," Wilric said wryly.
"Yeah, if you don't want it to stay like this then shut the hell up."
After the large four-armed man had left the hall, Coren bent down and gently blew on his index finger, heating it up to an absurd temperature before using the finger to scrawl a rune on the cold stone floor.
"Alright," Coren muttered as he finished the rune and added a few finishing touches, "this'll be my first time actually trying this, but there's a first time for everything, eh?"
Wilric furrowed his brows in confusion, but before he could even speak Coren had launched himself into a chant.
"𝘕𝘪𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘷 𝘯𝘦𝘩 𝘮𝘪 𝘢𝘻𝘰, 𝘵𝘴𝘶𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘷 𝘢𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘮𝘰, 𝘮𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘬 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘳 𝘲𝘸𝘢𝘳…"
Coren's voice slowly became deeper and deeper as he swayed his head methodically.
"𝘈𝘳𝘲𝘳𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘳 𝘹𝘰𝘳𝘷𝘰, 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘻 𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘻𝘪𝘮𝘢…"
His voice began to 'blur' between his own and a more…demonic sounding voice.
"𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘢 𝘥𝘰𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘩, 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘢 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘹 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘷𝘢. 𝘑𝘦𝘷𝘯𝘢 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘤𝘢𝘥𝘯𝘪𝘢 𝘢𝘢𝘥𝘯𝘢𝘦𝘮𝘶𝘴!"
The rune began to glow in a bright red light as black flames lined the outer edge of the rune.
"Step through and you will find yourself back home. Hopefully."
Wilric snorted loudly. "And why should I listen to you? You'd sooner kill me again than save me." Wilric had no time to respond as Coren roughly grabbed the man by his shoulders and flung him onto the rune, his body disappeared before he could even shout.
The rune flickered out of existence and Coren was left alone once more. 𝘧𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭…
Before Coren could lament his decision, a loud gong resounded and he found himself in a large room with stark white marble floors, walls, ceilings, and marble columns with spirals of gold snaking through their lengths.
A man garbed in all black with a cowl pulled tightly over his head sat on a throne of bones and skulls, impatiently tapping a finger on the arm of his throne.
"Ah," Coren began in a delighted tone, "I see that you are faring well, Lord Anryx. If I may, can I-"
Anyrx slammed his fist on the arm of the throne, causing it to explode from underneath him. "I've had enough of you for one damned lifetime, Corenduilar! How dare you show you face in MY DOMAIN AGAIN!!"
Coren stood there with his hands calmly clasped behind his back, a small smile perched on his face as the being before him raged on. Anyrx threw things, conjured some, also threw those in a fit. It was quite a sight. Once Anyrx calmed down, albeit slightly, he turned a velvet-red glare toward Coren.
"I know you're looking for an eternal death," Anyrx said without grinding his teeth, "however, I don't think you deserve one. In fact, I couldn't give you one if even if I wanted to, which I don't."
Coren rolled his eyes and scratched his temples as he said, "are you sure? Like, not even a liiiiiittle bit? C'mon! We're old pals you and I!"
Anyrx took a deep breath that made the floor shake slightly. "Corenduilar, we-"
"Coren."
"Corenduilar. We are not friends, and I would never do anything for you. Nothing. Not one thing."
Coren practically deflated as he muttered, "go to hell you scumbag," to which Anyrx replied, "already am," in a wry tone.
"So, what're you going to do with me?"
Anyrx chuckled softly. "Me?" He asked in an exasperated voice, "I will do nothing. Your curse will handle the rest."
No sooner that he heard those words, Coren felt his blood begin to boil as a voice buzzed in his head, eager to escape. It sounded like a young boy wailing in pain.
"Live," Anyrx said as he sat on his newly conjured throne, "and die as you please, Corenduilar, but you will never rest…"
Coren snorted despite the pain in his body.
"𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘶𝘮."
Once more, Coren's world went pitch black. His last thoughts lingering on the word Anyrx had used to lull him to sleep...
---
River water flowed past stones buried in the riverbed, wind stirred and brushed the leaves of tree taller than a giant, and rain caressed the dirt with care. A village, one almost big enough to be called a city at this point, was particularly enjoying the fine weather.
Farmers, mostly, made up the village, and rain meant crops would grow.
Head of the village council, Gabriel Oaken, sat on his covered porch with a pipe emitting a soft, blue smoke as he rocked back and forth in his chair. His son, Mikhail Oaken, sat next to him, doing much the same.
"Father," Mikhail said absently.
"What is it boy?"
"Do you ever wonder what is going on in the world? Outside of Oakwoods? What about the wars in Nalesian? Verme? Kulodia?"
"Boy-"
"There must be more than just plowing fields, father! There has to be a way for me to join the Nov-"
"No!"
Silence followed after, the only noise being Gabriel's chair, the rain and the distant thunder. It was always Mikha's dream to join The Haelum Pillars and become a Nova'uin, or Slayer in Dragon tongue. A dream Gabriel severely disliked.
Of all the professions in the Pillars, Mikha just had to dream of being a Nova'uin. A 𝘕𝘰𝘷𝘢'𝘶𝘪𝘯. Gabriel could only sigh with a mixture of exasperation and regret. Mikha's mother was a Soradin, or Mender in Dragon tongue. Soradin could actually be translated to many other words, but many Soradin took up the arts of Healing, thus making 'Mender' its staple name.
Because of his mother's many tales, Mikha had always fantasized about joining the Pillars and helping others, but that all changed when his mother died. His dream and fantasies became an obsession. He spent hours, days or weeks even, to try and touch what he could not see. Trying to feel for the ambient mana around him, but each attempt failed.
Mikha was born without magical talents after all.
Gabriel sighed once again and went to speak, but Mikha took one look at the man before standing and gliding toward the door to their house. He had picked up the habit of moving quietly after he realized he couldn't use magic and started training himself in the way of the sword.
He moved with a grace no sixteen year-old boy should. A deadly grace. Gabriel just stared out at the golden fields and puffed on his pipe, watching as the lightning dancing across the skies weaved patterns they shouldn't.
Mikhail angrily lashed out at a wooden chair in the corner of his room, shattering it to splinters with a kick, before releasing a yell and slinging a stack of Tomes across the room. He was beginning to be more violent with each passing day, his temper a taut string waiting to be snapped on good days, and on the bad days...
Well, Mikhail doesn't like to dwell on the bad days.
Grabbing his wooden sword from the wall, Mikhail was about to smash it into a lamp when, suddenly, he took a deep breath and slowly lowered his arms.
𝘔𝘶𝘴𝘵...𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥...𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘗𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘴...
Mikhail wasn't even sure that that was his own thought. 𝘖𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘰𝘵.
Mikhail sunk his face into his hand for a moment before busying himself with cleaning his room. After sweeping up the shards of wood and rearranging everything, Mikhail took up his practice sword and made his way to the backdoor.
Before he knew it he found himself working through the forms he had been practicing for years. When he first learned that he couldn't even use magic, Mikhail was devastated, but then he found a conveniently placed manual on several different sword forms and styles to choose from. Instead of choosing one, however, Mikhail decided to master them all.
He wanted to make up for his lack of mana, and versatility would, hopefully, overcome that gap. Even if by a little, he wanted to have an advantage. Against what, however, he did not know yet. Though his every strike was filled with wasted movements, Mikhail was determined.
Long after the sun went down and the rained seized, Mikhail was still hammering the tedious footwork of the several forms in his head, bit by bit by bit, eventually, he improved. He felt his movements speed up, become more confident, as his focus increased and his moves began to flow together. Soon, he was combining the forms together to create his own unique form, until his head began to feel like it was splitting open, that is.
Mikhail fell to the ground in a heap as voices made their way through the ringing in his ears.
"Hahaha! Look who's out here boys! If it ain't Mikhail fucking Oaken himself!"
Three voices rang out with laughter, and then a fourth joined in.
"Hey, why don't we just bust 'is 'ead in like a rotten melon?"
"Yeah, why don't we just ki-"
"Quiet!!"
The voices quit their ramblings, and Mikhail was beginning to regain his hearing, however, a foot soon stomped on his head, hard, as a voice said, "there is no fun in killing without a bit of...torture involved, eh? Maybe if we burn his father's house down in front of him he'll be a bit more lively..."
Mikhail managed to turn his head and groan, "n...no..." in a weak voice. Blood trickled down his forehead and stung his eyes, but Mikhail could make out the long features of a man named Elias Verem.
"Elias," Mikhail growled in a pained voice.
Elias let out a short laugh before applying more pressure to the foot planted on Mikhail's head.
"Who told you to speak to me, worm?" Mikhail just grit his teeth to keep from groaning in pain. His head was on fire...
"Fetch the torches."
"B-But Elias-"
"I said fetch the torches!!" Mikhail heard three sets of footsteps run away before coming back just as quickly. Sounds of stone striking flint soon reached his ears. Mikhail began to thrash, trying to scream out for someone, anyone to hear, but Elias just threw his head back and laughed.
"No one is here to save you," he began, "once I burn your house to the ground, I'll become the next head of the village council!" The pressure on Mikhail's head vanished as Elias yelled, "light it up!"
Adrenaline filled Mikhail's body as he flung himself up to his feet. His body felt like it was made of water, but he fought against the sudden sickness rising up his throat as he screamed out. Lightning sudden streaked through the sky, thunder following close behind, before striking down at Mikhail's feet, knocking Elias and his bastard friends off their feet.
Mikhail blinked, but he realized that there were no afterimages in his eyes and that he was still alive and standing. Elias and his friends, however, were neither. Their torches were unable to light the still slick grass, but they were able to light their own clothes on fire, causing their bodies to be caught in a fire before they could even land on the ground.
Mikhail took a small step back as he gazed into Elias's eyes wide open with shock, his mouth contorted into a scream that formed no sound. Mikhail took off without looking back once.
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