Onailr Keep Muster Fields,

Vkleja’Rthur Dominion,

Mortal Hell-Realm.

Rov’kezlik, Overlord of the slave armies of the Vklej, stood upon a dais surveying his forces.

They disappointed him.

Instead of forming into ranks like soldiers, they clustered around small fires, eating what little flesh they had scavenged or killed.

These were simply his Vanguard, however, the meat-shield to absorb traps, arrows and the initial impact of combat. His warriors’ camp lay further away. Of course, some patrolled the slaves encampment. Beating submission into the damned.

Each slave was scoured of hope since youth. The Priests ensured they knew their place, long before they were matured to adulthood. The Priests were all servants of the Arch-Demon from higher realms, and used their strange magics to speed the growth of the slaves.

Because of this, the despicable creatures below his dais were expendable cattle. A constant burden, even to feed.

And so, Rov’kezlik let them starve.

They would feast soon enough. On the Enemy God’s mortals, as well as upon this new “Experience”.

“Is there any news from the Lower Planes?”

A soft arm reached over his shoulder, caressing his bare chest. The Demoness trying to tempt him once more.

Rov’kezlik shrugged the enslaved succubus’s arm from his body. His fury rose at its presumption.

He had no use for it anymore. He’d mated with it multiple times, proving his virility and power to the watching Legion of the Damned.

He disliked the act, but it was necessary to display his power.

As a Cambion, he was the son of a Demon-Prince and one of the Mortal Damned. His status as Overlord hinged on his Father’s power.

Short of begging the Prince of Hell to attend the ceremony and confirm Rov’kezlik as his get - something the scion was loath to do - mating with a succubus was the only way to confirm his status to the Dominion publicly.

Mating with a Succubi proved Rov’kezlik's soul was far more than that of a normal mortal.

Succubi sucked the soul out of mortals during the act of sex. Rov’kezlik’s soul, however, had become a part of his flesh when he was concieved. Only the complete destruction of his body would cause his eternal death.

Surviving the mating showed he was more than mortal.

The proof of his survival alone would prevent any rebellions once the invasion began. All knew the consequences of crossing a Cambion. An eternity of torment didn't even begin to explain the exquisite agony Priests would inflict at his command.

Rov’kezlik's attention returned to the present. The succubi had repeated its question.

Rov’kezlik stood, not deigning to answer the impudent slave.

Instead, he put out a hand, reaching for a comfortable presence.

Turning, he slapped the filthy creature’s face. It fell off the bed, to its knees. Blood streaming down its hideous features.

The demoness looked up at him, eager to receive another blow.

It was not prepared for the swing of his great axe.

Its decapitated head soared into the host, and a fight began amongst the slaves over the freshly dismembered flesh.

Rov’kezlik looked at his hands in disappointment. No experience again. No Level.

He would have to take slaves from the Human world.

Perhaps after they sate my desires, I could gain some experience from their deaths? He thought.

His second approached. Thick armoured scales tinkling as he moved. His disfigured face, so malformed that his breaths came as short, grunted pained huffs as the Demi-Demon stopped at his side. Without a word, he reached out.

Taking the axe, he began to clean it of fresh ichor.

He ignored the corpse at his feet.

“The priests say they now have enough. Although, one innocent turned out not to be a virgin.” He said. His voice a high-pitched whine.

“We impaled the Harpies responsible, along with the boy. The child seemed to think he himself worth a ransom.” The Commander of the Damned laughed.

Like Rov’kezlik’s, he was a Demi-Demon, but of a far less pure stock. Zkei'ti had been whelped in this realm, and so was far beneath Rov’kezlik in standing.

The only reason Rov’kezlik had come to this Mortal plane was power. He was sick of his full-blooded brothers and sisters in the Second Circle sneering at him.

He would not need to worry about them soon. Once he had conquering a mortal realm, his power would be far beyond theirs.

He, Rov’kezlik would return and reap a bloody revenge.

If I succeed, I may even reach the Third Circle of the Hell-Realms! He mused to himself.

Rov’kezlik bared his teeth at the thought.

Zkei'ti was still laughing at the impalement. Rov’kezlik, did not laugh. He merely thought of how he could gain experience. The frustration at the lack of progress caused him to clench his fist. His gauntlet crunched loudly as scales snapped together.

He noticed his second had bowed his head and backed away.

“Your Fear is welcome, Zkei’ti. I was thinking of how much pleasure I shall gain from this invasion. We shall make the screams eternal!"

He turned, looking towards the ritual site. "These Priests need to hurry. I can feel my impatience growing once more!”

Zkei’ti nodded his head, but kept his silence.

Messengers from the higher planes had been moving between the realms, sped by the greatest magics the Arch-Demon could summon. All knew the cost of this war should they lose.

All would perish, and the Arch-Demon’s creator would rule eternally over their dominions.

The thought of bowing to a God who refused to allow even the merest torture of its subjects made his gorge rise.

How else could a God enforce submission on its worshippers? It is impossible that a God allowed free will. If they did, who would live with its imbecilic ideas?

No. This war needed to be won. Else, everything he had worked for, all the blood and pain he’d shed upon his path, would mean nothing.

Our God is right.

He cut into his skin, his blood spattering the ground as he made a small sacrifice to the Arch-Demon.

If the Host of Damned could not gain a foothold in the Sector God’s Mortal plane, then the witches of the eight planes could never break through the walls of reality into the Sector God’s higher planes. It would mean that instead of being on the offensive, they would be forced to conduct a siege. One which they would lose.

Eventually the Heavenly hosts would sally enough times to tip the balance. And then...

The thought was too horrible to contemplate. The eradication of wickedness in all the realms, and the death of the Arch-Demon.

The Demon realms were unlike the Heavenly in one significant way. Magical bridges connected these realms through the Immaterial Plane. While this eased the ability of the Demons to project power into new realms, it also meant that they were more vulnerable if faced with powerful entities.

The Heavenly realms, however, were like a fortress. Each realm barred the gates to those below unless someone held enough power or faith to be shown the path. For the wicked, those gates were shut tightly. The only other way in was through creating a system generated quest. Which was what the Witches were attempting.

How? Rov’kezlik did not know.

He only knew his part of the invasion. And that was to create a literal hell on earth.

A place where the witches could manifest without this evil God’s Sun, Soil or Air polluting their corrupted flesh. He needed to murder, mutilate and torture enough of Earth’s population that the land itself changed.

He was sure of his ability to gain victory. If not by decimating the Earth mortals, then perhaps he could use his host’s corpses to finish the job.

He looked in disgust as one of the disfigured humanoids below the Dais sobbed. At what Rov’kezlik did not care. Self pity could never be allowed.

Fortunately, one of his Pelarchs was there and disemboweled the slave before its sickening display infected the others with emotions.

The only emotion they needed was fear. Fear of HIM, and of the Arch-Demon, of course.

The Pelarch turned, noticing Rov’kezlik’s gaze upon him, and collapsed to the floor. Dropping his sword. Others around him stopped when they noticed, and glancing at their Overlord also dropped, writhing and screaming in a pleasing manner. Showing their submission. This was a positive sign. Fear was quite high in his host. As was the number of Pelarchs meting out punishments. Keeping them from feeling hope.

Rov’kezlik’s Horde comprised three Korvah. The Vanguard Korvah, some 400,000 of the damned, were the most feeble. The meat shields of the greater force. Most only held clubs, or used their talon-like fingers or sharpened teeth.

Next would come the Pelarch Korvah. These were the main body. Survivors of previous invasions, but only 80,000 strong. They all had suitable weapons, sturdy shields, cloth armor and a will to murder that rivalled the elites.

Last was his elite force. 50,000 of the K’tkar riders. They were pariahs, cast out of the lower circles because of their impure demonic bloodlines. Far less impressive than Demons, but stronger than most Damned, all had the blood ties with the First Circle. While not likely to grow beyond their current station, they had far more to gain from slaughter than these other disgusting fiends.

These were savages, thirsty for blood. All carried long, sturdy spears that they wielded with two hands, and all wore scaled armor. Their mounts were even more fierce. Great horns curled on each side of their head, and their thick coats of scaled leather would turn the hardest blows. Rov’kezlik had named the force after the steed upon which they rode. K’tkar were monstrous animals, bred to fight.

They would all deploy through the portals in a moment. He was merely awaiting the last of the child sacrifices to be eviscerated by the priests. Then they would open fully, joining the two worlds permanently. Word had come down through the realms that the Arch-Demon had found new prey. Better it was a world of his hated enemy. The God who had cast Him aside.

“What is taking so long!” He raged, his hand grasping towards the axe. He pulled it back. It would not do to slay his second before the invasion began.

Then he smiled. The last wailing screams came from an innocent of the Mortal realm.

The Overlord enjoyed the screams of the sacrifices. The terror they conveyed made him wish it were him wielding the knife.

It had not been hard to find the sacrifices. To link the two worlds, he had needed human children from the other realm.

A messenger from the second circle below had entered his hall a week before, just after the Horns blew. He’d known what this meant and dropped to the ground to show his submission to the will of the Arch-Demon. The visitor had left without saying a word, dropping two sacks filled with magical items.

His priests had determined that the items allowed small portals to be formed, connecting the Hell world to a place called “Earth”. Each portal was far too small for any but the youngest flying demon to pass through, but that had been enough. The priests had required at least 12 sacrifices, but more would reinforce the structures of the rift.

Needing flying demons, Rov’kezlik had gone to the Harpy Matriarch.

The experience had not been without some frustrations, however.

Even now, thinking about it, Rov'kezlik wanted to go down there and pull the Matriarch’s limbs off.

It had been challenging to force the harpies to submit to his plan.

Small, and with the intellect of beasts, harpies were only truly useful for simple tasks like carrying messages. It had only been when he put a blade to their matriarch’s throat that they had accepted a more complex task.

Annoyingly, the bitch of a matriarch had not stopped complaining about its treatment since.

He planned to kill it as soon as they reached the new world.

At least then I can conquer this realm without the nagging of that fiend! He thought.

After they accepted, the most challenging part had been explaining to the stupid creatures the concept of time. He’d butchered half of a Xetat in his rage. The five dead harpies still lay upon the heat charred rock of his Dias, their dismembered pieces steaming in the hellscape’s polluted air. His rage doubled when they too had not given him experience. He had killed too many for sport for it to be a challenge.

He’d been trying to explain they must capture a pure mortal child and return to the rift within a single day cycle. If they did not, they could not return with, or without, the sacrifice. Any longer and the artefact creating the portal would break.

The Harpies had screeched in complaint, their low intellect not grasping the concept. After he’d dismembered five of their number, the others suddenly seemed to understand. It was amazing how compelling a tool indiscriminate slaughter could be.

He sent an entire company of harpies to abduct sacrifices. Four full Xetat’s.

So far, only 13 groups had returned, each pair carrying a wailing child. It proved to be enough for the sacrifices to begin, but it annoyed Rov’kezlik that the others had failed to return.

Either way, the sacrifices were enough for two full gates to be formed. The other Dominions were only attempting one, or simply could not afford to risk invasion because of succession crises or invasion by other dominions.

If the Demon hosts were victorious, it would only because he, Rov’kezlik, had led them to it.

He looked over as screaming began amongst his troops. The portals were forming now the ritual was complete. Vortecies of blue energy began sucking those unlucky enough to be close by into the rift, their forms disintegrating slowly in howls of agony as the magic tore them apart.

“It is Time!” He bellowed.

Pelarchs exchanged swords for whips and beat the Slaves towards the portals.

“Great Lord.” His Second said, gesturing to the two portals.

Something was wrong. The flows of magic in one portal twisted differently to the other.

Enraged, Rov’kezlik beckoned to Zkei’ti to follow. He leapt from the dais, landing upon several slaves, their bones breaking with his impact. Leaving them screaming in his wake, he strode towards the priests. Slaves prostrated themselves as they crawled back, clearing a path.

“What is the meaning of this change?” He asked, as he arrived, his axe resting on his shoulder.

“Great Lord. The Harpies were far more stupid than the even the Matriarch seems to be.” It said. The being stood, not upon legs, but three tentacle like limbs. Its upper body, however, was humanoid.

Rov’kezlik was silent, awaiting an answer to his question. His axe drifted forward. Giving the priest a view of its razor-sharp edge.

“They picked up sacrifices from a wide area!” The priest explained quickly, eyeing the enormous weapon warily.

“Some children were from a location far to the South and East of where the others were… sourced.” It said. Considering which word to use.

“Very well.” Rov’kezlik said, turning to Zkei’ti. “Take half the Slaves and a third of the Pelarchs.” He commanded, splitting his force.

“I shall take the other half and all the K’tkar riders.” His fist tightened around the haft of his axe as he realized bisecting the Matriarch would have to wait. The harpies would need to remain compliant to effect communication between the two war-parties.

“Bring the Matriarch with you. Torture her if she refuses to obey.” He said. He wasn’t about to bring the infuriating creature with him. Better Zkei’ti deal with it. “Half the Harpies shall go with you, half with me. That way we can co-ordinate our strikes!”

Zkei’ti fell to the floor in ritual submission, acknowledging the commands.

Rov’kezlik strode towards his K’tkar. Mounting, he waved his axe over his head; the generals commanding the Korvahs rushing towards him.

The slaves required no leadership except for the blade and lash. Fodder would always obey.

*************************

It had taken the demonhost three days to move across the plain. They had now reached a hilly area where far more mortals worked the land.The K'tkar riders had mostly dispersed except for a bodyguard twenty thousand who remained close by. They were currently busy scouting or herding the mortals towards the host for slaughter and sorting.

Back near the portal, hundreds of thousands of slave-artisans and builders were pouring out of the rift between worlds, rapidly constructing a massive city fortified with black stone walls. Overseers worked them hard, uncaring if beatings killed the workers, so long as the work progressed.

The losses did not concern Rov’kezlik. The invasion had captured tens of thousands of mortals in the last few days.

Of course, the men and children were of little use except as sustenance for his armies. The women, however, were more valuable to the host. They could breed a new army of slaves.

Already he had sent messages to the priest’s who had remained in the Dominon to prepare for a new influx of slaves. The Priests would mature their forms magically, instilling them with the fear of youth, and stripping them of any hope. They would then assign them based on their aptitude. The priests sent useless female slaves back to the breeding pens, while they sent the useless male slaves to the Korvah.

Nearby, K’tkar outriders had captured a strangely large numbers of mortals’ working fields. Thousands were clustered in this area, making Rov’kezlik suspect a large town nearby. He looked over the mass of mortals cowering in fear. They awaited their fates, currently being collared and stripped by several Pelarchs and hundreds of slaves.

The captured women were the most enjoyable to listen to. Their screams of fear, helplessness and pain were exquisite.

The odd thing was that they seemed most distressed at being unveiled in front of men they did not know.

The slaves took them away, leading them into wagons to be returned to the Hell-world through the portal. Their voices turning hoarse with screams as whips landed on exposed flesh.

He decided to watch the process awhile.

He had nothing better to do.

Another line of women being shackled and marched to wagons, marked for the breeding pits. Their men looked on, eyes wide in terror as they were forced to their knees.

The wailing of the women redoubled when a Pelarch walked down the line of kneeling men, cutting throats as he went.

Rov’kezlik watched carefully, but the Pelarch did not gain any experience from the killing. He was certain now that the system would only reward killing if it proved a challenge. It would not save these men. They were meat.

The remaining men on their knees were praying. Hands held out in supplication as they spoke.

“Ašhadu ʾan lā ʾilāha ʾilla-llāhu, wa-ʾašhadu ʾanna muḥammadan rasūlu-llāh”

They said the words together, all seeming to know the prayer. As they did, the noise of screaming from the women ceased. Their heads bent down in submission and respect as their men announced loyalty to their God and His Prophet.

Rov’kezlik grinned. These mortals were a strange group. They seemed to believe there was something that came after death.

Fools. The Cambion knew better. The only thing awaiting them is entropy.

As the prayer ended, the last man looked at one woman and smiled.

Standing suddenly, he shouted “Allahu-Ackbar!” and, pulling a hidden dagger from his robe, thrust it into the Pelarchs gut before the Pelarch's blood-wet blade could reach him.

Rov’kezlik leapt forward, not to save the dying Pelarch. But to gain experience. His axe beheaded the man in an instant, carving through the arm he raised in defence.

Rov’kezlik laughed. These mortals were amazing entertainment. Defiance! He'd not seen that from a slave before.

The head bounced and rolled to the feet of the woman as Rov’kezlik glowed with dark malevolent energies.

He opened his Statistics vision and looked, trying to decide where he should assign his first attributes. He smiled. His mother had been correct. His Genetic Inheritance allowed him an additional attribute point. It appeared as though it had also granted him two charisma.

Titles: Overlord. Scion of the Second Circle

Name: Rov’kezlik

Level: 2

Genetic Inheritance: Bastard of Mammon

Class: None

Age: 94

Tribulation Experience: 39/150

Health: 130

Magic: 200

Stamina: 100

Available Attributes: 4

Attributes:

Strength: 17 +

Agility: 12 +

Vitality: 13 +

Intelligence: 16 +

Will: 20 +

Wisdom: 12 +

Luck: 15 +

Wickedness: 12+

Charisma: 2 +

Skills:

Sword: 70

Sycophancy: 44

Great Axe: 228

Tactics: 58

Torture: 183

Light Armor: 50

Riding: 83

Intimidation: 68

Malice: 48

Reading: 19

Stealth: 31

Execution: 89

Shield: 52

Athletics: 44

Languages: 21

Spear: 41

Hunting: 22

Mathematics: 8

Unarmed Combat: 44

Medium Armor: 79

Heavy Armor: 65

Betrayal: 166

He put all the points into agility. While he had great strength, he lacked the means to apply it effectively.

While his charisma was only 2, his father’s legacy would ensure that changed quickly. He would leave that statistic alone.

Mammon, Prince of the Second Realm, was the Lord of Temptation, known as the seducer. He was unnatural in his beauty and grace.

His bastard son Rov’kezlik, however, had always been hideous. This was what made his siblings ostracize him from all their plots and schemes. He stood out. The ugly stepson.

Not for long, he mused. Soon he would return to the second circle with substantial power. He’d sworn to slay his siblings and become heir to his father’s power.

He turned his attention back to the woman. She strained against her chains and picked up the head, closing the man’s eyes. An expression of shock and grief remained upon her face as she gently kissed the still twitching face.

She walked forward with purpose, forcing the other female mortals to follow her. Ignoring the whip slashing deep cuts into her back, she bent down and placed the dismembered arm and head back on her husband’s corpse.

So caring!

It was ridiculous!

The Pelarchs, seeing disobedience, quickly beat her back into line. She seemed broken now. Her head bowed, tears streaking her face.

Rov’kezlik turned away, growing bored once more. He had no interest in watching a broken slave. That was how they should be.

Behind him, Rov’kezlik’s Pelarchs finished shackling each woman. The line departed to the sound of whips, sobs, and shuffling feet.

One of the K’tkar riders reined in nearby. It wore the rank spikes of a Xetec leader.

“Great Lord,” it said, “there is a significant enemy force moving towards us!”

“How many?” Rov’kezlik asked, not too concerned.

“At least 30,000 Great Lord.” He replied.

“They seem to be mounted, possibly a mobile screen for a larger force.” He speculated. “We have more scouts investigating a dust cloud further south.”

“Very well. Have the troops assemble.” Rov’kezlik walked to his K’tkar.

Finally. He could truly begin his journey to advance.

***********************

Rov’kezlik surveyed the site of the battlefield. It was one his enemies had selected.

He didn’t care. They were too small a force to trouble with much.

He waved his hand, and a Pelarch lifted a horn to his lips.

Below in the valley, the Slaves began charging forward.

All 200,000 of them. They were driven forward by the tightly packed ranks of 40,000 Pelarchs.

Rov’kezlik held his K’tkar riders in reserve. They would pursue and defeat the enemies, hunting them to the last. Already they were prowling to the top hill on the far side of the valley. These mortals were oblivious.

According to the Priests who travelled with them, the mortals called the region the Il-khanate. They had arrived East of the town of Isfahan.

It was important to these mortals. He saw why when he crested the valley overlooking the town.

Four roads led into the town. Each well paved, coming from every direction of the compass.

This was why the mortal army was here. Not to defend the town, or its people, but the hub of their supply line.

If Rov’kezlik’s army took this location, it would certainly disrupt this Il-Khanate’s ability to resist.

But there was no defending against the Slave armies of Vkleja’Rthur.

The Mortals, still mounted, drew back bows, and loosed a volley of arrows.

Rov’kezlik looked on contentedly as his first ten rows of slaves fell to the steel rain.

He bared pointed teeth. Yes! Cull the vermin. Waste your arrows in their flesh.

Any that were to survive the battle would gain equipment and meat from the dead, becoming Pelarchs, and only making Rov’kezlik’s Korvah’s stronger.

Looking at the army in front of him, he wondered if they’d have equipment that he’d want.

Already, the first of the slaves were reaching the mounted archers. A charge of cavalry came in from the sides, driving deep into the onrushing mass of the Damned. Soon, however, they bogged down and Rov’kezlik could see that many were being pulled from saddles and mobbed by the slaves.

The Pelarchs approached quickly now, stabbing down into mortal flesh with Hell-forged weapons. They showed no mercy. They did not know the meaning of the word.

Rov’kezlik was growing more excited now. This was going to be an easy victory. Barely one twentieth of his slave force lost and already he’d defeated an army.

Only one thing annoyed him.

He’d heard news from his second, Zkei’ti.

The bastard had already defeated the King of a nation called “Ethiopia”. He now tortured the man, waiting for him to accept the rule of the Dominion. Once he had sworn to obey Rov’kezlik and the dominion, he could spy on other mortals.

Information, after all, was power.

Rov’kezlik rode forward. Already he could see his K’tkar riders moving in to cut off the retreat of units that had not engaged.

He spurred his own mount forward, smashing aside Slaves too slow to step out of his way. The Pelarchs were more aware and moved when they heard the cloven hooves of his steed.

He had made his way to the front lines. Fighting was still ongoing. Grinning at the thought of the fun he was about to have, he drew his black hell-forged axe and charged a man in quality armor. His face mask decorated with a fascinating engraved pattern of yellow and white metals.

Rov’kezlik brought the axe down in a feint. At the last moment, before it smashed into the man’s upraised blade, Rov’kezlik slammed it forward instead, the great spiked tip of the weapon spearing forward.

The man he fought was quick. Bringing his metal shield around to intercept the axe. His blade flicking out to lick the hell-forged scale-mail upon Rov’kezlik’s throat. The mortal did not lack experience, either. His shield angled upon the impact, deflecting the axe so it would go past him and not catch his body as Rov’kezlik recovered the weapon. The clash of their initial pass complete, the enemies wheeled their mounts about. As Rov’kezlik turned, his blood boiled.

A slave leapt at the mortal, trying to steal his kill. His momentary rage subsided as, with a flick of his curved blade, the mortal cut into the slave. It fell to the ground, its skull cut in two.

Rov’kezlik raked back the long spurs upon his heels and the K’tkar drove forward once more, the mounted mortal doing the same. This time Rov’kezlik tried a thrust immediately, using the momentum of the impact with his opponent’s shield to recover the weapon in a swing that connected with the armoured shoulder of his opponent.

Rov’kezlik, however, had taken a wound. A heavy slash had cut under the scales covering his leg, biting deeply into his thigh. It had been nearly a decade since anyone had wounded him.

He enjoyed the sensation, relishing the pain.

Once more the men clashed, this time they remained close together, their mounts biting and kicking at each-other. Rov’kezlik was tiring of this mortal. It kept fighting, as though it wasn’t getting fatigued from his thunderous blows and savage ripostes.

Just when he thought he might let the slaves take the man down for him, Rov’kezlik found an opening. The man’s shield arm held his reins, and through the fight, they had twisted about a piece of the saddle that stuck up in front of the horseman. As he tried to block a blow, his shield caught, and the great axe smashed into his shoulder, breaking bone and cutting the chainmail.

It didn’t penetrate far, but burst through a few of the riveted links.

Rov’kezlik was in awe at the quality of this armor.

No slave made this! It is on par with items I’ve seen in the Second Circle of the Hellrealm. He thought.

Instead of killing the man, Rov’kezlik reached forward and tore his sword free of his broken arm. He then removed the mortals helmet and looked into hate-filled eyes.

Rov’kezlik smiled. He’d always enjoyed breaking the damned. Why not try to break a mortal?

He had to find out how these creatures made such fine armor.

Turning to a nearby Pelarch, Rov’kezlik summoned him with a look. The man sprinted to him, prostrating himself appropriately. The mortal watched through the pain. “Take this filth to my tent.” He said.

Rov’kezlik planned on torturing this mortal to discover which city or town created this armor. He also hoped to discover more of the Il-Khanate.

The K’tkar riders had finished their massacre. Large numbers of them showed the black glow of levels. He grew angry when he realized he’d sacrificed a level for information, but soon calmed.

This was why he was Overlord, and his K’tkar riders were his slaves.

Information is power.

If you torture enough people. You discover that to be true. He thought.

**********************

Soon another opportunity to level arose. A messenger from the scouts reported that the second cloud of dust was not an army, but refugees from the town.

Rov’kezlik had decided that he would lead Thirty-Two Xetecs - or eight companies - of his K’tkar riders in purging any the resistance from the fleeing mass of mortals.

They rode forward slowly. As they did, at least four thousand infantry formed in front of them, attempting to screen the refugees’ flight.

Battles like this were why the K’tkar riders existed. Infantry stood no chance against them.

They charged, the great horned heads of the K’tkars slamming down at the last moment. The beasts smashed through the ranks of mortals, sending bodies flying. The rider’s two handed spears gouged through the flesh of the recently broken defenders. Rov’kezlik’s mount charged through a dense group of the defenders, knocking more flying. The formation shattered, and then Rov’kezlik’s Great Axe flashed out repeatedly, reaping a great slaughter.

Spear points bounced off his Scale mail, and a crossbow bolt clanged off his helmet, dazing him for a moment, but then another level came, and he shone with black energies. He slew nearly forty men himself, his K’tkar riders staying well back from their Overlords prey.

By the time he sated his battle-lust, his black armor reflected the light in hues of red. Blood soaked him and he stared at the still retreating townsfolk. Isfahan was now his.

“Capture them alive.” He commanded. “Do not have them harmed until I command it.” He said.

Perhaps one amongst them would have the skills to create him better armour. He’d have to be very careful lest he lose this opportunity. He looked at his statistics, relishing the pain as he assigned all 30 of his attributes.

Titles: Overlord. Scion of the Second Circle

Name: Rov’kezlik

Level: 11

Genetic Inheritance: Bastard of Mammon

Class: None

Age: 94

Tribulation Experience: 39/150

Health: 250

Magic: 200

Stamina: 100

Attributes:

Strength: 29

Agility: 22

Vitality: 25

Intelligence: 16

Will: 20

Wisdom: 12

Luck: 15

Wickedness: 12

Charisma: 22

Skills:

Sword: 70

Sycophancy: 44

Great Axe: 228

Tactics: 58

Torture: 183

Light Armor: 50

Riding: 83

Intimidation: 68

Malice: 48

Reading: 19

Stealth: 31

Execution: 89

Shield: 52

Athletics: 44

Languages: 21

Spear: 41

Hunting: 22

Mathematics: 8

Unarmed Combat: 44

Medium Armor: 79

Heavy Armor: 65

Betrayal: 166

While he’d never had the pleasure of experiencing the delicious pain himself, he’d heard his mother speak of it. When his father mated with her, she had pretended at fear. She’d screamed foully, arousing him to greater and greater acts of defilement. He had responded afterwards by making her his concubine.

After years of patience and servitude, Mammon deigned to confide in her, and she’d listened, remembering everything he said about the system and its workings, losing nothing.

Years later, she’d told Rov’kezlik of the ways of the Tribulation System. Now, he was part of it, and one day, he would take the vengeance she too sought.

He looked forward to the day, but not for his mother’s sake. Her, he despised more than anyone.

He would take what he saw as rightfully his. His father’s fief in the Second Circle of the hell-realms. He would slay his mother if she interfered.

All he cared about was his own power. Information was power, and power grants pleasure.

It really was a simple universe for Rov’kezlik.

That power would grow. And once at its peak, he would unleash it upon this world, sweeping it away in a tidal wave of corpse-blood.

Rov’kezlik dismissed the displays he was receiving about his class. He would deal with those later. For now, he wanted to bask in his victory.

As soon as he pacified this realm, it would become the newest Mortal Hellrealm as the flows of magic would change. No longer would the Higher realms fuel its existence, rather the energies manifest in the Ninth Circle of the Hellrealms would increase massively, spreading down into each successive world, until it reached here. Then it would change the planet to suit the desires of the Arch-Demon.

For Rov’kezlik, it meant that when he took over his father’s principality, it would no longer be merely a Second Circle of the Hellrealms, but a Third. Far more potent in energy density and volume.

He knew that there were more ways than leveling to increase power. More traditional methods. He looked forward to experiencing them from his father’s throne.

He smiled at the thought, and a nearby K’tkar rider froze in horror and disgust as he saw the mortal expression pass across the Overlords’ face. With a flick of his arm, Rov’kezlik cut the rider in half. It would not do for rumors to spread. Especially now that he was genuinely happy for the first time in his life.