“You may think of the Ancients as mere myths, long dead they are that only the madness of Malvirek remains as a testament to their species. Truth it is in part, but understand that the titles of their Lords will forever echo to this day. For they are titles that one may mistake for nobility, but they are not, for they are a facet of their kind. An exemplar of a specific action, need, or concept of theirs that saw to it that they destroyed the Empire of Asjen so many centuries ago.

Yet it is curious that they so easily kill another race, but find it strange to rule over them. As such be glad that the Ancients lay dead or silent, and no Lord of theirs has or shall ever carry the title that will allow their kind to enslave us younger races. For if such a Lord shall ever come, then this world will be drowned in blood.”

- Lagromatus the Accursed: On the nature of the Ancients

“What lesson is there to be learned here?” A deep bitterness colored his words as a growl soon accompanied them, his very frustration of his current situation was adamantly showed by the way his scythes impatiently tapped at the stone floor.

He was in what could be described as a stone arena, an amphitheatre, a grand place of gladiatorial battle highly reminiscent of the one the Romans had made. Though the one he was in now was of a more ancient, yet well maintained make, speaking of the grand architectural design that went over its creation. For upon the circular seating arrangements were statues of Ancients, they numbered in the dozens and he even sighted the Warborn and the Elder themselves among them!

Though such an awe inspiring sight did little to stop his bitterness, as around the arena walls were the Seekers, at least numbering twenty of them evenly spread out. Whilst they were joined by what could be the Warborn’s special creations, beings similar to him, modeled after her beautiful yet equally androgynous aesthetic that confused Benedict to no end. The former was the source of his bitterness, the Seekers that stood proudly around the walls.

The sight of them stirred anger within his blood, for the memory of what they did was still fresh upon his mind, and a primal calling demanded for him to punish them for their transgression. Though he forced such emotion to be a muted throb within his mind, for Salia had ‘convinced’ him to not so callously level his hate against them. For that was not the way a Lord acts, at least it wasn’t a justified way.

This reminded him that Salia had urged him to follow the Warborn, who merely an hour ago merely followed her last sentence with a demand. For him to follow, with little explanation as to why he had even said that. Yet now he was here, having followed the Warborn’s form through the winding and breathtaking stone pathways, only to be brought upon this strange area held aloft by another statue’s hand. It was needless to say, but it was truly beautiful.

Though now what inspiration he drew from them, was ripped apart by his rising anger. Which did not go unnoticed as from behind Salia hugged him, reminding him that she was there, and that he must not let himself be overtaken by it. Else his very veins would boil with mana and subsequently kill him from the inside. So with her he calmed, gently holding her hand as he looked to the Warborn.

This show of intimacy drew a laugh from that silvered being, who in turn motioned to Benedict with one clawed finger. “Combat.” She simply said, his head tilting to the side as if to show her excitement, which Benedict could not properly discern at all.

“Combat?” Parroting what the Warborn had just said, he was met with a nod from the Warborn who spread his arms wide, as if to draw his attention to the arena’s empty seats all around them. “You want me… to fight you?”

“I do.” The Warborn replied simply again, drawing her arms together before taking on a combat stance. One hand raised upwards to the left, whilst the other balled into a fist and kept near his waist. Whilst her legs spread apart, clearly reminiscent of the asian martial arts of his world. Though this one was far different, as he had no knowledge of an analogue to compare it to.

It was enough however, as Benedict felt a sort of palpable desire for conflict around the Warborn. Just as he could feel mana all around him, he in a way could also ‘feel’ the emotion of an individual. Though he had only experienced such a thing with Salia, who oozed with a sort of loving intensity that it bordered obsession. But that could easily be just because of his own ineptitude when involved with love, as Salia is his first true ‘lover’, forced or not, in his life.

As such this capability of feeling such a ‘desire’ for conflict if anything else, was a mere gut feeling. Yet considering his own mutations and rapid changes, he could no longer deduce whether or not it was right or wrong, simply that it could be ‘correct’. This made him frown as he felt Salia’s hug upon his form tighten, her face was gently laying itself upon the back of his neck as she spoke.

“You cannot run away from this Benedict. The Warborn is true to his name, she will not stop until you satisfy her thirst for conflict. By the laws of our people, as much as I hate them now, I cannot intervene in any way less it shames you. But please, know that I will be by your side once this is over.”

“I know.” He replied quickly, sighing as she drew herself away from him and stepped away. Her gentle footfalls echoed clearly to him, and for a moment a shred of emptiness overtook his twin hearts It did not last as he looked behind him briefly, only to be met by Salia’s form slowly ascending one the steps to the side of the walls, so she may sit upon one of the many seats on the amphitheater itself.

Then anger took him, lending him a sudden single minded fury as he looked to the front. There the Warborn stood in his combat stance, silent and impassive, the only trace of movements was the fiery red flames that spewed out in whatever space there was on her armor. He was initially hesitant in following through this, fighting the Warborn so suddenly when he himself knew nothing about him. Yet now, as if egged on by something else, perhaps be it the Forlorn or that eldritch monstrosity, all he felt was anger that led to the desire of slaughter.

A natural reaction based on whatever assumptions he had about his growing inhumanity. Though from at that moment on, he did not consider even the fact that he was unarmored. Letting himself be spurred on by his anger as he directed his fury towards the Warborn. In such a moment, he raised his scythes and moved four steps in a sudden sprint towards her, only for him to bring down his scythes on the floor with lethal force once he was about to take another step.

With one preemptive and short lived leap before the scythes impacted the ground, Benedict allowed himself to be brought to a sudden lurch forward like a graceless leaping savage. Allowing him to cross a surprising amount of distance through the sheer force of his scythes, whose strength and durability allowed him to use them as a crutch to propel him forward to the Warborn.

Such a tactic was not only born from his instinctive way of fighting, but born from his previous use of it during his confrontation with the Forlorn. Though untested and mostly a means to get closer, it allowed him to cross the distance that separated him from the Warborn. Which was at least a few meters away, letting him have the advantage of speed and surprise as he quickly reeled in his scythes, only for him to bring them down once he was at least an arms length away from the Warborn.

In such an act the world for him slowed down, his senses letting him perceive as if time itself was under his will as excitement and anticipation coursed in his veins. This was what the Warborn wanted he reasoned, this was the fight she wanted, and he would reap the fruits of such a demand from him. For he fully expected his blades to be deadly, making the Warborn dodge it which was enough time for him to draw them back and once more attack.

Yet reality was far different, as his expectations fully betrayed him. For the Warborn replied by moving two steps forward, her hands quickly darting out to meet his coming scythes. Yet he ducked, allowing the blades to go pass her shoulders, before his hands darted out to grip his right scythe’s first segment and his throat respectively.

What followed was shock from Benedict, as a gasp barely escaped his lips as Warborn’s grip tightened and subsequently was followed by him being roughly slammed to the ground behind her. All of which took just several seconds, fully disorienting him as the shroud of anger and bloodlust was dispelled by the pain he felt on his body.

The impact upon the stone floor resounded clearly, but was quickly followed by a pregnant silence as the Warborn looked down upon him. Those hollow eye sockets of hers contained a blazing flame, yet from that alone he deduced he had a mocking gaze. One that deemed him ‘weak’, such a thought for some reason merely served to embolden his dimming anger. Fanning the embers as the pain that wracked his form dulled.

“This is your first lesson.” The Warborn began, letting go of his scythe as she suddenly brought down his left foot in a savage stomp towards his head. To which he quickly rolled to the side by instinct, narrowly dodging the attack itself which shattered the stone floor that it hit. It was a fatal strike, which sent a sliver of fear to Benedict as he realized the Warborn didn’t seem to wish to hold back.

“Overconfidence must be backed up with skill. Rage, fury, wrath are all pious emotions. Yet worthless once you act little more than a savage beast. As a Lord you will hone your body, as a Lord you must master what weapons your ‘natural’ form gifts you with. You must not rely upon your strange scythes, like some paltry mage would upon his most powerful of spells.”

“As a Lord?” He questioned, remembering quickly that he was apparently his mentor. Though a mentor that obviously did not hold back, as her words oozed with a sort of mocking tone that sent his blood boiling. For it was the mocking tone of the strong. Yet even then he could barely notice that he was unnaturally angry, a constant that flowed out as he pushed himself up.

“Indeed. As a Lord, for you are the Despot. Your name echoes with clear domination and cruelty, yet as an Ancient such echoes must be tempered to a sharp chorus. It is only right that we hold you to a higher standard than the pitiful nobility your home has.”

In reply however, Benedict jabbed one of his scythes towards him, only to find the Warborn deftly avoiding it and closing in on him for what seemed to be an attempt at a punch. In quick reaction his other scythe was brought down towards her, but much to his dismay he could not hit him for she deflected his scythe with his armored hand.

Only for her to follow it with a quick succession of disorienting blows targeting not only his face, but also his chest. This was what would precede and dictate their following confrontation, as Benedict’s own surprising durability was shown as each blow was dealt upon his form. This served only to fuel his ire as he savagely lashed out, to which the Warborn reacted with practiced ease and swiftly countering.

Over and over this repeated, Benedict lashing out with variations of attacks from his scythes like a beast or an alien thing from the fiction of his world. Like a flowing river however, the Warborn surpassed and overcame his actions, showing him the true extent of her skill with just his ‘natural’ body. Though he could not notice it, but he relied thoroughly on his scythes, barely using his own two arms when the Warborn drew close for his deadly punches.

“Pathetic.” Insulted the Warborn as she suddenly reached out and grabbed his scythes by their segment, pulling him roughly towards him before she slammed his metal head against Benedict’s own, drawing blood and a roar of pain as she followed it with another headbutt. “Truly pathetic.”

The strike itself rang out with the sound of metal clanging against something, though Benedict’s own skull was durable enough to not crack or shatter underneath such a ruthless force. This in turn forced the boy to forcefully reel back his scythes, as he finally used his own hands to strike towards the Warborn. Which was met with little success as his bare fist did little against her metal form.

“You are so easily overcome by rage and bloodlust, yet you are unable to temper it to your will. The Forlorn chose you, for he saw something in you. But I see nothing but a mindless beast, use your mind Despot. Use it and overcome.”

Despite his words, Benedict merely replied with a savage roar. His own scythes now slamming against the ground itself as he pushed himself back, nearly tripping backwards as he felt blood drip from his nose and lips. It was no surprise that he was disoriented, his own vision of the world dimming in and out as his own grip upon proper sapience was loosening.

“Overcome it Despot. Rage and bloodlust are not chains that bind you, but they are chains that must be used to choke the life out of your enemies. It should not be the very chains that bind you down and limit you like some… Dreg.”

Though the Warborn spoke, Benedict did not listen as his form coursed with unbridled mana. His rage was overtaking him, as always it had done so, always it did. But there was something wrong now, and he himself knew this to some extent, yet his lucidity was quickly leaving him as his body began to burn up from within. He was angry, so angry that he felt the mana within him burn excessively.

“Wrestle your rage and bloodlust, curb them and take control. You are the one who creates these emotions, and it shall be you who controls them. It must not be the other way around. Listen and you shall be more than an angry child.”

Then when anger would have gave way to more pain and suffering, Benedict let loose a cacophony of a shriek. The nature of his mana-filled voice turning a singular shriek of pain and anger, into a discordant chorus of several voices. This drew a curious gaze from the Warborn, who waited in still formation as she felt a sort of irritation towards Benedict. Anger and fury was well and good, yet when left like this only gave him a monster, and not a proper student.

Indeed that was what Benedict showed upon his exterior, as he finished such a shriek followed by him slowly beginning to circle around the Warborn. A drastic change to his previous tactics, as his rage was slowly being beaten down by his own will. Followed by something utterly peculiar, as from his very flesh steam came. First it was a barely noticeable thing, but as the seconds passed they came out in excess, beginning to form a cloud around Benedict’s form.

It got to a point that it practically covered his very being, acting like a sort of smokescreen that prevented the Warborn from seeing his form. Yet within Benedict’s mind, he was not only forcing mana out in such a rapid flood, his own changing body reacted to such an act by rapidly using up the mana he tried to expel. Which led to the creation of the steam that now practically came from the pores of his skin, yet also being excessively hot to the point that the air around him rose in temperature.

Strangely however, he did not feel this as through the expelling of his mana, a level of clarity came. That only brought a new rage to him, a cold rage that gave him the lucidity necessary to combat the Warborn. Not as an instinctive being, but rather a thinking creature. Which led him to quickly register the fact his body was now not only expelling mana, but also finding a means to not waste it. For the steam he produced lingered, and acted as an excellent way to hide his entire body.

Of course it was a double-edged sword, for he himself could not see past it as it obscured his sight. But that was only a problem for his formerly natural eyes, as now he could see mana and the Warborn was a literal beacon full of it. A blazing bright red source of mana, that burned with much emotion, that he could deduce the distance she stood away from him.

Now however, he was able to actually understand what the Warborn was trying to teach him. This he mulled over as he continued circling, his own mind barely realizing how much his anger and bloodlust hindered him. But there was no way to prevent them from happening, and even now with his cold rage his body was coursing with primal desires. Which unfortunately made him rush towards the Warborn, who immediately rushed towards him in response.

He was not sure if the Warborn could see the outline of his mana filled form, but he hoped in what part of his mind that wasn’t claimed by rage, that he couldn’t see his mana. Once the two were a meter away from another, Benedict made the first strike once more. Lashing out with a single scythe that plowed through his constant fog of steam, and heading out towards the Warborn’s chest.

Already the Warborn made the move to not only deflect it with her left hand, only for her to find another strike coming horizontally towards his waist. This made the Warborn react by deftly blocking both of the strikes with her arms, only for him to find Benedict’s fist hurtling towards her silvered face. Forcing him to draw back her arms to block, which was a mistake that Benedict capitalized on.

As his scythes fully revealed to the Warborn their degree of mobility as they clawed at her side, drawing a wretched screech of metal as the Warborn was fully taken by surprise, at how Benedict managed to take a hit on him. For she witnessed how in such a few seconds in between his strikes, his scythes attacked with a force that needed them to be drawn back as he had previously shown. Yet now he saw something different, a new tactic and attempt that could not be just been created from an angry mind.

“Finally, a measure of control.” The Warborn cooed as soon as they engaged in another bout of furious melee. Benedict’s own mind slowly gaining more hold over his very rage, as in this exchange of blows his body that constantly adapted and mutated, found a great incentive in allowing a greater degree of thinking while engage in combat. For it was the most effective way of winning this, or so his subconscious dictated.

In the ensuing confrontation, the results were extremely varied. Compared to before where Benedict was always countered, now with his screen of steam he was able to surprise the Warborn, dish out several hits and intuitively used his steam for defensive purposes. As the Warborn seemed to be unable to see pass through it. Yet it bore a beautiful sight, as the sight of flesh and steel collided with one another was almost poetic.

“Yes, this is how you become a true Lord!” Exclaimed the Warborn as she surprised Benedict with a sudden sweeping kick towards his legs, completely taking him off guard and nearly toppling him over. Yet through that mist his scythes quickly moved to support himself, though it was short lived as the Warborn followed it up with a dizzying kick towards his head. Which forced him to back away, only to engage quickly with his scythes sweeping up and down in rapid strikes, only for him to back away once the Warborn decided to retaliate.

This went on and on, seconds turned to minutes, and minutes turned to hours. Their exchange of blows was becoming more thought out, more elaborate as Benedict displayed his unnatural capability of adapting. Showing a greater degree of control and clarity in his actions, feigning and weaving through the field and taking advantage of his greater mobility and steaming mist.

Though the Warborn displayed far more variation in his actions, purposely harrying Benedict with a multitude of feigns and retaliations that kept him on edge. Yet what could have been a frustrating experience for Benedict, it turned to growing enjoyment. A thrill in which the combat became what it truly was, a spar, one taking advantage of both combatant’s incredible durability. A challenge in which he could become better, which his mind quickly picked up upon.

So it was that they fought, on and on in a rapid display of escalating strikes and rising feverish mania between the two. Until both came to a stop, with Benedict himself losing his constant flow of steam as he neared a measure of exhaustion. Though even when he had finally stopped, Benedict did not leave a single mark of damage upon the Warborn, whilst the inverse was true. Though what damage the Warborn had done to him had quickly healed by now.

“Is it… Over?” He asked then, his twin hearts beating furiously in dissonant beating. As his first part thrummed with rapid contractions, a product of his exertion and lingering excitement. The other was beating slower, though it did so in support of his other heart as beads of sweat fell from his forehead. In sight of this the Warborn chuckled in clear glee, which caused Benedict to tense up as he assumed for the worse.

However the Warborned turned lax, or at least the equivalent of what she could do. As his hands soon began to clap, resounding clearly as the Warforged around the walls followed suit, only the Seekers did nothing as they continued their silent watch. Once a minute or two passed, the Warborn and her warriors stopped, as for the duration of the clapping a look of confusion and suspicion was laced on Benedict’s face.

“It is far from over.” The Warborn says, to which Benedict grimaced as his own negative thoughts brewed. “But the first lesson, you’ve managed to roughly grasp. Your anger has been at the very least, shown to be manageable by your own will. Though I must admit it is far… Malignant and despotic, a fitting thing considering your title little brother.

Your style of combat however, has much to be desired from. It is both pleasing and disappointing in how you showed it to me, yet it can still be improved which I will thoroughly enjoy.”

With what could be a purr of delight, Benedict sighed as he turned to look to his side. Already from that very act, he could see his better half running towards him, having quickly rushed down from the seats to him the moment their fight had ended. In a minute she arrived, hugging him tightly without giving him a word to say. He did not mind as relief came soon after, his anger fading away quickly as the Warborn looked at him with judging eyes.

“Do not forget how you fought me Despot. This is only one of many types of combat, involving merely your own body and no other. I shall make sure to temper you in the proper direction, to make you a worthy Lord in Martial Prowess, and in honor so you may stand proud with your very title. Next we meet, I will teach you the full extent of combat using your fists and legs.

Given your unique limbs however… You yourself need to use them fully, and properly. If not, then not even your absurd regenerative ability will help you in surviving.”

-

By the time they had gone back to what he considered his ‘home’, Benedict wasted no time in sleeping. Not even Salia who spoke in soothing sound, nor her healing and warm touch could bring him to not sleep. It was a sudden compulsion that overtook him, which he chalked up the rapid exertion of energy and mana he had done in combat. Of course, when sleep overtook him, that land of bones greeted him in its full malignant beauty. Spanning outwards endlessly in that lonesome sea, as that one moon shines its light down upon him.

It was a place of baleful beauty, of still unnatural silence and cold silent winds. It was familiar to him, yet now in this very moment it felt different. It felt far more malign than it should be, as if there was danger here which was a strange thing. For in a dream, one may not find danger to themselves, unless it was a nightmare. Which this land of bones and the dead could be one, but to Benedict it was a dream he was well accustomed now.

To the point that only annoyance was something he felt truly in this instance, for like always all he needed to do was walk. Continue walking until he reached that large titanic gate, and lay witness to that strange eldritch thing within, watching with those eyes of it. Of course accompanied by the rising undead that grew in numbers without end.

Yet now, something was indeed different. Something utterly wrong. For now he stood not upon the flat land composed of skulls, instead he was sitting upon a throne of stone and gold. Which in of itself was strange and confusing, if it wasn’t overshadowed by the fact the throne and himself sat atop what seemed to be a floating mass of skulls. Which in turn was held further aloft by eight chains, pointing outwards in all possible directions, connected to angels.

Or what seemed to be angels in his eyes, for they were large black cloaked beings, hunched and flying with six wings of an ashy grey coloration, the chains themselves held tightly by gangly arms covered in strange runic inscriptions. All topped up by the very fact their faces could not be seen, completely obscured by the hood they wore, that made them more akin to angels of death.

Reapers for simplicity’s sake. Though even with that thought and realization, this still confused him, as the angels were carrying the floating mass towards something, to what direction he could not know. Even then as he tried to ponder upon it, more changes revealed itself to his very gaze. For in this moment upon the once silent yet eerie land of bones, the sound of combat rang out in discordant quality. It was combat in the likes that he knew to be only found in his world, and in the various forms of fantastical literature and films it had.

‘What is this…’ Was what he thought, as ever since this kind of dream had began. He knew that there was a constant to it, one eventuality that would manifest in the end. How it would reach such an end, was always the same, he needed to walk, he needed to walk without end onwards. Yet this was not normal, and something within his mind nagged at him that this could not be right.

In mere moments he was proven right, as from where he sat he could see what was in front of him and below. Which drew a gasp of surprise from him, forcing him to sit up from his throne, followed by him rushing to the edge of the float mass he was on.

“What is this?!” He exclaimed in disbelief. Eyes widening in surprise and disbelief, as directly below from his flying piece of land, was a war that raged. It was a war not waged by beings of flesh, but rather the undead that he saw rise up frequently in his previous dreams. The scale and extent of the war was readily apparent, as from even up high on where he was, he could hear the clamor of combat, the explosions of spells, and most of all the bellowing of commands and warcries.

From his vantage point, the scene below was as clear as day to him. Letting his eyes see the hundreds of thousands of warriors in combat, each one being from two distinct sides that was barely familiar to him. However if one did not pay attention, they were just merely indistinct bodies warring with one another, crushing, cutting and piercing one another in some chaotic fashion.

But for Benedict, he could not help but examine both sides. His hearts somehow beating in excitement and glee as he viewed the battle. As he quickly found that one side was a sort of ‘holy’ army, highly reminiscent of the crusaders of his world, with them being highly varied in their attire and weaponry. The other side was something obviously fantastical, undead that wore black and red armor, having demonic designs upon their armor and weaponry.

Both sides had access to mages, siege weapons and surprisingly, titanic warriors. Which their respective commanders used to deadly effect, causing much chaos and havoc for both undead armies. Both side also held its own fair share of heroes, and rising villainous deeds that he watched closely. Strangely however, it seemed both side spoke english, it was not translated into the very language, but they themselves did so.

“For the Alliance!” The Crusaders yelled.

“Glory to the Legion!” The Demons chanted.

Yet all over the battlefield, was utter pandemonium. They fought as if they had nothing to lose, they fought as if the world around them was truly at stakes. They did not even consider both sides were undead, only the fact that they had to win mattered to them. Or perhaps they didn’t even see each other as undead, such a thought was considered by Benedict. But in the end it did not matter, as the battle went on and on, each side gaining and losing an advantage in equal measure.

Of note, there were two particular beings that peaked his interest. One was a sort of warrior-king from the side of the Crusaders, the other was a sort of berserker from the Demons.

The warrior-king despite his undead state, wore an eye-catching set of armor. It was practical and utilitarian, a simple set of gunmetal grey plate armor, paired up with a mail coif upon his head, topped by a damaged but noble golden grown. With the cuirass itself having been covered by a surcoat, which had the depiction of a strange golden face, whose eyes and mouth was wide open in a silent scream, yet the eyes and mouth respectively was colored a bright gold. As if light was coming out of the face itself. Upon his armored hands was a simple mace and a shield respectively.

The berserker on the other hand, was in every sense incredibly strange in attire. It was impractical to the extreme, for the berserker wore an armor composed of numerous bones. Be it small or large, turning him into an undead composed of more undead. This did not bother the berserker however, as his skeletal attire was vaguely formed into a measure of fantastically designed plate, whilst his hands wielded a large greatsword composed of black pulsating metal and even more bones. Not only that, the very eye sockets of the berserker glowed a furious red.

In physical quality the two were very different, one was clearly embodying that of humble nobility that fought for what was right. The other was merely senseless madness and evil, with one edgy quality to it that Benedict could not help but cringe at.

In action however, the two showed their difference greatly. As the warrior-king led by example, fighting alongside those that bore his symbol, not only commanding them to fight, but also defending them. Never being too far away from those he led, and showing grand acts of valor as he spearheaded a daring counter-attack against the forces of the demons.

Much in contrast however, the berserker fought alone. He was larger than any of the present combatants, in part due to the fact he was composed of more bones than anyone else. This allowed him to tower over many combatants, swinging his blade in reckless abandon and even going as far as to hit his own allies. He was the clear embodiment of a berserker, anything and everyone that he faced was an obstacle that must be slaughtered.

The sight of the two instilled an incredible sense of familiarity upon him, as if a feeling of dejavu was hitting him. It was similar in the way he saw his proto-aberrations, but the difference between the two now and to his proto-aberrations, the former were beings of this strange nightmare. Whilst the latter were clearly things that he had created, though as to how he had not yet found out.

Though as he had continued to watch, the angels continued to carry the mass he was on ever forward. The battle below slowly drifting away, yet the two he had singled out as unique still faught. Their clashing and actions being clearly obvious to him, even when magic and archaic artillery shattered the ground of skulls they stood upon.

Yet this would be the last he would see of them for this instance, with the berserker and warrior-king meeting and battling with one another. With the warrior-king and his loyal knights meeting the lone berserker in solemn dedication, working with one another in unity. Even when they outnumbered the berserker, they could not gain a proper hold as their large foe attacked without any hesitation or thought. Breaking their shield lines, until it was a one on one duel.

Who won then, Benedict could not know as the angels had taken the mass away. To a familiar place, as when he finally turned away from the dwindling forms of the crusaders and demons, he saw the titanic gate that heralded the end of his dream. It was always the same, large and domineering, defying every logical sense he had upon his very being.

However like the start of this dream, it was different now as the angels were purposely bringing the mass to the gate. Specifically upon the forehead of the very skull that composed the strange esoteric locking mechanism of the gate itself. Only stopping once the mass a few meters away from the very crack on the forehead itself, in which upon the darkness within faded to reveal a multitude of truly eyes. All staring at him with mad intent.

‘Free me.’ It said to him, speaking in guttural and squelching noises, translated into understandable language in the form of a thousand psychic screams bearing down upon his mind. It forced him to flinch back, grinding his teeth together as a surge of pain overcame his mind.

“Why?” He asked as he reeled backwards, making sure that he was further away and back near the throne he initially sat upon. “Why should I? What is this place? What are you?”

He asked it more questions as he soon realized that this would give him answers, answers which he hoped to shed light on why he was having this dream, and why there were things happening specifically to him, that was either too terrifying or convenient to even be a coincidence.

‘Free me.’ It said again, the largest eye of it quivering in agitation and clear anger, as tentacles began to slowly pour out of the blackness within the stone skull’s hole, slowly trying to free itself, which was fruitless. As it let out a deep scream that forced Benedict to cover his ears. ‘Free me.’

‘Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out.’ It began to say, repeating it over and over in disharmonious sound as its tentacles all reached for him, suddenly darting out to grave him, forcing him to react by using his scythes to strike at them. Forcing the very tentacles to back away, or be cut entirely.

“Answer me! Why should I?! Who are you?! And what is this place?!” He bellowed back as strangely, no anger came from him. Only a surprising calm as he used his scythes to fend off the coming tentacles that sought to take him away.

As one might expect, the creature behind the gate could do nothing but repeat its previous words. Its psychic screams continued on and on, as his scythes met the tentacles in quick succession. Cutting and tearing, with him maneuvering around the mass to dodge what he could not cut, which further caused more psychic screams from the monstrous thing.

Then ancticlamitically the creature suddenly withdrew its tentacles, with its psychic screams all grounding to a halt as one by one its eyes closed. Only allowing its largest to stare, which in turn closed minutes later. This only confused Benedict as moments later the dream suddenly ended, with him waking up to something pressing down upon him, enough to make breathing hard.

“Good morning.” Someone said, as the feeling of a sharp blade was pressed down upon his neck. “I didn’t expect you to wake up so early.” The individual continued, her voice being unfamiliar yet clearly mischievous. In an instant Benedict tensed up, his scythes readying itself to strike at whoever was pressing the blade against his neck.

But when his eyes opened, all he saw was something vaguely female straddling him. Her face looming close to his own, as a large ornate dagger was beginning to be caress his skin. She was akin to a mass of living shadows, only the glowing purple eyes of hers allowed him to see that she was not a hallucination. This made him frown, as he turned to look for a Salia, who somehow was still fast asleep next to him.

THis brought him a measure of relief, before his waking mind instantly placed its attention back to this female shadow. Though she smiled, letting out a hushed giggle as she pressed down her dagger on his neck again, reminding him that she could slit his throat. Though he was not sure if that was enough to kill him.

“So… This is the Forlorn’s own successor. You’re actually smaller in person.” Teasingly she shifted her sitting position, dangerously pushing herself back to where his crotch was. It seems this was on purpose, as another giggle escaped her lips. “You smell different too, you smell of blood and of clear anger… Very scary, so scary.~”

“... Who are you?” Biting back his growing anger, he asked her, a question which he hoped to be answered unlike when he was in his dream.

“I’m no one in particular.~ Maybe you can beat the answer out of me hmm? Tear it away from my mind, as you dominate me with your feral feelings, is it not what you are meant to do. Despot?” Now her own words were now teasing, which brought down an uncomfortable feeling of awkwardness to Benedict.

“What?” Was what all he could voice, which caused a look of amusement from the strange woman.

“You heard me Despot. If you wish for that answer, you’ll need to dominate me, it’s what you’re meant to do.~ That or you can just try and kill me, but you won't get the chance before I kill you.”