This machine was created to alternate the mortal shell; mercy was merely a concept in its abstract design. Its perfection sides with the crude artistry of anguish, an overwhelming source of oppression—penetrating the flesh bindings and bone marrow from Karthuras’s anatomy. He could feel the mechanical limbs by the rotation of cylinder blades at his shoulders to his legs and remaining arm. It blends well with the symphony of the cacophony of the endless hiss! The pain subsides gradually with the many days—or perhaps the many years it’s been. Gradually, when the pain simmered to some extent, he pleaded within his thoughts:
Come back to me, faceless one—take me from this pain once more!
She did not answer his call, nor was her scarf seen near his proximity, and this led to an attempt to open his mouth for the hundredth time, thus speaking the words of conjuration. Similarly to his remaining limbs, his mouth was also bounded by the steel limbs. His forceful acts had only damaged the flesh connecting to the bottom of his nose and the edge of his chin.
Those horrible, scrawny beings of flesh and metal loom over to prevent Karthuras from attempting to escape anymore. Faintly, he could see his reflection from the blue-tinted glass eyes. It wasn't much, but as he expected, the process of him becoming a demon had come a long way from his mortal form. He couldn't believe it. Not even the pleasant mind trick of the dreamlands could sway him to think otherwise. No, he had to be reassured by the demoness Hettalies, who morphed into Cresalin’s appearance.
Karthuras’s bitterness reciprocates that continuous smile of hers. Not only did she taunt him with expression, but with her gentle hand, she felt the ashen skin of his exposed cheeks. She whispers:
"Sleeper has not forsaken you, neither have I, my love. So much work needs to be done, and time has already been wasted. As for our son, he is alive and well… He's also eager to meet you."
Such morbid fantasy is discarded from his mind, jaded from his sanity, and his resolve can no longer become persuaded! Again, his mind drifted into the realm of thoughts until he left in his state of eternal silence—this resulted in the whaling cries of those machines, stating Karthuras to be nearly dead.
"He is still alive! Still alive, I say!" The voice came from the Phantom ripped from the Karthuras’s exposed chest! Squirming in the hands of those mutants, he pleads on, eventually sealed in a glass chamber. His heart still sings! I swear it! I swear it!”
The mutants could not discover any signs of reaction within the muscles or his organs. Karthuras had suspended into the furthest deep of sorrow. Not only in his mind, but his body also had to share a similar fate—plummeting into the depths of wasted potential, surrounded by the corpses of men that came before.
In silence, he lays in perpetual reflection of his transgression and the demoness who seduced his mind with promise—the cure to desolation. Such curses had to remain, he bitterly concluded:
I had allowed myself to ignore her lies—permitting my consciousness to embrace the hesitant bosom of paranoia. I cannot preserve myself as one of true purity—only someone who deserves to be severed from this world…
And this very world shifted without his presence, as did his surroundings. A pool formed around his knees, becoming ever taller as the minutes passed. Annoyance plagues him, so he climbs from that abyss into the hall that previously mutilated his body. It was a miserable tunnel of abstract machinery; time eroded their limbs, and bodies caved into dust. The mutants were now nothing more than twisted skeletons and rotting steel.
His path eventually leads him to a curious spiral staircase, held sturdy by the cobblestone steps. He climbs it with caution until he finds an obscure patterned wall. With some force, he pushed, permitting himself to enter the chapel's main room. The light source came from the crimson sun, beaming through the tarnished ceiling and walls. As a mortal, the delicate decorations he grew to respect had withered into dust; the statues were no different. All that was beautiful withers the same by the unstoppable force of time.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
Within the scattered shards of glass, Karthuras looks at his reflection, comprehending the horror that stirred over those many years: he morphed into a muscular state, shaded in ash, damaged by the many tools that left marks against his skin. The head no longer holds any strands of hair nor the parts that make him human—only comparable to an unrotten bone, gnawed many times over. And without his left arm bound by that scarf, he becomes concerned for his missing friend. Such concern was undermined when he exited the main door—what a hopeless sight. Lifeless beyond his anatomy. An inevitable evil shattered his world into a chaotic spiral, shaded in crimson: The scorching sun, the endless sky, the lack of vegetation, everything and everyone drowns in the shadowy ocean—creating distorted beings inside its murky waters.
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death is a small portion of the true insanity that Hettalies brought to this world. The very essence of optimism is waned by this deplorable circumstance—thus, why is it—would he carry any ounce of faith? Unfortunately, it was only a thread; such fragile designs can only withstand so long.
His ears caught a surprising outburst of war cries in the distance. What befallen his sight was morbid obscenity, watching as the remnants of life striving for the other's death in combat. When he reached the battlefield, the cracked soil was fetid from the abundance of corpses—there were only a few survivors left.
They wear primitive clothing while equipped with weapons from the parts of the human composition. To some extent, they are still human, while others are blended with the features of wild beasts. One of the two sides had dark red paint on their skin, fur, and leather tunics. The other contains a blue shade, wearing head caps with fangs swirling around its cone-like shape. The last survivor of the red side was a human, holding a large bone weapon fitted with fangs inside its assembly. The last three are from the blue side, only having one hulking beast equipped with a blood-stained club.
The three approached him slowly and carefully, ready to end his life with a single strike. The red one puffs his chest to beat it like a drum and says to the three men:
"Honor to the Ring lord!”
Karthuras intervened without a weapon or a fragment of clothing, and he did not consider a plan. Their full attention shifted but not as a welcoming gesture, only expressing a glare of terror from his hideous poise. The beast-man said to the other two:
"Demon! Stand back! Stand back!" He gestured to stay away.
The other one pointed: "Dat arm' nutin there!"
Karthuras finally spoke for the first time, not realizing the dark shift of his voice: "There is no arm there—but believe when I say—that your life will be forfeited if you choose to battle me.”
"Tis bluff—Bluff I say!" the beast man regained his confidence. He charges in with the others by his side. Meanwhile, under Karthuras's breath, he uttered a sequence of words that removed the soul from the beast man's ally and gained control of him, thus dropping his weapon. The remaining one was conflicted by the sudden loss of his comrades—watching as the beast man used his two claw-like hands to rip open his jaw, exposing the throat for everyone to see the inside as the tongue rattles from the lack of support. The last one fell back, crawling on the soil in terror.
Karthuras said: "Is it death you seek or freedom to live on?"
After retrieving his cone-shaped helm with hesitation, he leaves the area and panics back into the wasteland. The red one said suddenly:
"Tis a place of honorable death, for I am not worthy to live on after defeat," he kneels before Karthuras in anticipation.
"There is no need for anyone else to die… can you not see the horror that surrounds us? We should begin to rebuild this world and reunite the people.”
"You speak words of cowardice, Demon… Peace isa damnable way of life. The ring lord will not be satisfied by such ways.”
"Are you a Phader?" Karthuras asked, "Do you know the words in which Sleeper, our ring lord, speaks?”
"I know not of—Phader?”
"That is who I am, stranger, Phader-Karthuras Rotolo. Once, I was a man who spoke the words of our lord, but now I am a demon of—no, it doesn't matter now. Who are you, and where are you from?"
The man rises before he speaks: "I am Gatlis, a great warrior for the Vermiculus-Flumen…" he answered, troubled.
Karthuras finally smiles with his exposed teeth, "I am very fortunate to have met you, Gatlis. Despite this situation, you have done a great service to me. Your people will feel the same when you return alive.”
"No!" he replied, "I—I have allowed my brothers to die here; I cannot return to their wives and children with their blood… I must finish the Flexenmires of their existence!”
"Perhaps in time, Gatlis… For now, let us find aid—and, for me, some clothing. I do not wish to have my cock dangling in between my thighs in combat…"
Gatlis was still confused by these events—leading him to ponder if this Demon was well with his intentions. Without much Hope for himself or his people, he believed taking such risks would benefit everyone long-term. After some thought, he eventually replies:
"Alright, Phader, let us return to my camp…”
