These lands are relentless, concealing threats that crawl against the tenderfoot of anyone who crosses over. Such pain is burdensome while traveling. Karthuras’s flock had to deal with these consequences to a terrible degree. Upon the skin, blood drips from toe to heel, blackened from dirt and gravel. Resting gave them no ease, only the fear of continuation—twenty-five men, forty women, and ten children suffer through this condition. As for him, he rests leisurely against the stone pillar. He couldn’t sleep because of his curse, but in his mind, the faceless woman gave his much-needed rest in the dream world. Instead of that stone pillar, his back gently rests against the tallest tree, his legs against the soft strains of grass, and that woman wrapping her arms around his shoulder with no intention of letting go. From his worried thoughts, he asked her:
“Humanity’s last refuge is not much farther from here—such thoughts worry me: will the capital be charitable enough to take them in?”
She replied: “Are we not aware of their condition? Their barbaric practices will only hinder their reputation. Not only that, but Hettalies will know of your existence and will do whatever she can to kill you and these people.”
“I’m aware… Still, I hope they will be charitable; if not, I shall make a sacrifice that will lead to the Demon’s downfall.”
“What are you planning to do?”
“A being of obscure proportions. Such as the chieftain, who is more complex in anatomy and could wipe an entire civilization.”
“Why do you have this change of heart? Are you not eager to save this world from extinction?”
“The capital is the only place where my withering optimism can be restored. If not the capital, nor the wasteland, then I shall end its suffering—afterward, I will deal with Sleeper’s consequences—by whichever fate he decides for me.”
Without her face giving him a slight expression, her movements still gesture concern, “Those years of darkness had removed your sense of compassion… I still remember those days in the chapel and how eager you were to help others. With such resolve, you were able to help those indeed.”
“I must evolve… I can no longer wither—no more will I need the comfort of food or drink. And to sleep, the very action became nothing more than a foreign concept to me.”
“Just remember who you are as a devoted Phader. The one who takes the concerns of the many and leads them to their goals and freedom from their anguish.”
“I recall well of my purpose… from these present conditions, I am alone with this new responsibility. Not for one destination, nor my own home… I must guide this tarnished land to its final ruin… so it may be rebirthed into something more.”
#
Within the tall, broody walls of the capital lies an ocean of insanity. Upon these many structures, shudders anon to the passing ears from its cacophony. Such cries could be ignored when the eyes focus on mechanical parts in play—a combination of flesh and steel, bone-saturated oil, watchful eyes leering upon every corner. Human and Gramnorian individuals cross the dirt roads without a glance nor gesture in pleasant greetings; no, there was only worry and hidden disdain, thus moving onward with their place of repetition—areas that hold the many bodies used for restocking their blood supply. Not by force are they placed into these cold steel chairs, slowly dying from the lack of vigor. Drip-by-drip, they lend to repay their debts.
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Stumbling across the dirt road, the Phantom Prince huffs and tilts at his weak side, ready to pass on into the next life. The golden-plated guards who noticed his sudden appearance approached him and guided him to the castle beyond the scattered machinery, where he was stitched, fed, and bathed.
With help from the passing maiden, he could relinquish the worry of his mind before speaking with the empress. Dressed in his now polished armor and sharpened blade, he meets with his mother in the dim throne room, shown in artificial blue light—decorated in a degenerate alter. Hettalies stands in the middle, drinking from the motorized spider that binds an unclothed woman on its back, slowly draining her blood.
A single drop of blood runs vapidly down her sleek black armor; she catches it from leaving her sight and then proceeds to lick it from her black glove. She did not take on her demon appearance, preferring the form of Cresalin—thus blending the macabre with beauty. Upon seeing her wounded son, she became instantly worried and quickly embraced him in her arms. “Who did this to you!” she demanded to know.
His response: “A wanderer outside these walls among the mound-rats.”
“There is more to the story,” said the Phantom, “It’s an old friend of ours. Karthuras.”
“…Are you certain?” she became speechless.
“Beyond certain—for he performed the conjuring arts against our men.”
The Prince continued: “It matters not who this Demon is, rather how we can get rid of him! How long, if not soon, when this Demon will corrupt our capital?”
Hettalies laughed at the idea, “This Demon does not possess such unfiltered hatred. He is only a kind soul who can do no wrong. That is why the Phantom was first introduced to your fa—”
“The mound-rat…” the Prince corrected.
She continued: “Yes, of course, the mound-rat… As I was saying—he is not a man of true volition, for he and only, will proceed the motions given to him by the Phader code.”
“Still, I must persist, mother,” the Prince waved his armless shoulder, “There is a matter of my lacking worth; I require an alteration to proceed the mound-rat’s strength and ability.”
“The Phantom should be more than enough to stop his act of conjuration. As for your strengths, there is something I can do to change them. Alas, would you be willing to go through such treatment? The body requires a conscious response to every muscle and organ growth. Further on, you will no longer have excess to the pleasures of both leisure and consumption. It’s a similar method I had implanted in the mound-rat, you speak. This method is immensely instant.”
“I cannot have our home taken over. I must protect and serve everyone within these walls, no matter the cost… I’m willing to surrender myself for the betterment of all!”
She turns to the Phantom, who looms over the Prince’s shoulder, “What say you?”
“It doesn’t matter to me, empress… I’m not the one who will suffer through crude dismemberment.”
“Then it has been decided,” Hettalies concluded.
Expectation runs through the Prince’s thoughts, vivid imagination portraying sights of horror—going beyond the realms of insanity; in reality, a severe shiver strangles his spin upon seeing the steel hydraulics and flesh bindings. Its limbs protrude from every corner of the pentagram bed with holes at the limb placements. Gripping at his chest was the mechanical rip cage that penetrated his organs with a black serum while severing the hair from the skin, then from the skin to flesh, then to bone where it is cracked—the pieces reformed to a greater width as the serum fills the empty gaps. Such a process left the Prince sobbing from these instruments of carnage. His limb is stretched, torn off from the socket, and reattached with greater mass and height with steel reinforcement.
The Phantom watches from the side, snarling in delight at the sight before him. Hettalies was no different, and she could see potential in this new design; alas, will her son have resolve? Speculation about the heights of misery is futile—if one does not comprehend such a dilemma.
