Aegis

“Xeros, just how far must you go? It pains me to see you like this, so filled with hatred, when I know a glimmer of that righteous young man of the past still dwells within you. Your dream is something wonderful, but this is not the answer. Look around you! Is this world of yours truly worth the anguish and torment it has wrought?”

- Grand General Luxmi, Former Ruler of Lux Caelum

———

Xeros

Memories. They are a fickle thing, haunting, and yet they are necessary. From them, humanity learns. From them, the people rise. The Grand General would not be the person he is today if it isn’t for the memories of his youth—of a foolish, naive man brimming with a desire to bring change. It has brought him much grief, that period of struggle, but Xeros does not regret his path; the phantoms of yor and the regret he has failed to smother are what fuel his impassioned campaign even now—even here as a bitter wretch far too old to be fostering such dreams.

Yet, sometimes, he remembers his mistakes. He contemplates what could have been, how his life could have been different, but memories are mere echoes of the past. They are immaterial, and obsessing over the endless possibilities will only yield a hollow emptiness. What matters is the now: the realization of his life’s sacrifices.

Hm, how curious. For I to become sentimental after so long… it is a nostalgic feeling, but an unneeded one. Even after all these years, my mind is still plagued by weakness: a most troubling thought, indeed.

A stiff voice reports from his behind. It is Luxanne, and she rises out onto the construct’s deck as the Grand General remains motionless—face cast in a scowl. But it is not her presence that vexes him, nor is it his prior bout of gloom: No, it is the stale view unfolding before his eyes—a landscape that invokes naught but disgusted sneers.

“We have arrived, Grand General,” she says. “From here on out, we will be traversing through the Overlord’s territory.”

“So I see,” Xeros replies, sparing not a glance back. He cannot, for his attention is seized by the odd disparity in their surroundings.

It is midday, the sun should be blazing high above, but instead a sickly fog encroaches upon the grey, pallid air, causing the world to be enveloped in an eerie chill. Such change is not unheard of in the mountains of Caelum, but there is something strange about this weather: only a few moments ago has he felt the heat blister on his skin, but no more. It is as if they have passed through some unseeable boundary.

And the sky is not the only change: The fields of yellow grass and wheat are gone, replaced by a reddish mud. It covers every last surface of the ground, and its muck prevents any vegetation from flourishing. The landscape can only be described as one of decay: a lifeless, withering mire reeking of the most foulest of smells.

It reminds Xeros of the slums in Caelum. At least, back in his day.

The war machine creeps along the unpleasant land for some time. Luxanne stands stoically at attention by his side, but she cannot hide her discomfort: and for once, it is not directed towards Xeros. The Overlord’s peculiar territory has even managed to wrench away her malice—an impressive feat to be sure.

Eventually, they reach the entrance of a dilapidated village… if it can even be called such, for the homes of this place are but no more than tattered huts of rotten sticks and animal skins: so small, so decrepit, and so utterly filled with a miserable torpor. One cannot even spot a single soul out in the open: They all hide away from view, and the only hint of their existence comes from the occasional stir of shadow casting a beady-eyed glare from inside the darkness.

A fog rolls forth into the party’s view, and without a sound, a procession of strange beings emerge from the haze and approach the construct. Human, yet only in appearance, and Xeros is perplexed for he cannot discern a single morsel of free will nesting within their hollow eyes. They are dressed differently from the rebel attackers, choosing to march bare-chested instead of wearing colorful cloth, and their skin is sewn all over with an assortment of varying mystical tattoos. But oddest of all are the skull-shaped masks shrouding their faces, leaving only an eerie wisp to flicker in the sockets—a blue flame.

These things are but soulless puppets. Not even their movements display any resemblance of humanity; they lurch and swing their limbs in an unnatural cadence - like an infant struggling to understand their own body - and their heads sway constantly to the side: dazed, or perhaps bewitched, into a shriveling husk.

Despite this curious display, what intrigues the Grand General most is one thing: their synchronicity. Every twitch and stagger is shared. Every turn of the head is echoed amongst the crowd. There is no individuality, no distinctiveness, nor any self of character: the only difference betwixt them is the shape of their bodies while they all move in complete harmony—as if intertwined together in a collective hive of consciousness.

It does not take long before they arrive at the war machine.

“Welcome,” the husks speak in unison. “Grand General Xeros, we have been waiting. Waiting. Follow us. He longs for your presence. He beckons for your call.”

There is no escape from this land. The only path left is forward.”

“… Lead the way,” he says with a grimace.

The Overlord’s kin nods without a word, and they surround the construct before guiding it deeper into the worn village. It is here Xeros finally spies some of the common folk mulling about, but something is wrong. None of them are working. Instead, they shamble around as if seeking for some sort of command or order: but that order never comes, and so they live out their meager lives in perpetual wait. Eyes glossy. Gaze transfixed to the dirt below.

It is the vilest sight Xeros has seen thus far.

“Tell me, what do you see, Luxanne?” he asks his protege while leering at the squalor.

“… Corpses,” she says, holding back a trembling fist. “There is no light, no desire, within their eyes. They may as well be dead.”

“Quite so, quite so,” he nods. This place is the very antithesis of the Grand General’s vision. A land with no urgency, where the people fester in their own disgusting pile of sloth, is a land he has no need for. “Humans are greedy, fickle creatures, but their ambition is what gives them cause. It inspires them to struggle harder, to reach greater heights, even if in the process they must endure countless hardship. Remember this, Luxanne: Desire is necessary for mankind to evolve. To overcome their limits. And it is the duty of a ruler to stoke that desire within all. We satisfy their selfish aspirations - we give them purpose - and in turn, they serve. Such is how the world should be: one where competition inspires passion. One where effort and merit are rewarded as they rightfully should.”

“… Even if the weak must be thrown away in the process?”

The words leave Luxanne’s lips before she even realizes, and the girl swiftly stumbles over her words in an attempt to rectify her act of defiance. Ah… you foolish, foolish child. You will never succeed in deceiving me if you let your emotions loose so freely. Eventually, your heart must harden. It is a leader’s fate to grow cold with time.

“I-I apologize, I meant no disrespect,” she stammers. “I merely wished to know how best to utilize those not of the same talent as the worthy.”

“Hm, and know you shall. But you are mistaken on one point, Luxanne.”

“What would that be, sir?”

“There is no such thing as talent in this world.” Xeros slowly steps forth, moving closer and closer to the flinching visage of his still-naive disciple, and then grasps her shoulders hard with a clutch of his wrinkly, scarred hands. “No, that word is but a false illusion—an excuse for the powerful to remain dominant over the masses. To cripple them. To make them feel inferior. But let this be known: No one is born with innate capability. There is only skill. Understanding. Desperation. Those who cry of talent and unfairness are miserable cretons who lack the hunger to better themselves. They wallow in their own self pity, bemoan and blame others for their own shortcomings, yet never do they truly struggle. They are content with their own stagnation, and there is but one word to describe such a people: parasites. Dreams can only be made manifest through blood and tears—through enduring any shame and humiliation. Those who prove themselves of such determination are the only ones deserving to be treated as human, while the rest shall rot away and serve as an example; that is their only use, to kindle the desire of others.”

You know this best of all, Luxanne. I remember that frail child of yesteryear, of the downtrodden little girl filled with rage after losing her mother. You were weaker than anyone else, and yet you rose. You became the woman you are today because of your hate for me, your desire to kill me, and that desire shall lead you to the path of becoming a proper ruler. Now, all I need left is to smother the weakness Luxmi so vexingly instilled in you before her death…

Xeros sighs and loosens his grip. Luxanne remains deathly still, too wary to twitch even a muscle, and she desperately attempts to maintain her stoic facade. But he knows his sincerity will get through to her eventually. It will take time, yet he worries not. Change is ever so slow: fast sometimes, yes, but a sudden change is not always for the better. Indoctrination is best done over the years. His words will cling to her, fester in the recesses of her heart, and then shall come a day when she can ignore it no longer. So until then, he shall repeat his speech as many times as needed.

“I… understand,” she bitterly replies. “Thank you for your lesson once again, Grand General.”

“So you say.”

The construct comes to an abrupt halt, and the party’s lifeless escorts move to the side as their destination finally reveals itself: two large stone slabs serving as a passageway into a chamber deep underground. Its appearance bears resemblance to a tomb’s entrance, and markings are engraved upon the base—denoting a particularly ancient origin. One that predates the First Civilization. Xeros has heard tales of ruins documenting humanity’s origin, but to think he would be met with such precious find here. Hrm, I wonder if the Overlord realizes the value of this primeval crypt. To let a stranger enter it so simply… he is either ignorant, or he plans not for our escape. Regardless, I shall be ready.

The husks gesture soundlessly at the entrance, but when Xeros prepares to assemble an entourage, they loudly stamp their weapons in protest and then hold up two thin fingers. The message is clear: only two may enter, and they must do so whilst traversing on foot.

“Testing me again, are you?” he mutters to himself. “Very well, I accept.”

“How shall we proceed, sir?” Luxanne says. “The soldiers are on standby. If we have to, I’m sure we can brute force our way out of the village.”

“My, my, there is no need for such drastic measures. You shall escort me while the others guard the war machine; if those puppets over there show any hint of aggression, then the Astrologians have permission to deploy the Elysian Ray. Understood?”

“By your order.”

“Very good. Ah, and do not forget the welcome gifts. We do not want to be rude towards our host.”

Luxanne disappears into the construct, and Xeros takes a brisk step off the deck. But instead of falling, black thunderclouds form beneath his feet, and they gently guide the Grand General down onto the mud - footfall by footfall - until the tomb’s cold rock is right within his reach.

He marvels at the engravings, the crude depictions of man’s appearance in the past, and he runs his finger along the etches. Feeling. Envisioning. Xeros has never been a religious man, but he cannot deny there is a certain draw in the comfort of divinity. In a different world, a different time, perhaps I would have been a staunch devotee. I would have prayed to the heavenly Mother Cosmos. I would have believed that our suffering was of purpose—a trial for which salvation awaited us at the final hour.

But then, I saw it: those beings the doctrine taut as holy. I saw a Star, and I knew then it was all a lie.

“I have returned.” Luxanne reappears by his side, and she brings the severed heads of the rebel tribesmen with her, their stumps soaking the sack with a dark, dripping blood.

“Hrm. Your blade?”

“Sharpened.”

“Bullets?”

“Refilled.”

“Then we depart.”

The two brace themselves, and they push the stones wide open. A sprawling catacomb is revealed before their eyes, and chiseled arches of bone etch downwards into the shape of a macabre flight of stairs. The only sources of light are the sparse torches lined along the wall, glow faint and eerie, but it is sufficient enough to illuminate the murals slathered all about the space.

It is a shame he has neither the time nor grace to document his findings, but no matter. His memory will serve enough, and with a grunt, Xeros sets forth and descends deeper into the underground. Luxanne trails hesitantly behind, but even she begins to show an interest in the history around them.

It is upon the discovery of a most peculiar mural, however, that Xeros finds himself fascinated. It is a drawing: of a large celestial figure surrounded by deep, astral space. So wondrous are its curls, galaxies and milky rivers conjoining together into a vast strand of flowing hair, and its body is made up of a pristine white. He knows this being, or rather has heard tale of it.

That being is the primeval creator: The Mother Cosmos. But something is odd. She is not so benevolent appearing as the scriptures have made her out to be. No, her expression in this mural is of a very familiar sight.

Pure, unbridled fury. Rage. Rage spreads across every surface, every corner of the divinity’s heavenly visage, and Cosmos wields a great array of six astral weapons—all of them buried deep within the bodies of an endless sprawl of illegible, grotesque monstrosities. The Mother, who is kindest of all, is depicted here: waging a crusade against creatures Xeros believes he knows very well.

“Is this… supposed to be Cosmos?” Luxanne asks. “She looks more violent than what I’ve seen.”

“Indeed. Curious, is it not? The ancient records hail the great divinity as one filled with love and compassion towards all, yet the Steppe ancestors do appear to think otherwise.”

The Overlord… just what have you discovered? Perhaps the secrets of this place will aid in locating the Comet. I shall take note to invade the Steppe after I finish conquering Polus.

“Hrm. Let us continue our descent,” he grunts. “I surmise our coming meeting shall be most insightful.”

“By your command.”

Each thud on the bone staircase echoes with a sinister rattle as they proceed further into the tomb. One step forward. Two steps forward. Deeper and deeper, their metal greaves continue to crunch. To grind. And all the while, the atmosphere becomes heavy with a pestering trickle of malaise.

Finally, the two arrive at a massive gate. Xeros moves to push it open, but the slabs part way before he can lay a finger on it, revealing a musty room surrounded by ancient looking relics. Small candles litter the edges, providing a feeble defense against the dusk penetrating through the space, and a sallow fur carpet lays on the ground while ominous looking skulls hang from above.

A large throne sits at the end, one made of an all too familiar sight as of late, and it is there that a figure is seated amidst a shroud of darkness.

“Aah…” an aged, raspy voice groans—sound jagged as if the being has not spoken for years. “Ooh… you have finally arrived, son of Caelum: Xeros Nox, the Grand General. Tell me, how was your journey?”

“It was uneventful, save for some scurrying pests,” Xeros replies, grabbing the sack of severed heads and tossing it at the obscured man.

“Hehehe, pests indeed. Always hiding out of sight. Always burrowing within the earth. You have done well; I thank you.”

The figure descends his skeletal seat and grabs the Grand General’s welcome gift. Here, his body is subtly exposed under the candlelight, and what awaits the pair’s eyes is a truly revolting sight.

The Overlord is a walking, breathing corpse. His skin is black as tar, and pointed bones jut out from his withered, emaciated chest, but it is his limbs that garner the most disgust: unnaturally elongated. Disproportionate from the rest of his body. He is much too large for someone claiming to be of humanity—no, he is several times the size of even the rugged Xeros. It is as if the being before them is not a man at all: rather, a creature of nightmarish origin mimicking what it believes mankind to be. Even his eyes are but two gaping holes of empty shadow, but no manner of dark sorcery will ever change his mortal self. For as long as it can be killed, Xeros has nothing to fear.

“You seek an audience with me, ruler of smog,” the Overlord rumbles. “What is it that you desire?”

“A pact. The forces of Polus are currently at its weakest: all that remains is for my takeover to begin, but in order to do so, I require assistance—someone to distract the Arch Magus of Augurium. It should be a simple matter. I am not asking for a full scale war, but merely… for you to run rampant in his territory. Do so for me, and I shall help you with your little rat extermination.”

The Overlord doesn’t say a word. His expression is indecipherable, body completely still, but eventually a shrill cackle begins to escape from his dry lips, and the man erupts into a bellyful laughter as his howls pierce through the entirety of the tomb.

“A pact you say…” he says. “Those are powerful words, Xeros. I do not know how you of the western folk treat such things, but the people of the plains take pacts very, very seriously. It is an everlasting bond, an oath signed only with blood: Do you believe me so desperate as to rely on a foreign wretch?”

“I know you do. It has been ten years since you have begun to claim dominion over these lands. Ten long years, and yet, your opposition remains.”

But to that, the Overlord only responds with another guffaw. “How entertaining. You misunderstand me, Xeros: They are still alive because of my will. To exterminate them all so soon… what enjoyment would that bring? No, I would rather they relish in their hatred. Fester in their fury. To see sons and daughters come to avenge their parents, only to fall into despair when their end is nigh… truly, there is no greater euphoria in this world than in the face of a broken, battered soul.”

It appears the Overlord is an even uglier creature than expected.

“If it is blood you desire, then you shall have it.”

“Oh?” The corpse-like ruler leans in close, putrid breath blowing right in front of the Grand General’s face, and he breaks out into a crooked smile. “Now you have my intrigue. Do continue.”

“My interest in Polus lies solely with their geographical proximity to the other nations and their fine weaponsmiths: Those with competence, expertise, are all I care about. The dregs and the farmers in the countryside are of less value; if you assist me in diverting the Arch Magus’s attention, then I shall offer those insignificant lives to you. Torture, pleasure, it matters not what you do to them. Know that I shall supply your depravity in fuel—an endless stream of blood, more than you could ever wish.”

“Aaah…” the Overlord falls back into his seat, and he crumples into a hideous pile of glee and childlike delight. “Yes, yes! I can see it now, the faces of children in anguish. Oh, how they would loathe me so as I slaughter their loved ones before them. How they would plan, rot, cultivate the obsession in their hearts. There would be so many; I would no longer need to wait years before my harvest bears fruit.”

“Then do you agree to the pact?”

“Perhaps.” His demeanor turns sour, an unexpected shift that causes the Grand General to be wary, for that expression across his face is of a most deplorable vice: greed. “I really do like you, Xeros. I truly do, but mere words are not enough for this covenant to blossom. I require a sacrifice, and it shall be through their flesh that the seals of our union shall be tightly bound.”

“Very well, who do you desire?”

The Overlord raises a bony figure and points directly behind Xeros. No, he couldn’t possibly be?

“The girl. Give me the girl.”

He waves towards the collection of skulls dangling above. Each one’s figure is frozen in a state of perpetual agony, and Xeros can feel the lingering remnants of their resentment trapped within their own skeletal prison.

“Consider it a little hobby of mine,” the disgusting man chuckles. “Beautiful, is it not? The skulls of the strong do ever make for the finest ornaments, and the strength I feel exuding from your toy is truly of a rare, delectable quality.”

A vein bulges from Xeros’s forehead. He is not an emotional man, but even he finds it difficult to hide the revulsion threatening to be released.

Luxanne responds in a typical fashion: Her hand hovers towards the hilt of her blade, body tense as she readies herself to cut a path out of the tomb. That determination is admirable, but there shall be no need for such a scuffle—not when the Overlord’s true power remains a mystery.

“Luxanne is my Praetor, my second in command. I can not give her to you.”

“You ask a steep courtesy of me, Xeros, and so my cost is steep in return.”

“Regardless, my answer is firm.”

“… How disappointing. I expected better from you.”

“And I, you. Why lust for what belongs to me?”

“My appetite is very difficult to satisfy, Grand General. Perhaps you would like to take her place?”

Xeros sneers at his offer and slowly manifests a thundering maelstrom of red lightning around his arms. “I must decline. You are welcome to try, but you do not appear foolish enough to attempt it. I sincerely hope you prove me correct.”

The Overlord remains still for a short spell, but eventually he breaks out into a roaring laugh once again and claps his shriveling hands together. There is a faint malice hidden within his cries, but he applauds the Grand General nevertheless.

“Aaah… I can feel it. We are kindred souls, you and I. Like me, you are a man of destruction. Carnage follows in your wake, and for that, you have my utmost respect.”

He lowers his head, and a sickly fog flows out of his maw. It seeps into the tomb, disappears beneath the stone crevices, and carries along whispers of something unintelligible. For a moment, Xeros believes he may very well have to fight his way out of the domain, but his worries are proven false when the Overlord’s strange ritual ends with naught an occurrence.

“It is done,” the man says. “Run rampant the Steppe warriors shall, but my magnanimity will only last for so long, son of Caelum. If you cannot achieve your conquest in the coming years, then your people shall be the ones to sate my hunger.”

“… Thank you,” Xeros replies, rescinding his red thundercloud. “Then we shall depart at once. May fortune be with you, Overlord.”

“Hehehe, take care, Grand General. I will look forward to your conquest.”

Xeros and Luxanne turn around, and they leave the room as the stone gates shut behind them. The girl is noticeably shaken from the meeting, her body squirming in unrest, and she speaks up to the Grand General: curious, but a slight poison is hidden in her tongue.

“Will you really sacrifice the Polus citizens to that monster?” she asks.

“No.”

“What? But you—”

“Deception is one of the greatest tools a ruler has in their arsenal. It is good that the Overlord is a madman; his kind are all the more easier to manipulate. We will take advantage of his influence, and we will turn against him when the time is right. Such is the ebb and flow of power: In this world, the only one you can trust is yourself. Remember that, Luxanne.”

“… I see.”

Her curiosity has been quenched, but the Grand General can sense her mind is still occupied. And he knows exactly why. Oh, Luxanne… you really must try to hide your thoughts better.

“Hrm,” he grumbles. “I would have never taken the deal.”

“… What?”

“No matter what the Overlord offered me, I would have never given you away.”

And for once, Xeros speaks with complete sincerity.