Aegis

“I’ve never understood why Xeros chooses such insane people to be his commanders. Gravitas is a crude battle-junky: Velcroz is a twisted deviant; Libevich is completely, utterly, terrifying… but Nokron? Even out of them all, he’s a disturbing one. ‘The Alchemist Regent’ or so his title is. You’d think someone like that would be more of a researcher, right? No. He’s much more. Much more cruel, more repulsive—a sick bastard who views life as nothing more than subjects for his experiments. And worse of all: He’s strong—strong enough that even I’m not confident in killing him.”

- Praetor Luxanne

———

Far, far away from the rising smoke plumes of the Caelum capital, there lies a great and mighty fortress situated in the midst of a deep chasm. Two mountains surround its grey, flat base, and at the very front of its gates is a razed patch of dirt harboring not a single sight of green nor weed. The land is completely barren, earth torn asunder in due courtesy of the armaments mounted onto the fortress’s edge, and looking farther beyond will yield only the sight of a vast swamp. Such is this domain: a place of isolation where even the air is hampered by an oppressive weight. By loneliness.

It is within the depths of this fortress - in a dark, murky dungeon permeating with the smell of rotting flesh - that a lone man is chained within a rusted cell. His body is bare, his eyes are blindfolded, and shackles covered in layers of dried blood bind his limbs together. He can only writhe in pain as the cold air assaults at his open wounds: lash marks. Flayed skin. Remnants of torture the likes any sane being would retch before the sight of.

Yet, the prisoner savors this moment with the utmost clarity, for it is not the pain of solitude that scares him. No, what he is truly fearful of is the arrival of that monster—of their cruel, apathetic words. Of the sound of the whip, the crack, or even the silence: silence following an injection of the most foul of substances into his veins. The prisoner’s every waking moment is spent in terror over the thought of his captor’s return.

Crunch.

A sound slowly trickles into the prisoner’s ears. It is the sound of a boot crunching against the dungeon’s gravel, approaching. Louder and louder. Someone stalks towards his cell with an eerie, deliberate stride, carefully taking their time as if to delay the inevitable—to relish in the anticipation of what shall soon be.

They are coming. They are here.

The prisoner desperately summons what feeble strength still remains and bashes his head hard against the bars. He jerks his body and attempts with all his might to free his limbs from the shackles binding him. Even as his skin tears apart, even when it feels as if his arms will be ripped away from their sockets, he struggles with every last morsel of his being to escape. To cling onto that ever so slight hope of life.

But his efforts are in vain. He does not escape, nor have his previous attempts ever availed any significant change. All he can do is silence his whimpering as the source of the footsteps finally reaches his cell.

There, emerging from the shadows, is a scrawny man clad in an armored mechanical suit—black as the void. Its metal deigns not to even shine, for the light is swallowed by the mechanical apparatus. And amidst the dulled visor serving as the man’s helm, a respirator is attached to his mouth, flowing towards a sputtering tankard on his back. Something is being funneled into his lungs—a dark, wispy vapor. Every breath is filled with the substance, accompanied by an ever-constant sequence of deep, rasping groans. There is not a single surface where his skin is shown, and instead of eyes, two red orbs of unnatural glow burn from the visor’s optics: glaring. Pulsating.

And they stare at the prisoner now—wholly unfeeling, as if any shred of humanity has long been consumed.

“You are alive,” the man says with a distorted, machine-like voice. “How intriguing. To think a wretch like you would prove this durable… I must applaud your resilience. Truly impressive, but will you withstand the next dosage? Time will tell… time will tell. We have many more tests to conduct, you and I. Don’t croak on me just yet.”

He opens the cell’s door, and the prisoner can only watch as he raises a syringe brimming with the vile vapor. There is no use in fighting back, for the man before him is amongst the highest authorities in the Nox Caelum empire.

He is the Alchemist of Despair: Nokron Siofsvara.

———

Nokron

Nokron plunges his newest experiment directly into the subject’s neck. They scream at first, the vapor oozing into their bloodstream and spreading throughout their veins, but he cares not: The fools always scream in the beginning. Such reaction is a result of the pain inflicted upon first entry rather than of the experiment itself. Any observations not derived of the vapor’s inhibiting effects are worthless.

Five seconds have passed. Ten seconds have passed. Twenty. Thirty.

He takes a step back and carefully analyzes the prisoner’s appearance—their bulging eyes, their skin transforming into a pallid white, and the messy froth of spit dribbling out of their mouth… everything is jotted on his notebook with meticulous detail.

Subject appears to have temporarily lost the ability to feel pain. Currently thrashing against the cell’s bindings. Sounds of bone fracturing can be heard. Aggression levels remain high. Increased surge of strength despite starvation and torture. Appears to be two, no, three times the power of the average adult male. Conclusion: Berserker vapor is a success—

But before he can mark an end to the experiment, the test subject suddenly freezes, and with a loud pop, their bodily insides explode all at once—blood rushing out of every one of their orifices. And worst of all, their eyes explode and are sent flying only to smash into a bloody pulp right in front of Nokron’s face. He wipes the blood away with an irritated grumble, and then he pulls out his quill again. The entry is short:

Correction: Test is a failure.

“A-Ah,” the wretch groans. Surprisingly, they are still alive. Nokron likens their tenacity to that of a cockroach, but there is no cheating death this time. Their end is nigh. “Why? What did I do to deserve this? I’ve always been… been faithful to you, Commander Nokron. I’ve always…”

“Hm? Faithful, you say?” Nokron says, a slight growl rising up to his throat. “How very humorous, but I see differently. I see very, very differently. Hahaha…”

He takes a step towards the cell and grabs at the bar with a seemingly benign air, but what comes next is much more violent, for he clenches his fists until they’re shaking in strain and then rips the bars out as if the metal is naught but clay. His head jerks and twitches, anger filling his flesh until his whole body is trembling in rage, and then he crushes the disrespectful wretch’s head with a stomp of his boot—stamping them like they’re a dirty stain refusing to be erased.

“Faithful… no, you are anything but. You disrespected me,” he mutters with a cold, acid-like bite. “I sent you to attend the Grand General’s meeting, and what did you do? You questioned his judgment. You tarnished my name with your arrogance, and now here I rot in this damnable fortress. A thousand experiments would not be enough to pardon your sin, yet you dare refuse to even repent. You are unknowing of your own slight: That is the worst of them all—ignorance. Ignorance. Ignorance!”

Nokron slams his foot down once more, and thus is the prisoner’s brain pulverized into a lowly smear on the dungeon floor.

“… Ah, a pity. I should have let you suffer more. Now I am left frustrated. If only I had more time—more time to punish. Time, time, time…”

He grabs at the corpse’s leg and drags it out of the cell. Slowly, steadily, he lumbers through the dungeon whilst a trail of blood follows in his wake. The body scrapes against the rugged surface, and small pieces of flesh are left littered about, but Nokron does not care. He only mumbles to himself and continues strolling along until eventually reaching a small hole: the garbage disposal. A fitting resting place for the wretch, and so he tosses his former aide and watches them disappear into the dark abyss. Staring, staring.

“But,” he says after a moment. “The blame does not fall entirely upon you. I was complacent. Naive. I believed my previous… demonstrations would be enough to reign you miserable lot in. Sadly, fear eventually dissipates, and I will not repeat the mistakes of the past.”

The rest of his legion must become disciplined before the Grand General returns, or else death will be a more preferable fate than what shall befall him. The clock is ticking. More examples must be made.

Argh, my mood is fouled. Itchy, itchy… my brain refuses to stop squirming. It plagues me. It hounds me. Incessantly it assaults my mind, ever a merry round. Round and round. Round and round… I need to calm my nerves.

Nokron closes his eyes, and he takes a deep inhale of the gaseous substance from his tankard. It rushes into his throat and nostrils, it fills his mind with such innocent bliss, and the old Alchemist can’t help but sway back and forth as a wave of ecstasy courses through his entire being. It is ever so lovely, a momentary paradise in which he feels true salvation, but such joy is ever fleeting. He’ll need to refill the vapor stock soon; however, conjuring it shall require time. Time he does not have. Time being wasted thinking about this matter.

Time time time time time. There’s not enough time. The day is passing. The sun is setting. Time is moving forward. Time cannot go back. Time is an enigma. Why must time exist? Everyone runs out of time. It doesn’t make sense. It’s disgusting, time. It’s revolting, time. If only it would stop. If only it would cease. If only—

Nokron collects himself, and he exhales the substance. The madness is being calmed. Everything is calm. There is plenty of time. There is plenty of time. Repeat it, again and again. Repeat it, Nokron. Repeat it.

He closes his eyes, and he waits. A few seconds pass. Then a few more. Until eventually… he feels a shift - a change in position - and when he opens them once more, the squalid dungeon has disappeared from sight. Instead, a great view of the barren field outside awaits him. Wind brushes against his mechanical suit; the sun blazes down on him from above.

He is now atop the fortress ramparts. Hm? This is… ah, that is right. I was here this morning, and now I have returned.

An unintended result, but a welcome one, he muses. The sight does wonders for his addled psyche.

“H-Huh?” A nearby guard yelps out in surprise over Nokron’s sudden translocation, and they stumble on their feet before quickly shifting into a salute. How pathetic. Lookout-duty is rather uneventful in this part of the empire; the soldiers have gotten fat because of it. Time has made them weak. “Ah, um, welcome Commander. What brings you out here?”

“… Time,” Nokron whispers.

“I-I apologize. I didn’t quite catch what you just said.”

“Tell me, do you think there’s still time left?”

“Left for what?”

“Incorrect.”

With a swift thrust of his hand, he impales the guard right in their abdomen. Confusion, surprise, horror… the fool only has a brief second to ponder these feelings before they’re thrown over the edge of the fortress. Flailing, flailing, they scream - despair wrought upon their meager face - before splattering into a clump right next to a pair of gatekeepers. The two stare at the mangled flesh in horror and attempt to call out for help, but their voices become silent as Nokron materializes next to the body.

“Tell me,” he rasps. “Do you think there’s still time left?”

“Uh, I—” one stumbles.

“Yes!” the other quickly interjects. “Y-Yes, of course there is.”

“… Ah, I see now!” he says, realization creeping into his heart. “There is always enough time. I see it now, the path forward: I simply need to do both at the same time!”

Nokron steps over to the destroyed remains of the guard and picks up what is left of their corpse. This shall do nicely. All that is left is to gather the rest of the lot.

He points at one of the gatekeepers and beckons them forth. They look at their partner - terror clear in their eyes - and they walk forward to receive the Alchemist’s judgment.

“Summon the others,” Nokron orders whilst placing a bloody hand on their shoulder. “Tell them all to assemble at the fortress’s heart. I shall await them there.”

“Ah? Oh, of course. Right away sir.”

“Then go.”

They scurry off like an overjoyed mutt with how fast their legs are moving. How unseemly. However, Nokron doesn’t necessarily dislike cowards; on the contrary, such people are an excellent source when it comes to siphoning the vapor.

“You… I have other plans for you,” he says, turning around to face the other gatekeeper. “I recognize that face. You have served me for some time now, haven’t you?”

“I-Indeed I have, sir.”

“Then you know what shall soon occur?”

“Yes, I do.”

“That makes this much simpler: Gather the empty tankards in my chamber and have them brought to the main auditorium. Do not forget the Maw. You shall serve as my assistant.”

“It… would be an honor.”

“Excellent. You do not waste time. That is good.”

The gatekeeper salutes Nokron with a grim expression before leaving their post. Step. Step. Step. Look how hard they attempt to remain calm, but he knows the truth. He knows they are the most terrified of them all.

There is still time left before the others are gathered. Perhaps he should take a nice, brisk walk: It is a beautiful day, after all. One should properly enjoy the small comforts the world provides at times like this. Yes, let’s do that. And once I return, new modifications shall be made to the berserker formula. The strain will need to be diluted unfortunately, but I can worry over making a stronger dosage later. I must present the Grand General a successful product if I am to return to his side.

But before Nokron can bask in the sun’s rays any longer, the world begins to twist and distort before him. His vision fades, a cacophony of nonsensical cries fill his ears, and in an instant, he returns to the dungeon with the corpse still in hand. That is a shame. It appears my time has run out.

It matters not. He can enjoy the day’s pleasures later. For now, his legion awaits, and so too does his demonstration.

As he exits the dungeon’s quarter, a strange sense of unease creeps into the Alchemist’s head. This feeling has plagued him ever since he stepped foot into the fortress, but it has never been particularly worrisome until now. It is… paranoia—a premonition of some not-so far off m future. Just what is causing this foreboding? Why does it feel like time is running out? It is irrational, foolish, yet something deep within my being screams that oblivion is coming. Perhaps that is why I am so irritated as of late, but I do not understand. What dangers await me here in this land more isolated than any other? Curious, but this enigma shall have to wait.

Nokron reaches the very top of the dungeon’s stairway and finds himself stepping out into the bland, colorless halls of the Magnus Murus. Here, there is no decorum. No fancy decorations or adornments. Everything is designed, built, and operated for the sole purpose of defense, and the fortress displays this function clear in the defenses hidden away from view.

He does not understand why the Grand General goes to such extremes, but it is not his job to ponder over such useless things. Xeros is his lord, and Nokron is just a pawn. A pawn is disciplined; a pawn follows orders; a pawn obeys their superior. Such a life is actually quite comfortable—he does as he is told, and in return, great fortune awaits. The freedom to pursue his study without consequence.

Eventually, the Alchemist comes face to face with a large, imposing door. Murmurings and all sorts of useless conversation can be heard in the beyond, and as he pushes the entryway wide open, a force numbering near a hundred thousand appears before his eyes. They fall silent at his entrance, and their bodies seize up in tension as they gaze upon the bloody corpse in his hand. Weak-hearted fools, but I suppose it is inevitable. They are all displaced dregs—remnants clinging to a land already conquered. But they shall soon know discipline; all I need to do is keep them in line, make them obedient, and thus will I return to the comforting chambers of my laboratory.

The legion bow their heads in respect as Nokron makes his way towards a small podium at the end of the room. The gatekeeper from before awaits him there, and beside them is a large machine with all manners of pipes and channels connecting to a pile of empty tankards. An opening at the very top of the machine protrudes out with long, slithering tendrils - shape akin to that of a monstrous maw - and at the middle is a glass container filled with pitch-black fumes: swirling. Revolving in a maelstrom of torment as ghastly images of revenants take form within the epicenter. The substance is reminiscent of the mist found in the Aeternum, but with one key difference: The forest’s malaise is naturally formed. Nokron’s is artificially made—no, lovingly encouraged.

“I have brought the Maw and your tankards as ordered,” the gatekeeper says.

“Mm. Then let us begin.”

Nokron connects his own tank with the machine. Soon, the shadowy vapor fills his mind with insanity, and he gathers the concentrated energy into his palms before gripping tight onto the corpse and raising it high into the air. The others appear confused at first, but curiosity turns into horror as the dead soldier is gradually reformed and brought back to life in a grotesque show of resurrection. Organs and intestines manifest from the unknown, squishing themselves into the rapidly expanding layer of skin, and all the while the former soldier writhes in agony as it screams out a guttural, inhuman cry—its vocal cords not yet fully recovered.

But the display does not last forever. Eventually, Nokron finishes his ritual, and so is the soul born into the world: returned, as if it has never left in the first place.

At least, that is how it appears at first glance.

“I-I’m alive?” the living corpse mutters in a frenzy.

“No,” Nokron says. “You have already run out of time. I am simply delaying the inevitable—invoking a memory of what once was.”

With a swift move, he crushes the thing’s face into the ground, and the crowd flinches as bits of flesh and brain-matter fly out into the air - splattering the terrified legionaries at the front - but they have no time to process what has just occurred before the body begins to reform in front of their eyes once more.

And just like before, the corpse is brought back to life, only to be ruthlessly crushed by Nokron without a moment of hesitation. The thing begs for death, it cries out to be released from its suffering, but the end never comes. The others can only watch helplessly as their commander pulverizes the dead again and again in a cruel demonstration of might.

Meanwhile, a hazy cloud forms above the crowd - manifested from the abundance of fear and terror worming its way into their hearts - and the energy is sucked into the maw-like machine before being transformed into the very same essence that continues to power Nokron’s lunacy.

That essence is Creation itself, but not the Creation as touted in the scriptures. No, this branch of divinity has been malformed by twisted emotions and transformed into pure, concentrated despair. Fear, disgust, dread… it remembers this all, and so it is cursed to carry on the phantoms of human suffering—accumulating, growing, until mankind’s ugliness can be contained no longer.

And that despair is more beautiful than anything else.

After a very long period of letting free his frustrations, Nokron finally stops. The tankards are fueled, and his message has been sufficiently displayed. Death is allowed to take the corpse as its suffering comes to an end for good.

“… Do you understand?” he asks for all to hear. “The price of incompetence.”

Silence, nods, and finally: grim acceptance.

“Very good.”

Nokron walks out of the despair-filled room, leaving only the scarred to dwell upon all they’ve just witnessed. Now, they have been truly tamed.

It has been a good day. There is still much to do, but Nokron feels much less stressed. After all, there is plenty of time to spare.