Aetheral Space

Ninety Years Ago…

“Humans…” said the Supreme. “...exist to devour one another.”

He took a bite.

The Supreme was a rotund man, splayed out in the throne at the centre of the Shesha. His chalk-white skin and jet-black irises almost made him look like some sort of ghost as he looked out at his court. As he chewed, he brushed away his greasy black hair with a massive finger.

“Listen now,” he continued. “There's not a man alive who doesn't want what another man has. His power, his money, his woman, whatever. I'm not talking about envy. That's got way too much dignity to it. Envy’s a fancy sin made up by priests to fill scripture. Hunger… is an instinct. It’s the instinct.”

The Supreme twisted his food in his hands, finally tearing the arm off with a satisfying pop. His meal didn't make a noise: the lucky bastard had already passed out several minutes ago from the pain. As the Supreme nibbled on the fingers like bread sticks, he continued to address the crowd gathered in the throne room.

“I'm not saying it's a bad thing. None of us would be alive if it wasn't for hunger, right? If you don't eat, you die. It's as simple as that. If you're alive right now, you're alive because you're hungry. Doesn't matter what for. Hunger for justice, hunger for love, hunger for fun… so long as you've got something growling in your stomach, it'll lead you right.”

As he brought the head of his victim to his mouth, the Supreme unhinged his jaw like a snake -- and crushed the skull between his powerful teeth. He tipped his head back, eyes rolling up into their sockets with pleasure, allowing the blood and brain matter to spill down into his throat. His moan of ecstasy echoed through the death-quiet chamber.

“That's why I'm not mad,” he said, bringing his head back down, looking at the other prisoners presented before him. “I've gotta get rid of you, of course… but I'm not mad. I get where you're coming from.”

The man who had devoured god grinned with bloodstained teeth.

“You were hungry, weren't you?”

Renda -- for that was her name right now -- put a handkerchief to her mouth as she watched the Supreme toss the corpse to the side as if it were nothing but garbage. In her current role, she was the mistress of an up-and-coming Minister, one of many invited to the Shesha to observe the punishment of the Driscoll Rebels.

The next rebel was dragged before the Supreme by black-armoured guards. These young men were assassins who had killed numerous officials before being caught. It was a shame, Renda supposed. If they'd been strong enough to continue their spree, there might have been a spark of worth to nurture there.

“Otto!” the Supreme roared, summoning his court blacksmith as he leaned back into his chins.

Otto Osklavion -- a Scurrant with a cylindrical head of organic metal -- quickly made his way over, holding a massive drinking bowl in his hands. Yet another new Aether Armament commissioned for the Supreme's collection: Mammon, he had named it. This Supreme had a fondness for atrocious things.

The rebel begged as he was dragged before the Supreme. “My lord, my Supreme, my -- my -- please! I had nothing to do with it, I’m not with them, I swear, I swear --”

“What’s his name?” asked the Supreme, bringing the massive bowl to his mouth.

“Lizo Marsh,” replied one of his attendants.

“Mammon,” the Supreme commanded his new Aether Armament. “Lizo Marsh.”

Lizo Marsh screamed longer than expected.

As the Supreme drank greedily from the bowl, the rebel withered, his blood being transported from the inside of his body into Mammon itself. The young man writhed and squirmed on the floor before all the lords and ladies, his voice slowly losing its power, as the Supreme drank him dry. By the time he finally expired, he resembled a raisin more than a human being.

Renda’s gaze slid to the other two visible Aether Armaments, one resting against either side of the throne. To the left was Belphegor, a huge pitchfork, water dripping from its threefold spikes. To the right was Beelzebub, a huge cleaver-sword, smoke rising from the blade.

Unlike Mammon, which was for pleasure, Belphegor and Beelzebub were intended for direct combat. Even so, they hadn't been used in some time -- dust had begun to gather on them. Renda frowned beneath her disgusting mask. She had enough experience to tell…

…this Supreme was on his way out.

It was always the way. With all their enemies defeated, they started to rest on their laurels, their audacious smiles turning a tad too smug… and their cruelties becoming a tad too petty. It had happened to Renée, it had happened to Helis-Audrey, and now it was happening to this man. Renda noticed with mild distaste that her mask was starting to stink.

It was currently required for visitors to the Shesha to wear one of the masks and cloaks that the Supreme so graciously provided. They were lovingly made with leather -- leather harvested from his human leftovers. Right now, Renda was wearing the terror-warped face of a young Umbrant man over her own. Her cloak was stitched-together skin, with a collar of human hair. An appalling wardrobe.

At this point, the Supreme enjoyed nothing more than the knowledge that people had to play along with these sick games of his. The power of the ultimate throne wasted on mindless hedonism. It truly was such a shame.

As two burly Pugnants began to tear the third prisoner in half before their liege, Renda reflected. It wasn't as if this Supreme wasn't strong -- he'd more than earned the right to enjoy himself however he pleased -- but even so, that strength wasn't one she much cared for. It stank of a sort of parasitism that had always felt like a loophole in the world.

The Supreme's ability, Glutton Replicancy, activated when he devoured a living and powerful Aether user. It forced that Aether user into a state of awakening, then put the resultant monstrosity under the Supreme's direct and permanent control. By consuming those stronger than him and commanding their abilities, the Supreme had risen from an unknown bandit to the mightiest man in the land. Even now, the chained and tortured spectre of the previous Supreme -- Gael -- hovered above the throne, ready to strike down any who might threaten his master.

He won't be around by the year's end, Renda finally decided, turning and making her way through the hushed and horrified crowd.

As she strode through the dark hallways of the Shesha, the Shepherdess considered the future.

It was hard to say how it would happen, but she was rarely wrong about this sort of thing. This Supreme would soon expire. There were no shortages of enemies to make it happen. Perhaps more assassins would appear, emboldened by the injustices here, and strike down their oppressor? More likely the Body would decide he was too unpredictable to keep alive, and quietly dispose of him. It wouldn't be the first time.

Or perhaps…

“You’re leaving already, Miss Renda?” the Supreme Heir asked, slinking out of the shadows. “Is that really okay?”

Renda paused, turning her head to look at the unwelcome interloper. She had never liked this Supreme Heir. There was something… just wrong about him. Those dark eyes, that pale skin, that tiny smile like he was keeping a secret. All of it sent alarm bells going off in her brain.

“My apologies, my Heir,” she said quickly, grovelling to an acceptable degree. “Urgent business, you see… please give your father my best…”

The Heir just continued to smile. “Of course. Do the festivities not agree with you?”

“It's a joyous day,” Renda said. “A rebellion foiled, the strength of the Supremacy and the Supreme proven once more. The victor has the right to celebrate in whatever way he sees fit.”

“Haha, how orthodox of you. Personally, I find these kinds of things boring. Be honest -- the Supreme is sort of a dull man, isn’t he?”

If it were anyone else, Renda would have thought they were not long for this world. Those who disparaged this Supreme were quickly eliminated -- especially here, in his seat of power. More than a few previous Heirs had met that fate.

But somehow… she couldn't quite imagine that happening to this one.

The Supreme had an appetite for many pleasures, and so had fathered many children. They had fought and warred among themselves for the role of Supreme Heir, and -- after much death -- this man had appeared victorious. He had no siblings.

Renda had once heard of a practice where many insects were placed into a container to eat each other. It was said that, at the end, only the most malicious insect survived. Looking into those black eyes, she couldn't help but think a bug was looking back at her.

“Is that why you're not at the festivities as well, my Heir?” Renda asked, striding down the hallway.

The Heir walked alongside her. He wore no mask, nor a cloak -- just a black sweater and dress pants. He'd been told to don the macabre garb, but clearly had not done so. He would get away with it.

Renda had heard many dark rumours about this Heir. While refusing to involve himself directly in his father's administration, he’d instead formed a strange organisation of his own -- one that operated outside of the Supremacy. He'd lied, cheated, stolen, killed… and yet he'd gotten away with it. He always got away with it.

The Shepherdess suspected she might hate him.

“That man sure likes to talk about hunger a lot,” the Heir spoke of his own father, the most powerful man in the galaxy, as if he were an embarrassing nuisance. “It's a little much, isn’t it?”

“You disagree, then?”

“I do. This is all just my personal opinion, of course, so feel free to disregard it, but if you ask me… the objective of existence shouldn’t be to indulge one's impulses. Hunger should be excised, as should thirst, too. Love, hate, fear, greed… even the Supremacy itself… well, haha, all of it’s just sort of meaningless, don’t you think?”

He spoke each word as if it were an empirical fact. To him, this was not opinion or philosophy -- it was reality calmly explained.

Renda narrowed her eyes behind her mask of skin. “Then what does have meaning?”

The Heir glanced down at her. “It's in the absence of these things that a human being experiences clarity. Separated from what humans consider humanity, they achieve the role of an outside observer. From there, they can see the world as a whole, and identify the fault points.”

“The fault points?”

His smile deepened just a tad. “Where it must be broken.”

She stopped. “And is that what you want to do? Break the world?”

The screams of the Supreme's next victim echoed down the hallway as the Heir looked down at Renda. His smile remained fixed, like it was painted on his lips.

“Just look,” he said softly. “Just listen. Humanity has been bathed in light for millennia, and see where you've ended up. You've been blinded, all of you. It’s cruel. Someone needs to snuff out the fire and let your eyes rest. Once your world is illuminated only by a dark star can you see it.”

Renda blinked. “See what?” she whispered.

He narrowed his own eyes, and put a cheeky finger to his lips. “That would be telling.”

For a moment, the two of them just stood there, facing each other down in the cavernous halls of the Shesha. Then, shrugging off the strange and sinister atmosphere, Renda straightened up. She started to move once more.

“Thanks for escorting me,” she said hurriedly. “I can find my way to my ship from here.”

And, ignoring the spark of pitch-black Aether running down the Heir's cheek, she pushed past him.

“Go, then,” the Heir murmured, almost bored. “Tend to your flock.”

The instincts of the Shepherdess did not fail her -- and in that moment, they screamed.

Kill him. Kill him now! This is your last chance!

Her pink Aether already flaring across her form, the Shepherdess whirled around…

…but the Supreme Heir was long gone.

There was a story about this man in the Supremacy. A folk tale, surely. Something to be scoffed at. But people still told it.

According to the story, his mother had been one of the Supreme’s concubines -- one he had quickly tired of after acquiring. After she’d trespassed against the Supreme in some tiny and harmless way, he’d cut her head off without a moment's hesitation. But this was before the Heir was born.

The concubine had been pregnant. If you believed the rumours, and of course nobody did, then somehow -- inconceivably -- the foetus had continued to develop. The Supreme, intrigued by the phenomena, ordered the corpse to be preserved in one of his freezers… and nine months later, the Supreme Heir had been born.

It was only an absurd rumour, of course. A vicious lie born of propaganda. Anyone who heard it understood that fact.

Only… when you looked into the insect eyes of the Supreme Heir, and saw the sheer nothingness beyond them, you could very nearly believe it.

You could believe the story of the child named Niain, the Joy Born From Death.

AETHERAL SPACE

ARC 13

PART 2: HATE

Present Day…

All was not well in the dark of space.

The gargantuan starship-form of Ionir Yggdrassil drifted through orbit, adjusting its course with arboreal tendrils and mighty branches. In the lack-of-light, it was only really visible as a black silhouette, covering the stars behind it. The starship had been kept in orbit while the Phases descended, so as to fool outside observers into thinking Atoy Muzazi was using it as his base of operations.

Of course, this would have no effect on an inside observer.

A small transport shuttle, usually used for planetary landings, weaved through the asteroids and wreckage that surrounded Azum-Ha. Even a thousand years after the final battle of the Revolutions, the graves still hadn't been fully cleared up. They made an effective smokescreen now.

While Ionir Yggdrassil was assisting Atoy Muzazi in his fight against Nael Manron, it had no choice but to transfer the majority of its consciousness into the humanoid extension. Right now, the only aspects of the Fell Beast actually inside the starship were the shadow of instincts and basic ‘muscle memory'. There wouldn't be a better time to strike.

Gretchen Hail surely understood that too.

“Fusion Tool,” spoke the shuttle's only occupant, a mercenary of little renown and little skill. “Metamorphoses.”

Hail had found this man down on his luck, provided him a Fusion Tool and power beyond his means, then sent him up to perform this distasteful task. No doubt he thought this was the start of greater things. Ammunition commonly has these sorts of thoughts.

The shuttle exploded as the mercenary’s new form broke out of it, long spindly black legs spreading out in every direction. There had to be nearly a hundred of the sharp and twitching limbs, enough to make the mercenary look like a cross between a spider and a sea urchin. As one, the tips of those spikes turned to face the wooden hulk of the starship.

All things considered, the ‘battle’ was quick.

Without Ionir Yggdrassil’s intellect being present, the conflict between the mercenary and the starship was little more than two beasts slamming into each other, stabbing into each other, doing their best to make sure the other one died before they did. Toxin ran copiously through the mercenary's spikes, melting the wooden hull of the ship and weakening the overall structure.

Before long, it was done. The starship, unable to maintain its shape, collapsed in on itself -- and the engine deep inside exploded, blasting whatever was left to ruin. Smoke pouring from his own damaged body, the mercenary retreated. His work was done…

…and so was he.

Metamorphoses was unusually powerful for a Fusion Tool, and there was a good reason for that. Just like with normal Aether abilities, applying conditions increased the potency of the power produced for an Aether Armament. In this case, by applying very strict conditions, Gretchen Hail had created a Fusion Tool capable of destroying a massive Fell Beast in a matter of minutes.

Namely, the Fusion Tool -- and with it, the user -- would be permanently destroyed as soon as the enemy was defeated.

The mercenary did not have time to fear. If he felt anything, it would have only been confusion as the toxins turned against his own body, quickly reducing him to a scattering of unidentifiable black debris as well. The twin carcasses floated in orbit of Azum-Ha…

…joining the rest of the graves.

Atoy Muzazi lay in the hospital bed, covered in bandages, wired up to so many machines that he looked like a spider in the middle of a web. His eyes were firmly closed, and his assisted breathing was ragged. The Full Moon had seen better days.

Morgan frowned as he looked down at the commander. He still hadn't woken up after his victory over Nael Manron. While members of the Crimson Carnival had retrieved their leader, Morgan and the other Phases had managed to get Muzazi to a waiting hospital. He'd been on the verge of death when he'd arrived, but fortune had smiled on him. Somehow, he'd made it.

Now, if only he could make it awake.

Panacea had done its work on Atoy Muzazi. The hole in his stomach filled in, the fingers he'd sacrificed restored. Stimulants had helped with the healing of other injuries, the ones that Panacea hadn't been suited for. That wasn't to say Muzazi had escaped unscathed, though.

Morgan's gaze dropped down to Muzazi's other hand -- the fingers from that one had been sliced off slightly before he had started to sacrifice them against Hachiman. It had been a matter of seconds, apparently, but they had just fallen outside of the golden hours. They'd been lost. Morgan had expected they'd need to get some prosthetics arranged, but…

“Can you sense anything through that, Ionir?” he asked.

No, Ionir replied. Only that he sleeps.

Morgan smiled to himself. Ever since Ionir had finally managed to detach from him, after the poison of Leviathan had been conquered, Morgan had been able to understand the Fell Beast's words. They weren't still connected in the same way, but it was like he could understand all the minute noises and movements that had been so meaningless before.

He wondered if Muzazi would be the same now.

Four sharp fingers, formed from Ionir’s wood, took the place of those Muzazi had lost. Apparently, once he woke -- if he woke -- he'd be able to control them just as easily as his own flesh and blood, but Morgan thought it a tad unsettling all the same. Looking down at what should be part of your own body, and seeing that it was part of somebody else's…

He shook the thought away. They had enough going on without him giving himself the heebie-jeebies.

If he does not wake soon, Ionir said solemnly. It may be troublesome.

“Took the words right outta my mouth,” Morgan muttered. “That Mereloco guy made it through his first round easy as pie. If the commander keeps on sleeping in, he might get through the second without even fighting.”

And with my main body destroyed…

“Don't remind me. We've got enemies closing in on all sides.”

Another sharp burst of cheering sounded out from the videograph at the foot of the hospital room, and Morgan glanced towards it. Looked like things had begun. Even if the Full Moon was sleeping, the Dawn Contest was still well underway.

“And now the moment you've all been waiting for!” the announcer said of this particular match, just like he did for all the others. “Dragan Hadrien versus Paradise Charon!”