Demon Core

~ [Barlow] ~

Human | ♂ | Mercenary Location: The Northern Procession Level: 100

What exactly is a man’s purpose in this world?

The philosophers have been arguing about this question for as far back as we can trace their profession, and even before the advent of such a defined role, the men of the world had been discussing it amongst themselves, beneath the heavenly starlight that hints toward the existence of divine makers who had crafted the lot of them. There, within the glow of campfires and the shadows of tall trees in the night, such discussions made their way round and round the circle not just once or twice but over and over for generations.

The question is passed on from one to another, and even those who are outside of such tightly knit social circles somehow find that the question manages to make its way to them nonetheless.

What exactly is a man’s purpose in this world?

As far as anyone can tell, there isn’t really a definitive answer. Everyone lives their own lives, bound within their own unique circumstances, and, as such, the purposes toward which a person is drawn or toward which they grow, pushed by their unique environments and circles, are different. One man’s found purpose is to protect his family and nation with life and limb; another man’s purpose is to do the same for his starving kin by taking the resources of another so that his own people might survive. Some men find purpose in the peace and toil of gentle labor. Other men find their peace in restless travel and the never-ending establishment of kinships with the strangers of the world, acting as a binding link of sorts that connects the many circles of society together.

It is very rare that a man is given a purpose full on out. Every man must find his own; that is the burden of manhood, and those who fail to do so become restless, for their spirit knows that they lack something undefinable, yet they fail to recognize and find what this thing could be, causing them to spiral down into a degradation of the body, mind, and soul that they likely fail to see themselves, blaming the lack of their lives on the world as a whole, while the truth is that they simply failed to find a purpose.

It isn’t given to anyone. It has to be made up; it’s pretend. One has to fake life until they make it through.

Except for a rare circumstance — the summoned heroes of the world, those great, powerful, rare souls who come in times of dire crisis in order to right the wrongs of the universe. They are beings pulled specifically into this world to stop some great evil or threat. Their purpose is very specifically designed, designated, and accepted.

There was never any question.

However, what happens when it’s over?

What happens to the hero when the Demon-King is gone, to the knight when the dragon has been slain, and to the beast when it has devoured everything that there is to devour?

Their purpose, while having been fulfilled, is now, through this act of conquest, eradicated.

Triumph is for such souls an act of self-mutilation, for when the work is done and the sun sets on the hour of catastrophe and a man stands there remaining with sword in hand but none against which to swing it, he will have no choice but to turn it against himself. If he does not do so immediately, literally, then he will do so metaphorically over the rest of his now irrelevant existence.

Heroes are quickly forgotten. Their names go into the same history books as the great monstrosities that they’ve killed, and then the book is closed, and both of them are forgotten forever.

Their greatness, their purpose, and their entireties are but shadows that fade in the sunrise they themselves have brought.

Barlow stands there, the wind howling in his ears as the demon-beast is erased from his vision, magic pressing through it, cutting and ripping, metal cranking and churning in his ears as burning liquor slides down his throat.

The reverend looks his way. “We have this under control, Mr. Barlow,” says the officer. “Feel free to go back inside,” he remarks, turning to watch the giant demon scream and lash as it fails its chase, dying more and more by the second, its spindly legs breaking and flying off, black, thick, oozing blood spraying through the air, causing its massive, lumbering, worm-like form to careen, a great dust storm rising into the air from its disturbance. “I just wanted you to see this.” He folds his hands behind his back, not looking away as he stands there straight and tall. “That you and your kind have been replaced.”

Barlow empties the flask and then turns, walking back toward the hatch. He caps the flask off, pressing it back into his belt, and turns to look over his shoulder.

However, he doesn’t really have a witty comeback.

Instead, he looks back down and then climbs back into the Procession, his fingers straddling the gun on his hip.

One hundred years ago, there was a great crisis in this world. A beast, not unlike the one that is on the world now, had risen and spread the horrific malignancy of its presence over the nations of the planet, sinking them into turmoil and fear.

One hundred years ago, he was brought here to this world by whatever powers there happened to be at the time, to save it. He was, back then, a true hero, a summoned hero — He was the one who ended the great crisis of that century and, in doing so, ended his own singular claim to fame and life.

When it was done, he was forgotten.

Given the unique magics of his situation, his own power, and some other factors, age and time aren’t really a problem for him, physician.

When it was done and his party left him to live their own lives, when society moved on past the need for a hero, he made his living then instead through the act of selling his services as a mercenary to whoever needed him for whatever job.

It was amazing, how fast the world started eating itself as soon as the great evil was destroyed. Missions to shut down worker strikes at iron mines, high paying jobs to kidnap people who said the wrong thing to the wrong person, putting down societal rebellions that were fighting for the betterment of their standards — these came pouring in countlessly.

The world itself is more than happy enough to eat its own. They don’t need a Demon-King or Queen for that.

And so he found a new purpose in this work. It’s not easy to say if the abandonment changed him or the roughness of the work did, but one of them did, and he became the man he is today.

— And now…

His hand straddles the weapon.

These things… they’ve come along, and they’re going to steal his purpose from him. Raw strength, potency, and a reputation are all that he has as a man to keep him moving. Work is all that he has to live for. It’s all that he has.

There’s no way back to the old world.

He’s trapped here.

And so, all he has is the job.

But he’s not going to have that when this is over. This trip here, this is his last one. When these weapons propagate from one nation to the next, it’ll be over. Every person, no matter how weak they are, will be able to defend themselves from the monsters of the world, be they of the body of beasts or of men, and people like him will, once again, become forgotten.

He can’t do it a second time.

Barlow stands there, staring at the ground, his fingers running over the metal on his hips as cranking mechanisms and churning clockwork cut through the dense air, laden with the horrific screams of an otherworldly beast.

He lifts his gaze, looking down the line of carriages.

~ [Swig] ~

Half-Elf | ⚥ | Indentured Servant - Logistician Location: The Northern Procession Level: 20

Swig works, sweat dripping down their forehead to the dusty roads below, fine sands throwing up toward their squinted eyes as they lean down between the gaps between carriages, wrapping the bandoleer of alchemical flasks around them tightly, securing the construction in place with its own clasps.

The half-elf lifts their gaze, looking to make sure the coast is clear, before picking up a series of the bandoleer, slinging them over their shoulder and running with a rifle in hand down to the next doorway in line, dropping everything to set up the next one on the next connection.

The carriages are all held together in a chain by a series of interlocking mechanisms that mimic a joint, allowing it to turn left and right together and even allowing for a slight differentiation in height between the carriages. It’s a relatively simple, but ingenious construction that has made the transportation of goods extremely efficient in its test runs. But this design is still rather experimental, the same as everything else on board.

Swig leans down, the spring-loaded sliding door on the back of the carriage pressing into their side as they lay on their stomach and lean down between the open sided gap, slinging another bandoleer around the squeaking hinge and working to fasten it tightly, squinting their eyes to avoid the crumbling dust flying up toward their face as their hands work a foot above the stampede marked ground. Swig purses their lips, working in focus, as they start to clasp together the bandoleer.

— Something shimmers in the sand, unusually.

The half-elf blinks, watching it for a second as they move, and then Swig’s vision is disrupted, as something grabs on their shirt, yanking them around.

“The hell are you doing?!” yells the soldier, standing up over Swig and looking past them down at the hinge, that the belt is half looped around. Swig’s eyes look at the man and then past him, toward their rifle, leaning on the crates just next to him. Following their gaze, the guard turns his head, looking at the rifle.

“Flying,” replies Swig, pulling back a lanky leg and kicking as hard as possible into his gut. The man wheezes, stumbling back as Swig jumps to their feet, grabbing the rifle, and aiming it forward at his chest. He grabs its barrel, pushing it up into the air, and the shot blasts through the roof of the carriage, wood splintering down over them as he, much stronger, presses Swig back, the two of them fighting over the weapon. The longarm gets stuck in the door frame, being at an angle and separating the two of them as they both yank on it.

— A second later, Swig flies back, the world spinning as a fist clocks them in the face. They stumble over the gap, barely grabbing the railing and falling down to the other side as the guard pulls the rifle free with his other hand. Being a malnourished, lanky, overworked pseudo-slave bodes poorly for one’s ability to stand their ground in a fight against a trained professional soldier in good health.

He aims the rifle down. Swig’s legs dangling freely over the ground between the gaps offer no way to jump back up in time, their hand instinctively covering their face. A second later, there’s a crack that cuts the air like thunder.

Swig flinches, scrambling, their back moving no further as they press against something and then look up, lifting their gaze to the arm hanging above their head, a smoking gun in its grasp. The half-elf looks back at the soldier, who has fallen down where he stood, the longarm jammed between the crates without the person who had been holding it.

The smells of sweat, ash, and liquor come to Swig as he lowers his hand, holstering the weapon and looking down. “What’re you doing down there?” asks the man.

Swig sighs in relief, a hand on their chest. He saved the day again. “Looking for something, Mr. Barlow, sir,” jokes the half-elf, pulling their legs out of the gap and then rolling back onto their stomach as he steps over them to the dead man.

“You always got an answer, huh?” he says. “Be careful,” warns Barlow, picking up the rifle as Swig clasps the bandoleer lined with potion vials shut. Swig looks back up, rising to their feet as Barlow hands them the gun. “You might just find whatever it is.”

The half-elf gets up, grabbing hold of the rifle with their hands, while he still holds onto it, the two of them staring at one another, the roar of gunfire still filling the air from the back of the Procession, together with the groaning of the strained hinges and wood. Sweat, dirt, and blood stick to Swig’s face as they stare at Barlow.

“Why’re you doing this?” asks Swig. “We’ll both be killed if we get caught, Mr. Barlow.”

Barlow lets go of the rifle, staring at Swig as they clutch it tightly against their chest, their double layered, blood caked shirts flapping in the wind, pulled free from the scabbing of their mutilated back. “Lookin’ for something,” replies the man.

Swig looks his way and then slowly nods once, pulling the map they stole out from their pocketless clothes and handing it to him. “Think you’ll find it?”

“No,” replies Barlow, dryly, before taking the map and then lighting up another cigarette. “Are you ready?”

“Only one left,” replies Swig, pointing to the bandoleer behind him. Barlow looks at it and picks it up, tossing it to them across the small gap. The half-elf catches it, slinging it over their shoulder. “What happens after this?” they ask. “When we escape?”

The Procession roars as it rolls through the endless sands, the two of them looking at one another. There’s a glint of metal, and Swig catches the half-empty flask thrown their way, looking down at it for a moment before looking back at him.

“That’s your problem,” says Barlow, turning to walk down the rest of the carriages. “Meet you there, Swiggy Bird,” he says.

Swig looks down at the flask, opening it and looking at the wet metal opening for a moment before watching him walk away. The half-elf lifts it, pressing it to their lips, and drinks from it.

There’s no telling how all of this is going to work out for either of them.

But there’s no coming back from this.

Swig winces, pulling themselves free from the flask, as the burning filth snakes into their mouth and down their throat, making a slight hiss for a moment. The half-elf caps the flask, admiring it for a moment, before pressing it into their belt the same way he wore it.

“I will,” replies Swig, the man having already left, a hand weakly fumbling with the fabric over their heart. “I will,” repeats Swig, running down the tight passageway to the back, the lanky, awkward creature moving with the longarm and an explosive load.

~ [Reverend Wicker Marvin] ~

Human | ♂ | Officer Location: The Northern Procession Level: 85

He stands there, a smug smile on his lips, as the world behind them crumbles to dust.

Monsters, beasts, and such things are nothing in the face of technology. Just like the bow fell to the crossbow, this new weapon will surpass the crossbow and, furthermore, advance society past the era of monsters.

A weapon in every hand and an army with thousands of such things will ensure an entire continent is free of danger. Every goblin will be routed from its nest, every harpy shot from the sky, every minotaur broken through its heart, until all that will be left is a pure land that belongs to its rightful owners — humankind.

Once the beasts of fur and claw are dealt with, they can move on to the other beasts of the world — the elves, the vildt, the orcs, and so on.

It’s going to be a glorious new world. A world made as clean and whole as the gods intended for it to be, before such malignancies had the chance to fester on its jewel body.

“Cease fire,” orders the officer, and dozens of guns fall silent immediately. The crank gun stops, as do the riflemen, both mounted and on the train, as they watch the destroyed monstrosity fade into the distance behind them.

“Sir,” asks a man. “Should we finish the job?”

He and his soldiers are going to be cheered for as heroes when they arrive.

So it would be for the best if their appearance was appropriate.

“Mercur,” says the officer, looking at the soldier. “I do believe that I had a slip of judgment prior,” he says.

“Sir?” asks the soldier.

“What is Mr. Barlow’s official duty?” he asks.

“To protect us from the Demon-King, sir,” replies the rifleman.

Reverend Marvin nods, looking back behind them as they roll away through the dead-lands. “Find Mr. Barlow again for me and be so kind as to… direct him toward the Demon-King,” orders Reverend Marvin. “Surely it would be a waste on our part not to send the old hero his way,” explains the reverend. “I’m sure the crusade and the Holy-Church will be very grateful.”

The riflemen look at him and then at one another, nodding before climbing back down into the Procession.

Reverend Marvin stares off behind them at the nothingness.

It is truly the end of an era.

Just like that, the Demon-King was stopped in his tracks. Not by a great champion, not by magical heroes or token feats of greatness — no, just by ordinary, simple men. Humans.

— The ground shimmers.

He looks down, staring at it for a time, not sure what he just saw.

But nothing happens, and he heads back inside, patting the crank gunman on the shoulder. “Keep a lookout.”

“Sir,” replies the soldier, facing back behind them as Reverend Marvin walks down the Procession to clean up a few last ugly details.

~ [Barlow] ~

Human | ♂ | Mercenary Location: The Northern Procession Level: 100

Barlow stands up behind the coachman atop the Procession, looking at the world around them.

He stares out over the landscape, which is destroyed and barren. There’s nothing left of it; the destruction that happened here generations ago wiped out kilometers upon kilometers of land in a massive impact site, and the ground has never recovered from the heat of the blast that day. It’s turned into a mixture of loose sand and solid slabs of glassy rock, causing the Procession to shake violently as it tumbles its way forward, the axles shaking wildly over the uneven terrain. Wind presses against his face, pressing beneath the rim of his hat, wicking away the beading sweat on his sunburned, dry forehead.

This is the spot.

“Mr. Barlow,” says a voice from behind him. He turns to look at the soldier. “The reverend wants to see you,” explains the man.

Barlow takes a draw from his cigarette, holding it between his teeth. “Don’t care.”

“It’s urgent,” explains the soldier.

Barlow grunts, not moving.

The soldier makes a bothered face and then turns his head, whistling.

Several other men walk up the side stairwells, aiming their rifles at him. “Mr. Barlow,” says the soldier. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to get off of the Procession,” he orders, half a dozen longarms aimed his way. “Reverend’s orders.”

Barlow reaches up. The men all tighten their stances and aim immediately. He slows his hand, moving it to pull the cigarette out of his mouth, the poncho blowing in the wind toward them as he exhales.

“How old are you, kid?” asks Barlow, holding the cigarette for a second and then flicking it off of the side of the carriage.

“Please cooperate, Mr. Barlow,” says the soldier. “Out of respect for you being a hero, I’m giving you ten seconds to jump; otherwise, we will shoot,” he explains, steadying his balance as the Procession shakes from left to right, moving over the jagged terrain.

“I was your age too, last time I was here,” explains Barlow as the soldier counts down from ten. Barlow turns his back to them, staring out at the destroyed landscape and listening to the metal clinking and clanking all around them.

He lowers his head, holding onto the brim of his hat.

“That was a long time ago, Mr. Barlow. Please don’t make me shoot you,” says the man, having stopped at two.

“I’m not a hero,” replies Barlow, looking over his shoulder. “That man died here,” says Barlow. “I’m just what’s left.”

— And then it happens.

~ [Swig] ~

Half-Elf | ⚥ | Indentured Servant - Logistician Location: The Northern Procession Level: 20

Swig splutters for air, thick hands wrapped around the half-elf’s slim neck, their hands slapping against the face of the reverend, the officer, who hadn’t even caught them doing anything suspicious. The last bandoleer was already in place, and Swig was on their way back to Barlow.

The man just started choking them out of nowhere.

— There’s a gunshot to the side.

Swig, spit pressing out of their mouth, looks as another indentured servant, an orc, falls over with a hole in his head.

“Reverend!” argues a voice from the side, as Swig’s hands, losing their strength, fail to pry him off. “I need that one!” argues the head researcher, pulling a hand off Swig’s neck, the half-elf not able to gasp for air as their throat somehow seems to stay tightly closed, even if released.

The officer shoves the researcher back and resumes choking Swig, the half elf’s body burning and their vision going black as their legs kick and spasm. “I’ll get you a new one,” he says. “One that isn’t an abomination,” finishes Reverend Wicker, staring into Swig’s dying eyes as a weak, skinny hand slaps against the shaking wooden floor one last time.

The dull thud moves through the groaning, creaking floorboards — the tiny vibration adding to the mass of movement coming this way and that from the rough terrain, shaking the creaking joints of the many carriages of the Procession and shaking the small, metal vials wrapped around the majority of them in tightly bound leather wraps.

Swig’s body spasms as all of the joints explode at once in a violent chain reaction, tearing the dozens of carriages of the Procession apart at once. People fly everywhere. Some out into the desert, others onto one another, as the many carriages, no longer tethered to the lead carriage and the anqas pulling the entire construction along, all shoot off into uncontrolled crashes in the wild lands to the sides, entire segments crashing against rocks, stones, and glassy debris of the violence of a bygone era.

~ [Barlow] ~

Human | ♂ | Mercenary Location: The Northern Procession Level: 100

Six shots ring out in the air. Six men, shocked by the explosion behind them, fall off of the sides of the lead carriage, clenching their guts as they land in the desert.

Barlow spins the cylinder on his weapon, holstering it before turning around and sitting down next to the coachman, the old man turning to look his way.

“Real shame that the Demon-King got the caravan,” says Barlow, leaning back, kicking his feet up, and lowering the brim of his hat. “All that fancy technology, lost to the sand.”

The coachman quietly whips the reins of the anqas to make them go faster. What’s left of the Procession, which is exactly just the front carriage, the two men, and nothing else, shoots off toward the distant horizon, in which there is no sunset and no such thing as a good man. He looks back for a moment, before lowering his gaze again, adjusting the brim of the hat anew.

But there is a man who will live now longer in a world that hasn’t outgrown him.

~ [Swig] ~

Half-Elf | ⚥ | Indentured Servant - Logistician Location: The Northern Procession Level: 20

The world spins. Swig flops to the side, the carriage finally coming to an end, broken wood and jagged splinters flying everywhere as it strikes against a rock. Through some happenstance of luck, maybe, Swig flies.

The half-elf’s dazed, confused form tumbles gracelessly through the air — a bird with no feathers — as they come crashing down into the sands, tumbling over stones and rocks. Swig’s ears are filled with roaring as they desperately pant and claw into the sand, into which their fingers sink. They crawl away, slowly looking around themselves as they try to orient themselves in the chaos.

What happened?

Swig winces, gritting their teeth and flopping down in pain, wheezing for air as they try to breathe through the crushed throat, inhaling in mouthfuls of fine, upturned desert sand. The half-elf tries to get up, managing only a few movements before screaming and falling back down, flopping into the sand and rolling around, looking at the massive splinter of wood jutting straight through their left calf.

The half-elf pants for air, trying to orient themselves to the direction of life as they crawl back away from the debris, their back pressing against a rock as they stare out at the desert.

The Procession lies everywhere. Carriages, broken wood, crates, shelving, and bodies lie everywhere in the sand, together with gnarled, twisted metal.

The vials exploded.

Why did they explode?

Mr. Barlow said they wouldn’t explode until later, until they got further away, until… until…

Swig winces, with spit and blood leaving their mouth, as they watch something stir in the shadows. People are still alive after the crash — soldiers, the reverend maybe — Swig’s unsure.

The rifle is still strapped to their chest, having been dragged along through the sand. Swig reaches down, pulling it up and clutching it against their torso as their raspy breathing tries to catch up with their body and panic.

— Someone moves in the smoke.

Swig screams and shoots, a crack breaking the air as the shot hits the man, whom Swig can’t even identify, only being able to watch his silhouette fall down into the sand from behind the growing smoke of fires.

The half-elf vomits, leaning over to the side.

Why did it explode?

Something moves.

Swig screams and shoots again, hitting another body and causing it to fall down.

Mr. Barlow said it wouldn’t.

— Something moves.

Gunfire breaks out in the air like the striking of a hammer against a resistant nail, screaming out over and over to overpower Swig’s crying and the yelling of distant voices until there’s nothing left but a hollow clicking and the quiet sobbing of the defeated person, aiming the gun at the man who comes limping out of the dust.

The reverend.

He lied.

He lied. That bastard.

Swig cries, aiming the rifle at the man’s heart as he approaches; nothing happens as often as they pull the trigger, apart from a soft ticking sound like that of a dead clock. Barlow lied. He used them. It was a trick. It was all a bunch of SHIT!

Swig throws the rifle at him, missing, and then reaches down to grab the flask from their hip, hurtling it at him too.

It strikes the reverend on the chest and then falls down limply to the sand down at their own leg as he walks over it, pulling out a small pistol from his inner shirt and pointing it at Swig’s head.

The world shakes, everything going black as a great quake causes him to fall over, his legs sinking into the sand as the Procession is swallowed by a shimmering lake of sand behind them, dozens of men screaming and clawing into the loose silt as they try to escape the sinkhole, out of which then, a second later, press out ten long, black, impossibly sharp legs that press into the sand on all sides of the trapdoor.

Then come ten more.

And then ten more.

And soon, there are many more, crawling and skittering out of the shimmering sand, where it had been all along, the beast with ten-thousand legs, the demon that had pursued them, having not been dead at all.

The ground sinks.

Gunfire rings out, the Reverend screaming and shooting as he crawls away, the downsloping sand pulling him and all of the others toward it, together with the wreckage. Swig throws the rifle out behind the rock their back is against, holding onto the strap and praying that the rock doesn’t start moving. A hand grabs Swig’s leg, the officer gripping onto their boot and pulling on Swig’s hurt leg.

The half-elf screams too, or perhaps simply continues screaming, kicking him in the face over and over again, his nose breaking flat, his teeth breaking inward, until eventually his grip slips and he slides away, trying to crawl and claw against the angle and the riptide sand, but being unable to as he is swallowed by a wall of spindly legs.

Even if they had gotten free, even if this had worked… what would have been the point?

In a world this terrible, this horrible, this cruel… what would there have been to do anyway?

There’s no escape.

It doesn’t matter what anyone does or is.

There’s no escape from the nightmare that life is.

Swig grabs the small pistol that had fallen, shooting it at the monster until it clicks empty, before throwing it as a final act of defiance as a dozen some legs begin to skitter toward them, obscuring a flock of birds that fly in the sky and obscure the starlight above them all.

There’s no such thing as freedom, and there’s no such thing as escape, when the world itself is the cage.

Swiggy Bird grabs the dropped flask, arcing their arm back to throw it a second time, now at the monster slowly approaching, leg after leg.

— A hand grabs Swig’s wrist.

The half-elf’s eyes go wide, as they turn their head, looking up at Barlow. “That how you treat a gift?”

Swig’s lips tremble as they cry, yelling at him, unable to look at him in the face because of their rage. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!” screams the half-elf.

“Lookin’ for something,” replies Barlow, breaking the strap of the rifle, the now useless gun dropping to the sand as two arms pick up Swig, haphazardly tossing them sideways over the single anqa he had ridden back on.

“Mr. Barlow!” yells Swig, looking back at him.

Barlow hits the anqa, barking a command, and the animal shoots off with Swig laid over it. Swig screams, as the anqa sprints through the desert in pursuit of the rest of the long since distant carriage, the half-elf looking as the single man stands there alone in the growing distance between them, standing before the great beast that is a hundred times his size, the wind of the desert howling in rage, the fine sands growing into a storm, his poncho blowing in the gale, his hat flying free and off into the wilderness, a single glow of orange light leaving his lips as he draws for his hip.

And there, where there was night only a second before, a new sunset arises only for a brief few seconds, together with what sounds like the chiming of a bell that marks the presence of the abilities of a true hero of the world, even an old one, both of which overpower Swig’s cries as the dust swallows everything whole, as two birds, one with feathers, break off in escape, in a search for such an obscure thing as freedom.

And before the hour is over, the sun sets and the bell stops ringing.

The Northern Procession has been destroyed. The experimental weapons that could have posed a great threat to the Demon-King and to the world as a whole are taken by the sands of the desert, together with the minds that made them, prolonging the era of sword and magic by generations, if not longer still than that.

And as far as the public is concerned, there were no survivors of the event.

But who is really to say?

It’s impossible to perfectly follow the strange dance that life is.