Fatalizer: Foremother

*copyrighted material*

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    Every world begins with stark foundations, constructions holding the continuing promise of civilization for eons, building trust in those living in it to carry on and guide the young in the middle of life itself. Raised in loyalty, based in harmony. That’s how the great megalopolis of Asphon was conceived, rock by rock, trail by trail at the top of a cliff. Molten and hammered, the exceptional society with pristine consciousnesses built in them from a tiny piece of their originating Mother, a Goddess by the name of Zazphan, who besides enlightening her kids’ minds with goodness, created for them the best of technology powered by inner light and mana. One could not work without the other. The Goddess had purposely done so to ensure only Asphonians could make use of her designs. She had shaped her progeny with razor-cut precision upon their faces giving them sharp jaws. All of them were tall, long-legged, short-armed with honey-colored skin with the texture of a lemon, a single bright almond eye, three tiny holes for a nose, and no traces of a single hair.

    Asphonians had grown to be the visionaries and deliverers of this world, those that would find the solution to every universal crisis and create better conditions to combat evils. The smartest, the kindest of civilizations, the most acclaimed and awarded for their discoveries and works of genius, like the masterful blueprints of their polished, plasterwork-looking shelled flying vessels in the shape of trapezoids that needed no fuel and hung in the air as smooth as clouds. Or their research on mana studies that let them produce the cleanest of magics, all filtered through Zazphan’s machinery to create reusable energy or power their deadly weapons—uniquely in control of their most clever, formidable sorcerers. The word ‘sorcerer’ applied only to Asphonians and them alone, with high-ranked mana skills enough to utilize Zazphan’s designs, while other mana users from other races were identified as warlocks and enchanters. Zazphan’s people could cure any physical or mental disease, and restore peace if

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there was any global dispute. They’d fought evils with goodwill and mercy in all of their existence, their weapons had merely been a warning, never to be used in ways that could kill. It was these weapons that had positioned them in power due to their indestructibility. Elephant-sized three-headed dogs, owls, rolling golems, and armed centaurs with the face of the Goddess. All of them were composed of advanced engineered glowing skeletons, visible beneath their plasterwork-styled armoring, which held a seat and console for their mana wielders.

    With the highest of towers, domes structures, and the image of Zazphan carved and erected in all places—laser cut with their coded machines—Asphon was a shiny thing made of diamond clusters that glistened silver with sunlight from dawn to noon, and at night, touched softly by the moon and stars in perfect reflection like lighthouses waiting before purple sand beaches. Bridges made of marble and pale rocks, windows out of gold. Surrounded by lucent waters and the saline smell of the sea at the farthest point of the Strattah continent. 

    Their dominions were vast, and restful fields that expanded further and further finally reaching tangled vermilion and mauve-toned forests with an open path that would lead travelers such as tradesmen, chandlers, and artisans out of their territory, dilly-dallying here and there as they rolled down on breezy hills and sunny valleys moving in their carriages. Their hunting grounds were available to skilled locals and foreigners such as Crook Elves, Rain Orcs, Gore Mutts, and Songbirds, who’d at times done the skinning and butchering service later in the city for a living.

     A continental agreement that covered all these races except the Paladins of Vespertinus—known to be the monastery humans that chose to honor other races to oblige to their religion—they uniquely visited for nobility matters. All the while, their swift mechanical owls would scout from the sky, combing every area and every corner to ensure their people’s safety and those who provided them as well. Yet panic and disruption came one night in the shape of a beastly and naked, paper-thin and slippery humanoid with no eyes, a large jaw, sharp teeth, and conflagrant hair. Grunting and moaning, it

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had somehow outwitted Asphon’s security and begun wandering in the streets as by-passers got out of its way, its kingdom of doom had barely begun as it planted its knees in the middle of a cobblestone street as the sun rose, contorted its head backward, nose pointing south and arms wide open as if it waited for the descending moon to reach out to it for an embrace. As it froze in place, open-mouthed like a carnivorous plant, its corrupted body stretched and molded into roots that began to grow around indefinitely, like those coming out of a tree made of stone and coal, but that would turn to slimy flesh as days went by.  

    For months, Asphon’s city hall tried everything to remove it, no weapons could cut the meat and stone, no mana could burn it down, and no heavy machine could move it from its place. The beast’s corruption had begun to grow around Asphon’s sewers and alleyways, crushing founding pillars, arcs, and other ornaments. The rulers of the great megalopolis could not reach a consensus as to what this being was or where it had come from, so they transported all of the mightiest and smartest heroes and powerful sorcerers, scientists, philosophers, and historians into the city as some of them were off duty, educating themselves or traveling the world.

    The heroes would study new ways to inflict physical damage with ancient techniques, the sorcerers would perform mana under new spells and calibrate their best machinery with it too, while the scientists, philosophers, and historians would try to decipher who this humanoid was and how to stop it from spreading any deeper into the megalopolis. 

    The inquest scholars team led by a historian and highly acclaimed sorcerer by the name of Persephus, required old-time testaments, scientific and mythological manuscripts, history bibles, and a DNA sample from this creature to begin to understand what they were facing. What Persephus and the rest of the scholars' team found left them baffled. They had discovered the humanoid in question had somehow transformed from a regular saltwater fish. Fish that according to their type and natural habitat had traveled quite a distance to get to Asphon’s purple beaches. Undergoing eons of evolution while it

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did so in so little time from a toxin composed of magma leak out, particles of erupted underwater lava—or to their dismay the essence of a creature buried in the depths of the ocean or even much deeper than that, a mythic evil wanting to wake up. Their fears lingered on the possibility that this new enemy came straight from the center of the planet. It was then that they decided that the humanoid had to be named to be treated as an individual species, fearing this guppy could merely be a minion, yet a powerful one. 

    Thus he was named Aessick. The word ‘aes’ meant ‘fish’ in the First Language—spoken by Zazphan’s first children. While they also took the English word ‘sick’ meaning ‘ill’. In its full English translation, the given name meant ‘ill fish’.

    Knowing then that the humanoid was a dawning corruption of sorts, the scholars suggested Asphon’s rulers let them find a way to revert the transformation since they believed in separating the Wrath Toxin—as they referred to the particles found in their research—from its host would probably be the only way to destroy it in its entirety. The heroes and sorcerers seemed to support the motion and decided that their teams would have to prepare to vanquish Aessick when the right time came, once unattached to its slippery victim. The magnitude of Aessick’s power was indisputable, its flesh roots had helix around edifices and statues, pierced and destroyed viaducts, and the most beautiful of plaster-coated murals that ornamented Asphon. And while it did, the rumors of this great evil started to unfurl around the world, plaguing the mind of everyone as they knew they were living in times of wicked history. Surely, this would determine once and for all the invincibility of Zazphan’s ideal race. The whispers reached the ears of many accomplished and big-named warriors, warlocks, enchanters, and Kings of neighboring races, who out of gratitude and concern had informed Asphon’s rulers of their unquestionable intervention in the matter, traveling there themselves or sending a representative with their armies with them. Persephus, known to be the eldest of sorcerers with three-hundred and seventy-one years of existence as well as head of Asphon’s highest sorcerer’s ministry, would welcome

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them all while the rulers of Asphon coordinated all civilians to be moved to the outskirts of the megalopolis. His tactical thinking had been praised for centuries, yet humble and attentive amongst servants and royals as Zazphan intended him to be her favorite child. It had been his loyalty to the foremother’s teaching that had kept Strattah in peace when sorcerers could exterminate anything that got in their way at any moment, not out of malice but out of gullibility. A pristine consciousness was still, not perfect. Persephus had been loved so much by his creator for the kept promise that he’d been gifted with spectacular wisdom and black hair on his scalp over time, which had grown enough to be kept in a half ponytail while an exaggeratedly long mustache had grown on his face, both forever forbidden to cut or shave off. For he would shine differently amongst any other Asphonians that had ever lived, his rewards were not to be ever questioned or denied.

    Persephus’ guidance within the ministry had dominated some of the most barbaric and unrelenting—yet not the most brilliant—critters crawling these lands. Herding them away like beasts to the isolated wastelands of the region had been a methodical task. Primeval territory, where survival conditions were limited or nearly impossible to endure. A place with a sun so bright it brought them to lunacy, finding cover was only obtainable by digging, digging deep and good, biting into the coldness of the earth. It had worked, evils had been dismissed but whichever way blood was on his hands. He believed that for the best of causes. His subordinates had never questioned him but most of all, he had never questioned Zazphan. The Goddess whose back was tightly pressed against him as their hands rested intertwined. 

    Amongst those monarchs that had chosen to join the battle themselves was King Jago Vatom Pouimont, crowned head of the Crook Elves—and one of Persephus’ most delightful confidants—accompanied by his army of assassins, his young sister and Princess, Nellah Aura Pouimont, and his newest monastery paladin, a fourteen-year-old boy by the name of Fitzroi. Jago’s people carried the Crook Elves’ flagstaff banners tall and high as they entered the megalopolis, woven

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in burgundy and cobalt blue. A heart-formed cauldron pouring flames for a crest. The greatest of needleworkers in the Eastern region had sewed the drapes with augmented awls and threads. This type of Elves was physically known for their crimson skin, blonde hair, and two-pronged ears. The Assassins League of the Elven Society, who’d lend their vault’s magical reservoirs of explosives, ensorcelled scrolls weapons such as swords, daggers, guns, and bows of all sizes and armourings made with encrusted crystals and vigor restoring substances to assist Asphon’s army and any other kingdom who might have wanted to aid them as well.

    King Jago’s sumptuous pearlescent-forged carriage pulled by zebras, sporting decorated saddlery and bridles, slowly began to reach the palace’s main entrance. Fitzroi escorted the carriage strolling by its side chained at the neck, padlocked to the rear side of it just as his duties required his protection. The boy was equipped with a sleek magic resistance armor made of bronze, infused with liquified micromechanics. Advanced components made of virgin metals that Asphonians had deconstructed to a molecular level to be constructed again and shared as a basic need for warriors of all races, these components restored the suit of armor to its original design in seconds. He wore maroon, velvety suede trousers, a sleeved undershirt, and chromatic bronze boots and gauntlets. He carried a round shield with folds, which was almost his size, as well as a pretty heavy morning star mace. Shields of all kinds were treated with the same technology while weapons remained untouched for no one would pose a threat to Asphonian while they kept tabs on violence outside the megalopolis.

    Fitzroi’s hair was strands of softwood tonalities, golden and brown over his brows and neck, dark eyes, and chapped lips. His head and shoulders hung in exhaustion, bathed in sweat. The carriage finally stopped at a tremendous staircase made of pale rocks and large marbles made of chromatic gold stuck in between. Rooted Asphonian soldiers waited at the steps while the road ahead twisted in a spiral to higher grounds where dozens of walls could be admired, crossing the gulf with erratic but stable rhythms for a view.

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Jago’s army took a left to gather with the rest of the armies assembled in the courtyard. Empty carriages would roll past before being stored far off into the city.

    The boy stumbled upon his feet as he straightened his back and unstrapped both his shield and mace from his armor, the latter had to be dragged on the stone floor with dry noises before lifting it to announce the arrival of his lord, “King of the Crook Elves, Master Assassin of Strattah has arrived safe and well to the immaculate megalopolis of Asphon. May his reign prosper. May his reign and successors live long after him.” Fitzroi hurried to open the carriage’s shiny door, yet dropped the morning star in the process. Upon witnessing that, Jago stepped out, grabbed the boy by the neck, and slapped him on the face with the sharp force of a whip for what he believed was an offense to those of his kind, the boy landed on his seat bones completely stunned. The King of the Crook Elves flapped his burgundy-colored cape after him, his armor, crown, and twin daggers strapped to his belt shone silver like a mirror. His younger sister Nellah hopped off the carriage seconds after.

    “Roi! Get up! Or he’ll do something worse!” She pleaded, yet her words carried a menacing tone as she knew her brother was still within earshot. She followed after Jago to a swift pace wearing gleaming mirror shoulder guards, a delicate tongue dagger to her side encrusted with diamonds, an emerald string dress, and a cape. Silver sandals, hair in a braided bun.

    Fitzroi, an orphan from birth, had been taken in by the Paladins of Vespertinus like so many other human children with no place to go, but who perfectly represented the monastery’s ideals. A life as servants to all superior races, a message of repentance for simply existing. The Paladins of Vespertinus worshipped Shreyah, the God that had struck mankind with a hurricane while on their way to the continent in an ark of great proportions. Yet, many survived the attack and swam to the nearest shores, and thus, a witch hunt began. Shreyah instructed his believers to get a hold of as many humans as they could and once before him to spare their lives as long as the Paladins of Vespertinus were properly founded under his wing. They’d live under his rules, shadow, and teachings. The monastery was then

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erected as its city, the mercy of Shreyah had saved them all. Questioning the Paladins was questioning Sheryah and the mere thought was paid with a high price.

    The boy had been chosen by Jago at the age of twelve in a visit to the city after his last royal paladin passed away—a ruler without his human paladin for too long carried out a bad omen to its respective kingdom, or so was to be believed—the monks had asked the boy to retrieve his armor and tackle his duties at once. The King of the Crook Elves was not as merciful as Shreyah, he’d chosen to give him hell like any of his predecessors. To mankind’s horror, the races they served lived longer than any average human, Crook Elves being top on the list. Jago had accumulated two-hundred and forty-three years all by himself, while Nellah was already a hundred and twenty-two. Both of their parents had died out of old age, piling eight hundred years of nobility together which rendered hundreds of human servants that had perished under their rule alone. There was such hatred encoded into all non-human kingdoms that had forced their slaves to endure humiliations of all sorts like spittles and buckets of piss to the face in outdoor ceremonies. Being trampled by an angry mob was not unusual as well as being thrown rocks at or even pig feces. Fitzroi had been trained all his life to fit the part of a royal paladin. Humans in general had been taught to be civil and forget about their wits and fury. Personalities and aspirations did not matter. Women were either royal paladins too or slave factories according to their fertility.

    Persephus greeted his old friend with an old-fashioned reverence at the entrance of the palace. A reverence that could not have been used for at least the last five centuries to which Jago chuckled, his sister caught up with them quickly enough to smile and bow down before the Asphonian. The King of the Crook Elves pulled Persephus into a rough handshake, patting his shoulder and laughing at his outworn humor. “My time-honored friend, it’s a joy to see Zazphan keeps blessing you with hair locks much more beautiful than mine. I’d be jealous, but alas, I’m the king of assassins, and that faultless path of rectitude she has entrusted you with would be my demise.”

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    Persephus grinned, “I’m hopeful I shall be worthy of this divine agreement for the rest of my life, dear Jago. However, you and I know political perpetuity is unattainable, sadly some of us do not get any wiser.” He cleared his throat and turned to Nellah as well, “Please, both of you, follow me this way. The rest of our colleagues are waiting for the convocation to start.” The King bobbed his head with his blue-jeweled eyeballs set on the roof’s frescos, hands on his waist like a man that was virtuous on the craft, lover of exquisite artwork and glamorous literature. Yet, he wasn’t known for honorable artistries that could spin his peepers left and right in jealousy. His blades knew how to cut like death’s scythe and take with him beautiful possessions.

    The Asphonian escorted them both through monstrously cavernous and echoing marble halls that stretched alongside blossoming gardens made of the reddest turf, white clay pots for hanging shrubs encased with hard gold filigree, and nests upon nests of vines that curled and twisted around the open emerald gable roof. They moved at a quick pace, admiring a painting of the megalopolis from over the sea as they strolled by, and then fixed their eyes upon the monumental holy statue of Zazphan that held a two-handed greatsword made out of what Asphonians liked to call ‘precious dead crystals’. Translucent stones and rocks with valuable mineral properties from which these same properties had been sucked out of, from it the name. Extracting those essences made it possible for their crystal shells to embody all sorts of incantations fueled through mana. The greatsword at the hands of their goddess’s largest memorial had the size and incisiveness of a great white shark. A barbed tongue and a flat and adequate hilt for its fat blade. 

    That was their last stop as they entered the palace's congregation room, an ample greenhouse with seats made of large pieces of moonstone and a carved podium of the same type of rock. The showroom had floating walls and a roof made out of marble-tinted crystals. Kings and chiefs of all closest nations were already joined by the most powerful and big-named warriors, warlocks, and enchanters of Strattah as they had promised to be there too. The room was packed with at least fifty leaders since those that had

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chosen not to belong to any particular nation had created institutes of their own centuries ago much as societies, fellowships, brotherhoods, and even sisterhoods—like the Songbirds. The league of small framed, pastel-colored feathered women was known for their multiple incorporeal wings on the back, heels, arms, and even at the sides of their faces. Zipporah, their leader, was amongst the guests that day. A stoic look on her face, and her curled-up and feathered eyelashes were long enough to move with the breeze. She was wearing a silken deep blue jumper and a heavy tulle cape of the same color. King Ramman of the Rain Orcs was there too, arms crossed and sitting on his legs, barefoot but dressed for the occasion in a white robe fitted to his waist, a rose gold brooch between the folds at the side of his chest. The shape of a teardrop surrounded by a beam of light. An equally rose gold, plain circlet hovered an inch over his head like a halo. His race was known for their blue skin, well-built bodies, high stature, and their irremissible white ink face tattoos that resembled a butterfly, a rough pinion on either side of their cheeks. As their name suggested, Rain Orcs had the ability to manifest masses of water particles in the air either to be used to irrigate their rainforests or create fog with the purpose to ambush trespassers and keep them away from their city. Next on the list were the Gore Mutts brotherhood, the juggernaut beast-men of Midnight Fields known as a place of lifeless territory. Hills of grey soil, bones, and withers, scorching red clouds rolling on the skyline all day long with a putrid smell coming from them at all given times of the day due to natural chemicals. Half men, half mongrels, these mythical brutes had a crushing strength in their massive arms and thirst for a split of their blood, Gore Mutts consumed human flesh only despite their genetic ties. Most of them looked similar to large apes with wolf ears and large muzzles, big-headed, big-bellied very close to what described a gorilla. While the other portion took a much similar look like oversized dogs with large, protuberant fangs and distorted human faces. The last prominent leader amongst them was Hemohn Vespertinus, ruler of the Paladins of Vespertinus and family head of the Vespertinus family. The only royal human family, yet still inferior to the rest of those among him in that room. Hemohn came from a

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long succession of kings and queens traced all back to Hulf Vespertinus, the human prophet that struck the deal with Shreyah to preserve the race. Part of said deal forced every born member of the human royal family to swap the first letter of their original name to an ‘H’ once of age. The first letter of the word ‘human’, not even they would forget how privileged they were in this world. Hulf had been the first one to take a step forward to find some middle ground.

    Hemohn was visibly in top shape for his mere forty-five years of age. Average height and had jet black, fleecy hair that flowed sleek down his neck with a bronze circlet keeping it down and untouched in waves. Hemohn had barely ruled for almost half a lifetime yet that was just a breath to those he served representing their army of slaves. He wore a heavy, lilac monk gown over a white robe and a bronze chain cinch around his waist. 

    While the convocation took place young Fitzroi kept eyes open down the hall accompanied by others like him—the rest of the congregated rulers’ royal paladins, at least two dozen of them—each and one of them clad in the same bronze armor, their morning star maces tight to their side and shields to their back forming a beeline towards the nearest exit. He was the kid of the group, clumsy with his social skills, easily dismissed by the rest who were in their late thirties, and shared no particular interest with a boy his age. The royal paladin ranks were no place for nurture and fellow feelings, not even for the youngsters. There was no point in sugarcoating the sort of life they'd live. For instance, humans were forbidden to wear suits of armor or any other valuable mineral that wasn’t a red metal, in this world, everything was tailored to accentuate those that ruled it. Humans on the other hand were not supposed to have a better aspect than their lords or to hold an aspect at all, so bronze would be for their crowns, rings, earrings, and belts. Except for their weapons, those handed were to serve and needed to be of the best quality. Fitzroi’s slothful eyes were set on a balcony at the end of a hall that seemed to be at least fifty feet away, all he could see was a pinkish afternoon sky with billowing clouds, and pots with dandelions on the edge of the said balcony window. Something about the view made him shiver to the

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bone. Unanticipatedly, he brought a hand over his belly to the upsetting sensation of nausea and his guts moving to a feverish speed. He looked over his shoulder just to realize his fellow paladins looked just as sickly pale and bothered as he probably seemed too, at that very moment. It didn’t take long for them to break a cold sweat, and Fitzroi was the last one to collapse to their knees and press his elbows against the floor to an unseen force acting on their bodies that made them take their shields, and weapons to toss them aside. His chin touched the ground but he managed to twist on his back facing the balcony while said force pushed his neck up and against the floor tiles. His eyes met the glittering silhouette of a woman now standing on the balcony. A real, female human bedizened in a knightly full filigreed gold armor, armor boots, and gauntlets, a knee-long war skirt, and a handful of dandelions in one hand.

    As she approached soundlessly, he heard one of his royal paladin colleagues wheeze at the sight as if he was staring at a ghost. “Lady Harissa . . .”

    “It’s Larissa. Utter my true name, soldiers, or perish beneath this palace. Your cherished Lord Hemohn will die using his slave name or surrender to my cause.”

    “Eat your heretic tongue, you bitch!” She heard someone at the back. Harissa stepped out of the light with long, flowing black hair and dead eyes. She stopped feet away from Fitzroi, who looked at her horrified at the impossibility of being able to move at all. The woman stared back at him curiously before placing a gloved hand on the wall.

    “Fatalizer, have mercy on your foolish children, today they’ll eat rubble.” She bobbed her head at the boy, “Except you.” Then everything came crashing down to complete darkness as the earth shook beneath them and the pink sky was quickly gone. Fitzroi’s lungs filled with dust in seconds, Harissa grabbed him by an arm and pulled him to his feet before saying, “You'll walk a lonely path, and for that, please forgive me.” She squeezed his hand and slowly walked him towards an exit as everything around them fell apart.

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   The boy woke up alone above an alley of the megalopolis, prompted against a fallen archway that had fallen over a piece of wall as the street continued downhill. He remembered being awake seconds ago yet the sky was a dark blue, full of stars and Asphon in complete calamity as if a hundred sieges had torn its beauty apart. The bloodied corpses of the newly arrived brigades spilled everywhere, Crook Elves, Rain Orcs, Gore Mutts, Songbirds, and the Vespertinus alike.

    Fitzroi scrambled to his feet and knew he had to get a better view of the megalopolis, his mind fixed on the battlefield, yet untreated to the realizations that would soon manifest after it. He picked up a muddy sword and ran to the highest part of the city, the ground shaking beneath his feet on a couple of occasions. Once atop of an elevated street, he located a mass of vibrating and suppurating flesh towering over Asphon. The humanoid. It had finally unleashed its rage in a rampant siege led by itself, its shape had grown massively, and then deflated while a crawling pest came out of his navel. The humanoid’s fat roots whipped deliberately, punishing the city unburying themselves to pound the earth leaving no structure standing. Roi stood there for a second before launching himself to a swarm of coming baneful flying bugs full of blood-suppurating white eyes. He cut through papery wings and oily shells, their lithy legs stung to the touch. The boy raised his arms, elbowing the enemies away before casting an aery barrier around him with magic protecting himself for a couple of seconds. The boy then swung his sword tenaciously until the swarm scattered, then ran downhill towards Aessick’s grown body that slowly filled the skyline as he cut distance. Its monstrous proportions turned much clearer with every obliterated block he came across. He fought wolf-sized spiders with decomposed human heads for bodies, fat moths that could spit acid from their open human rib cages, and poisonous beetles with jaws on their backs, salivating everywhere with human teeth and horrifyingly long tongues they dragged around on the dirt. Roi used his sword's tip downward to cut them open in half, blood goo splattering on his face and armor. The boy was back on track, climbing a fallen tower obstructing his way, as he slowly reached the top he could make out the noise of combat on the other sides of the walls,

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Aessick's street was just right ahead. Another swarm of bugs came after him from below, a cyclone he had to endure grappling at the stonewall while the back of his head collided against their hard bodies. He couldn't hold any longer upon the next assault and got sucked in by their tempest that yanked him up higher than any wall on his way while being hit repeatedly by these creatures. He saw fire below him at the other side, armies of all races holding the line against the plagues. Sorcerers mounted on Zazphan’s technological designs with their plasterwork armors broken down to nothing but bare engines, blasting lasers on everything that crawled or fluttered in big waves. The Songbirds’ flying army pivoted back and forth around Aessick’s vibrating flesh obelisk trying to inflict damage with their spears.

    After being spun around, Fitzroi began to descend as the winds beneath him weakened and the swarm rearranged to attack again. But then, a flash of blue burned through the flying mob and it set them aflame, Persephus’s mana laser cutting through like scissors. The greatest sorcerer of all times rode a large owl sentinel and maneuvered the bird design to catch the boy in flight.

    “Aye boy, alright are you?” Persephus glanced down from his plinth at the owl’s back, visibly drained yet with an air of determination. Roi simply waved his arms at him as the technological marvel ascended, they flew over the megalopolis, not much standing at the exception of the flesh obelisk at the center of it all. The young royal paladin noticed the moonlight reflecting on something above them in tones of purple, a translucent dome cast over Asphon. Zazphan’s favorite child knew what this was, “I have failed you just once, Mother. And now everything is gone.” He said loudly, his eyes lost somewhere at sea. He could have aged another hundred years watching the waves, pulverized by sea salt breeze down to his skeleton and until his eye sockets could hold nothing but stones in them. “This devil has trapped us all in a slaughterhouse made for Kings. It has gotten what it wanted, impaling our troops and lords. Look down, boy, at the base of this monstrosity made of raw meat . . . ”

    The boy followed Persephus's accusing finger to the foot of the obelisk, which ever since the siege had started had been surrounded by bone needles that had surfaced from beneath the cobblestones to protect

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it, where many had already perished. From above the needles, tremendous, bloodied, and skinless hands attached to the obelisk would launch and pull victims in, whether soldiers attempting to assault Aessick's tower from ground level, inflight Songbirds or sorcerers anywhere above on their machines, these claws could catch anything in a two-hundred feet radius. Fitzroi drew in a sharp breath when his eyes caught Jago’s body impaled along with many other rulers, heroes, and other comrades-in-arms much closer to the obelisk than anyone else could have gone—a special brigade had been put together to stop Aessick from further destroying the megalopolis with the help of the best Asphonian technology, but they still failed the mission. Certainly, this was what Persephus meant for him to see.

    “Over their child,” He said, changing direction with the wind as they descended and panned above Queen Nellah Pouimont. Nellah had recovered her brother’s twin daggers in a vicious fight that had almost cost her life. She was out of breath, and in tears, as she fought these thrusting claws in an attempt to get back to her brother’s body—to ensure an honorable funeral—severing fingers, knuckles, or the whole arm as she dodged their attacks. The chopped pieces turned to ashes by the time they touched the ground. 

    The twin daggers belonged to the Crook Elves’ kingship and had been passed on from Master Assassin to Master Assassin for generations, retrieving the daggers from the King’s corpse was the most common way any Pouimont successor became the new ruler, a new crown was always forged specifically for this new ruler, and therefore, successors were trained for such things beforehand. But despite the protocols, Nellah’s grief was not any easier, and it got worse as she witnessed flesh roots emerging from beneath the rubbles and taking her brother’s corpse. They elevated him before working their way into his mouth to poison his brain with the Wrath Toxin that had created Aessick the humanoid in the first place, now ready to pass on to a new host. His new feet touched the ground and suddenly the air turned heavier for everyone else.

    “Lord Fatalizer,”

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    A woman emerged from the soil, standing on a new flesh root that had tangled itself around Zazphan’s two-handed greatsword, retrieved from its holy statue back at the palace. “Here’s Zazphan’s long-lasting welcome present.” The creature before her smiled disapproving of his servant’s joke.

    “These shepherds of yours have given me a new name, a new body, and a weapon of my own. My beloved Larissa, you can now use your true name proudly before the tyrants that took it from you. However, I’ll use whatever name they have given me as I’m their new guest, they just need some time to get to know me better. Aessick will do.” Aessick’s touch corrupted the greatsword immediately, shattering the blade and turning it into several tongues of sharp, pounding flesh that spilled black smoke and goo that dripped down the sword’s hilt.

    Nellah stood stunned as she watched him lift the greatsword to the sky with a single hand—his right hand—and wasted no time leaping a hundred yards in a single move and past her, easily beheading a handful of soldiers. By the time Nellah had turned on her heel his blade was making its way to her throat. But went no further as Fitzroi—still onboard Persephu’s owl marvel—severed his right hand with his sword, and Aessick’s greatsword whirled to the ground, losing its wicked appearance. Persephu’s machine seized Nellah in a heartbeat and before they knew it, the obelisk began to collapse upon itself. However, the megalopolis collapsed as the cliff where it stood firm began to disintegrate taking with it the refugee camps out on the outskirts of Asphon as well. Purple lines that came together to form a gigantic seal flashed over the sinking city and Persephus realized the dome cast over the megalopolis had weakened for a brief moment. It was then that the Asphonian’s flying machine broke through the dome and flew safely, away from Fatalizer’s trap. Swept by horror, Roi looked down to meet Larissa’s eyes as she stood alone over a piece of sinking cobblestone, the ocean had finally reached her feet, and then she disappeared under the tide waves. Those fleeting seconds of eye contact broke down a memory he never thought would come back to him now. He was seven, starved, and dehydrated on a summer night just a few streets away from the monastery. It was a tough year, a dangerous drought

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season had killed many orphan children like him in the past few days. As he lay there weakly in a dirty alleyway, he prayed for something, anything to save his life while drifting away to death in complete darkness for he felt something was watching in the shadows. He heard a growl coming from beneath the soil, like a complaint as he waited for death all alone. Out of nowhere, rain poured from the sky as if the oceans had been raised and emptied over his head, baptized by this force. Fitzroi wheezed and jumped off the bird’s grip in an attempt to save Larissa from drowning. 

    But Nellah caught him by the arm, his body suspended in the air, “Fitzroi, what in the world are you doing?!” Her voice raised an octave, intimidatory as always. The boy frowned and stared at her holding arm—her left arm—and then recalled her being left-handed, a faultless assassin with it. If there was a time to redeem himself it was this precise moment. 

    He raised his free hand, still holding the muddy sword he grabbed before battle, and then he said, “My Queen, I’ll drown today to see your confidence falter. Your reign will have ended before it has even started. Farewell.” The boy cut her arm to the elbow and fell into the abysmal ocean to never resurface. Horrified, Queen Nellah fainted from the amount of blood and pain pumping from her shoulder and downward.

    “Queen Nellah, do not give up now, I beg you!” Stunned by the event that had just unfolded before him, Persephus made haste towards the nearest city in order to save the Queen's life. It was this way that Fatalizer would—for the first time—make his name known. Known and uttered with trepidation by all continents. There were no such things as cowards when spoken his name, for he embodied fear itself. Fatalizer's long-awaited plan of extermination had begun with the once superior race now all gone.

THE END