{Prologue} Chapter 1: The Warrior of Red
"In the beginning, there were 8 Goddesses..."
Other POV
A lone iron figure stood motionless amidst a field of dying men.
His crimson armor had just about survived the closing stages of a bloody battle.
His iron was torn, ragged, and peeled away off his limbs like overboiled meat against dried bones. Most of his once prestigious iron armor had been stripped from his body, leaving boiled leather and fresh wounds seeping blood, exposed to the world.
Behind his towering form, the fleeting embers of a bloody war smoldered into an empty calm.
His dreary gaze scanned across the vast land, this place was unrecognizable from how he first met it.
Across a field of patchy grass, he saw fires consuming the decaying soils. The embers had conjured a dreadful mist, one combined with the spray of thick blood, melted flesh and charred bone.
His body shuddered slightly because of this, from his own trembling view of the world, the ground was practically shrouded in a smoky veil of death.
Littered across the disheveled earth were bodies of course, countless bodies, those of his men, and those he had faced for the sake of his survival. And yet just like all wars of the past, once the calm appeared, enemies, friends... the dead were the dead all the same.
He felt his skin crawl, returning to reality, the wails of dismembered men, too afraid to face death's door, filled the air.
His gaze gently lowered, beneath his metallic feet, a puddle of carmine pooled.
The thick metal warmed beneath his gloved hand, a long sword smoothed his grasp, half of its biting steel charred black from the dark blood of his enemies. He lifted his helmet away from his head. Dark brown skin, matted with beads of sweat and flecks of the outdoors.
His eyes remained discolored and bloodshot, barely open, yet they blazed with an unwavering light of resolve still within them.
Though his wounds were deep, his soul remained as sturdy as granite.
He parted his full lips in a bid to speak, instead, a stream of blood dribbled down his beardless chin. A broken smile creased maliciously across his lips.
The wounds from the battle had caught up to him it seemed, his time was running out.
With four arrows lodged into his back, and the countless sword bites marred against his arms, chest, and legs, the tiny hairs along his arms were caked red with his blood.
'It seems we've done enough...my trusted companion'
His thoughts beckoned towards his long great sword. To him, the warrior in red, the sword was his most reliable friend.
The warm breath of war blew through his torn frame. He lowered his eyelids, avoiding the rush of scorching dust carried along with the sweeping winds.
Shortly after the dust settled, he pried open his heavy eyes once more and cast a solemn glare toward the high partially green hills in the far-off distance.
Atop the distant peak stood seven figures, each clad in uniquely crafted attire. To any ordinary eye, they would be indistinguishable at such a distance, yet he saw them as clearly as if they were mere steps away. He knew them all personally by their given names, but that felt like such a breath of time ago. As of now, he saw them as the world saw them.
The great powers of the world. Demi Gods woven from the fabric of a distasteful deity. An unruly goddess, crowned in ivory horns and blazing eyes of bloody hate. He sneered just remembering that face. But his heart needed to forget, for as of right now. Those beyond these hills were his enemies. He knew them as they were...
The berserker. The hunter. The seer. The Paladin. The Assassin. The warlock. And the one he feared the most...the priestess.
A wry smirk spread across his full lips again.
He snorted the blood back up his nostrils and spat a hoarse, blood-filled phlegm onto the ground. Narrowing his eyes, he endeavored to know the expressions on the faces of the seven figures in the distance.
Were they filled with indignation? Sorrow? Fear? Anguish? Hatred? Love? Respect?
Their distant eyes each told a unique story of their own, yet a common thread had long since woven through the hearts of all...They yearned for his death today. Regardless of what historical memories may join them all.
He harbored no fear towards their alliance, of course, this was the time of war and their allegiance was to their ruler. Though his forces lay vanquished, the ground littered with the last remnants of his siege, his blade had claimed the lives of many. And yet, it was far from enough to move the needle. The tide of this war had long been set, he only foolishly understood it now. This entire battle, those microaggressions leading up to this grand slaughter. All of this was for his sake.
As he contemplated his life up until now, his only lament was his failure to produce heirs. Drawing a deep breath, he allowed pain to jab at his wounded chest, his internal organs were beyond repair at this point.
But he would not be misled by the physical pain, for fear was the mind-killer, just as his old master had told him long before.
Grasping the pommel of his great sword again, he threw his head back and unleashed a ferocious roar into the skies.
"HEAR ME NOW! O YE GREAT FALSE GODS OF FATE! LOOK AT ME !
AN ABANDONED SON OF IRON! FORGED FROM THE DEATHS OF THOUSANDS, THE MADNESS YOU POURED INTO OUR LANDS.
HEAR ME! SEE ME! I HAVE BECOME THE MIGHTIEST—SEE HOW YOUR DISCIPLES GANG UP AGAINST ME—ME? A TOAD YOU TOSSED TO THE BOTTOM OF THE WELL!
I AM CONTENT TO DIE—FOR I HAVE SHOWN THE WORLD JUST HOW FEEBLE YOUR POWERS ARE!
BUAHAHA I TRAMPLE ON YOUR FALSE GRACE"
His roar echoed across the hills, halting the callous wind, a piece of him felt his falling comrades roaring to the heavens alongside him. All seemed to fall silent as if the world itself was an audience to the last great roar of the lone warrior, defiant against the powers of fate until the very end.
His breath grew ragged, chest heaving in desperate gasps.
The force of his cry had drained the vestiges of his strength, leaving him spent. Blood gathered in his chest, and his lungs compromised, yet such concerns were trivial to him now. The world's response? A cold, formless wind passing through the field of war once more. The lonesome warrior lowered his eyelids, inwardly he thanked the Gods for this last enrichment of soothing wind.
When he finally lifted his eyelids, the figures atop the hill stirred into motion.
Six shadows surged forward, one remained, the mighty priestess, standing alone.
Her attire was of an ethereal white, purer than the untouched snow, her movements delicate, reminiscent of a musician's grace upon a zither as she slowly raised her slender arm. A white veil concealed her visage, adorned with a golden chain upon her brow, she seemed to be preparing whilst the shadows converged upon the battlefield.
His eyes remained fixed on the solitary figure of the priestess. Her hands wove intricate patterns in the empty air, conjuring a golden scepter that materialized in her grasp.
With a celestial motion, she lifted it high, calling forth a radiant orb of golden fire.
What first appeared as a tiny spec of ember, very radiantly swelled into a comet, as formidable as a mountain's crown.
He grit down against his teeth harshly seeing this.
'Does she need to go that far? tsk! Give a dying man a chance' He grimaced sardonically, knowing it was within her very nature to go all out. Especially against those she feared the most.
Grasping his sword, the warrior prepared for the final confrontation. The approaching six were but a fleeting challenge compared to the celestial firestorm summoned by the priestess. By now the 6 figures had almost arrived upon him. Even if he somehow repelled them off, there was no avoiding that ball of fire.
With a deep sigh, he sucked in a large mouthful of air and exhaled, his body felt as calm as the steel in his hands. With narrowed eyes, his arm squeezed the handle of his sword, and a baleful aura spilled into the thick great blade.
A purple liquid swiftly covered the blade as well as his arm which handled it.
He counted 6 breaths before they were upon him, his body could barely move as he willed it too at this point.
A look of gladness appeared within his eyes, and with shaking arms, the lonesome warrior raised his great sword high and mightily...
And then he cut down, for one final time.
***
'Since when...did the Azure sky look so beautiful?'
Whilst darkness encroached on his gaze from all angles, in his final breaths he saw something strange. A falling dust of gold.
Slowly falling, like divine drops of rain upon him. Strange it seemed, but then he heard a voice. A watery coral speech. Softly calling for him in the dense fog of darkness.
"Fear not my champion, for your song is far from complete.
Let thy heart rest knowing this, that I, the Goddess of Dawn and Gold, have chosen you to bear my will...come...place your heart upon my lap.
It's time for your awakening."
First Death. The Warrior of Red. END