Episode 14: Bloodbath

Heartbeat,

Heartbeat,

Heartbeat,

In the aftermath of the devastating shockwave unleashed by The Aurora Ascendant, chaos reigned in the skies above. The dragons lay motionless, their once-mighty forms now rendered inert by the deadly energy of Infihermion after their painful roar. Possibly all were dead already due to their hypersensitivity to the element. Everyone else was unconscious, Yet amidst this scene of destruction, one figure remained conscious:

Griswa.

As the shockwave subsided, Griswa's senses sharpened, his perception of time slowing to a crawl. He watched in horror that Malaes and Yesdar, who were below him in the same air, their bodies unconscious with closed eyes and their ears bleeding. Blood droplets hung suspended in the air. 

"Yesdar!!" shouted Griswa with a disrupted voice as they were falling, and the word hung in the air.

In the deafening silence of the free fall, Griswa's heart pounded against his chest like a relentless drum, its rhythm echoing in the vast expanse of the thunderous sky. Each beat reverberated through his body, a constant reminder of the urgency of the situation and the gravity of their predicament.

As he hurtled through the air, his senses heightened to a razor-sharp edge. The rush of wind against his face, the distant roar of the earth below, every sensation seemed amplified, magnified by the adrenaline coursing through his veins. It was as if time itself had slowed to a crawl, allowing him to perceive every detail with crystal clarity.

In that fleeting moment of clarity, Griswa felt something stir within him, a primal force awakening deep within his soul. It was a surge of energy, raw and untamed, coursing through his veins like a raging river. He could feel it pulsating within him, urging him to action, compelling him to embrace the chaos of the moment.

And then, as if in response to his silent plea, it happened. The swirling energies of light and darkness converged within his eyes, casting a mesmerizing glow that illuminated the darkness around him. It was a sight to behold, a manifestation of his inner strength and resolve, a testament to his indomitable spirit.

But Griswa was not alone in this awakening. Beside him, Silyahun, stirred from unconsciousness, as if Griswa himself gave him the power, his mind connected directly with the dragon's. With a flicker of its massive wings, the dragon shook off the shackles of unconsciousness, its eyes blazing with newfound vitality.

Griswa reached out, his hands moving with practiced precision to catch Malaes and Yesdar as they fell. He caught hold of Malaes's hand and caught Yesdar's clothes.

Before they could touch the ground, Griswa landed on Silyahun's back with both of them and commanded, "Go Beyond!" with a reclaimed calm voice which he didn't seem to have a few moments ago due to the extreme urgency of the situation that had disrupted his voice in panic, when he shouted Yesdar's name.

Silyahun took a flight like never before. As they reached the barrier, with Silyahun's epic roar, a giant jet of energy from his breath clashed with the barrier, shattering it from top to down within a certain limit, that was more than enough for them to move on and escape.

But what about the others?

In the deafening silence that followed the chaotic free fall, the city streets became a grim tableau of death and destruction. The bodies of Sivera, Rahl, Aelodor, Daryan, Olemith, Risanji, Elemdar, Raazman, and Syran, along with their loyal dragons, impacted the ground with loud thuds, lay scattered across the asphalts, their forms twisted and broken, their lifeless eyes closed as a message that meaningless deaths were nothing to be seen.

One simple mission, lead to unimaginable losses.

The meat Sivera bought, each piece was in mud, that served as a message for cheap meat's value. And who were these people in the eyes of the Yahunyen government? 

Cheap meat!

And cheap meat is as good as dead meat.

The impact had been catastrophic, their bodies rent asunder by the force of the fall. Limbs were contorted at unnatural angles, flesh torn and mangled beyond recognition. Blood pooled beneath their motionless forms, staining the pavement with gruesome hues of crimson and scarlet. The impact had shattered skulls and ruptured organs, leaving a trail of carnage in its wake. Gory wounds served as mouths of the rivers of blood, forming dark puddles that flowed into the cracks of the pavement. 

Rain showered from the thunderous clouds before, which diluted the rivers of blood, making it easier to flow in the sewers.

In the urgency of the situation, Griswa could only save Malaes and Yesdar who remained the closest to him in the air. Things were suddenly just too fast, where one couldn't remain calm all the times. Griswa did all he could do in his power. 

But was that the limit of his powers? What was this? How did he revive a dragon in that way? That though a dead dragon? 

Everything had an answer, but right now the situation didn't demand the answers, it demanded the actions.

Well, Griswa did regret not being able to save them all, but in the end he had two of them at least. As he soared through the storm on the back of Silyahun, he gritted his teeth against the pounding rain followed by heavy sighs. He assured the presence of Malaes and Yesdar behind him, neither the gravity belts functioned, nor the weather was pleasant enough to fly on a high speed. So, Silyahun maintained a normal speed as the thunder clapped before them in the skies.

Griswa lead the way back to the chasm, where he could put all of them at rest. 

END OF PART 1

Walith descended from the sky with an air of superiority, his every movement oozing arrogance. As he landed on the street, he strutted toward Sivera's fallen form with purpose, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. With deliberate contempt, he planted his foot on Sivera's cheek, pressing down with calculated force. The expression of disgust on his face spoke volumes, a tangible manifestation of his disdain for those beneath him.

In that moment, Walith reveled in his power, relishing the opportunity to demean his adversaries. He wanted them to feel the weight of their inferiority, to understand their place in his world. It was a display of dominance, a reminder of his absolute authority over them.

As he stood there, looking down at Sivera's prone figure, a sense of satisfaction washed over him. This was his moment to assert his superiority, to revel in their humiliation. And he intended to savor every second of it.

With his cringy smile that enhanced the disgusting look on his face, he said, "Prepare the bloodbath.

.....

The history of Aeartha was shrouded in darkness, a tapestry woven with the blood of countless rebellions and the echoes of unspeakable horrors. For 185,000 years, the Yahunyens had reigned supreme, their dominion unchallenged, their power absolute. But behind the facade of their iron-fisted rule lay a legacy of brutality and cruelty that had been all but forgotten by the present generation.

Sivera, like many others in the present world, was unknown of the true extent of the atrocities committed by the Yahunyens throughout history. He knew little of the countless rebellions that had been fought, the brave souls who had dared to defy their oppressors in the name of freedom. These tales had been buried beneath layers of deception and misinformation, their voices silenced by the passage of time. 

This was the reason, he thought that people were weak, and had been bearing oppression for thousands of years like idiots. Little did he know that thousands of rebellions were fought, yet all fell to loss of lives with pain and vain and no gain. This was because history and knowledge was a limited subject in the world. One with knowledge couldn't speak much either, as there was not enough freedom.

But there was one chilling aspect of Yahunyen rule that still haunted the nightmares of Mackenasians: the Bloodbath. It was a ritual as ancient as the empire itself, a grotesque display of power and dominance that sent shivers down the spine of anyone who dared to speak its name.

In the aftermath of every rebellion, the Yahunyens would descend upon the battlefield like vultures, their insatiable hunger for conquest driving them to desecrate the fallen. They would collect the bodies of their enemies, the lifeless husks of those who had dared to challenge their authority, and drag them to a place of unspeakable horror.

There, under the cold gaze of the moon, they would set to work, their hands stained crimson with the blood of their foes. With cold, methodical precision, they would slice open the bodies, tearing flesh from bone and spilling forth rivers of blood. The air would be thick with the sickening stench of death, a foul smell that clung to the skin like a suffocating shroud.

But their depravity did not end there. Once the bodies had been stripped bare, the Yahunyens would gather the remaining blood in vast vessels. And then, as the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, they would indulge in a festival celebration, a twisted mockery of victory.

They would play in the blood of their enemies, bathing in its crimson tide as if it were the sweetest nectar. They would dance and laugh, their voices raised in cruel mockery of those who had dared to oppose them. And as the sun rose higher in the sky, casting its golden light upon the scene of unspeakable horror, they would stomp on the blood and the droplets would dance in the air near their feet.

(Imagine a festival of Holi (a festival in which people play with colors in India) played with blood, it was just the same and horrifying.)

For the Mackenasians, it was a sight that filled them with dread and despair. To see their loved ones' blood spilled so callously, to witness the depths of the Yahunyens' depravity laid bare before them, it was a wound that cut deep into their very souls. And yet, despite their fear, despite their despair, they knew that they could never truly defeat their oppressors.

For as long as the Bloodbath continued, as long as the Yahunyens held dominion over their world, they would remain shackled to their fate, condemned to a cycle of violence and suffering from which there seemed to be no escape. And so, they bowed their heads in silent resignation, their spirits broken by the weight of centuries of oppression.

They used to give up for some time, then they again stood up to fight a rebellion, but again the same happened, and thousands of years went by like that, with the same results. 

A rebellion,

Then a war lost,

Then a bloodbath. 

This became a part of various poems written by the Mackenasian forgotten poets in many other languages of the world too. Yet there has been no change. As said before, the world doesn't change, it just gets newly framed.

There was once a Mackenasian soldier in a certain rebellion. The war was lost, and he walked through the battleground witnessing their terrible defeat and the loved ones he lost. Fortunately he was the only remaining soldier on the ground from the army. He went near his younger brother's body lying on the ground somewhere and saw that his brother face was like minced meat and it was utterly unrecognizable, he could only recognize him by his armor that the Mackenasian soldier himself had built for him. 

The soldier started shivering, so much that even his lips wiggled, his hair strands wet with sweat started falling on his forehead, he looked up in the sky, the left eye poured down tears and the right eye poured down blood. And both the short streams met in the middle of his chin and a mixture of blood sweat and tears resulted in a droplet falling in the stream of his brother's blood on the heated desert battleground under the scorching sun. 

With that he screamed so hard, that his throat would choke blood in horror. The scream seemed to be as if it was reaching the heavens itself. A Yahunyen soldier noticed him from the back. He fired an arrow... and that arrow pierced through the back of his head, exiting from his right eye.

DEAD...

BLACKOUT.

Back to the present. 

Walith's cruel laughter echoed through the empty streets, a sinister symphony of malice and hatred that sent shivers down the spines of those soldiers who descended, who bore witness to his act of cruelty. With a savage kick, he crushed Sivera's face beneath the heel of his royal shoes, relishing in the sickening crunch of bone and sinew.

"Stupid bitches!" he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "Had been troubling me for such a long time, what do you think, huh?!! What the hell do you think!!!" His eyes blazed with rage as he loomed over his fallen foes, his face contorted in a grotesque mask of fury.

"There's a reason why we reign," he sneered, his words laced with contempt. "You can't do shit! All you did these years was utter nonsense in the name of rebellion! It serves no message at all to these weak! Despicable! Worthless! Pathetic! Inferior! Degenerate! Contemptible! Wretched! Miserable! Scorned! Disgraced! Pieces of shit! Trashes that don't even deserve dustbins! And you thought to cross me?!! Rebellion my ass!"

With each word, he brought his foot crashing down upon Sivera's face, the sickening sound of bone grinding against bone filling the air. He stomped and stomped at least 30 times, his rage unrelenting, until he finally grew tired due to his fat body and paused to wipe the sweat from his bloated face with a handkerchief, coughing a little.

"We have played with your blood," he continued, his voice dripping with malice. "Spilled your blood. When people like you crossed us, there weren't just pools of blood, there weren't just rivers of blood, there weren't just lakes of blood, there weren't just seas of blood, there weren't just oceans of blood... If I had all that blood from the histories that the Yahunyens spilled, I could fill all the oceans of the world with it and yet some of it would still remain."

His words hung in the air like a foul stench, a stark reminder of the depths of depravity to which the Yahunyens would sink in their quest for power. And as he looked down upon his broken enemies, their blood was staining the pavement beneath his feet.

.....

In a dimly lit chamber, the soldiers moved with practiced efficiency, their movements swift and silent as they gathered the fallen bodies of Sivera and his companions. With cold, unfeeling hands, they dragged the lifeless forms to the awaiting butchers, who stood ready with gleaming blades poised to rend flesh from bone.

The sickening sound of metal meeting flesh filled the air as the butchers set to their grim task, their faces hidden behind blood-splattered masks as they worked with ruthless precision. Limbs were severed, organs harvested, and blood spilled in copious amounts, the metallic scent of death hanging heavy in the air.

Meanwhile, in a secluded corner of the chamber, a dark figure stood alone, his presence commanding and menacing. Walith, watched with cold detachment as the butchers carried out their grisly work, a cruel smile playing upon his lips.

As the last of the bodies was dissected and the blood collected in large vessels was poured down in a massive bathtub, Walith made his way to a private chamber adjoining the main hall. The room was shrouded in darkness, the only illumination coming from a flickering candle set upon a small table beside the massive bathtub.

With slow, deliberate movements, Walith removed his regal garments, casting them aside without care as he revealed his naked form beneath. His silhouette loomed large against the dim light, his features obscured by shadow as he stepped into the waiting bath.

The warm embrace of the blood enveloped him, sending a shiver of pleasure coursing through his veins. Closing his eyes, Walith let out a low, guttural moan of satisfaction as he submerged himself completely, the thick crimson liquid swirling around him like a macabre embrace.

Reaching out with blood-stained hands, he scooped up handfuls of the viscous fluid, smudging it across his face and body with an almost adoring touch. The sensation was intoxicating, the taste of the nectar mingling with the stench of death as he celebrated in the grotesque ritual.

He tilted his head up, his face masked with blood and opened his eyes in the dark, his bloated face and body served like a figure of a horrifying ghost as he opened his eyes slowly, very slowly, with a wide smile showing his front teeth bathing in blood as the blood entered the gums.

To Walith, there was no greater pleasure than this. For in the crimson depths of the bloodbath, he found a perverse sense of satisfaction. And as he emerged from the depths of the tub, his skin stained with the blood of his fallen foes... the night had already passed.

Doubt Clearing Information:

Why did Sivera and the group not consider entering the city from above, given the presence of storm clouds? It's plausible that the airspace was open, suggesting that the city wasn't shielded from above.

The invisible barrier always covered the city like a massive dome. Because the city was located in a desert area, rainfall was quite rare. However, the AI system controlling the barrier was programmed to open it from the top whenever weather forecasts predicted rain. This allowed rainwater to fill the city's reservoirs. Since rainfall was infrequent, the barrier rarely opened at the top, and it had become a habit for Sivera and his group to infiltrate by damaging the barrier and then entering the city. They never considered the possibility of entering from above during a storm because they were unaware of the barrier's automatic response to rain, and it simply wasn't part of their usual approach.