by Wolfe Locke
They do not deserve this fate. I thought if I took the Altar everything would go back to how it was before the dungeon appeared. I cannot be the last. If you won't revive them, then please just let me die alongside them."
"What is done is done, Seraph, and cannot be undone. But this end is not what I wanted. This is not the ending that anyone wanted. I had not expected humanity to fail in this trial, and I will not allow this story to end with your failure here.
So, to you, I will give what you wish for, a chance that all ask but few ever receive. A chance to go back and right what was wrong, to fix mistakes, and do what needs to be done to save humanity.
"For what is done cannot be undone, but it can be rewritten. As your lifeblood falls to the floor, remember what you have seen and heard.
You cannot save humanity without saving people, and for that, I will send you back in time. Though remember, you cannot save them all, nor should you. Your power will be sealed, and you will return to that fateful day when it all began to descend once more into my dungeon.
I charge you with the task of preparing humanity for what is to come, and to bring them to my Altar. Not you alone, and not your elites. No, bring humanity to my Altar in the thousands and the millions, and only then will you see the Eden that is to come with the fall of Aeon. My dungeon is not your end. It is your beginning and your salvation. Remember this, Seraph."
With a simple motion, the Immortal Amarath restored the flow of time, and with it so too did Seraph's injuries and wounds once more flow with his lifeblood.
The man known as the Black Seraph, but born as Luca, collapsed at the base of the Altar.
His body was finally failing, his abilities unable to heal the massive damage he had received. His wings of blackened steel hung uselessly torn and shredded in two piles away from his body. More blood pooled on the ground from his many wounds.
His power, at last, was failing him, and as he closed his eyes forever, he thought he saw a man made of stars whose body seemed to contain the infinite cosmos reach for him and cradle his broken body as the darkness finally took him into its embrace.
"Three rules, Seraph. Do not take a life unwarranted, do not harm without reason, and all above all else, safeguard humanity and ensure your own survival. You will not get another chance. The contract I once made with you in that fateful cave still applies. You are the key.”
Name: Luca Fernandez
Race: Primordial Seraphim
Aliases:Black Seraph, Angel of Genocide, The Accuser, Tyrant, Amarath’s Vessel
Passives Abilities
Body of Black Steel
Reflective Aura
Power Incarnate
Charisma of the Overlord
Tyrant’s Boon
Abilities
Luminaire – (1849 - 100,000)
Heroic Guard – (12,984 - 1,000,000)
Summon Legendary Monster (544,000 – 1,000,000)
Glacial Shard (45,058 – 1,000,000)
Liquify (85,480 – 1,000,000)
Purge the Weak (42,490 – 10,000,000)
Hellfire Prison (74,194 – 100,000)
Tri-Elemental Bolt (341
Level:999 of 999
Unassigned Stat Points: 29
Current Experience: 191,402 of 2,934,000
STR: 7961 INT: 3945 AGI: 4018
WIS: 5963 LCK:575 PHY: 7*
END: 6130 PER:2884
SOL: $194810*
Chapter 2: The Rebirth
* * *
As Seraph's body died, it disappeared into the floor below it, absorbed and assimilated by the dungeon. As for his spirit, it did not go on toward what dark retribution awaited him. His spirit remained and waited, rather than pass into the darkness, bound in part to the world through the tome on the Altar.
* * *
In another time and another life, Luca dreamed. He dreamt of a blood-covered Altar, and on that Altar was set a tome from which deep rolling fog seeped out. A inky blackness that covered the ground and spread all over him with wings of darkness, enfolding him like a second skin. A darkness that threatened to drown him and drown the whole world.
Within that darkness, he learned a truth of the world that only the dead and dying knew. That to live and breathe is better than any glory or renown you could possibly achieve in this life.
As the darkness enveloped his entire body, he could feel it writhing and moving across his face, smothering him, and as he struggled to breathe, he panicked, realizing he was slowly being suffocated.
In his fear, he could feel a cold sentient and terrible intelligence moving within that darkness. Something hungry for his life, and something hungry with a desire to live again.
Luca screamed in fear—a fear that he would be consumed by that hunger. It was a fatal mistake as he finally lost his battle for control against the darkness that was trying to consume him.
Abruptly his screams cut off as the darkness forced its way into him through his mouth, clogging his voice in his throat. His choking and muffled screams were the only sound to be heard, and as he passed out, visions flashed before his eyes.
In his vision, he saw a man with a face much like his own, but the man was older and heavily scarred with an impossible body that was beautiful in its imperfections, yet twisted and mutilated.
A million hands grabbed onto the man, tearing at him, clinging to him. Hands that could not be seen tore through his flesh and bones as they removed, piece by piece, what had made up the core of his being.
Luca could not look away as morbid fascination took hold. He saw the hands work as the body of his elder self was thoroughly and mechanically dismembered. The cold precision was terrible to behold as the butchering continued.
The body’s wings were clipped and torn off, not only from his back, but also from his spirit—in this life, and the next, he no longer would fly, as if those hands belonged to the enemies who feared he might come alive again.
Instinctively, Luca knew what this meant. Those cold hands were not so impartial. The power behind those hands feared the resurrection of the man. Even as a corpse he was feared. He would be crippled and hobbled, his power sealed away, lest he become something far more terrible if he was to rise from the clutches of the grave.
The man had skin that glistened like steel, marred only by the numerous wounds sustained throughout the body. Wounds that no longer bled, the blood thick and blackened in coagulation.
The butchering hands worked quickly as they peeled back and flayed the skin of steel without much effort. In response, as Luca watched, he held his breath and screamed in revulsion as he felt those hands peel the skin, but it was not his. The sensation of pain was there for but a moment, and then it passed while the hands continued their grisly business without hesitation.
The body of the man that had built up to be like a god on Earth was torn apart, piece by piece. Casually dismembered to be used and cataloged. This man, Luca realized, was the version of himself he had long fantasized about growing up to be. Yet, he watched himself be reduced to mere sinews and tendons and nothing more.
A terrible end to the once powerful being, the idol he had made of himself. Luca was conflicted as to the meaning of this vision, and as the images rapidly faded into nothingness, he found no answers. Only darkness awaited, though the dark did nothing to quiet his consciousness and quell his wildly vacillating thoughts.
A voice came to him from within the darkness. A voice beyond space and time. A voice beyond his understanding.
"This is you, Luca. This is what you become. Look at what your desires have wrought. Look at the ways your hands have been stained," said the voice without anger, but rather matter-of-factly if not morose in its robotic delivery. The voice was familiar—like a forgotten memory—but he could not quite place it. It was unrecognizable, and he did not know why.
"Remember what you have done, child. Remember these faults, remember these sins, and learn from them. Grow from them. Do not allow yourself to make the same mistakes aga
in."
A sudden memory came to him, but it confused him for it was not his own. He still remembered the voice. He recognized it as the Spirit of the Dungeon, though he did not know how he remembered visiting the dungeon of this memory or meeting this spirit as he was sure they had never met before.
He knew the memories belonged to someone else. In his mind, he recalled slivers of knowledge about the voice and memories of a life that had never been his.
"I promise I will remember," Luca replied.
The Spirit of the Dungeonresponded, "It is not a promise you can make until you've witnessed who you were. Watch what you have done, dream the dark dreams, and remember what has been forgotten."
As the voice spoke in the dreamscape, an image began to form—images of a memory from a life long-lived, and a flashback to the memory of a bloody handprint on an Altar and the death of the version of himself named Seraph. Though Luca had some more recollection, he knew that he was not him. He was not this Seraph. Those memories belonged to someone else.
In his dreams, he dreamt of hellish green fire that seemed more mist than flame. A fire that both descended to the Earth from the heavens and erupted out of the belly of the abyss. The green fire spread out from each pole, slowly in all directions, consuming all things, and leaving the dungeon for last.
That infernal green fire, that green mist that would come to cover the entirety of the Earth, consumed every nation, every country, and every state. The fire consumed the Earth but did not burn it. From within that green mist, Luca could see gigantic grotesques and rotting abominations moving, the dead and the damned following behind them, straining to be unleashed on the world as they crawled up from the hell beneath and descended from darker realms above.
Mouths ravenous, dripping with saliva, their talons were sharp to rend flesh and cleve muscle. Cruel alien intelligence behind rotting eyes that shone green, these were the Infernals.
Each carried and dragged away every man, woman, and child who had not escaped from that dark storm. They screamed, cried, and sobbed in terror, knowing that only pain and suffering awaited them.
Luca cried out to them, reaching out desperate to save them, but his hands passed through them all. Here he was only a watcher. Tears rolled down his eyes as he could see many had suffered terrible wounds, but he knew they would not die. These monsters that captured them appeared to feed without mercy, but they did not kill most outright. For Luca, this was the fuel of nightmares.
For each person not consumed by those monsters would be taken elsewhere to become just like them. It was theorized but never proven that these unfortunate souls would be transformed through some otherworldly ritual. Everyone who was lost within that mist only made the Infernals stronger.
He watched as people ran to escape the green curtain of death that descended upon them. The masses panicked, aware of the snapping mouths and gnarled hands within that green mist that reached for the slowest and the infirm.
Reaching for those who could not stay ahead of the encroaching darkness. Reaching for the weak and those who had lost the will to save their own lives. Hell descended upon them, and no matter where Luca looked, and no matter how hard he tried to avert his eyes, all he saw was the endless sea of faces frozen in terror.
A shadow flew over him, and as Luca looked up, he saw an older version of himself—the Black Seraph. This version had eyes of the deepest crimson that lacked any hint of human emotion or compassion within its face, aged, weathered, battle hardened and cold.
As Luca watched, the man’s eyes glowed red as if to emphasize his inhuman nature. He spread out impossible wings that gleamed of metallic black before flying toward the green mist and then into it. As he went, he called down massive pillars of fire from the heavens unto the Earth, destroying every Infernal that it touched.
He summoned tempestuous winds to keep the mist from spreading faster and grew glacial shards in the streets to impede the movement of the chasing Infernals as they ran onward to overtake the fleeing refugees.
The first of the Infernals reached the fleeing refugees with clawed hands stretching out, and metallic wings responded in attack. The Black Seraph tore into the Infernals, severing arms and limbs as he attacked. His wings like blades, flayed and ripped flesh while he thrust over and over with his great spear. This was a warrior at home in his element, in the chaos, fighting with fervent resolve—not observing from above—and for a moment, Luca felt pride in this vision of his future self.
This was a fleeting sense of pride that fled once the Black Seraph returned to the skies, and Luca heard an emotionless and cold voice begin to call out to minions and guildmates, pointing out fleeing refugees from his aerial vantage point.
Choosing who would be saved, and dragging them away from their families as they tried to cling together, leaving behind those who had been judged to be too weak to be saved.
As some of his minions dragged away survivors, others followed different commands to work the crowd of fleeing refugees as they fled the green mist. Killing outright those who resisted and the sobbing masses, unwilling to let the weak be consumed and transformed by the Infernals approaching in the dark. It was not out of mercy for the fleeing refugees as cries for mercy went ignored.
This dark visage of himself that Luca had been watching had decided the monsters in the dark were a threat he did not want to strengthen. He would not feed them the weak.
The weak would not join the Infernal horde of Wormwood. He would not allow the weak to interfere with the survival of those strong enough to survive within the dungeon. This was a cold and calculated culling. On those streets, both men and monsters expunged lives in the tens of thousands as the dark curtain of green moved ever forwards.
Luca looked at himself in disappointment, yelling in anger as loudly as he could, "Say something! Do something! This isn't me! This can't be me! You aren't me!" But no matter how hard he tried to get his own attention, he could not stop what had already been set in motion, what had already been done. To his other self, he was just a shadow, an outside observer, and he didn't exist.
Hooded men and women moved among the crowd, their Carrion Crow emblems showing their guild affiliation as they struck down the refugees who had fallen to their knees, unable to get up. Tears ran down Luca's face as he screamed and begged for it to stop.
After hours of watching, unable to interfere and unable to save anyone from the carnage of the bloody spectacle before him, an end unfolded, as the climax of the slaughter was reached.
The massacre ended as the surviving waves of refugees arrived at the dungeon in their vast multitudes. Millions of survivors pouring in from every corner of the world—some recently displaced while many others had fled their homes weeks prior as the infernal mist spread. Every human on Earth. All knowing the last bastion of safety was to be found in the dungeon.
All of the refugees fought against each other, fighting as they tried to push past each other, forcing their way through each other. Walking over empty cars and shattered glass on broken roads and over the broken bodies of those who had simply given up, unable to flee any longer. Those who had succumbed to fatigue, sickness, and terror.
In thick lines and thicker groups, those survivors all started to pour into the maw of the great gate that led into the dungeon. The dungeon that had appeared years before out of the wreckage and ruin of what was once the Mall of Atlanta. Giant and dominating, the entry could be seen for miles.
Seraph, the Angel of Darkness, as his other self was known, descended before the refugees, landing in front of the entrance to the dungeon, and disturbing the dirt beneath him as rock and rubble were thrown in all directions in a minor show of power.
He was to be the final gatekeeper against the flood of wretched humanity. In this moment, he was judgment. Though billions had already died—expired as they fled the dark storm, or been seized by the monsters within the darkness, or killed outright for being judged as weak—millions still remained, straining against the bottleneck to
make their way into the dungeon, down into what they perceive as safety.
The multitude, panicking and encumbered by sheer numbers as far as the eye could see, would be caught by the green mist long before they finished moving into the dungeon, and Luca knew they would not be fast enough. He looked back to his other self and knew that he had reached the same conclusion.
A flash of irritation was the first human emotion he had witnessed. Luca saw the dark visage of himself move his hands as tendrils of power spread around his fingers.
Luca recognized what was about to happen and screamed: "No! Please, don't do it!" But if anyone could hear his cries of protest, they didn't respond or refused to notice, and all he could do was watch in horror at what was unleashed.
A red sludge spread out from those dark hands, low to the ground and hard to see. But Luca saw, and he saw wretched and terrible faces, within the sludge, moving, slithering, and ravenous. Searching for victims and finding plenty.
The sludge quickly spread out among the crowd of refugees, and as it moved among them, the screams of torment rang out from those who had been judged. Their end was one of excruciating pain that seemed to last for an eternity to those who heard it.
It was an advanced spell that used a basic constitution check. A conjured slime monstrosities to remove those who lacked the strength to begin their journey within the dungeon.
For those who failed that check, their skin began to bubble and fall off as it desiccated from within. Liquefying as the spell moved among the crowd, those who died further fueling the spell, joining those vicious faces trapped in the red sludge, further culling the weak. For every person that the sludge passed without harm, five more died. Before the night would finish, the remaining millions would be reduced to thousands.