Legacy of Chaos

by Jackson Bale

  The [Slaves] shiver from the cold breeze of the night, some huddling closer to each other to share warmth, their eyes glazing with fear and hunger.

  As for me, I place my back to a tree, blocking the breeze and move my legs to my chest, incapable of falling asleep from the screaming cries of the unfortunate slaves.

  Yes, from the tents I hear screams of pain as the masters pour their sexual desires upon the females they have taken for the night.

  I turn my head, looking towards the largest tent… and where the loudest screams are coming from. That is the leader's tent. The leader… a powerful old [Necromancer] who had surpassed level 100, a huge milestone for a human as it means their life is more than doubled in length.

  Two massive guards stand outside his tent. Wrapped in dark coverings and over eight feet in height, they stare vigilantly into the night, unmoving like a statue.

  But unlike a statue, eye sockets do not glow.

  A menacingly green light can be seen flickering within the skeletal head of the abominations as their bony exterior is hidden by a thick cloth. Massive greatswords rest squarely upon the guards’ sides, waiting to be used against beast and [Slave] alike.

  With a shivering breath, I tighten the hold of my legs as I attempt to once again drown out the screams around.

  “Eir… give me strength.” I pray to my goddess, constantly repeating the words I have been taught since I was young. Only after the cries die down do I finally allow sleep to take me.

  **************

  A week had passed... and the feeling of… wrongness has increased every single day. A feeling that is now being shared among the [Slaves] and younger [Mages].

  We are getting closer to our destination.

  Looking forward, the sight of the menacing gray fog can be seen. The land was known as Vetiti Spiritus, a place where anything that enters will never return. A place where the souls damned into oblivion reside. A place where even the gods refuse to tread.

  Why are we here? This place only brings death. Do they plan to enter the fog? Are they mad?

  “Eir, protect me”, I whisper a silent prayer to my goddess, dearly hoping she is listening and will guide me through this hardship.

  Within the hour, we are close enough to the fog that the feeling of dissent becomes audible.

  The sounds of wailing can be heard from the location of the fog. Massive shadows are occasionally seen as massive flying serpents swim and swirl with the rhythm of the fog as it strikes an unseen barrier.

  “Whaaaaaaaaaaa”

  The sound of the beasts wailing is not audible or heard from the ears. No, that sound instead strikes deep within the soul. A cry promising unending hunger and pain. Of lives lost and consumed.

  Looking around, the [Slaves] are just as uncomfortable as I am. They constantly look to the fog, seeing the shapes, shivering in fear as their whines reverberate through them all.

  Another hour passes and the procession finally slows down as we approach a hidden structure indented into the ground.

  An abandoned mausoleum reveals itself as we slow our approach even more.

  The structure, old and degraded, is covered by a great many vines.

  The leader, an old hunched man directs his undead forward. The monstrosity, carrying most of the [Mage]'s gear, unsheathes its sword and walks forward. With a strong powerful swipe, the sword strikes the degraded door, ripping vines and old wood apart. Four more swipes later and the entrance is finally clear.

  The leader removes his hood and turns to the procession of thirty [Slaves]… formerly forty a few weeks ago.

  His face, wrinkled beyond disbelief, looks towards the other mages. His eyes blaze with hunger and anticipation.

  “My students, the time of reckoning is upon us,” he says fervently, standing near the entrance.

  The other [Mages] look to their leader, listening and awaiting every word.

  “For too long we have hidden and run from the powers which hunt us. For too long, [Mages], who have devoted their lives to the dark arts have been disrespected and shunned.”

  He stops, eyeing the students before him… a manic smile blooms upon the visage of the old man’s face.

  “But we are not alone,” he continues, ”for the Dark God Loki has contacted me,” he lifts up his arms, ”and has blessed me with a skill!”

  The man’s palms burst into a green light, mana brimming with intense power.

  “I have been given the skill… [Summon Hero]!”

  Gasps resound throughout the [Mages]. My own included.

  “That's a legendary skill!”

  “Who is Loki?”

  “Why have you not told us this sooner?”

  Questions upon questions are asked by the students, but I ignore them as my mind remembers the stories of people who gain the [Hero] class. Stories of hunting dragons, destroying evil, saving lives. Stories told to every child when they were young.

  Legendary Skills, the highest rated skills, are so rare that they are only seen in bloodlines of kings and emperors.

  Who is this God Loki and how can he give someone such a powerful legendary skill? Such a skill must cost an enormous amount of mana requiring many high level [Archmages] to cast and sustain.

  The elder nods at an older student, the same one which had ordered me to heal the slave a week prior… the same one who had ended the [Slave]'s life the same night.

  The student, flicking back his hood, revealing a scarred face, hair missing from his head except for a few long stands.

  He takes a step forward, looking to the [Slaves] as they stand exhausted with fear stricken and confused expressions.

  OBEY

  The word slams into my mind, but does not take hold… unlike those, who have the [Slave] class.

  The [Slaves] immediately freeze up, eyes turning clear white as their will is taken over.

  Not just a [Mage], but a high level [Slaver] as well?

  “Follow,” he says right after, turning around and entering the building.

  The [Slaves], soundless, start walking in an orderly line after their master.

  As the last [Slave] enters the building, the young [Mages] attempt to follow, only to be stopped by the old man as he moves his body to cover the entrance.

  “Unfortunately, the concentration required for the summoning ceremony is immense. Thus I need to ask you all to stay outside and guard the entrance. I must not be interrupted at any cost.”

  The [Mages] frown, wanting nothing else but to see history at the making, but they nod obediently, unwilling to offend their teacher and leader.

  The old man grunts and turns his eyes towards me. I shiver at the sight of his face. One eye is completely blackened, the other turning gray. His gaze… so unfeeling and disconnected.

  “[Priestess], your services will be required inside.”

  Without hesitation, I walk forward, passing the old man and entering the building. Steps can be seen moving downwards in a spiral. Strengthening my resolve, I start to descend.

  The steps of the elder and his two undead are audible above me.

  *************

  A minute of traveling ever downward and I find myself entering a massive marble chasm. On the center of the chasm is a circular base slightly dented into the ground. The [Slaves] stand around completely naked, eyes downcast and devoid of any emotion.

  The older [Mage]’s eyes turn to me.

  “[Priestess], come forward and sit over there,” he points at a corner where a fallen marble pole resides.

  Nodding, I run and place my butt on the cold marble, suppressing a shiver.

  __

  The elder finally enters, his old age not allowing him to move fast. The two undead follow behind him, their large mass creating a discernible sound with every heavy step.

  “Father, the time is almost upon us,” the larger [Mage] says as he stands near the slaves. With a fluid movement, he pulls out a dagger from a sleeve on his robe.

  “Yes Beurnin, we should
start preparing very quickly. This spell Loki has given me costs an astronomical amount of mana,” the old man shakes his head, “I just wonder why we needed to use the spell here of all places, and why it needs to be done at such a specific time.”

  Beurnin frowns ”The gods… work in mysterious ways. Loki may see something we do not.” He looks at the reflection from the glint of the knife in his hand, ”Regardless father, Loki has not steered us wrong. He has helped you make many strides in your pursuit of power. I believe you are level 132 now. Forty levels is a rather impressive growth for merely a year.”

  The elder grunts in acknowledgment, incapable of refuting his son’s logic. Gaining level one hundred and obtaining the class [Necromancer], an upgrade from his [Dark Mage] class, was one of the best days of his life.

  The elder pulls out his hand “Staff.”

  One of the undead immediately lifts its arms and digs deep into a bag on its back, pulling out a long wooden stick with a jeweled skull on top.

  A rather powerful artifact which will allow him to strengthen the control of his mana greatly and allow the spell to be cast.

  “Start the process.”

  Beurnin replies by spinning his knife and slitting the throat of a [Slave], her blood quickly flowing out of her neck, pouring onto the marble floor.

  ___

  I swallow the bile trying to rise out of my stomach as I watch Beurnin mechanically walk from [Slave] after [Slave], slitting throats.

  I stare, horrified at the ease at which they can take life away.

  Uncontrollable tears start to flow down my cheeks as I watch the slaughter, praying to Eir so that their souls may find salvation in their next life.

  Thirty-two bodies strike the ground, the blood congealing at the center.

  “It is ready father,” Beurnin exclaims as he bends down and lifts up a discarded article of clothing from a [Slave]. With one movement, he wipes the blood off of his dagger and resheathes it into his robe.

  “Then it begins.”

  The elder steps forward towards the blood, his hands wrapped firmly around his staff. With a grunt, he lifts his staff and slams the bottom end into the blood.

  “Activate,” he whispers

  The staff head starts to glow. Mana starts to seep down the skull and into the blood. The blood glows and starts to quickly boil. The smoke quickly enters the skull, leaving the blood to quickly dry.

  Once all the blood has been dried, the elder picks up his staff and point the head forward.

  He waits, eyes closed… one minute… two minutes… “[Summon Hero].”

  My heart skips as mana releases from the skull, engulfing the room. With a silent grunt of the old man, the mana converges into the center. Green lights of mana start to spin, creating hundreds of complicated geometric shapes at the location.

  The location glows brighter until it becomes so unbearably blinding that I must look away.

  And just as quickly, the light is gone. My eyes turn towards the center.

  A man… standing about six feet in height with bulging muscles… stands wet and naked. A curious smile forms on his lips as his eyes scan his surroundings.

  “Interesting,” he says as he looks towards the elder.

  The elder smiles in return, using his staff now as a crutch, exhausted from the summoning ordeal.

  “Hero… I Mordus… loyal servant of Loki… welcome you to our realm.” the old man breathes out, shivering in ecstasy.

  “Hmmm… I see. Good.” the man flexes his body, getting a good feel of his muscles.

  “It seems the summoning has been successful.” the man says, flexing his right hand. ”Thus, you must be rewarded.” the man takes a step towards the elder and straightens out his left hand.

  “Grab my hand, Loki has told me to gift my summoner a reward.”

  Mordus… realizing the implications, wheezes towards the man, eyes filled with glee and expectation.

  “Father, something feels off,” Beurnin exclaims, watching the scene unfold.

  Unfortunately, Mordus does not heed his son's word and quickly extends his hand towards the naked man. The man grabs Mordus’ hand… and then pulls Mordus into him while also raising his knee at an incredible speed.

  A crunch can be heard as the knee makes contact with Mordus’ face. Without breaking his fluid movement, the man quickly rips the staff out of the elder's hand. In one fluid movement, he lifts the staff to his should, and throws the bottom portion.

  The staff rips through the air, penetrating Beurnin’s neck, disrupting the spell the man was preparing to cast.

  With a short gurgle, Beurnin falls to the ground, dead.

  My eyes are wide and my heart is thumping out of control.

  What… just happened?

  The man turns his naked body towards me.

  He lifts his hand up to his head and flicks back his shoulder-length black hair. He flexes all of his muscles, gracing me with a sexy smile.

  “Why hello there,” the words come out of his mouth.

  My mind stops.

  Chapter Four: Abnormal Summoning.

  Cooking is an art that transcends both space and time. No matter the species or world, a form of nourishment will always be required. Thus, that nourishment will eventually be subject to an artist's touch.

  For example, before me lies two pans. In one pan, I have sizzling diced veggies and meats all doused in butter. A rather colorful scheme of various peppers, onions, and dried seasonings can be seen dripping with juices.

  On my other pan is a world favorite. A staple in nourishment today. The majestic chicken egg. Yes, the egg, an unborn child of a dinosaur descendant is currently being scrambled, spiced, and subjected to the crackling of the pan, waiting to be transported to a plate.

  With a practiced hand movement, I grab the pan of sizzling veggies/meats and allow it to flow out onto the pan of cooked eggs… but I do not stop there. My hand flicks out, grabbing cheese and quickly sprinkling it over, making sure to evenly distribute it or risk cheese melting out.

  And now, the hard part. Most people would just turn the eggs to one side, but I am an artist. And artists never do things the normal way.

  Taking up smaller utensils, I slowly start to fold the eggs inward. But not too slowly, or risk overcooking the eggs, which would be just as bad. My hands, unshaking, my mind, focused, and my eyes concentrated, I fold lightly, perfectly, not allowing even a twitch of my fingers. All of my training and thousands of years of experience is being put to the test for this morning.

  I take a slow steady breath.

  Almost there, just a few more folds

  *RRRRIIIIINNNNNGGGGG*

  My hand twitches, the tweezers rip through the egg… destroying my hard work… and ruining everything.

  *RRRRIIIINNNNGGGGG*

  I turn my head to the side, my phone rings, the caller ID says Franky.

  With a sigh, I grab my phone and bring it up to my ear.

  “Franky, I don't feel like talking right now,” I tell my friend, tears slowly moving down my cheek.

  “... Thoric are you crying again?” *sigh* “How is it that the smartest person I have ever met is also a cooking perfectionist? Like really, must you make all of your food into an art piece? So what were you making today?”

  *Sniffle* “I… uh was making an omelet… and I poked a hole through the eggs when I was folding it.”

  “Really now… you poked a hole through the eggs. How the hell do you poke a hole through eggs? Aren't you using a spatula?”

  “Well, knowing you, you would probably use something different like nose tweezers or something.”

  I choke, my eyes turn towards my hand… still holding the tweezers…

  “Um…”

  “Don't answer that. I don't even want to know. Just calling to tell you that we have an advanced engineering exam today.”

  Today? No, it should be a few days from now.

  “You mean Friday, right Franky?”

  “Nope, our dear
old professor pushed up the exam a few days because his daughter is getting married or some shit like that. So yea, people are pissed already, but we can't do too much anyhow. I know you don't even come to class except for exams… which I still find amazing that you still get perfect scores.”