The Damsel is Distress

Spring of 3012, Honshu -Japan.

With nine fingers clenched and a few billion fixated eyes.

The saint at the peak of magic itself. Clad in brilliant soft silk. Silk at which the wind tirelessly tugged.

Ascended the path to Mount Fuji’s shrine. One made for him, made for what he held.

Defying gravity he levitated, his hands cradling a pinecone shaped artifact, his care resembling that of a young mother.

His lips twitched and his eyes came to a close.

His voice, amplified by the stillness, was a low roll.

“Bloom forth an age of eternal peace. For 3000 years of bloody spears must not serve as a mandate to Man’s horns. But a crimson flower on the grave of the damned, and a sunflower for the angels beyond the spring of Eden.” With great reverence- He then dropped the artifact which fell into its premade resting hole at the back of the shrine.

News channels worldwide frantically fought to obtain the first seat at the conference deep within the Burrow of magic’s elites. The light fortress of Tokyo, and to record the prime minister’s speech.

Whispers of ignorant speculations stacked and scattered.

The Prime Minister with a hairline who seemed like it needed divine intervention. Awaited the chaos to subside, a tight smile crucified on his professionally-disheveled face.

“Humanity's strongest artifact has just been activated.” sigh “A seed encapsulating the tree of wisdom, capable of gifting humans immortality… And the land prosperity. But only in one, one year from now.

When spring comes and said seed fully blooms, would we dance together at the end of desperation.

“The hard part’s over really.” He began, his voice echoing in the sudden silence. “So hand in hand let’s protect this seed from the children of Lilith and their worshippers.

Dasvelts are now gone for good,” He leaned into the microphone, his voice hardening. “And there is No place amongst the ranks of heaven! For those who sympathize with them, or attempt recreating their soon-to-be-forgotten terror!”

Claps and laughs as well as wine cups filled up the atmosphere of an advanced yet desperate society.

Skeptics simply bit their tongues. And ordered much more earplugs and sleep pills.

The usual really.

Chapter 1: Damsel is Distress.

The soft evening sun caressed her cold skin as smells of moist dust and overflowing trash bins pricked at her allergy-stuffed nose.

“—A new Theopolis? It never gets easier to ignore, does it.”

Hearing a mumbling in the distance, her ears twitched.

“A herd of blind sheep eating the grass off a wolf's back, assuming the wolf is another of their flock."

She opened her eyes. Cold, damp concrete pressed against her strangely-stiff cheek.

“May your horns curve inwards,” The voice hissed, closer now. “Just as awaits your mossy savior.” It finally let out.

She, Unsure of the danger at hand, attempted closing her eyes once more, playing dead.

"Wake up." The voice hissed.

Now at her.

A figure stood at the mouth of the alley, silhouetted against a distant orange streetlamp. Ordering her.

Her body ached and she tried to stand up, but her knees made a strange noise.

"Having trouble? Come on, grab my hand, Dumya."

He stepped forward, extending a hand swathed in grimy bandages. It was a human hand, the orange sunshine revealed that much. A fact she felt greatly disturbed by.

"I made you with perfection. Act human. Live like one. Spread my print into all which you perceive."  He said, his voice a low command. “Tread your path with corpses.”

Her body relaxed and she crouched until her nose contacted the ground, folded, unsure of what’s taken over her.

He took a moment, his eyes deep up his lids. As if trying to remember something of great relevance.

“Finding a vessel took longer than intended. I hope the seed’s activation didn’t damage your core..”

The man took one step forward, then attempted to resume his cryptic speech. Peering at Her.

"Wait… your face looks a little… differe–"

A spiked whip, dark as shadow, uncoiled in her right hand. A blade of sharpened ice solidified in her left. she dashed, a blur of motion.

The man screamed a word or two and waved his hand, scrambling to erect a shield. But she's too fast and the wind blowing through her ears blurred his frantic voice.

The whip cracked. As Blood splatter painted the nearby bins a soft red, and the man fell on his back. Now missing a hand.

With a gasp, his remaining hand glowed blue. He slammed it into the ground, the resulting gust of wind hurling him back onto his feet.

His face quickly snapped backwards, looking for dumya.

Yet, his gaze was met with nothing but his own, dull, detached hand on the ground.

Sweat at the shock, dripping from all across his young looking face.

The man bubbled a manic laugh from his throat, picking up his detached limb, and proceeding to walk deeper into the alleyway’s obscurity.

You had escaped.

Well done, Dumya.

Arc 1: Sore Knees

Something's not right.

Rats, alarmed by the echo of footsteps, began to scatter, seeking shelter in whatever filth the sewers provided.

Dumya, struggling to maintain her breath following the long run into the sewer pipes, glanced at the rats with curious, empty eyes. Her Chest heaved. And finally, she gave in to gravity. Collapsing under her own weight. The rats shared a similar curiosity and began oscillating their miniscule noses around her motionless form, as if scanning for any flesh under all that rubber-like skin.

Without any warning or probable cause, angelic green halos of light bloomed in the murky ceiling above Dumya, emanating from within her closed eyelids.

The rodents were taken aback, but soon, hunger would reset their stance, from fear to curiosity, and they’ll tap their minuscule cherry-red limbs through the puddles of spoiled water, their eyes still glued to the sleeping girl.

Suddenly! A blinding flash.

The rats froze.

Then, darkness returned.

In an instant, the green light phantom emerging from within her eyelids emitted an intense bright flash. Then disappeared. allowing the sewers their usual darkness.

Seconds later. Dumya awakened. And her breath she silently questioned.

Her lungs, now bricks of stone.

The rats, sculptures of wood.

Her quiet mouth, sealed for good.

She clutched her chest in discomfort but quickly gave it up. letting her hand fall. The memory of what it meant to be out of breath, to be tired. Had already faded.

Dumya pushed herself upright. Thus forgetting even the fear she felt facing the ambiguous figure’s greetings at the beginning of her conscious experience. Only a slight impression remained.

A soft voice whispered from within.

But it's too low to make up any meaningful command.

Dumya resumed her barefoot stride, unaware of why, where and when.