Shadows of the Past

INSIDE THE WORLD MEPHISTOPHELES WAS TRANPORTED TO

Then, from the depths of the void, a presence emerged, a formless entity, an absence of being that defied all logic and reason. Mephistopheles' heart hammered in his chest, the thudding of his pulse the only sound in the stillness. The air seemed to tremble under the weight of this presence, a force that seemed older than time itself.

“Mephistopheles,” the voice whispered. It was not a sound coming from anywhere, it was everywhere, devouring the silence, the very fabric of reality. It was a deep, consuming tone, like the sound of the earth groaning under immense pressure. "I will show you a moment from a memory not your own."

The words crawled through the air, thick with malevolence, and Mephistopheles felt a sudden chill creep down his spine. His grip tightened on Bloodshed, the sword humming with an eerie, almost sentient energy. “How do you know my name?” His voice was taut, filled with the weight of a thousand unspoken threats. His fingers tightened around the hilt, with a tremor in his stance. A deep, gnawing fear lurked beneath his cold exterior.

His typically confident and dominant personality was betrayed, by a slight instability, as though the reality around him was being changed. He had sharp, calculated eyes, scanning the darkness for clues in anticipation of the voice; yet the shadows appeared to shuffle and twist, but gave no indication of their appearance.

A shadowy figure rose before him, its form vague but distinctly menacing. It floated up, defying the natural laws of nature, its motion smooth and purposeful as if gravity had been bent to its liking. The figure's hands lifted, and Mephistopheles sensed the world shifting around him. Suddenly he was weightless in the air as the ground seemed to soften. Mephistopheles was powerless to perform any actions due to his body becoming immobile, with every muscle, hanging like a shadow. The heat and frantic nature of the situation caused him to calm down, his voice holding firm against the chaos.

“What are you planning to do with me?” he asked sharply, but his tone still gave.

No immediate response was given by the shadowy figure, its silence more unsettling than any words could convey. They were enveloped by an air that grew thicker, with Mephistopheles' nostrils filled with the scent of wet earth and decay. The man's skin rubbed and the hair on his arms grew thicker, creating a static situation. It began to sway, and Mephistopheles was carried with him as his weightless body drifted through the air. His path was confusing, with a blurry landscape of shadows and vague shapes. He could sense the passage of time, each moment becoming unbearable, but he couldn't determine how long they went on.

Finally, they arrived in a place that seemed to exist outside of reality. The walls shimmered faintly, as though made of liquid light, and the air was thick, the scent sharp and electric. The space was filled with a strange, almost tangible energy, and Mephistopheles could feel it pressing against his skin, a constant, low hum that seemed to resonate deep within him. The figure lowered him to the ground, the sudden return of gravity sending him sprawling. His knees hit the hard floor with a jarring impact, the pain sharp and immediate, but he pushed himself up quickly, his pride refusing to let him remain on the ground.

Despite the shadow of the figure above him, Mephistopheles could detect faint details in its form. A long, wrinkled cloak that seemed to be still and alive, with eyes that flickered like embers in the dark. With a low and powerful voice coming from the figure, which could not be further from his authority: "We're here, Mephistopheles. It's time to examine one of your father's memories."

Mephistopheles' breathing was confined in his throat, and his chest tightened like he had a cold. "My father’s memory? That can’t be true,” His voice remained muted, in disbelief and hopelessness. His thoughts raced, a swirl of emotions that could be overwhelming—anxiety, confusion, and lingering longings that he had already put aside. Despite the figure's silence, it didn't seem to respond at all.

As they approached, the surrounding area began to transform into a chaotic array of light and darkness as the walls disintegrated. A strange pull was felt by Mephistopheles, as though he were being pulled into the memory. As the temperature dropped, it replaced the earthy aroma with a bittersweet scent of blood and smoke. He found the ground beneath his feet to be rough and uneven, and he felt the heat of flames licking his skin, but there was no fire. The recollection developed in his vicinity, vibrant and vivid, as if transported to another time and place.

There stood an enormous and powerful man, whose presence could not be ignored even in the face of chaos. He was the Ultimate Bloodshed User, his father's. Mephistopheles held his breath as he gazed into the ground, feeling his heart race through. His father's face was firm, with sharp, angular features and fiery eyes. He stood tall, his armour bloodied and standing upright. His surroundings were filled with energy, as the aroma of ozone and the metallic scent of blood blended.

The scene unfolded before Mephistopheles’ eyes, the memory playing out as though he were a silent observer. His father stood before the King of the Ghouls, a monstrous figure whose presence radiated malice. The King’s form was grotesque, his skin a sickly grey, of rotten flesh stretched taut over his tall skeletal frame. His eyes glowed with a malevolent light, and when he spoke, was a guttural growl that sent shivers down Mephistopheles’ spine.

“You come here to speak of peace? Of unity?” the King sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. “You are a fool, human. Your kind is weak and pathetic. You are nothing but prey.”

Mephistopheles’ father did not flinch, his gaze steady as he met the King’s eyes. “I understand that humanity has wronged you,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “But I am here to make amends. I will do whatever it takes to bring our races together, to end this cycle of violence.”

The King laughed, a harsh, grating sound that echoed through the chamber. “You amuse me, human. Very well. Prove your worth. Show me that you are more than just a pawn in this game.”

The memory faded, the room returning to its previous state, though the weight of what Mephistopheles had seen lingered in the air. He turned to the shadowy figure, his mind a whirlwind of emotions. “What was the point of that?” he demanded, his voice sharp with frustration and confusion. “Why show me this?”

The figure's gleaming eyes met his, and there was a moment of expression that conveyed sympathy or understanding. "Mephistopheles," the voice whispered, "your consciousness was not within your body but in your sword, you must now return.”

Before Mephistopheles could respond, the atmosphere dissipated and the room became dim. A sudden, emotional reaction occurred as if his body was being pulled apart and assembled again. The blur of his vision was punctuated by a wave of exhaustion that almost consumed him. It became unbearable. He screamed in pain, his chest was pumping like he had been running for miles. The lungs were warmed by a sharp, cold scent, with the earth's odour becoming replaced by the familiar smell of leather and metal.

He was once again in his body, with the weight of it weighing down on him like he had never been there. The journey made his limbs sore, and his muscles were painfully uncomfortable. Taking deep breaths, he slowly exhaled his air and tried to keep his balance. The feeling was overwhelming. The surroundings were quiet, the tumultuous atmosphere of the memory room replaced by the familiar, yet equally sober environment of his reality.

Despite everything, the questions churned relentlessly in his mind, a tempest refusing to subside. Who was that shadowy figure? How did it connect to his father’s memory? And what did it all mean? Yet, the answers eluded him, vanishing like wisps of smoke. “I need to stay focused,” he muttered. “Reaching Balisarda Sumernor is what matters most. If I recall, there are ten Principals, and I’ve only faced three so far. I can only hope Jabari remembers our conversation. I can’t keep taking on all the Principals alone.”

OUTSIDE ON A HILL

The hill groaned under the weight of humanity. Soldiers stretched endlessly across its crest, a living tide of iron resolve and fraying nerves. Their uniforms—crisp dark blue jackets and trousers stiff with starch—blurred into a single smudge of deep azure beneath the ashen sky. Across the chasm of trampled earth and splintered brambles, the corpse of Balisarda Sumernor Castle loomed. Its shattered entrance yawned like a broken jaw, the once-impenetrable wall reduced to rubble. Dust clung to the air above the ruins, a ghostly shroud that blurred the courtyard beyond—a scarred expanse where cobblestones glistened wetly, still weeping from the rain that had washed blood into the cracks only hours earlier.

Jabari’s silhouette cleaved the horizon. His height dwarfed the men around him, a monolith of wrath and purpose. The morning dew clung to his cropped brown hair, each strand glinting like copper wire beneath the wan sun. His beard, threaded with silver, bristled against a jaw clenched so tightly the muscles beneath twitched. The tailored jacket hugged his broad frame, its brass buttons glowing like molten gold against the dark blue fabric. The high collar bit into his neck, but he did not flinch. His eyes—hard as flint, cold as winter fog—locked onto the gaping wound in the castle’s defences.

“That fortress,” he growled, his voice a landslide of gravel and venom, “harbours Balisarda Sumernor, who betrayed our trust, who took the lives of innocent people. Who spat on honour.” He thrust a finger towards the ruins, the gesture sharp enough to slice the air. “Today, we seek retribution—so charge into that castle, and let us win this war!”

A ripple tore through the ranks. Breath hitched. Teeth ground. Hands trembled against rifle stocks and sword hilts. Then, like a dam crumbling, the soldiers surged forward. Boots churned the mud, earth surrendering with a wet, sucking gasp. The metallic tang of sweat and gun oil mingled with the sour stench of fear as they charged. Their dark blue shadows writhed across the slope, a grotesque dance of limbs and weapons.

Below, the remnants of Balisarda’s defences stirred. Archers scrambled atop fractured battlements, their rust-red chainmail hissing like serpents. Sunlight glanced off pitted breastplates and notched blades as soldiers spilled into the courtyard—a ragged horde of medieval grotesques clad in dirt-brown leather and dull, rust-red iron. Their faces, pallid beneath the grime, twisted into snarls. One, a hulking brute with a double-headed axe, dragged the weapon through the dirt, carving a furrow as dark and deep as an open grave.

The armies collided.

Steel shrieked. A modern soldier, his dark blue uniform splattered with muck, parried a sword strike, the impact shuddering up his arm. His attacker—a Balisarda soldier in dirt-brown leather, reeking of rancid hide—lunged again, spittle flying from cracked lips. The stench of unwashed flesh and old blood flooded the air as they grappled, their boots skidding in viscera-slick mud. Nearby, an archer’s arrow thudded into a shield, the vibration humming through the wood like a struck chord.

Jabari watched from the hill, motionless. The courtyard below had become a writhing beast—a tangle of limbs, glinting metal, and crimson blooms. A young soldier in dark blue crumpled, clutching a spear buried in his gut, his mouth a silent shock. Another, face streaked with soot, swung a bayonet like a scythe, the blade catching the light as it carved through a Balisarda throat clad in stained brown leather. The metallic reek of blood rose, thick enough to choke on.

“The war has now begun,” he murmured, the words dissolving into the abyss.

A Dark room on the sixth floor in the castle

The air on the sixth floor hung thick with the scent of scorched stone and aged wood, the faint tang of iron from rusted hinges clinging to the back of Simba’s throat. Moonlight bled through cracks in the castle’s ancient mortar, casting fractured silver streaks across the room, but even the cold glow did little to pierce the suffocating darkness. His chair groaned beneath his weight as he shifted, the leather of his jacket creaking like a living thing against the silence. Somewhere far below, a cacophony of splintering wood and crumbling mortar echoed upward, each reverberation clawing at his temples. His fists clenched, knuckles blanching to bone-white, as the noise swelled—a dissonant symphony of chaos pricked his skin like hot needles.

“Do they think this is a damned carnival?” he muttered in his voice a low growl that vibrated in his chest. The arm of the chair splintered under his grip, splinters embedding themselves in his palm. He didn’t flinch. “Deafening the entire castle, and not a single soul bothers to explain it?”

The walls seemed to pulse with the chaos below, the vibrations humming through the floorboards and into the soles of his boots. He surged to his feet, the chair toppling behind him with a thunderous crack. Dust rained from the ceiling, gritty against his tongue, as he drove his fist into the stone wall. The impact shuddered up his arm, the collision of flesh and rock echoing like a cannon shot. Rubble cascaded to the floor, revealing the skeletal remains of fractured beams beyond, the castle’s innards laid bare.

“Enough,” he hissed, storming toward the doorway. The remains of the door—a mangled carcass of oak and iron hinges—lay in shards. He kicked the fractured frame, and the wood exploded outward, plummeting into the abyss below. A distant, wet crunch echoed up the shaft, followed by a hollow silence. Simba’s nostrils flared, the faint metallic stench of blood now threading the dusty air.

He leaned over the jagged edge of the doorway, his golden hair whipping across his face as wind surged through the shattered floors. Far beneath him, the labyrinth of hallways lay eviscerated, gaping like the maw of some colossal beast. Splintered beams clawed upward from the wreckage, and the sour musk of smoke clung to the air. His lips curled into a razor-thin smile.

The voice slithered through the ruins first—cold, honeyed, and laced with razors. “Only a fool leaves such a… mess.” Simba’s words curled like smoke through the jagged cracks of the castle’s carcass, echoing off collapsed arches and splintered pillars. His laughter followed a hollow, echoing sound that scraped against the fractured stones like claws on bone. “Crumbling stone, shattered floors… Someone’s throwing a tantrum.” The taunt lingered, sharp enough to pierce the thick, ashen air. “Let’s see who’s brave enough to roar in my den.”

The thunder of boots striking stone erupted overhead. Mephistopheles jerked his head upward, the corroded joints of his blackened armour shrieking as he moved. Far above, a shadow plunged through the gutted remains of six floors—a blur of black leather and golden hair, backlit by the sickly glow of dying torches. The stench of scorched oak and smouldering tapestries surged as Simba fell, the reek so thick it coated Mephistopheles’ tongue like ash. Wind howled in the figure’s wake, scattering embers and debris in a screaming vortex.

Impact.

The ground buckled beneath Simba’s boots, fissures webbing outward in a deafening crack. A shockwave tore through the hall, hurling shards of stained glass and shattered masonry into the air. They hung for a heartbeat, glinting like poisoned teeth, before raining down in a lethal shimmer. Mephistopheles staggered, his armour trembling as the vibrations rattled his bones. Slowly, he turned—a grinding, metallic whine punctuating each movement—and glimpsed the figure standing amidst the dust.

Simba’s silhouette emerged first: towering, broad-shouldered, the obsidian leather of his jacket clinging to a frame hewn from raw power. Torchlight caught the gold of his hair, a molten cascade that seemed to burn even in the gloom. His eyes—two smouldering coals, orange-brown and feral—locked onto Mephistopheles. The air itself writhed around him, shimmering with heat that reeked of lightning, of storms trapped in the marrow of his fists.

“You.” The word was a growl, low and tectonic. Simba’s gloves creaked as he flexed his hands, the sound like sinew stretching before a slaughter. “You’re the one shaking my walls. Breaking my silence.”

Mephistopheles’ breath hitched. A cold, oily dread pooled in his gut. He had seen Simba from afar moments ago—a distant spectre, haloed by ruin. But now…

He blinked.

The torch guttered.

A leather-clad hand filled his vision.

Simba’s fingers closed around Mephistopheles’ helmet with a screech of buckling metal, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. The knight’s boots scraped helplessly against the air, his armour clanging like a funeral bell. Up close, Simba’s face was a mask of wrath: jaw rigid, nostrils flared, every muscle in his corded neck taut as iron cable. The heat radiating from him seared Mephistopheles’ exposed skin, the stench of ozone now suffocating.

“Wha—?” Mephistopheles choked, the word mangled by the vice grip on his skull.

Simba’s lips peeled back in a snarl.

Then—motion.

The world was upended in a cacophony of screams and shattering stones. Simba surged forward, hurling Mephistopheles sideways into the castle wall. The impact detonated like cannon fire, the ancient masonry exploding into dust and rubble. Helm first, Mephistopheles was dragged through the labyrinth of halls—a human battering ram, his vision a blur of crumbling frescoes and splintered wood. The roar of collapsing walls drowned his stifled cries; his skull rang as if he was struck by a giant fist, the taste of blood and rust flooding his mouth. He felt every fracture, every scream of stone, the relentless thud-thud-thud of his body carving a tomb through the heart of the castle.

Through the chaos, Simba’s face loomed—unmoved, hair streaming like a golden inferno, eyes blazing with pitiless fire. The leather of his jacket whispered against the chaos, pristine amidst the destruction. His grip never faltered, never softened, even as the halls collapsed around them.

Somewhere, deep in the marrow of his terror, Mephistopheles understood: this was not a battle.

It was an execution.

INSIDE THE THRONE ROOM OF BALISARDA SUMERNOR

The knock shuddered through the gilded door, sharp and insistent, its metallic *clang* reverberating like a struck bell. Gwen flinched, her fingers twisting the hem of her apron into damp knots. The air hung thick with the cloying sweetness of incense—sandalwood and myrrh—burning in iron braziers flanking the entrance. Beside her, Rosemarie stood motionless, her starched uniform crisp as parchment, though her knuckles whitened around the brass handle of her lantern. Its flickering light danced across the door’s gem-studded surface, rubies glinting like droplets of blood in the gloom.

“Who is it?” The voice from within was velvet wrapped around steel, smooth yet resonant enough to vibrate in Gwen’s bones.

Rosemarie bowed, though the lord behind the door could not see it. “Master Balisarda, it’s Rosemarie. The new servant, Gwen, is here as you commanded.”

The doors groaned inward, their hinges screaming as if in protest, flooding the corridor with blinding gold light. Gwen’s eyes watered. The throne room yawned before her, a cavern of opulence: walls sheathed in hammered gold, veins of emerald and sapphire twisting like serpents across every surface. A crimson carpet, thick as fresh-spilled wine, stretched toward the distant throne, where Balisarda Sumernor sat draped in shadows. His figure was a silhouette against the colossal window behind him, its stained glass scattering shards of violet and crimson across the floor.

“Come forth, Gwen.”

His command slithered into her ears, colder than the marble beneath her feet. She stepped forward, each footfall muffled by the carpet’s plush weave. The air grew heavier with every stride, saturated with the musk of aged leather and the sharp tang of polished bronze. Her pulse throbbed in her throat as the throne loomed closer—a monolith of gold, its armrests carved into snarling wolves, their gemstone eyes tracking her. Balisarda’s presence pressed against her skin before she dared look up: the fur-lined collar of his emerald coat bristling like a beast’s mane, the bronze scales of his armour catching the light like a predator’s teeth. His blond hair, swept back like molten gold, framed a face carved of ice—pale, unyielding, those glacial blue eyes pinning her in place.

“Stop.”

She froze. The throne was still a chasm away, the distance measured in heartbeats, not steps. The purple cushion beneath him glowed faintly, its embroidery threaded with silver that mirrored the sunlight streaming through the window. He rose, his height uncoiling like a serpent—towering, monstrous—before the room *shifted*. A rush of air, the whisper of woollen fabric, and suddenly he was before her, close enough that the frost of his breath prickled her cheek. Gwen’s lungs locked. His scent enveloped her: bergamot and iron, a blade freshly drawn.

His arms snaked around her waist, leather bracers creaking as he pulled her against the cold bronze scales of his chest. Her ribs ached under the pressure; her hands hovered, trembling, at her sides. His lips grazed her ear, the words a venomous caress.

“Three choices, little dove.” His voice dripped honey and poison. “Return my embrace. Share my bed. Or…” A calloused finger traced the line of her jaw, igniting a trail of gooseflesh. “…choose one of my principals.”

The threat coiled in her stomach, acidic. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, parched as desert stone. Somewhere, a drop of sweat slid down her spine, icy against her skin. The room seemed to tilt—the gemstones on the walls winking mockingly, the distant table with its small, unmarked box blurring into a smear of gold.

“I—I ch-choose… th-three,” she choked, the words splintering.

He released her so abruptly she swayed, the sudden absence of his grip leaving her untethered. He stepped back, boots silent on the carpet, his smile a sickle moon. “Then it is decided!” His roar shook the air, rattling the braziers until their embers hissed.

The room erupted. From shadowed alcoves and behind towering pillars, figures surged forward—soldiers in scarred armour, servants in livery as dark as mourning robes. Their voices crashed over her in a wave, a guttural chant that vibrated in her teeth:

“Uukhai! Uukhai! Uukhai!”

The sound was a living thing, throbbing in time with her racing heart. The soldiers’ fists pounded against breastplates, a thunderous rhythm that shuddered through the floor. Servants clapped, their palms cracking like whips, while the scarred table by the throne trembled, its lone box shuddering as if something inside begged to be freed. Gwen’s vision blurring not from tears, but from the suffocating heat of bodies closing in, the reek of sweat and steel and something fouler beneath. Balisarda’s laugh cut through the chaos, sharp as a blade’s edge, as the crowd’s chant swelled, drowning her in its primal tide.

And through it all, the sunlight from that colossal window pooled on the floor, cold and indifferent, a silent witness to the choice that would bleed into the stones before dawn.