Sacrifice

Chris's breath hitched, his face pale under the weight of Mephistopheles' words. The air between them thickened, an invisible weight pressing down on Chris's chest as guilt gnawed at his insides. The torchlight flickered, casting erratic shadows on Mephistopheles' dark armour, its surface marred by scratches and faint streaks of dried blood—memories of battles long past.

"I'm so sorry," Chris stammered, his voice trembling like the last leaf of autumn caught in the wind. "I had no idea... what you've been through. Is there anything—anything at all—I can do to help?"

The words seemed to hang in the air, swallowed by the oppressive silence that followed. Mephistopheles turned, his eyes piercing through the dim light, wide and unblinking, like an abyss that refused to yield its secrets. His voice was low, almost guttural, carrying the weight of eons of sorrow.

"Yes," he whispered, each syllable sharp as broken glass. "Leave me... alone."

The words were a blade, severing the moment, and Chris found himself rooted in place as Mephistopheles strode away, his heavy boots clanking against the uneven ground.


~𝓦𝓲𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷-𝓽𝓱𝓮-𝓕𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓲𝓯𝓲𝓮𝓭-𝓦𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓼-𝓸𝓯-𝓑𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓪𝓻𝓭𝓪-𝓢𝓾𝓶𝓮𝓻𝓷𝓸𝓻-𝓒𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓵𝓮~

The castle's stone walls loomed high against the ink-black sky, their jagged edges illuminated by the cold, silver glow of the moon. A chill wind snaked through the cracks, carrying with it the faint, coppery tang of blood—a scent that clung stubbornly to the fortress, a testament to countless executions carried out in its shadow.

Bismark approached the wall, his arrival heralded by the rhythmic thud-thud of his iron boots striking the cobblestones. The sound reverberated through the silence, a grim drumbeat that caused even the hardened soldiers nearby to glance uneasily over their shoulders.

Inside the dimly lit antechamber, Ahma awaited him, his samurai armour catching the faint light of a dying brazier. The iron plates shimmered with a dark lustre; their surfaces polished to a mirror finish but scarred with the ghosts of battles past. Two katanas rested at his hips, their lacquered scabbards etched with intricate designs of coiling dragons and flames.

Bismark's voice carried authority, cutting through the silence like a blade. "As Lord Balisarda Sumernor commands, you are to station the soldiers around the courtyard and atop the walls. Ensure every corner is watched. Numbers matter not—obedience does. Do you understand, Ahma?"

Ahma bowed slightly, his hand resting lightly on one of his sword hilts. "Sixty thousand soldiers will be in position," he replied, his tone measured. "But if we're to engage in combat, shouldn't all Principals be prepared? A countermeasure should things... escalate?"



Bismark's expression grew stern, the shadows sharpening the features of his face. "No," he replied firmly. "This is not a war. It is justice—a reckoning ordered by Lord Balisarda. No one moves without his command. As for you, Aham, there should be no concern about having a Principal present when you hold the rank of Principal Five."



Ahma's eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest flicker of annoyance crossing his otherwise stoic face. He stepped forward, the sound of his armoured feet echoing like a subtle challenge. "I am well aware of my rank, Bismark," he said, his voice low but edged with a hint of defiance. "But what you fail to understand is that justice without foresight is but a reckless gamble. You speak of obedience, yet you disregard the very essence of preparation. If we are to stand by Balisarda's decree, should we not be the first to anticipate the storm, rather than simply react when it's upon us?"

Bismark's hand tightened around the hilt of his weapon, a deep breath escaping through his nostrils as the tension in the room thickened. "Preparation? You speak as if the battlefield were some... calculated chessboard. The orders are clear. No action without Lord Balisarda's direct command. The rest is nothing but your sugary optimism."

Ahma's posture stiffened, his normally calm demeanour slipping slightly. "Sugary optimism? You presume too much, Bismark. I've seen enough blood spilled to know the difference between a battle for survival and a mere skirmish. You're so quick to follow orders, you forget that sometimes... we must decide what's right, even if it defies the one who commands us."

The words hung heavy in the air, the silence between them thick with unspoken challenges. The faint glow from the brazier flickered as if reacting to the heated exchange, casting long shadows over the men standing at odds.

Bismark's lips curled into a tight, humourless smile. "And what is it that you believe is right, Principal Five? Do you think your judgment outweighs Lord Balisarda's? You think you can second-guess the master of this army?"

Ahma's hands twitched toward his swords, but he remained still, his gaze never leaving Bismark. "I don't doubt Lord Balisarda's command, but even he knows that no leader is infallible. We are not mere puppets to dance on strings, Bismark. I've seen how you act, like a puppet with your strings cut, following orders without thought. It's time to think beyond the blade."

A flicker of irritation crossed Bismark's face, his voice a growl. "Beyond the blade?" He laughed bitterly; the sound harsh in the otherwise silent room. "You preach to me about foresight while you forget the simplest truth: the blade is the only truth in this world. It is the one thing that separates the strong from the weak, the living from the dead. Think beyond that, and you will only find a heap of corpses in your wake."

The air between them crackled with the weight of their words. The tension felt as though it could snap at any moment, each man standing firm in his convictions, unwilling to bend. Ahma's fingers lightly traced the hilt of his katana, and Bismark's posture grew even more rigid, his stance a clear threat.

"You may hold the title of Principal Seven," Ahma said quietly, but with lethal intent, "but titles alone do not make the man. Wisdom does. So tell me, Bismark—will you listen when the storm you refuse to see finally comes crashing down?"

For a heartbeat, there was silence, the only sound the distant rumble of thunder from beyond the walls, like nature itself mirroring the unrest between the two men.

Finally, Bismark's eyes locked onto Ahma's. His expression remained cold, but beneath the surface, there was a flicker of something deeper—something harder to define.

"Perhaps," Bismark said, his voice carrying a note of finality, "but that is a lesson best learned when it's too late."

And with that, he turned, his boots echoing once more through the antechamber, leaving Ahma standing in the flickering shadows, his thoughts a storm of uncertainty and resolve.


~𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓮𝓮-𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓼-𝓵𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓻~

Mephistopheles continued his journey, leaving Chris behind, his figure slowly swallowed by the encroaching shadows of the wilderness. The quiet expanse of the land stretched before him, vast and desolate, like a forgotten graveyard. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, a musty aroma that seemed to linger in the cool night breeze, whispering ancient secrets of the land he traversed.

As Mephistopheles advanced through the mist-laden twilight, the world around him seemed to dissolve into an ethereal haze. The shadows of towering trees and jagged rocks crept closer, their dark forms enveloping him like a shroud as if the very earth itself conspired to hide him from the light. With each step, the ground groaned beneath his weight, and the faint tremors sent vibrations up through the soles of his boots, a constant reminder of the force he carried with him.

The chill of the evening air pricked against his cold, metal skin, the sharp bite of the wind cutting through the gaps in his armour, sending a shiver down his spine. His breath, a pale wisp in the frigid night, fogged the air briefly before vanishing into the abyss around him. The sensation was almost soothing, a stark contrast to the harsh, metallic clatter of his midnight-black armour, which echoed like a death knell in the stillness of the night. Each movement sent a grating, grinding sound into the air, a discordant symphony that seemed to vibrate in the very bones of the land, announcing his presence long before he reached the gates of Balisarda Sumernor's fortress.

His sword, caked with the dust of countless prior battles, hung loosely at his side. It gleamed dimly in the fading light, its blade reflecting the faintest slivers of moonlight, an ominous promise of the carnage yet to come. The hilt, worn smooth from years of use, seemed almost alive, pulsing with an energy that thrummed in his palm as he tightened his grip. The weight of it was familiar, a constant companion in his journey through this broken world. Each swing, each strike, was a reminder of the path he had chosen—the unrelenting path of vengeance.

The night was eerily silent except for the occasional rustle of distant trees, their leaves shivering under the weight of the wind. It was as though the world itself held its breath, anticipating his next move. As Mephistopheles walked, the sound of metal grinding against metal echoed into the void, the sharp, grinding noise of his armour scraping with every motion. It was a sound that was both unnerving and commanding, a constant reminder of the battle-hardened warrior within. Each step was accompanied by a hollow clank, like the beat of a heart that no longer knew mercy.

The dark, oppressive sky above seemed to pulse with malevolent energy, the moon barely visible through thick, rolling clouds. The air grew colder as he drew closer, a biting chill that cut through his cloak, chilling his skin beneath the metal armour. The scent of iron, rust, and stone filled the air, mixing with the earth's decay. It was a sharp, metallic tang that reminded him of battles past, of blood spilled and lives lost.

His eyes narrowed as the towering gates of Balisarda Sumernor's fortress came into view. The stone walls, jagged and scarred, loomed like a looming spectre, their surface worn smooth from centuries of wind, rain, and siege. The faint sound of distant footsteps, echoing through the narrow, stone corridors of the fortress, drifted toward him. Something was unnerving about the silence, the oppressive stillness of the place. It was as though the very walls were watching, waiting for his next move.

Mephistopheles's breath quickened slightly, his lungs drawing in the cold, stale air. He could taste the bitterness of it, a dryness that made his throat scratch and burn. The taste of iron lingered on his tongue, a constant reminder of the battles that had shaped his past. The sound of his heartbeat seemed to grow louder in the silence, a rhythmic pounding that matched the cadence of his steps as he approached the fortress gates.

Every muscle in his body tensed with anticipation. The fortress was close now, the final stage of his journey. And yet, something else lingered in the air—an unspoken tension, a sense of something far greater waiting beyond those cold stone walls. As Mephistopheles crossed the threshold, the fortress seemed to swallow him whole, its dark corridors stretching endlessly before him, shrouded in mystery.

And through it all, the scent of death—stale and stagnant—permeated the air, clinging to the stones, the earth, the very fabric of the fortress. It was a scent that had been carried by the wind for ages, woven into the very foundation of the place. Mephistopheles could feel it seeping into his bones, a reminder of the endless cycle of destruction that had brought him to this moment.

With every step, his resolve grew stronger, the weight of his mission anchoring him to his purpose. And as the last rays of moonlight flickered across the horizon, the shadow of Balisarda Sumernor's fortress seemed to grow darker, swallowing him whole in its suffocating embrace.

Atop the fortress' imposing walls, a contingent of Balisarda Sumernor's guards stood vigilant, their figures silhouetted against the sinking sun. Archers lined the ramparts, their sharp, keen eyes scanning the horizon for threats. The scent of sweat, leather, and anticipation lingered in the air, mingling with the faint acrid tang of the oil lamps being lit as dusk fell. Below, swordsmen clustered in the courtyard, the glint of steel reflecting faintly in their determined eyes, each man poised to defend Their Majesty's castle against any encroaching darkness.

A gust of wind howled through the battlements, bringing with it the faint rumble of footsteps, urgency palpable in the atmosphere. Mephistopheles, an imposing figure clad in pitch-black armour that absorbed the dying light, emerged from the shadows, his presence heralded by a palpable tension that seeped into the very stones of the fortress.

Suddenly, the air was pierced by the sharp cry of an archer. "A figure approaches in dark armour!" The alarm reverberated through the ranks. The guards at the gate rallied, their faces set with grim determination. "Ready yourselves!" a captain barked, the urgency in his voice unmistakable.

One of Balisarda Sumernor's soldiers sprinted to the bell, the frantic ringing harmonizing with the rising panic among the troops, summoning reinforcements to confront the impending doom. The echo of metal against metal rang harshly in the air as the sentinels prepared for battle, bowstrings creaking under tension, hearts pounding in time with the relentless approach of Mephistopheles.

"Archers, to your positions!" Ahma commanded, his voice cutting through the tension. The archers readied their polished English longbows, their fingers trembling lightly with adrenaline. The rich, woody scent of the oak mingled with the earthy aroma of the courtyard, where anticipation hung thick. Each archer deftly notched an arrow, the fletching brushing past their calloused fingers as they prepared for the deadly rain to follow.

With muscles taut and veins pulsing, they pulled back their bowstrings, the strain causing the wood to moan in protest, a sound almost reminiscent of a creature in agony. They adjusted their grips, each of them calculating the distance and the fierce winds that threatened to alter their deadly trajectory.

As the gate creaked ominously open, the heavy sound reverberated through the courtyard like a death knell. The guards drew their blades, the metallic hiss blending with their fervent battle cries. The sunlight glinted off the polished steel, illuminating the fierce resolve in their eyes. They charged forward in a furious wave, swords raised high, their movements a chaotic ballet of death.

Mephistopheles stood resolute at the castle's threshold, his heart racing not with fear but with cold anticipation. "Twenty… thirty… fifty?" he mused, eyes narrowing beneath his dark helm. Outnumbered and outmatched, he tightened his grip on his sword, the cold steel reassuring against his calloused palm.

The first pair of soldiers charged, their screams mingling with the sound of blades slicing through the air. Mephistopheles moved with the precision of a serpent, his sword arcing through the air and cleaving through the first man—a hulking bearded figure whose eyes widened in shock as a lethal gash erupted across his chest. Blood gushed forth, hot and sticky, splattering Mephistopheles's armour, the metallic tang mingling with the acrid scent of fear. The man collapsed, his voice silenced, life pooling around him in a crimson halo.

The second soldier, a wiry man in a long coat, met a similar fate. Mephistopheles's blade drew a swift, cruel arc, severing flesh and sinew, sending blood spraying like a morbid fountain against the ancient stones. His cry of agony spiralled into the air as he crumpled, eyes rolling back in terror—a moment of horror frozen in time.

The remaining guards charged, their faces flush with desperation, only to be intercepted by Mephistopheles's unyielding wrath. He danced through their ranks, sword slicing through the air with sickening ease. The blade met flesh, and with each strike, the weight of their lives extinguished echoed in the chilling silence that followed.

In a frenzy, he severed limbs and shattered skulls, each clash of steel drowning in the symphony of despair. One soldier fell with a grotesque crunch, the sound wet and visceral as his skull split apart like fragile parchment. Blood oozed from the shattered remnants, painting the stone courtyard in a grotesque tapestry.

In the chaos, the brother of one fallen soldier witnessed the death of his kin, rage igniting like wildfire in his chest. He lunged at Mephistopheles, but the demon, with a motion as fluid as a nightmare, struck him down—blow after brutal blow. Each impact sent shockwaves through the ground, the man's body crumpling against the stone with a finality that haunted the air.

With a final, merciless twist of his blade, Mephistopheles relieved another soldier of his life. He watched with grim fascination as the man's face twisted in horror, blood erupting from the violence of it all. The battlefield became a symphony of anguish, a stark reminder of the fragility of life.

As the last few men faltered, their fear palpable, Mephistopheles sensed their dread, feeding off it like a predator revelling in the chaos. He delivered a swift kick, sending one man sprawling to the ground, the sickening sound of impact resonating like a final note in a dirge. Blood pooled around his head, a cruel reminder of his defeat.

The remaining soldiers, eyes wide with terror, dropped their weapons, their instincts screaming for survival. "He's a demon!" they shrieked, scrambling towards the gate, desperation in every frantic movement. Their cries echoed through the twilight, a wailing chorus of despair.

Meanwhile, atop the fortified walls, the archers stood frozen, the horror of the massacre laid bare before them. Yet even in the face of this carnage, they did not falter. Muscles strained, fingers poised on bowstrings, they aimed, steeling themselves for the final confrontation.

"Fire!" Ahma shouted, his voice a clarion call reverberating through the chaos. The arrows flew like a deadly rain, piercing the air with their whistling cries, each shaft a harbinger of death targeting the monstrous figure below.

In a swift motion, Mephistopheles deflected an arrow aimed at him, spinning it back toward its origin with a wicked grace. The arrow sank deep into a hapless archer, blood exploding forth, sending shockwaves of horror through the ranks. The battlefield, once vibrant with the hope of victory, now lay shrouded in tragedy.

The fortified walls stretched high above, a jagged silhouette against the crimson sky as the sun began to dip behind the distant mountains. The air was thick with the metallic scent of impending violence, and the uneasy rustle of wind whispered through the trees, carrying the faint echo of the distant drums of war. On the walls, groups of archers stood in perfect formation, their faces shadowed beneath helms, fingers steady on their strings. In the stillness, they exhaled in unison, releasing their tension. A moment of breathless anticipation hung in the air before the storm of arrows was unleashed.

The archers pulled their bows taut, their muscles straining with practised precision. Then, in one swift, synchronized motion, the longbows snapped back. The sound was sharp, a crack that seemed to split the air, reverberating through the clearing like the crack of a thunderclap. The arrows shot forth, their fletchings fluttering against the wind as they soared into the sky. The shafts gleamed briefly in the dying light, their pointed tips catching the last glimmers of daylight. For a split second, they hung in the air, frozen in time, their deadly arc tracing a line between life and death.

The world seemed to hold its breath as the arrows descended with frightening speed, each one aimed with ruthless intent. Mephistopheles stood in the centre of the clearing, his eyes narrowed, the cold, calculating gaze of a predator awaiting his prey. The wind brushed against his skin, carrying the acrid scent of sweat and iron from the battle raging around him. His heart beat in a steady rhythm, the calm before the storm that was about to unfold.

With an almost unnatural grace, Mephistopheles extended his hand, catching the first arrow out of the air as if it were little more than a child's toy. The fletching grazed his fingers, sending a shiver through his spine—a reminder of how close he was to death's touch. Without hesitation, he spun on his heel, his movements fluid, almost as if the laws of nature bent to his will. The air around him seemed to ripple with power as he hurled the arrow back, the sharp sound of the string snapping against his wrist echoing across the battlefield.

The arrow sliced through the air with a sound that was almost a whistle, its trajectory perfect, its deadly intent unyielding. The world seemed to slow as it hurtled toward its target—a woman on the wall, average in height, her frizzy hair wild beneath her helm, her expression focused and grim. She had no time to react. The arrow drove through the air with a sickening speed, its tip biting into her forehead with a wet, muffled thunk. For a split second, there was silence.

Then, the horror unfolded in grotesque clarity. Blood erupted from the woman's skull, a gory spray that stained her tunic in a flash of crimson. It splattered across the stone wall behind her, slick and viscous, the warm iron tang filling the air. Her body jerked violently, as though seized by some unseen force, her hands grasping at the air in a final, desperate plea for life. Her neck twisted at an unnatural angle, and with a sickening pop, her head came loose, severed cleanly from her body. It tumbled from her shoulders, her lifeless eyes staring blankly into the sky, the twitching of her limbs growing weaker with each passing second.

The woman's decapitated body crumpled to the ground with a dull thud, her long tunic billowing around her as she fell. A shuddering gasp escaped her lips as the last remnants of life left her, and she lay in a twisted heap, blood still spurting from the neck stump in erratic bursts, pooling around her. The once-sterile, grey stone of the wall was now slick and crimson, an unmistakable testament to the ruthless power Mephistopheles wielded.

The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, the sound of battle rising again in the wake of that brutal moment. Mephistopheles stood in the centre of the clearing, his eyes cold and unfazed, his senses sharpened by the thrill of the kill. The faint echo of the archer's death reverberated in his mind, mingling with the distant shouts of his foes, the growl of the wind, and the primal rhythm of his heartbeat.

Arrows screamed through the air, their sharp tips glinting in the dimming light before they rained down around him like a storm of death. The rhythmic thud of arrows embedding themselves into the earth filled the air, punctuated by the occasional hiss of a missed projectile.

Mephistopheles stood his ground, his boots sinking slightly into the dirt with each breath he took. The soil beneath his feet was churned and broken, a testament to the fierce battles fought in this very place. He could feel the tension in the earth, the vibrations of the ground as if the very world beneath him was alive, reacting to the violence above. The sensation was grounding, familiar, a reminder of the countless battles he had faced in his long journey for vengeance.

The arrows continued to fall like raindrops, but Mephistopheles was undeterred. His eyes narrowed, the burning fire of determination flickering in their depths. With a sudden surge of power, his legs coiled beneath him like a predator ready to pounce. He launched himself from the ground, his sabatons creating deep impressions in the soft dirt with the force of his takeoff. The air rushed past him as he soared upward, his cloak billowing like a dark shadow trailing behind him.

The wind tasted of iron, sharp and biting as it whipped past his face. His senses sharpened, every sound, every motion heightened. The harsh thrum of battle, the cries of soldiers, and the distant rumble of thunder—all seemed to blur into one pulsating beat. As he ascended, his fingers tingled, his muscles straining, and the scent of blood grew stronger, mingling with the faint odour of damp earth and the distant burn of smoke.

In one fluid motion, Mephistopheles landed atop the fortified wall with a resounding crash. The impact sent a shockwave through his body, reverberating in his bones as the stone beneath his feet cracked and buckled. Dust and debris swirled around him, settling slowly in the stillness that followed the eruption of force. He could hear the distant battle continuing below, but for a moment, it was as if time had frozen. He stood tall, his gaze sweeping across the battlefield with a cold, calculating intensity.

The dim light of the setting sun cast long shadows across the walls, painting everything in a haunting, golden hue. Mephistopheles' breath came in steady, controlled inhales and exhales, his chest rising and falling beneath his armoured cloak. His fingers flexed around the hilt of his weapon, the cool metal comforting in his grasp. He was ready. Ready to finally face Balisarda Sumernor, the man who had betrayed him, who had taken everything from him. Revenge burned in his veins, as sharp and intoxicating as a blade in the dark. Mephistopheles was certain that vengeance against Balisarda Sumernor was within his grasp. However, he had no idea that greater challenges lay ahead before he could exact his revenge.