“Now it’s time for me to return the favor.”
With that, he toppled backward and fell away into the night.
＊＊＊＊＊
Deep within the cool air of the forest, ringed by densely growing trees, lay an unnatural clearing. A gentle wind shook the boughs, sending emerald leaves fluttering down to rest upon the spring. Ripples spread out and faded away as they touched the water. Flowers of every hue bloomed around the banks, and shafts of silver light shone down where the canopy gave way to the night sky and the half-moon.
A young man stepped into the clearing. He was fair of feature, with a smile that would have made many a maiden swoon—that was, if their instincts did not compel them to flee first. He emanated hostility, radiated power to such an oppressive degree that almost anyone would turn and run.
His eyes gleamed gold as he gazed at the statues of Mars and Zertheus that flanked the spring—or, more precisely, at the empty space between them. To see the intensity in his eyes, one might almost have believed there was something there.
“And so the Spirit King falls to the usurper,” he murmured. “Now only I remain.”
Any semblance of sorrow in his words was hollow. There was no emotion in them at all; no grief, no regret, no anger.
“Finally, my siblings, our contest draws to a close.”
They had been five since the dawn of creation. Now, only he was left. Yet he did not feel especially sentimental about that fact. After all, it was he—the Demiurgos—who was responsible for most of their deaths.
“So long it lasted. A thousand years, to say nothing of the many that passed before. Too many for even a Lord’s memory.”
His voice echoed in the midnight forest as if addressing another, but only the chirruping of insects replied. No one answered him. He knew better than anyone that there was no one left who could...and he could not resist speaking aloud what that solitude signified.
“Victory is mine.”
At that moment, he heard a rustling of grass. Whatever uncouth individual had intruded upon this moment seemed to have no intention of concealing their presence. They approached with a steady stride, making no attempt to suppress their breathing, making no secret of their intent to kill. The Demiurgos turned to face them.
“My Lord. Our Father. I have a question for you.”
Before him stood one of the primozlosta, the zlosta sovereigns who had suffered such a humiliating defeat at the hands of the War God a thousand years ago. Stripped of the manastones that had been the source of their power, they were now little more than helpless children. The Demiurgos had lost interest in them after their failure. No more did he praise them for their work or console them for their losses. They were pawns to him, tools to carry out his orders. Despite his indifference, they had followed him faithfully, but now the twelve had been reduced to two.
“Why have you come here, Khimaira? I asked for no escort.” The Demiurgos turned away from his pitiful child, his attention drawn by a ripple in the spring.
Khimaira’s lips twisted to be disdained yet again. “My Lord...is defeating Mars truly your goal?”
“A foolish question.” The Demiurgos gave a scornful chuckle. “Do not waste my time with such nonsense.”
He glanced back over his shoulder. At that moment, something struck him, forcing him to one knee. He watched detachedly as his own arm sailed through the air. At last, he looked back down at his assailant.
“What is the meaning of this, Khimaira?”
Even this surprise attack—even this betrayal—could not draw anger from him. He regarded the traitor in silence, his eyes as empty as they had ever been. Khimaira fell back, his courage faltering. The Demiurgos stood back up, his arm knitting back together, although the regeneration was incomplete, leaving the flesh sloughing from the bone.
“You have only yourself to blame!” the primozlosta protested.
“And why is that?”
“We called you Father! We worshipped you! For a thousand years, we obeyed your every order! And yet you give us not a word of thanks for our loyalty! You have no tears to offer for my fallen kin, only insults and scorn! What father would treat his children so?!”
If Khimaira was capable of crying, tears would have been rolling down his cheeks. Yet with his eyes plucked out, he had no such capacity, leaving only the tremble in his voice to express his rage.
“What pettiness.” The Demiurgos’s voice fell like a blade. “I am a Lord. Nigh unto a god. All this world’s creatures are my children, and my playthings to use as I please.”
“Even us?!” Khimaira forced out between wordless sobs. “Even we twelve who swore loyalty upon our lives?!”
“Of course.” The Demiurgos sounded almost contemptuous.
“Then die! You are no Lord of mine!”
Khimaira’s hesitation vanished. He lunged for the Demiurgos, blade in hand. The Lord made no effort to move aside. Smoothly, dispassionately, he summoned Ipetam and brought it down upon the approaching primozlosta in a single decisive strike.
Blood sprayed. Khimaira staggered back a step, then another. Scarlet poured profusely from his wound, but sheer will kept him on his feet, glaring back at the Demiurgos. His lips moved as if he was trying to speak. Yet at that moment...
“Begone.”
A black blade sprouted from his chest.
“Wha...?”
Feeling the cold metal run him through, Khimaira clutched at the blade with both hands, but to no avail. It withdrew forcefully, slicing through his fingers. The severed digits fell to the ground and rolled away. A boy strode past, crushing them underfoot.
“So this is where you were, Demiurgos,” the boy said. “You took some finding.”
Khimaira reached toward him as he walked away, only to topple over backward. His mouth opened and closed until it moved no more. The boy spared him only the briefest glance before turning back to the Demiurgos with a dark smile.
“Now that there’s no one left to interrupt,” he said as he walked, “why don’t we put this thousand-year-old grudge to rest?”
The Demiurgos raised a hand to the boy. “Why so hasty? We have much to discuss, you and I.” He spread his arms wide as if greeting an honored guest. “A fitting stage for this to end, don’t you think? After all, this was where it all began.”
They stood in Anfang Forest, the sacred sanctuary of the Spirit King: the place where Hiro had first met Liz, and where he had met Rey one thousand years ago.
“Now,” the Demiurgos said, perhaps perturbed by the boy’s silence, “which weapon would you prefer?”
“You know which one.”
With a chuckle, the Demiurgos snapped his fingers. Space ruptured and a spear came forth—Longinus, the Day of Genesis, a divine bolt capable of piercing any armor. He drew the spear from the rift and regarded the boy with a dispassionate gaze.
“Now, Surtr...or should I call you Mars? Or any other of the myriad names you bear.” Radiating cold hostility, he haughtily readied the spear, signaling that he was ready for battle. “You have forged yourself into a fine vessel. Release from your suffering will be a fine reward.”
“I could say the same to you.” The boy slid his black blade back into its scabbard and adopted a low-slung stance, hips sunken and weight forward. “Now I can finally kill you.”
A grin spilled across his lowered face. He surged forward, leaving a deep footprint in the earth. A storm of steel cut the night asunder as two fierce wills collided.
＊＊＊＊＊
Monsters were ugly by nature, so repulsive as to make a civilized person sick. They were dim-witted, readily ate corpse meat, and thought nothing of attacking their kin. Everything in the world was either food or a threat. They had not a scrap of higher intelligence, and Ceryneia despised them.
“What a foul stench.”
The primozlosta’s nose wrinkled as he surveyed the encampment. He would not have ventured into this wretched den if he could have helped it, but the Demiurgos was nowhere to be found, leaving him no choice. As it was, he had no use for creatures who could not even understand the words he spoke. He set off in the direction that sounded most raucous.
The sharp scent of liquor pricked at his nostrils as he approached, and coarse laughter drifted to him on the wind. Only a handful of monsters had the brains to converse in an intelligible tongue: those known as the yaldabaoth. Humans and their like regarded them with fear. For Ceryneia, however, they were no less contemptible than their lesser kin.
“Good evening,” he said as he stepped into the yaldabaoth camp.
Before him, a pack of the failed fiends known as archons were feasting on corpses dragged back from the battlefield. They did not possess a shred of dignity, but they were at least more intelligent than most monsters.
“Where is your commander?” he ventured.