On a secluded, mysterious, remote island, the walls of an ancient castle groaned and quaked vehemently.
The floors creaked, walls sifted dust, and mice scurried along the depths of the everlasting shadows.
12 men, draped in white robes and wielding obsidian claymores, solemnly entered a dimly lit room. Their robes were embedded with a symbol of a golden crown with a black longsword piercing through it. The robes covered most of their bodies, so only the men's faces were exposed to the dusty air.
As they entered the room, they lined up in an orderly fashion. There were three rows of four men, each standing parallel to the man in front of them. Their faces were grim with anguish as they clutched their swords one at a time. Their knuckles whitened as they gritted their teeth.
Just ahead, located on the wall, was a portrait of a man whose face was cut off by the shadow.
The men's irises shrank as they gazed upon the image. Some stumbled back while others gasped. The men hesitantly lifted their heads and focused on the eyes of the portrait.
A compressing, immense pressure suffocated every corner of the room. The backs of all the men tensed as they plummeted, forced into a prostration position.
Droplets of cold sweat dotted the ground; no man present could withstand the monstrous ambiance that had encapsulated the trembling room.
The man closest to the portrait, one who donned a broken crown, showed signs of struggling to part his lips. His jaw clenched and released, twitching uncontrollably.
It wasn't until a pool of blood had formed directly underneath his head that sound escaped his quivering lips. The mouth he once struggled to part had been tainted with crimson liquid.
The man heaved an exhale, revealing his blood-soaked tongue.
With all the power and will he could muster, he began his invocation. "O' Master, Conqueror of Aglana, forgive us, for we have let the wretched hunters execute your blessed children." His tone was riddled with fear and guilt.
Tears streamed down the rest of the men's faces, but they could not wipe them. The men remained prostrating toward the shadow-covered portrait.
The broken-crowned man continued, "You have privileged us, providing your unworthy servants with the very power you dictate. We thank you graciously, O' Archon of Authority."
The sound of blood splattering on the ground enveloped the somber room. Each robed man had bit his tongue and staggered to get up. The only way to resist the sheer dominance of the portrait's gaze is through self-harm.
The broken-crowned man, who had soft black hair and dilating hazel eyes, unsheathed his fervently buzzing claymore and announced imperiously. "Men! By the Archon's will, we shall scour the enemies! Protect his children! Recement the glory of the prominent Day Dynasty!"
The men affirmed enthusiastically in unison, "Ay! We shall avenge our fallen brethren!" Each one began unsheathing their weapons and gripping the handles harder. A coil of dark, foggy magic had begun to surround their blades, twisting and convulsing like a serpent squeezing its prey.
The sound of their buzzing claymores had begun to emanate from the restrained and enclosed space. Gilead, the man who tailored the broken crown, turned his body to face the men. "Call to action. Seize the Chronicles." A compact, simple order. With a stern denotation, "The Imperialists all over Aglana will aid in awakening the Archon's Descendants. Our duty is to rid the world of hunters, ensuring that no one will harm 'His' children."
It was not until a faint presence made its way through the ancient, crumbling castle. The men's ears pricked up, and cold sweat slid down the sides of their temples.
One of the men, who had ginger hair and green eyes, spoke out. "Vizier Gilead, I sense... someone."
Gilead nodded affirmatively; he had already noticed a foreign presence. He swung his claymore and held it directly in front of his body. It would be a matter of seconds before the men engaged in combat.
Gilead massaged his temples. "Men. Get ready."
The men nodded, their eyes darting to where the attack would come from. Gilead's pupils constricted and his mouth went agape. "Beneath!" He pointed the edge of the large sword toward the foundation beneath their feet.
It was too late.
The floor that lay underneath the robed men shook violently before caving. The men braced themselves and descended. However, they were not dropped to the level under the previous one, no.
They fell into a never-ending abyss.
A white fog surfaced and surrounded the men who were spiraling into an empty void. Gilead, and the rest of the men, clutched their throats. This pale mist had left it muted.
The fog that surrounded them as they descended began to spin. Then, a section spread and separated from the outer portions. It wrapped around each falling man, including Gilead.
Coiling around their bodies, the unknown mist constricted, rendering the men choke violently. Gilead, whose face was turning a faint hue of red, struggled to move the sword he held on to. _I must repel this foreign attack!_ His neck deepened in color and the sides of his eyes turned maroon.
Alas, Gilead and some of the other men broke free of the mist that squeezed their arms; they could finally fight back now.
Yet, the area went silent. They remained falling into the endless pit, but it was now quiet; only the noise of the wind resisting their fall could be heard.
That was until they all collectively heard a simple, calm, yet gut-shattering snap. _Whoosh_.
They appeared in front of the colossal castle; a flag that bore the Imperial Day Dynasty emblem fluttered in the wind.
Behind them, they could sense a figure slowly approaching. Gilead and the men jerked their heads before shifting their bodies and facing the figure, who was shrouded in ethereal white fog. His hand was extended outwards, and his wrist was swaying side to side, up and down.
Gilead shuddered, his eyes were tinted with a shade of black as his face darkened. He hissed under his breath, "Icas..."
Icas dispelled the fog that hid him and smiled, a malicious, wide smile. "Thaaat's right~" Giggling, he pointed his index toward Gilead and winked.
"Icas..."
"The Devil's incarnate..."
"Curses..."
"Evil personified..."
"Caesar's vile servant…"
The men behind Gilead uttered curses and the like under their breath. They held their weapons in a fighting stance, their faces bleak with despair. Gilead clutched his sword and held it beside him, ready to attack at any moment. Behind him, he could hear the men stumble and stagger. It was not a common occurrence that they were faced against an Archon's servant.
Icas chuckled mockingly and raised his hands. "Why so serious?"
Gilead, not responding, charged at the mysterious Icas ahead. The green grass and healthy winds contrasted with the unblemished blue sky. Forests covered the mass of the remote island, and the sound of animals and insects buzzing continued, seemingly oblivious to the tense confrontation that occurred directly in front of the ancient castle.
Gilead buckled his knees and ascended into the air. Cocking back his sword to the left, he gripped his weapon and shouted, "Skies' Judgment!" Thunder erupted from behind him as the wind circulated the island.
Gilead hit the smiling Icas with a parry of air currents, strong enough to leave jagged scars on the ground. However, they were dismissed with a wave of his pale hand.
Landing with a thud, Gilead issued his next attack. He positioned his claymore downwards and drove it into the ground. With a brazen command, he ordered, "Obey me, Aglana!"
The ground quaked vigorously as four pillars erected and soared, tearing through the blue sky. The clay stone pillar bent and began to target Icas.
In an instant, the four pillars were directly aimed at Icas and began pursuit. Icas cracked a faint smile before snapping his fingers. The scene before him disappeared instantly.
"Curse you!" Gilead felt the blood drain from his head as one of his most powerful attacks was negated in an instant. The 11-robed men clenched their weapons and pounced at Icas from all sides. Some cursed under their breath, others hiding immense fear under their valiant expressions.
As his gaze shifted to the stark men attacking him, he was met with a ream of different attacks. The ground beneath him shuddered as it formed into a clay human, who launched himself at Icas.
The clay, human-like creation clenched its fingers into a fist and threw a punch toward the mysterious Icas, who were busy exchanging blows with the other men.
Swords swung, limbs were severed, and screams broke out.
The ground creature's hand cut through the air and landed directly on Icas' nape. However, to everyone's surprise, the figure crumbled and disintegrated before Icas.
The remaining men stumbled back, some plummeting to the ground. Their foreheads were smeared with ice-cold sweat, and their heartbeats were bursting out of their chests. Gilead was no exception; he stood in the corner exhaling profusely. His previous attacks were stamina-heavy, which left him immobile for a period of time.
Icas flexed his fingers outward. "Dummies!" With a slow, wicked motion, he curled his fingers into a fist. A sonic shockwave sounded all around them.
The men, wherever they lay, detonated into a million pieces of flesh.
One by one, nobody was spared, except Gilead, one of the Archon of Authority's viziers.
Their deafening cries were drowned out by the blasts. Icas surveyed the blood splattered on the ground with a heavy grin. Gilead felt a sharp pain in his head. The feeling was unnatural to him. His eyes darted to the blood-stained ground. Dropping with a clang, his hands quivered, and his trusted weapon left his grip. "No—"
Step. Step. Step.
Icas menacingly approached the hysteric Vizier. Gilead did not notice this and fell to the ground, his rear panged at impact. Running his hands through his hair, avoiding the crown, he felt his teeth clatter.
Why? Why did we have to meet him? O' Archon, Lord Day, why? My faith in you will never waver, but I just ask of you, why? It's set in stone that we will die here, at the hands of a follower of 'Caesar.' Was this 'His' plan…? He has nothing to do with this, O'Archon. You engulfed the Authority from the Tyrants, not from the Archons. 'Caesar' does not need to send one of 'His' followers. I ask you to guide me to the correct answer, O' Conqueror of All Worlds. Will there be a day when the Day Dynasty can return to its once-prominent glory? Will there be a day when I can alleviate and think to myself, 'I'm blessed to be alive'? Lord Day, we have let the hunters kill more of your children, and I truly am sorry. Are we being punished for our lack of retaliation? I hope, Lord Day, that I can have the courage to face you, the courage to properly prostrate myself before you. However, today is not that day. We have succumbed to Caesar's subterfuge. I thank you, Lord Day, and I apologize to you and your blessed children. I do not deserve to live in the same world as them, not now, not ever. All hail the Archon of Authority, Julius Day.
Struggling to open his eyelids, Gilead could see the faint image of Icas standing before him.
"Goodbye, Gilead~" With a soft wave, Icas spoke the last words Gilead would ever hear as he diminished from existence.
Standing before the island, Icas snapped his fingers. His expression changed; he stood quietly and calmly.
The ground beneath him fragmented before dissipating completely. What was left was a field of all blue around him, and it was now as if Icas was floating in the air.
He raised his foot before lightly tapping the ground. Beneath him, many dark purple lines, like pathways to a maze, emerged. With a final step, Icas disappeared, and so did the island, never to be seen again.