Hero Is Now Villain

The cave reeked of blood and sweat from an hour-long battle. Dozens of bodies were lying on the floor: all of them Orcsinds.

Three men were still standing: two Humans, calm and collected, and one Orc, badly injured and breathing heavily.

"Kneel," said a fair-haired Human male with a spotless shiny armor while drawing his elegantly—divinely, to be exact—designed sword to the Orc's neck. The Orc obliged grudgingly, grunting and huffing as he fell hard on his knees.

A few feet away stood a brunet knight with a less decorative armor, and considerably more blood and dirt on it, while barely stifling a yawn at his superior's solemn back.

"General, just finish him and get it over with," said the yawning subordinate.

"Xon is always watching us, Sir Ia. Everything and everyone present on the Land of the One Divine must adhere to His laws," said the stern-faced general.

"And that marks about the five-hundredth time I've heard the exact same words from your devout mouth," smiled Ia wryly.

The kneeling Orc scoffed and spat bloody saliva at the general's feet. The general frowned disapprovingly at the indolence.

"You Whiteskins make me sick," said the Orc.

"And so do your green skins, Orcsind," replied the general calmly.

"The Land of the One Divine? The Orcs have ruled this land for millennia before you Whiteskins came along."

"There really is no need for a history lesson now, Chief Madunka. May I take it that those were your last words?"

"Of course, you had to ask. Just cut off his treasonous head, General," g.r.o.a.n.e.d Ia from the back.

Madunka's eyes fluttered as his face started to turn pale from losing too much blood already.

"Twenty strong warriors against just the two of you."

Madunka turned to stare at his dead comrades, the fellow rebels.

"The word you are looking for is 'obliterated,' Chief," said Ia cheerfully.

Madunka grunted in anger, and stared directly into the general's eyes.

"This was no fight. This was no battle. Look at yourself. There is not even a speck of dirt on your fancy armor, Whiteskin," Madunka smirked, with considerable effort.

"You should take a look at me. I am covered in all kind of shit," said Ia.

"You have witnessed the mighty blessing of Xon before your eyes," said the general, with no hint of arrogance or joy as he spoke.

"Your God must be a kind one, blessing a mere mortal with such a gift," snickered Madunka feebly, as the life in him was visibly draining away with each passing second now.

"Xon is as generous as he is watchful," said the general.

"F.u.c.k Xon. F.u.c.k all of you," spat Madunka with lost belligerence.

As on cue, the general drew his beautiful long sword slowly. Madunka watched the glittering blade move before his eyes.

"In the name of Xon, the One and Only Divine, I, Betrard Falen, a loyal subject of His Majesty and a humble servant to His Holiness, sentence you, Chief Dathro Madunka, to swift and merciful death for your treason against the Kingdom."

"You Whiteskins always talk too much," scoffed Madunka just as Betrard's sword cut his head off with one graceful swing.

Blood spilled and burst in all directions except on Betrard's skin and attire. The divine sword was free of blood as well.

Ia, whistling in admiration, walked towards Betrard, who had sheathed the magnificent sword back in and was looking around the bloody cave with collected, thoughtful eyes.

"Always a sight to see. Not the beheading, the sword, I meant," said Ia. He was holding a glass and a bottle of wine on his hands.

Betrard saw the wine and stared sternly at his trusted lieutenant.

"We are to reach Kingston in three days. There is no time for drinking."

"Just one. Besides, this is an Orcish brew. Tastes like a piss, if you ask me."

"Then why bother drink?"

"Every successful campaign, covert or not, deserves a little celebration. You and I, just the two of us, single-handedly prevented a major Orcsind uprising, and maybe five people in the entire world are aware of our feat. There will be no welcoming party as we slip back into the Capital in the middle of the night, and there certainly will be no occasion for drinking in the next three days. So here we are, toasting in frustration, sir."

"There is no need for frustration over being unrecognized, as Xon is always watching over us and—"

"—And with those words my beloved general has somehow and effectively managed to make me crave for even more alcohol," sighed Ia jokingly, almost thrusting the wine-filled glass to Betrard.

Betrard took the glass, apologetic and hesitant.

"Where is yours?" asked Betrard, seeing that there was only one glass between the two of them.

"Here," said Ia, lifting the entire bottle.

"You better not intend to finish it all," scorned Betrard.

"I never intend to drink all the wine I have. It just happens," shrugged Ia.

Betrard sighed and looked around the corpse-filled cave one more time.

"If we are going to rest, let us head back out of the cave. This is hardly a cozy place to camp."

"I was thinking of using those green bodies for firewood, but as you command, General. Here, let me take your sword. And your c.h.e.s.t plate, if you feel burdened."

"You are not my squire, Ia. You need not carry my burden."

"I was your squire, and I was happy to be one. Come on, like the old days, sir."

Betrard relaxed a little at the nostalgic gesture of an old friend, and reluctantly took off the sword and handed it to Ia.

Ia took the sword with a spark in his eyes, and Betrard did not fail to catch it.

"One day, you will bear the sword in Xon's name."

Ia looked up and stared at Betrard, his eyes hazy with silent excitement.

"Only the King's General holds this sword," said Ia.

"And one day you will be exactly that," said Betrard, relaxing even more and loosening the neck piece of the armor with one hand, the other still holding the wine glass.

"One day, huh?" scoffed Ia lightly.

Betrard was still fidgeting around the neck piece when Ia pointed to the glass wine on the general's hand.

"Drink the wine, and then maybe take off the armor for a breather, General?" suggested Ia amicably.

Betrard did not hesitate this time and swallowed the wine in one long take.

"This does taste like a piss," laughed Betrard as he finished drinking.

Ia was not laughing along.

"Which makes it perfect to mask the smell of poison," said Ia, not even looking at Betrard but inspecting the sheathed sword in his hands as if in a trance.

Betrard watched him with momentary confusion, followed by an attempt to laugh at the weird, abrupt joke uttered by his trusted friend.

Betrard realized with horror that he could not move a muscle on his face, or the rest of the body.

Ia drew out the sword and was now looking at it with undeniable greed and ecstasy.

"Xonathan, the Holy Blade of Xon, finally at my hands."

Xonathan's blade shined and glowed at every angle even in the dimly lit cave.

Betrard tried to say something, but his tongue had turned solid like a stone. He croaked and gagged at Ia, who was now waving the sword playfully before Betrard's fluttering eyes.

"The stupid Orc believed you were blessed by Xon Himself, did he not? I was really tempted to tell him that it was the sword that 'lent' you the blessing, that the person standing in front of him is no one special, not more so than the one covered in blood and Orc intestines next to him."

Betrard's entire body had frozen now. He stood motionless, his face twisted with shock and fear, watching whom he had thought of as a brother the past twenty years.

"Still, I did not expect the poison to take effect so quick. You really are nothing without this sword, are you?"

Betrard grunted, his eyes fluttering in anger, in sadness.

"Why? Did I hear you say 'why?'" said Ia as he came closer to Betrard, who grumbled more incomprehensible words.

"Xonathan? No, I mean, the sword is a nice bonus, but I had to take it away from you for the poison to take effect. Now, when I return and take your place as the next King's General, the sword will truly become mine, naturally. But again, the sword is a perk, not a goal."

Betrard's body jolted a little, but Ia was nonchalant as ever.

"Can you guess why you are still alive? I could have used a poison that killed you the moment it touched your tongue, but I chose a poison to turn you into a stone pillar instead. And before you get your hopes up, I have no intention of sparing you. You are going to die tonight, oh yes, in this despicable, filthy Orcish pigsty."

Betrard stopped shaking and stared at Ia coldly. Ia stared back, disappointed and bored.

"I hoped to see you asking for mercy, but that look, you are disappointing me greatly, Falen," Ia sighed and clicked his tongue as he walked in circle around Betrard.

"Are you praying to Xon right now?" whispered Ia, his eyes flashing like never before, at least unknown to and unimaginable by Betrard.

Betrard remained silent, staring ahead and breathing calmly albeit with the same twisted, pained face from the beginning.

Ia stopped walking and stood behind Betrard. Betrard, unable to look back, closed his eyes in readiness.

"If Xon loves you as much as you love Him, then this sword will not pierce your heart and may let you live, unharmed, unpunctured," Ia whispered next to Betrard's ear. The frozen solid Betrard could not even shudder in disgust.

"Call His name, Falen. Defy death if you can."

Ia adeptly thrust Xonathan into Betrard's body, piercing through the shiny armor, the skin, and the heart until it protruded out of the c.h.e.s.t. The stab was so smoothly and cleanly done that Betrard did not feel pain in the first few seconds.

The heart, however, stopped moving the moment it let the Holy Blade pass through it.

Ia drew back the sword and only then the blood started to drip out from the spacing and joints of the armor.

Betrard's body slowly fell backward. He landed on his back with a heavy thud, still unable to feel any pain.

There was one pain he was feeling greatly, and that was the pain of betrayal.

The heart had long stopped and blood had made a pool under Betrard's body. Betrard could not close his eyes, but he could see that his vision was getting narrower, dimmer.

At the corner of Betrard's eyes poked the silhouette of Ia's head looking down at him.

"Looks like Xon does not love you back, Falen."

Betrard could no longer see, but he thought he had seen Ia's crooked smile as he blacked out.

And so Betrard Falen died in anger, resentment, wrath, and want of revenge. Unbeknownst to Betrard, such sentiments allured a certain being to snatch his soul just before he entered the Overworld, the Land of the Lived.

.

.

.

"Let us begin, then."

Betrard opened his eyes at the abrupt voice—pleasant, almost devilishly so, and soothingly coaxing.

He was standing n.a.k.e.d in the middle of a large empty hall. Outside the windows were fiery orange trees dancing with the wind. It took Betrard some time to realize that those trees were actual flames the size of a house constantly burning and shifting, silently and coldly.

"I hope you like the view, although you will not be here for much longer."

Betrard turned to the direction of the ringing voice, which seemed to echo around the hall endlessly.

"Who is speaking? Show yourself," said Betrard.

"I apologize for not showing up myself. I wish I could, but just holding you in this place is the best I can do at the moment."

Betrard looked around the empty hall for the source of voice, but he could only conclude that the voice was coming from all over the place.

"Where am I? What is this place?" asked Betrard towards no specific direction.

"You are in a place called Prism, courtesy of me, of course. Prism is a junction between your world and the Underworld. Do you remember getting killed, child? Because that would really help make this process go quicker, you see."

"The Underworld? The Overwold, you mean?" asked Betrard, confused, and then hopeful.

"Ah, such is the price of not seeking Xon in your last moment. But fear not, child, I am here for you, and I am not Xon, but better, kinder... angrier."

Betrard closed his mouth thoughtfully, only to open it again to ask for the unwanted answer.

"A Daemon?"

"Correct. I am Laab, the Deceiver, the Trickster, the Debaucher. Tell me, do the Netherworlders still remember me, or have you forgotten altogether?" chortled Laab's voice delightfully.

"Begone, Daemon. I have no business with you," said Betrard coldly.

"Oh, but you will. After you hear my proposal."

Betrard remained silent, determined not to share any more word with the Daemon.

"Really? You are dead, standing n.a.k.e.d in a hall engulfed in flames, and you are not going to talk to the one being who can make everything better for you?" said the Daemon's voice.

"Throw me to the Underworld, or send me to Xon's presence. I will not defile my faith and soul by associating with a Daemon."

"Xon's child through and though, huh."

"That, I am."

"And yet you did not pray to Xon in your last moment. Why? Because you doubted Xon. You knew Xon's toothpick would pierce your heart and kill you. You knew your faith meant nothing."

Betrard kept his mouth shut, although his eyes shook at some of the truth within the Daemon's accusation.

"All the miracles that you saw and enjoyed, all thanks to Xon's precious sword and not Xon himself. Xon does know how to keep his livestock in check. Throw them some toys and they worship you as a god."

"Xon is the One and Only Divine—" blurted Betrard mechanically when Laab's voice cut him short.

"You Netherworlders love him so much, yet has Xon ever shown his face? Never, not once in the last two millennia. On the other hand, you see stories of Daemons all the time. I am quite sure I am one of the most popular—"

It was Betrard's turn to interrupt the demon's singsonging reverie.

"Talk all you want, but you will never get what you want, Evil Being."

"And what do I want? I have not told you yet."

"My soul. I have heard stories. And that every single one of those stories ends in a tragedy."

"Good point. Under normal circ.u.mstances, a human soul is a delicious treat, especially if it is a blind, naive Xon worshipper as yourself. But you are already dead, child. Why would I want a soul that is already wasted and thrown away into the Underworld? You are already mine, at least your soul is."

Betrard looked down at his n.a.k.e.d body. He could see a scar on the skin above where his heart was.

"I left that. So you never forget how you died, who did that to you, and why you are fighting," said Laab timely and helpfully.

"Fighting?" responded Betrard at the unexpected word.

"Yes, fighting. That is your forte, is it not?"

"Against whom? For what?"

"Against your enemies, whomever they may be."

"Mine? Not yours, surely?"

"I have only one enemy, but that comes later."

"You want me to become a fighter in the Underworld?"

"Not the Underworld, no. There is literally nothing down there. I am sending you to the Netherworld, your world, once again."

Betrard blinked at the Daemon's last words.

"You are going to let me live once again?"

"That is exactly it, child. So, what do you say?"

Betrard hesitated for a moment.

"Sounds too good to be true," said Betrard, shaking his head.

"Daemons can be generous too, you know."

"What is the catch? What is it that you are not telling me?"

It was Laab's turn to pause for a moment.

"There is no catch. A slight, forgettable detail, maybe."

"That is?"

Laab's face was unseen, but Betrard had a feeling that the Daemon was putting on a wicked smile as he spoke the next words.

"Simple. Your new life begins and ends as my Champion. That means every murder, deceit, and crime you commit shall be performed under my name."

Betrard frowned towards the air, confused and also curious.

"And what do you gain from that, exactly?"

"Oh, everything."

"What everything?"

"You do not need to understand, child. Daemon business and all," dismissed Laab casually.

Betrard breathed deeply, considering and contemplating.

"Just say when," whispered Laab's voice tantalizingly.

"All my life, I have been a just citizen, a law-abiding subject," said Betrard.

"I know. Such a bore you were."

"Deceit and crimes are out of my bounds."

"Or, you can at least try. New life, new hobbies, perhaps?"

"But I can promise you murder."

Laab's voice made a satisfying sound at Betrard's last words.

"How many murders?" asked Laab's voice.

Betrard's eyes flashed vengefully as he opened his mouth.

"Just one."