The Jester of Apocalypse

Hunter sipped on the lovely tea. It was poisoned, and he died.

Such was the fate of any child in the Zearthorn sect. Yet, his lifeless corpse looked on as it witnessed the mountains of young corpses and the dragon with his mother’s head feasting on them.

…What the fuck is happening?

This was a strange world, a world of weird rules. Rules he didn’t know, strangeness he didn’t understand. It was a dream. A nightmare. Visage born of his inner self, an abyssal eidolon hunting him in the depths of unconsciousness.

Yet, he felt the phantasmal echoes ring hollow. After all, the Zearthorn sect was gone. His mother was dead, and she had never been a dragon.

Thank the heavens.

He had avoided having to witness this fate.

The heavens themselves opened before Hunter’s eyes, and a messenger appeared, a divine woman that asked Hunter a moral question he was far too stupid to answer.

Was it okay to be relieved that he had avoided a terrible fate at the price of his mother's life?

Who knew? His path had steered course due to much tragedy, and he often wondered what he should feel. And all he could conclude was that he didn't know the answer.

But that was alright. Fuck the messenger! He had also seen a real messenger in person, and that messenger would definitely fail a moral test!

What was the right thing to do, anyway? Did one have to be a scholar to tell right from wrong?

He sighed, feeling the weight lift off his shoulders. That wasn’t the case.

Hunter simply had to do what he believed to be best. And when what he thought to be best turned out to be not good, he had to listen to whoever was there to correct him.

And if the situation called for it, he would also be there to correct others when they wronged, as well.

Thank the heavens, Hunter thought again.

He would never have to eat a child alive.

***

Dukean’s life was full of demons. Was he, too, a demon?

He grabbed the bit of red string that connected everyone he had ever known in his life and tied it to himself.

Hmmmm…

That didn’t seem right. Oh well. Might as well use the opportunity to ask.

He walked over to a mirror and grimaced, scowling and baring his teeth at his image, “Tell me, you demon bastard! Which one of you did it? And what else are you planning!?”

His reflection stepped out, grabbing his throat and choking him, “You know too much, child. I will be the one to ask questions instead. Speak, vermin. Where is your savior?”

Dukean grinned. Then he laughed, “You miserable devil! The hourglass is draining. He will come for you. No demon, devil, or devil lord in any realm can stop his insanity!” He cackled maniacally, overflowing in schadenfreude, “It serves you right!” The pictures and texts, all interconnected on the walls around him, burned in a red fire as Neave appeared, wrecking calamity wherever he went, “He will be your undoing, and I will be there to watch you burn.”

The devil yelped, jumping back and trying to crawl into the mirror. Dukean grabbed its leg and pulled it out, swinging its body and shattering the stone beneath.

"You do not get to go there, vile thing. I am no sinner, I am no bane to anyone. I know my place. You should know your place as well."

***

“When will you learn, you brute!” Gabrias’ mother stood before him, barely reaching his chest as she screamed at him. Again, “You skipped your lessons!? Why do you spit on everything we do for you?”

“I’m–I’m sorry, Mother.”

She smiled, eyes void of humor as she spoke, reciting her same criticisms in the well-practiced tone, dripping in disappointment, “You’re not sorry at all.”

Gabrias always wondered why. Even though she spoke with disappointment, why did her eyes hold such glee inside? Was she happy? Pleased that he failed to satisfy her demands, yet again?

He apologized once more, and his father appeared, beating him mercilessly, “You wretched brat. You will never become anyone in your life.”

“So what?” Gabrias froze, cursing his stupid mouth.

His father kicked him again, “You bastard child!”

Why would he take this? No, this made no sense. A mortal couldn’t do substantial damage to someone on the bronze path.

His father struck again and again, leaving no damage. It didn’t lessen the pain at all. His father was right.

Gabrias would never become anyone, but who said he had to? His parents?

He never respected their opinion, to begin with.

Marven grabbed the leg of Gabrias’ father, “Please, calm yourself, Father.”

“Who!? Who are you? What happened to my son!?”

Berlan, the bulky coworker of Gabrias’, appeared, still gripping his father’s leg, “Aight, relax, you damn bastard, no need to get violent, eh?”

His mother screamed and stepped back. Elder Pagon appeared, lifting Gabrias’ father’s body and throwing it out of the window, “Hmph! Impudent! You dare strike at me!?”

The woman froze, transforming into a corrupt demon, and Neave appeared behind her, blowing her body apart to pieces.

Gabrias stood there, once again, facing Lord Neave.

“I–I am sorry, Lord Neave, for inconveniencing you. I… Tell me… Who do you want me to be? Who must I become!?”

Neave nodded regally and decreed in his heavenly voice, “You are to become a pillar of my domain, Gabrias. The great builder, the peerless constructor! Your walls shan’t be pierced by devil nor god alike! Rejoice!”

Gabrias wept, getting down to his knees and praising the Lord’s name. He was wildly insufficient. That wouldn’t do.

Neave’s empire required a stronger foundation.

***

Sweat dripped down her neck, and the noon touch of the sun caressed her tanned skin. There was a slight circle around her, as people made space whenever she practiced.

Nobody wanted to be accidentally hit by Harel.

Not that they would be in a million years, but that didn’t stop young kids from ostracizing her.

Swing, cut, slash.

Block, parry, dodge.

Stance.

Proceed to the following form.

Every day, the same training took place in the Zearthorn sect courtyard. And every single disciple had to participate.

Bar one.

Harel couldn’t stop herself from glancing over to Neave. Yet again, he sat, caressing his bruised leg after the elder kicked him. He looked livid, as per usual.

After blowing air angrily out of his nostrils, he clenched his teeth and got up.

The world froze.

Now… Where will you go, Neave?

Would he turn left, enter one of the hallways and return to his room? Would he turn right, walk to the library, and spend his entire day there again?

Maybe he would climb the walls, strip naked and run around on the roof of the sect.

Or, just perhaps, he would claw at the soil beneath his feet, striking it over and over until there was nothing but bloody stumps left of his fingers, and he would dig further and further, pulling Harel inside, dragging her into the underworld, the depths of the nightmare realm.

Harel woke up, but she wasn’t awake. All around her was darkness, broken by glowing threads of potential.

She glanced over the countless specs that hung all around her. Potential she had realized throughout her life.

Out of habit, she combed her ethereal fingers over the fluffy cloud, seeking any new development on the sword's path.

The potential of improvised swords?

Insufficient. She needed more. But it all seemed so… Vague. The strands of potential were detached, glowed weakly, and the more she sought, the less she found.

Soon enough, all of the potential around her vanished.

What is happening?

The core in her spirit glowed with the same cold, merciless light, cutting through the empty space and piercing right to the point of the matter. She was the sword. Her core was the blade. The potential she realized was the edge.

Little Harel sat before Marven, curiously looking at the sword in her hands, “I see a lot of strands in my spirit… Why did you tell me not to grab them?”

Marven opened his eyes and smiled gently at Harel, “You should only realize the potential of the sword, Harel.”

“But why?”

Marven was taken aback, “I have explained it to you many times. Once you go far on the path, you will be granted the wayfarer’s privilege. I haven’t followed the sword's path strictly enough, so my techniques are limited in value. You, on the other hand… Your privilege will be royal, and the power you will be granted over reality will surpass most cultivators.”

“But why?”

Marven shook his head, “Harel, we as cultivators strive not only for power but also to leave a mark, one that will live on even once we are gone.”

“But why?”

He frowned, “You will understand once you’re older.”

Teenage Harel cocked her head, “How much older do I have to get?”

“If you can not understand what I’m saying, you aren’t old enough.”

“How old do I have to be?”

Adult Harel stood before Hunter, her husband and sect master, and he smirked, mocking her in his usual condescending tone, “It isn’t a matter of age, Harel. It is a matter of understanding. And I suppose you simply aren’t there yet.”

Elder Harel looked down on her son, the Sect Master, and asked, “Will I be enlightened to the meaning of my life any time soon?”

“What do you mean, Mother dearest? You were a hero of the masses, a savior of the people. Your blade has cut down myriad monster, and demonic sects use your name to scare their children. Your techniques have landed Grandfather a place beside the emperor. I am truly honored to have been born to someone as great as you. Tell me, Mother, what part of that do you not understand?”

Hunter shook his head at his wife in disappointment, “It is simple, isn’t it!? You’re so ungrateful, Harel. Having such a clear-cut path is a privilege few are lucky to have.”

Marven smiled, compassion void of understanding revealing his fangs as he spoke to little Harel, the child, and showed her the severed mountain lotus, “This a blessing, young mistress.”

Harel grasped the potential of his sharp fangs. If she had teeth like that, she could bite through her core like an apple, crack it open, and see what seed lay inside.

Tell me, blade, what do you wish to cut through the most? What path do you want to carve for me?

Marven grabbed the core and swung it, cutting through all of the empire's threats, solving every problem, and rising above the world as a legendary figure, a demi-god that sat beside Astrador.

The sword carved a message on the stone, leaving an eternal mark on reality, one that would outlive her by infinite time.

I see.

Harel nodded. A worthy path to have.

She bit into the core, and her teeth vanished, her face melted, and her eyes were liquified as her brain oozed out of her skull.

The bite mark revealed the shining core of the core, the center of existence, all there was and all there ever will be. All there ever could be.

The strands of potential appeared again.

One after another, they lit up the void of her spirit like stars in the eternal night.

The eternal night.

The eternal night…

The eternal night?

…

No. The eternal darkness. That was right. This place had no day. So it would be fine, right? That meant nobody would care. She didn’t have to care either.

Her spirit wouldn’t be sullied if she merely observed what it was like.

The void of her spirit lit up, shining with the light of the day. The little strands vanished, not into the night, but like stars of the dark sky, they hid behind the day’s light.

That was right. It wasn’t a big deal.

Harel grasped the squirming, eternal rope of white that spread in every direction.

And placed the potential of freedom right into the core of her existence.