Chapter 16: Chapter 16: The door to heaven

 

“Just kill yourself,” says the woman, looking at her. She blinks, leaning in towards the elf and pressing a finger to her neck. “If you make a cut here, it’ll go fast.”

 

Ruhr looks at the ghost of a woman and then away from it, her eyes rising up to the thing dangling in the center of the room. It is a giant creature of sorts, easily the height of two men. It dangles from the ceiling by chains that bind its wrists together. Its legs are locked to pillars of broken, ebony glass that cut into its body. Its head and face are covered with an iron mask. From its plucked, broken wings dangle no feathers but instead, only old, raw flesh, giving it the appearance of a sickly bat.

 

In the old depictions of lore, such an entity might have been referred to as an angel.

 

However, she doubts that such a thing would really be down here inside of the Demon-King’s castle.

 

“If you die on your own, before the Demon-King gets you, your soul can move on to the afterlife in peace,” says the ghost, leaning in and whispering into Ruhr’s ear. “You can be reborn somewhere else, anywhere else, in a time after all of this is over,” it says, sounding oddly giddy at the prospect. The ghost shakes its head. “But if you don’t and you die here because of something else… well…” It shrugs. “The Demon-King is very possessive of what is his.”

 

 

The ghost screams with a shriek as she is blasted away by a priest of the crusade. The soul vanishes, crumbling into an ethereal ash that blows away in currents unfelt by physical senses.

 

“Thanks,” says Ruhr, nodding to the man.

 

“Don’t listen to ghosts,” he says. “These here, they’re likely bound to the Demon-King. Everything they say is a lie for his benefit.”

 

She shakes her head and walks on. “Wasn’t planning on it anyway.”

 

Ruhr looks back behind herself. There are hundreds of ghosts in the chamber, drifting out of the body that hangs suspended from the ceiling, out of the gash that runs through its torso from top to bottom, out of which spirits claw, one after the other, ripping themselves out of its open torso like parasites fleeing a dying host.

 

“See anyone you know?” asks Zacarias.

 

She looks at him and then shakes her head, watching more and more ghosts fly down from the ceiling. “I guess I never knew that many people, now that I think about it,” she replies. “At least one’s I’d recognize as a ghost. You?”

 

“— Hey, guys!” says an excited voice. The two of them turn their heads, looking at a spirit hovering next to them. It holds out a knife. “Did you ever think about dying?” it asks, excitedly.

 

“All the time,” replies Ruhr, waving it off. “Get bent.” She sighs and shakes her head as they walk beneath the dripping carcass of the angel. “Zac, do you ever think that the Demon-King is a little…” She thinks for a moment. “- I dunno. Childish?”

 

“Don’t let it fool you,” says Zacarias, narrowing his eyes. “It’s a ploy to get past our defenses.” He looks over at her. “Think about everything we’ve seen; everything childish that the Demon-King fields to stop us has been some sort of trap or twisting of our own inner desires and wants.” He shakes his head. “No. This is a carefully laid out, monstrous den of impossible horrors. If anything, this disgusting childishness of his is a mockery of the good life that all of us strive to hope for.” Zacarias looks back ahead. “Don’t let him fool you.”

 

Ruhr looks at him and nods, looking at the door ahead of them.

 

It’s closed.

 

An ornate sigil winds around the frame of the thing, marking it with ancient imagery and letters from old languages no longer spoken by the people of the world.

 

A monster.

 

A true, old, and ancient monster that knows how to manipulate the inner sensations of the hearts of men and women, playing with them as would a child would with a doll, it intends to break.

 

A chill runs down her spine as she thinks about what their final confrontation with the horrific entity will be like when they reach him, when they finally arrive to snuff out his terrible flames from this world and return him and his castle to the deep darkness of true sleep in the void between worlds.

 

---

 

 

The Demon-King roars, his thousands of eyes opening in rage and devastation, his many contorted maws screaming a horrible roar, thick, mucusy saliva dangling between the gaps of countless jagged teeth. Pillars crumble, stones fall from the ceiling, crushing statues and souls, some of which try to wiggle themselves out from the debris.

 

The Demon-King is many things, powerful beyond imagination, cunning beyond the scales of both man, fox and god, wicked in measures that demons and ancient monstrosities fail to comprehend; however, he is unfortunately terrible at hide and seek.

 

“You’re it!” says the ghost, Kirsch, excitedly as she tags him. She flies off, giggling, as Swain looks around himself now that he has been tagged by her.

 

Swain looks down at his massive arms, the size of old tree trunks, with fists the size of boulders.

 

There aren’t many good hiding spots for someone of his stature. Perhaps he should make some? It’s his castle, after all.

 

But the point of the game is to inspire creativity and get away from work. A person, even the Demon-King, who does nothing but work will never unfold the true creativity that they need in their other fields of life. Experiencing the unusual, putting oneself in odd situations, and not being too prideful to do so, is where one comes to learn of the little quirks that are a part of existence.

 

Variety is indeed the spice of life, but more than that, it is the core ingredient of its more exotic dishes, as he’s learned from Byblos, the cook.

 

Besides, this game… It reminds him of his old life, of old sensations, and, even more thrilling than that, it fills him with the excitement of the hunt.

 

Stampeding through the darkness, the terrible Demon-King finds those who are weak, those who are not as cunning or intelligent, and those who try to hide in the darkness of the world from the master of all things dark and wretched.

 

 

He snaps his fingers.

 

The throne-room immediately fills with shadows, with hundreds of featureless, vaguely human entities standing before him and lowering themselves in a bow. He looks at one with a wide-brimmed hat that raises its gaze to meet him.

 

“Find my gallu,” orders the Demon-King. “Report to me where they are.”

 

The man tips his hat.

 

— The shadow people vanish, teleporting around the castle.

 

He may lack in the defensive, but the offensive is his strength.

 

---

 

 

The bee buzzes up and buzzes down.

 

Shaushka stands on the side of the road, watching it. It doesn’t guide her anymore; rather, they’ve just been standing here for a while.

 

Her eyes rise up. Her eyes lower down.

 

Her head rises up. Her head falls down.

 

The bee rises up. The bee sinks down.

 

And so goes the song and dance as the two of them stand there for a while longer.

 

— It flies towards her, finally changing pace, and then stings her in the hand.

 

“AH!” yells Shaushka.

 

She lifts her arm, looking at the fat, bumbly bee that is attached to the top of her reddening hand.

 

The ground rumbles.

 

Shaushka looks at the bee that pulls itself free, leaving its stinger behind, and then bumbles off in a daze through the air before it plummets downward into the middle of the road.

 

Quietly, with wet eyes, she stares at the bee, her arm still outstretched.

 

The elf slowly turns her head to the left, looking at the carriages that charge down the main street, dozens of them, with hundreds of soldiers and people.

 

She slowly blinks.

 

Before she knows it, they reach her, and her outstretched arm grabs hold of one of the carriage’s fronts, and she is yanked along after it.

 

Confused, the elf pulls herself in and then looks at the coachman, who pays her no mind and then looks back ahead.

 

She looks down at her hand, looking at the throbbing stinger still stuck in it.

 

Head empty. Eyes full.

 

The carriages move down the street, but she doesn’t really pay that any mind, as her vision is focused on the stinger.

 

“…Ah…” mumbles Shaushka.

 

---

 

 

“Just jump. Get it over with,” says the ghost, floating next to her. Rushing waters fill the world around her. Ruhr leans forward, standing on the head of a great serpent made out of her magic, as she fiddles around with the mask covering the angel’s head.

 

Four other serpents rise from the core of the sphere she had created, each of them acting as a platform for one other person each, who are trying to free the limbs of the creature.

 

The door couldn’t be opened, but a scholar of the crusade was able to read and translate the old language, revealing only a simple sentence.

 

‘It will lead you to heaven.’

 

One can only assume this means the angel, bound and tied in this room to the ceiling. The entity squirms as they try to free it from its chains.

 

“Don’t you want to see your family again?” it asks. “They’re waiting for you, you know.”

 

She looks down at the ground, whistling sharply.

 

The priest down on the floor below lifts his hands, casting another spell. The ghost next to her explodes.

 

They’re not harmful; they’re just… annoying and kind of mean, honestly.

 

She shakes her head.

 

She supposes that it would be more surprising if the Demon-King had nice ghosts. He must really think very little of them, though, if he thinks that some rude ghosts are going to get them to quite literally kill themselves with some mean words after they’ve come all this way.

 

She fiddles with the mechanism, finding a piece to pull loose. A small rod shifts, falling down and clinking to the ground. “I think I got something!” she calls down and returns to her work, as the others seem to be loosening up the binds around its limbs.

 

— More ghosts crawl out of the hole in its core. “Hey, long ears,” says a voice next to her. “I’d just positively die if I had an ugly nose like that.”

 

Ruhr lifts an eyebrow.

 

How… snarky. It’s like being a little girl in class all over again. The woman sighs, shaking her head as she unlocks the next mechanism.

 

“Between you and me,” says the ghost. “You should just go. Just run away and give everyone the thrill of having something to look at before you vanish forever.” The ghost flies towards her. “The only good way to look at a person as ugly as you is from behind.” Ruhr whistles.

 

— The ghost explodes as the priest blasts it away.

 

Another one crawls out of the angel’s gaping chest and looks at her. “Hey, asshole. Don’t fucking do that.”

 

“Fuck you,” says Ruhr, pulling the rod free from the lock and throwing it at the ghost. It flies through the entity, clattering down on the distant stones below. The mask clicks, the lock having been opened.

 

“It’s your funeral, you reject,” says the ghost. “Between you and me, I don’t know why you’d fiddle with anything locked up in the Demon-King’s castle.” It shrugs. “I guess all of your growth went to your ass instead of your brain.”

 

Ruhr whistles.

 

The ghost explodes.

 

The angel’s mask swings open on a hinge, the face covering attached to the cage-like construction that is wrapped around its neck revealing what lies behind itself. She turns to look at it as the locks around its legs and arms come free.

 

There is no face.

 

The space inside the cage where the head ought to be is nothing except a jumble of ten-thousand eyes that twitch, spasming and then turn her way.

 

Chains rattle as it lurches, pulling itself free from its binds. It has bloody, tattered legs that have been cut into ribbons that hang loosely from the bone, dangling as its featherless, mangled wings take flight. Its arms, freed from the binds above its head, drop down.

 

The angel screams, a shrill, piercing sound filling the air and breaking through the soft barriers of their ears to poke and scratch at the sides of their minds, like an animal trying to burrow its way inside.

 

Ruhr holds her head, yelling in pain as hundreds of eyes focus on her.

 

A giant hand reaches out, grabbing hold of her whole body.

 

She has no time to react before the screaming angel plunges her into its gaping, bloody chest, swallowing her whole.

 

“Dumbass,” says a ghost in her ear, as she vanishes into the guts of the monstrosity.

 

---

 

 

“RUHR!” screams Zacarias, looking up at the entity as Ruhr dies. The urge to vomit fights its way up to his neck, just as a man from the crusade tears him back as the angel lashes its arms out, swiping away the four others who were up in the air and sending them hurtling violently across the room. Three of them are caught by priests with feather magic, but the unlucky fourth hits the ceiling, smashing his head against the wall and then plummeting to the floor, leaving half of his skull up on the ceiling.

 

The angel lands, dropping down gracelessly, the floor rumbling as it makes impact, spreading its wings out like a dragon on the charge as it lumbers down to all fours, screaming an otherworldly scream, blood dripping from all of its broken body.

 

Water cascades down around them from a failed spell, evaporating from the incredible ambient heat of the demon-core, creating an immediate wall of mist that a great silhouette of a broken thing lumbers through, screams filling the air like a chorus from another plane.

 

 

A wall appears between them as Zacarias gets his shield ready. However, he’s too slow.

 

The angel is entirely unbothered by his projection of holy-magic and simply charges straight through it like a sickly, rabid dog. A taloned arm swipes his way, and he flies across the room together with a dozen others, as another arm smashes down, crushing a few priestesses into a bloody paste on the stones.

 

He tumbles to a stop, lifting his spinning vision, as the angel, its talons digging into a screaming man’s legs and neck, tears him in two pieces above its own head, blood, viscera, and urine raining down over its broken, warped gestalt, christening it in sanguine bile.

 

“Oooh, that’s rough, bud,” says a voice in his ear. “Guess you missed your shot, huh?” asks the ghost, nudging him. “Don’t worry, I’ll go back to the spirit world and take over,” says the entity, winking. “I’ll be sure to let her know you sent me.”

 

— It explodes as a priest targets it.

 

Zacarias screams, getting back up and running back into the fight as blood rains down around the room.

 

---

 

 

The shadow person whispers in a twisted language. Its faceless, mouthless head emits noises toward him that creep and crawl through the darkness like smoke, like the chittering of a spider’s legs.

 

Swain looks to the right, reaching into a giant cauldron in the kitchen.

 

He pulls out the cook, Byblos.

 

“You’re good at this,” she says, sighing.

 

Swain drops her, marching off. “None hide from the gaze of the Demon-King.” He turns his head, looking at a ghost. “Paper.”

 

It howls in terror, flying off as fast as it can.

 

---

 

 

The man slides back, staying on his feet as his tower shield takes the brunt of the impact. Dust and stones fly back from behind his boots, as he leaves a scar on the floor. Tightening his knees, he presses back forward towards the lashing angel.

 

It screams, its wings flapping, pressing a violent gale out all around itself as hundreds of spells, launched its way, are immediately flung back towards the assailants below from the force of the channeling wind.

 

Many defensive barriers pop up, successfully blocking most of the spells, but not all of them. People scream as explosions ring out and friendly fire goes wild.

 

A group of archers fires a timed volley, pelting the creature with a line of arrows that runs along its left side from top to bottom. The angel screams again, turning its head towards them.

 

 

Chains shoot up out of the ground, tethering themselves around the entity’s legs, wrapping and binding themselves around it.

 

It simply moves through them, as if they were nothing, and barrels into the team of archers, sending half of them flying and eating the other half.

 

He made the same mistake again.

 

From the distance through the mist, he sees the hunched over, gaunt, bony form turning its head. The open door on the cage squeaks as it looks back towards the group of soldiers.

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“Sir, should we release the grand crusade?” asks an unsteady man, looking at a superior officer and then at a collection of crates that they had brought with them.

 

The paladin looks back at him and then shakes his head. “No. We need to save them for when it counts. They’re trusting us to not let their efforts be in vain.” He lifts a hand. “Formation!”

 

The crusaders gather themselves together again, getting ready for another skirmish.

 

There is a clicking in the distance. The angel twitches; its bulging eyes are visible through the fog because of their haunting, predatory glow, shining with unnatural fervor.

 

Zacarias readies himself, gritting his teeth, trying to get the visions of blue out of his eyes and heart, as his boot touches something.

 

There is a quiet tinkling of metal.

 

He looks down at an old, metal bolt that someone had thrown down from above.

 

---

 

 

As it travels toward the west, the slime hops and hops, its goopy body bouncing and jiggling as it goes along what simply has to be titled as the Biggest Green. The big green was the meadow it had spent most of its life in. Then the big-big green was a nice woodland. Now here, the landscape has changed, the forest tightening into a dense, deep nest of darkness that little slimes like itself would usually never dare to hop. Three areas. There are three areas in the world where it has been, perhaps this is all of the world there is?

 

It’s hard to say. The little slime has only ever known such places. It supposes, in its rudimentary logic, that there must be at least one or two more places between it and the big meal it can feel itself being pulled towards. It still feels like it is very far away.

 

Still, it’s running out of ‘bigs’ and ‘greens’, so it hopes the next area is neither of these things.

 

Puddles splash as it lands in them, throwing water out in all directions. It has no idea why it is heading this way, exactly, other than some primal urge to satiate a deep hunger. It, as a very simple creature, possesses a simple feeling that tells it that it is supposed to be progressing in this direction.

 

As the slime jumps, it leaves behind a trail of goo that is quickly washed away by the pouring heavy rains. As slimes do during their lives, the slime faces a variety of problems and obstructions of all kinds. It has to jump across raging, overflowing streams that have turned into dangerous wild-waters and go through dense woodlands, full of monsters that are quite arguably, far more dangerous than a slime. Luckily for it, most monsters do not enjoy eating slimes, as there is simply not much meat on them, honestly, and they all seem preoccupied with hunts in other directions and areas.

 

It lifts its one eye towards the sky, looking through the dense treeline, wondering when the sun is going to come back out.

 

All of this rain is a little bothersome.

 

There is too much rain, so the soil is soggy, and the worms now refuse to come out, instead staying deep down below the world where it can’t get them. But at least the rabbits are being flushed out of their holes and forced to tread water. That makes them easy to find and catch.

 

The little slime hops onward, towards destinations unknown.

 

---

 

 

The man stands out in the rain, his old beard soaked through to his face with befouled rain, the stink of death and decay drawing ever closer towards them, unable to be suppressed by the constant downpour.

 

He stands there, staring out from the top of the old, ancient tower, one of seven, that sit high up on the distant mountains. The old fortress here has existed since ancient times, having been founded in far distant, far darker days by the men and women of that age, to repel the malignancy of their time.

 

That tradition, that order of paladins, has existed to this very day, now that the Demon-King has once again reared his foul head and dared to besmirch the gracious beauty of their world.

 

“Commander,” says the man next to him. “What are your orders?” he asks, the storm howling with banshee winds.

 

Trinitatio looks at him and then back out over the cliff sides.

 

The fortress is in a deeply unique geographical location. The mountain region here is extremely jagged. Nature has created several plateaus and sharp cliff-sides, elevated far off of the ground with sharp drops. Nine bridges connect the many stone islands, with seven towers. Each of them manned by a champion of another order of paladins, all seven schools of which had come together to form the whole legion that means the Palisade as one unified force against darkness.

 

Now, the Demon-King is on his way.

 

They do not know which road he is going to take, if he will diverge to the west, towards them, or to the east, towards the foul swamplands that they have failed to purge to this day because of the strange, twisted magics of witchcraft that govern over them. However, it remains clear that, either way, their orders are to buy as much time as possible.

 

The word is that there are additional forces on the way from around the world, the first of which should have already arrived on the eastern shores of the continent, coming from the domain of the Vildt.

 

“What’s the news from the capital?” he asks.

 

The other man shakes his head. “Nothing new.”

 

He sighs, having feared as much. “Prepare the bridges for demolition,” he orders, looking back out into the night at the ancient, stonework bridge that connects the entrance of the main road to the capital to the first vista. “We’ll lock the beast down here.”

 

“Yes, commander,” replies the man, running off down the tower to make preparations.

 

It would be a shame, as these constructs have existed since the dawn of the order itself. However, they are just stonework, material things. Stopping the Demon-King in his tracks goes far beyond some old monuments.

 

The Palisade exists to protect people, not itself.

 

He watches the storm and the horizon, waiting for the distant, crimson light to finally crest it.

 

---

 

 

Witch Krokant sits on her giant toadstool, which rests inside a strange, crooked house in the swamp, and yawns. The structure is not really what one would, using classical terms, define as being a house. Its walls are made up of roots, and mushrooms sprout from the floors. The doors are made of coffin-wood and the handles are made out of old harpy beaks. Goblins and humans and all manner of creatures and critters scamper and crawl around in their urgency. Puddles of glowing, moonlit water fill the area, shining with a light that can’t be sourced from any heavenly body but rather from the magical fungal spores floating around inside them.

 

A lizard crawls up the wall, flicking its tongue at her, before vanishing.

 

How rude.

 

Lizards really never have a good mind for sociality. They’re always a little deranged. She tries not to take it personally; it’s just what nature made them. Now, frogs, on the other hand, are a whole package unto themselves.

 

“He’s almost here,” says a voice from down below.

 

Krokant blinks, looking down at the man standing there. He’s from the Witches’ Sect, an organization of mortal beings who really, really like witches and go far out of their way to be useful to them. She doesn’t quite understand them either, but she is grateful for their energy and help. Without them, she might just always sit around and snooze on her toadstool, never getting anything done.

 

The witch rubs her tired eyes, lying down sideways on her toadstool and resting her head on her arms as she looks at the robed man with sleepy eyes. “Do you think he’s mean?” she asks.

 

The scholar puzzles for a moment. “He…” The man clears his throat, rethinking his phrasing. “Yes. I believe that the Demon-King is mean, Witch Krokant,” replies the man, taking care to maintain his professionalism.

 

They’re all like that. They always seem to be treading on their tip-toes around her. Sometimes, she’d wish they’d just take a nap too instead.

 

“Should we be mean?” she asks, blinking with her springtide eyes.

 

“It would be advisable, should we be given cause,” replies the scholar, looking at her.

 

She sighs, closing her tired eyes and squishing her cheek into her elbow. “Can’t we be friends with him?” she asks, looking at the darkness inside her closed eyes.

 

“It would not be advisable,” replies the scholar. “Even assuming that the Demon-King would show us favor, given our distance from the rest of the common-races, it would be assumed that he, as a mean person, would want you to be mean too in order to be his friend.”

 

Witch Krokant thinks for a time. This makes sense.

 

She yawns, rubbing her tired face.

 

“Then I guess we can’t be friends,” she says. It’s quiet for a while. The witch opens a single eye, looking at the man. “What’s his opinion on horses?”

 

“Hor…ses…?” The man shakes his head, clearly not knowing the word. “I am unable to say,” puzzles the scholar. “However, I would assume the worst.”

 

“Good,” replies Witch Krokant, closing her eye again.

 

If one thinks lizards and frogs are real characters, well, horses were a real problem for a while. They were super mean. It’s a good thing they’re extinct and that anqas took their place in the world. She doesn’t think that the Demon-King has anything to do with that, not this one or the last one, whom she only barely remembers. She didn’t really have anything much to do with him. He was mean too, and she doesn’t care for mean people.

 

Witch Krokant falls to sleep atop her toadstool, letting the people down below do whatever it is that they like doing. They always seem to know best. She’ll just stay out of the way and sleep in the meantime, hoping that the Demon-King isn’t mean, and definitely not some weird animal.

 

---

 

 

The Demon-King roars in triumph, hoisting Cartouche into the air, who flails in annoyance at her, objectively, a very good hiding spot having been found out.

 

The shadow people whisper into his ears before vanishing back out of the castle and spreading out into the world, haunting all of those people who would dare try to close an eye within the realm of the terrible Demon-King.

 

---

 

 

Zacarias screams, blood splashing into his face as he slams the bottom of his shield down into the open cage, crushing a dozen eyes with the dull, heavy edge of the metal implement. The angel writhes, trying to lash and flail in vain, as dozens of men hold it down, pinning its legs, arms, and wings with their bodies and equipment after a brutal struggle that killed countless crusaders.

 

The eyes all look his way, bulging as he slams the metal down again into them, over and over, crushing, breaking, and smashing his way down through its head with a scream that never stops, coming from his core soul. Its wet insides spray out over him, staining his legs and torso, splashing against his face, and soaking him to the bone.

 

He’s lost in the frenzy, his eyes wide.

 

Somebody places a hand on his shoulder as the shield lifts up into the air.

 

Zacarias looks at the man as he gasps and pants. The crusader nods his head to the giant body below. “It’s over.”

 

He stares at the man for a while, feeling his eyes burn, as he looks back down at the mess that he’s standing in. The inside of the helmet is full of viscera. He’s standing in a puzzle of smashed eyes and inner matter, belonging to a corpse that no longer moves.

 

It’s over.

 

Zacarias holds the shield up in the air, unable to let it down again. His shoulders feel like they’ve locked into place.

 

He screams, forcing his body to move, slamming the metal down one last time.

 

It’s over.

 

The door off to the side of the room opens, revealing what seems to be the way to the next floor.

 

---

 

With blank eyes, Zacarias sits there, staring at the floor as the crusade collects itself back together, tending to the wounded and immediately burning the dead, before they can be used against them by the Demon-King.

 

It happened so fast.

 

She was just…

 

He turns his head, looking at the corpse of the angel, which lays there. The man stares at it, as everyone begins to move again, heading towards the door. He can’t stop looking at it.

 

“Brother Zacarias,” says a voice. He looks to the side, staring at an officer from the crusade. “It’s time for us to keep moving,” says the man, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. We’ll see her again when we get to the heavens ourselves.”

 

Zacarias watches them march, trying to figure out why he should get up again. It sounds dumb. He came here on a mission, after all. He had a goal long before he met her, right? He came here to kill the Demon-King.

 

He just finds it very hard to get up right now.

 

‘Heaven…’ Zacarias shakes his head to himself, not sure if he can believe in something like that right now. His weary gaze moves back to the angel.

 

Its arms are laid together over its chest, its hands pointed together.

 

Did somebody move its corpse? When they killed it, its arms were spread wide, given that they were pinned down. Maybe the crusaders did, out of respect for the corrupted entity? Zacarias puzzles for a moment.

 

‘It will lead you to heaven.’

 

The sentence that was etched into the door runs through his head. Something about it feels off. Something… No. Maybe he’s just mixed up.

 

Zacarias closes his eyes, trying to think about anything at all, but he can’t get the picture of Ruhr out of his head.

 

Hell.

 

This place is literally hell.

 

— His eyes open wide.

 

Zacarias jumps to his feet. “STOP!” screams the man, lifting his hands.

 

 

A shield spans across the open doorway, cutting off the members of the crusade who had already ventured inside from the rest of them.

 

— A glimmer of light makes itself visible from behind the mass of bodies, down at the end of the tunnel. Then, a second later, his barrier shatters as a massive wave of vibrantly blue fire presses its way out of the freshly opened door, incinerating all of those who are inside immediately, while others run away, screaming, as the blue fires cover their bodies, eating away at their fats and skins.

 

It will lead you to heaven.

 

Zacarias spins to the side, running.

 

Why the hell would a door in the Demon-King’s castle lead one to heaven? It doesn’t make any sense. It’s a threat, a literal promise of death.

 

He climbs onto the corpse of the angel, tearing into its guts, visible through its eviscerated chest. Ever since its death, the ghosts have stopped pouring out into the world. But where would wicked ghosts come from?

 

Hell.

 

Where is the Demon-King going to be?

 

Zacarias tears out an old organ, looking at the void he sees down inside the angel’s twitching corpse. The man looks at its hands, which lie on the sides of its chest. Its crooked, taloned fingers point inward towards itself.

 

“It’s here!” yells Zacarias into the crowd. “It’s over here!” he shouts, before jumping inside the corpse and falling through an impossibly placed hole until he comes to a graceless, unceremonious landing, sliding down an incline, and taking a violent tumble over himself, his heavy armor making him far from graceful.

 

Desperate, the man looks around himself in the darkness of this new place, his eyes rising up to look at the bored face staring down at him. “About flippity-flopping time, Zac,” snaps Ruhr the river-sorceress. He grabs hold of her leg. “What? What the heck?” she asks, as he rests his forehead on her thigh. “Get off, Zac! You frog-hopper, you’re getting goo all over me! I’m fine, sheesh.” It’s awkwardly quiet for a time, but he just stays like that. Ruhr sighs, and he feels a hand falling down on top of his matted, blood-caked hair. “I missed you too, big guy,” says Ruhr. “For all fifteen minutes.”

 

“I thought you were dead,” says Zacarias.

 

“Aww… Z.z. baby,” says Ruhr. “I’m actually sad now too. That’s so cute.” He looks up at her. The elf tilts her head, scratching one of her long ears. “But if you cry, it's really going to ruin the clean, stoic image I have of you in my mind, though,” she explains. “Which is super hot in a way. So don’t.” She thinks for a while. “Actually, it might be pretty attractive if you cry, at least for the first ten minutes,” explains Ruhr. “But then, after that, it’s going to really kill the vibe we have going, you know?” Ruhr points at herself. “It’s going to tarnish my brand if I keep a softy around.”

 

Zacarias sighs, closing his eyes and just letting his head rest there for a time, at least until the others start arriving.

 

---

 

 

“What are your orders?” asks Cartouche, looking up at the Demon-King on his throne now that the game has ended. It’s time for them to choose a fork in the road ahead. Either they must go west, towards the old order of paladins who reside in the mountains, or east, to the swamplands in which the witches and their ilk hide from humanity.

 

Swain looks at her, lifting his gaze from his paper and then down at the sheet.

 

“West,” he orders.

 

“Are you sure, your majesty?” asks Cartouche. “The paladins will offer formidable resistance and the terrain is against us. The witches are distant from humanity. We may be able to recruit them for our ambitions.”

 

The Demon-King shakes his head. “If they are distant from humanity, then we have no quarrel,” explains the beast. “I do not care for foxes or birds, and then, just the same, I do not care for them.” He leans back against his horrific throne, thousands of souls filling the air around them. His many eyes narrow themselves in disgust, his many mouths curling and biting themselves in agitation from the thoughts of such people, ‘paladins’.

 

To devote oneself to the protection of not only this physical world but also its connections to the spiritual one, to stand guard for the ugliness that plagues the domains of the living, man or beast, fills him with an anger he can’t begin to describe.

 

“West,” orders the Demon-King.

 

Cartouche nods and teleports away.

 

Paladins… Hundreds such creatures have already died within his castle, hundreds more outside of it. Perhaps it would be good to rid the world of this vermin nest, once and for all.

 

His many eyes look down at his poem.

 

He has already made preparations.

 

 

 

 

---

 

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