Chapter 43 - Syns of the Past, Part 1 (Patreon)

Over A Century Ago…

“Again.” Edwin Syn’s father, Agolte, brandished his sword at his son, who lay sprawled on the floor with several cuts across his body.

Agolte was tall, even for a Primordial, with a broad soldier’s build. Unlike most of his kind, he was a devoted practitioner of the Chaos style, renowned among the Fey for his feats. His hair, like Edwin’s, was white and shaved close to his head. His square face and rigid jawline framed sharp orange eyes. 

Edwin’s own orange eyes stared up at the ceiling. His body hurt from all the cuts inflicted upon him by his father. ince turning twenty, Edwin endured this routine daily. For Primordials, twenty marked the final stage of growth—their bodies would remain unchanged except for scars. At four hundred, decline began, and most perished within the next century. That was the rhythm of their kind.

Edwin’s father was in his three hundreds. After years leading his family, he felt knew his final century would arrive quicker than he’d want. With his last century of life in good health, he decided to dedicate it hammering into his son, his lone heir, all the information he could before he died. 

Edwin staggered to his feet, gritting his teeth. Pain racked him, but he did not complain. His body resisted him, yet his will forced it forward. He had no intention of yielding. This drive was not his father’s—it was his own. Edwin strove for success above all else, yearning to stand at the summit with everyone else beneath him where they belonged.

This hunger was normal. Primordials were selfish by nature; their emotions were bound only to desires that served themselves.

And love—the most selfish desire of all—could erode even those walls.

Edwin raised his sword. Mana channeled through his eyes and the single bands on his fingers. Wind mana circulated internally within his legs, boosting his speeds to that of a Warring Expert. 

Satisfied, Agolte let his sword drop and sheathed it. “That’s enough for today. I’m satisfied.” He crossed the training hall, a vast wooden chamber lined only with dummies and weapon racks. “Rest for the remainder of the day. Eat well. Otherwise, you’ll be useless to me tomorrow.”

“Yes, father.” Edwin allowed a simple bow to show his reverence. He respected his father and what he earned. Agolte was a member of the HellKnights, and a high-ranking officer at that. Yet shy of being the Commander. Such was Edwin’s dream, and he knew if he wanted that, he’d have to surpass his father someday.

Given that he’d only been actively training his mana and skills for five years. He reached Expert style in less than a year and was on the threshold of becoming a Warring Master, something only a few thousand people in the world could ever hope to achieve. 

Agolte left first, leaving Edwin alone in the training room. As soon as he did, Edwin dropped to one knee, fell forward, and collapsed to the ground. Pain wracked his entire body. It hurt to even move a muscle. Even with his mana slowly healing his body–refilling his blood, closing his wounds, and replacing his lost stamina–it didn’t make the suffering any easier. Pain was pain, even if would go away in minutes. 

He lay in a pool of sweat and blood before dragging himself upright.

Everything comes with a cost, he reminded himself. My father is one of the strongest Primordials alive. His wisdom is worth the pain. If this is the price, I will accept it with grace.

His limbs still trembled, but he forced his stride steady as he left the hall. At the door, a Dryad maid named Selene greeted him with a towel, her green hair falling like mossy silk.

“Thank you, Selene,” Edwin said in the kindest voice he could muster, showering the Dryad with the praise he’d assume she’d want. “You take good care of me, as always.”

“Of course, my Lord,” replied Selene. She dipped her head allowing her hair to slip down her shoulders like mossy silk. “Your father advised that I remind you to rest today.”

“A wonderful plan,” acknowledged Edwin with a reluctant sigh. “A bath sounds wonderful.”

“One has already been prepared.”

“You’re perfect. Thank you.”

Edwin walked down a long hallway with Selene trailing behind him. On the left were doors leading to studies, galleries, and libraries—the luxuries of high Primordial nobility filling their mansion, which sprawled across several city blocks in the heart of Afterlife beneath Castle Elarindris.

To his right, wide windows opened onto the streets below. HellKnights and citizens moved along well-maintained stone roads lined with flowers, fountains, and gardens.

Usually, the view calmed him after practice.

But that day, a commotion below caught his eye—and changed his life.

“You have presented no evidence to justify such treatment!” a voice shouted from the street below.

Edwin glanced down. It was their neighbor, Ramal Fintreyal, a Runic Engineer by trade, dressed in formal noble attire. His green eyes blazed with mana, and the three bands on his fingers shone just as brightly.

His wife, Gila, clung to his arm. Mana churned within her as well, but her gray eyes—one tier above Edwin’s orange—posed a greater threat. The bands on her fingers and wrists glowed like sunlit stone.

“We have plenty to justify our actions,” said one of the HellKnights. “Your conduct alone is proof enough. It is not proper for our kind and marks you as a community threat. You two will need to be—”

“Killed?!” Ramal shouted. “For love?!”

“For being sick,” the HellKnight corrected coldly. His black armor, etched with red, gleamed as he stood defiant. “For threatening Paradise with your inadequacy and weakness.”

“W-We won’t go!” Ramal stood his ground and made his codex appear. Hastily, with little poise and fluidity, he pulled a dagger out of its pages. “I won’t let you take her–”

Before he could finish, Ramal was impaled from behind, a spear thrust through his heart. The HellKnight who struck wore a blank expression, as if looking at a canvas rather than a dying man, and drove the weapon clean through the Primordial’s chest.

Ramal looked down at the spear, confused and surprised. In his daggerless hand, he touched the steel tip stained with his own blood. His eyes fluctuated with mana, pulsing green on and off like a flickering torched. His rings and marks did the same.

“My love?” whispered Gila. She reached out for Ramal. There was a pain in her eyes no Primordial in the vicinity could recognize even if they wanted to, not even Edwin. Not at the time. If they had, things might have been different. 

“The weaker one is disposed of,” said the Hellknight who’d been speaking so far. Her gaze flickered to Gila. “You’ll be free of your impediment shortly.”

The Hellknight spearman pulled his weapon from Ramal. It was the only thing keeping Ramal up, as the life had mostly drained from him seconds prior. He collapsed forward onto the ground with very little resistance. A small pool of blood began to form under his torso. 

Gila dropped to her knees before him, leaned forward, and grabbed Ramal’s face in a panic. Her face became stained with tears. She tried to speak, but words wouldn’t leave past her lips. The shock of the situation overwhelmed her to the point of muteness. 

“I love you,” whispered Ramal, his eyes on Gila one final time, as the life drained from him body.

“Mission complete,” said the leading Hellknight. He knelt down before Gila. “You may–”

Gila’s horns grew quickly, and began curving backward. Her eyes, already gray with mana, became blindly so to the point where her eyes, whites and all, were consumed with the color. The marks on her wrists slowly morphed over her body to form a black, thick skin with spikes protrude from it.

It all happened in seconds, rippling outward like waves from a stone tossed into water.

From the window, Edwin stared in disbelief. For a moment he thought his mind was deceiving him. “Demon,” he whispered.

Gila lashed out with elongated fingers, sharp as stakes. They punched beneath the lead HellKnight’s chin and burst through the crown of his helmet, killing him instantly.

Everyone recoiled, ready to act.

The black marks consumed Gila. Her ears, mouth, and features vanished until she looked like a shadow in a skin-tight suit, shaped into a uniform, inhuman silhouette. Only her glowing eyes and horns remained.

Then her face split open. The black shell tore like paper, leaving jagged edges like rows of teeth.

“ROWWWAAAAAA!” she screamed.

Everyone winced. The Hellknights closed to her had to slap their hands to their heads. They wobbled in pain. Blood visibly dripped from their ears. 

Edwin was forced to do the same, though he was not as close. Still, the sound reverberated through his chest. It caused him to stumble forward, nearly falling out the window, his teeth gritted to the point where he thought they would crack. 

He barely managed to keep his eyes on the monster below. 

Gila, now a full Demon, one special to Primordials, lunged at the nearest Hellknight. It just so happened to be the one who put a spear through Ramal. She pounced on the man like a beast. Her elongated, sharpened fingers plunged into the man’s chest. His armor did little to stop the attack. As he felt the fingers punch out his back, Gila open her maw and snapped it on the Hellknights lower jaw. It crunched steel, flesh, and bone with one solid snap, before pulling away with a treat of meat that left the Hellknight gurgling with his tongue exposed before the world. 

“Kill it!” shouted one of the remaining Hellknights. There were four remaining. Only six had been sent to deal with Ramal and Gila, as it wasn’t expected to be such the incident it had become.

Instantly, the four remaining Hellknights stabbed at the Demon Gila. Their spears met its blackened flesh, popping through like puncturing a bag filled with water. 

Gila roared. She stood and turned quickly, taking with her the weapons that were penetrated in her body. She seized the nearest HellKnight, fingers spearing through steel into his neck. With inhuman strength she lifted him and slammed him headfirst into the street, bursting his skull like rotten fruit. 

The bystanders, Fey of all kinds, had adjusted to the horrors. Many were still in daze from Gila’s scream. But now, with blood and gore filling the streets and death stinking the air, reality had settled in for those watching the scenes unfold. Screams rippled through the air. People began to run. It trickled outward like a contagion that infected all around them. Fear overwhelmed every other possible emotion.

“Get her while she’s dis—”

Another guard was killed before he could even finish his sentence. Gila punched both her hands through his stomach, pulling one up and one down until the Hellknight tore apart like wet paper. 

Then there were two. 

Edwin stared at the situation, fascinated. He had no desire to go down there an help. He could tell he’d be outmatched the second he went down there. At the same time, if he did nothing, the Demon would rampage to other parts of the town, and their family home was right next to the scene. The two remaining Hellknights would certainly die within the next few moments. The Demon wouldn’t just cease to exist in that moment. It would move on to new prey until it killed everyone in the immediate vicinity and found some semblance of peace in isolation. At the very least, it would kill everyone in the district and create a nest for itself. 

It meant inaction wasn’t an option. 

Edwin opened his codex and pulled his his sword, one his father gifted him when he made it to Expert in the Warring Style.

One of the two remaining Hellknights tried desperately to set the Demon on fire, but it swiftly bypassed the wall of flames and decapitated the soldier. And the missed spell hit a nearby home, starting a large fire that soon began to leap to nearby homes, adding to the chaos. 

When the last one dies, I’ll blitz it at high speeds and aim for the head. Edwin decided, priming his sword. He stood on the window, completely locked in, his gaze never leaving the Demon. 

The final Hellknight was sweat profusely, but he didn’t lose his composure. He’d grabbed a smaller sword out of his codex and flooded it with energy. Little violet sparks dripped off the sword like condensation from a glass.

A Heavenly Master. Edwin concluded. If they’d not been surprised, they likely could have killed the thing before all this death. Maybe I won’t need to intervene. 

“Come here,” the lone Hellknight whispered to the Demon. “Nice and easy. Let me kill you.”

Demon Gila needed no further prodding. She roared, shaking the world, and charged.

More blood came out the Hellknights ears. His hearing was likely shot at that point, but he didn’t let his gaze waiver. His concentration was heightened to supreme limits to the point where drool slipped past his lips. 

Gila lungs at him, claw first, suspended in the air like an arrow shot from a bow.

The Hellknight tensed. He lifted his sword overhead and pointed the tip at Gila.

The distance closed.

The claws were inches from the Hellknight. 

He stepped sideways and cleaved off Gila’s arm. 

“Shit,” cursed the knight. “Not the head.”

Gila had deftly swerved at the last minute, almost like some type of predatory instinct had taken over the at the last moment to protect her.

He’s very competent. Edwin acknowledged of the knight. 

Gila landed, annoyed. Or, at least, it seemed like it. With only eyes and a mouth really distinguishing her demonic form, any emotions were, at best, an assumption. 

Black strands protruded from the stump and leeched to the severed arm. They connected, retracted, and snapped the arm back into the Demon.

Edwin knew what demons were like. They were humanoids transformed by an influx of mana too large, or too altered, for the body to handle. It resulted in a transformation that completely altered the body. In death, if a corpse became overwhelmed with mana, it would birth weaker creatures, more akin to monsters, that multiplied and sought corpses and mana in order to grow stronger and stronger.

However, when a living being became overwhelmed with mana to the point that it refluxed the marks on their wrists, it resulted in special kinds of Demons: Synborn. 

Theoretically, it could happen to any humanoid if they had enough mana thrust into them. But Primordials, with the nature of their horns, were uniquely susceptible to the phenomenon. Thus, the Primoridals were the first to name them. It was one that stuck for centuries with no change. 

The Synborn had high mana levels, faster regeneration, more strength, and more speed than other demons from the point of birth. They were automatically Blighted Tier upon conversion. Some, when the former humanoid had more mana, were higher Tiers.

Synborn Gila charged again. Her body shifted onto all fours. Her hands and feet tore into the ground, ripped into the street, and sent stone and dirt flying into the air. 

The Hellknight pressed his leg forward, prepared for another attack.

Gila charged.

The Hellknight sidestepped, her attack to great a speed for him to effectively counter.

Gila stopped the second she was past the Hellknight.

The Hellknight let out a gasp. 

Gila’s head spun around behind her. Her limbs inverted backward. Her entire body seemed to shifter. Her feet, also predatory in build, dug into the Hellknights legs, and her hands punctured into his next, crisscrossing and protruding the sides like she was holding her own hands. 

The Hellknight’s mouth burbled with blood as he fell backward. The life drained from his eyes as death drew nearer.

Synborn Gila opened her mouth wide. It unhinged wider than hands clasped in prayer opening, hinging at the wrists. It snapped down on the face with a sickening crunch.

Edwin was primed at the window with his sword. Now.

In a flash, with window mana flowing internally through his legs, circulating insanely fast, he kicked off from the window. It sounded like a pocket of air had blown apart. The window Edwin jumped from cracked, and the glass along the entire side of the building shattered. 

Edwin was so close. His blade was a blink from the Synborn’s neck—

—but it stood up.

His strike split it in half.

A chill ran down his spine as the top half turned, smiling. Threads of mana-laced tendon pulled the body back together.

I’m dead, Edwin thought instantly.

The Synborn’s body lunged at Edwin.

His momentum was too forward to do anything. Even if he’d turned in time, it would only open up more of his body to be severed and destroyed.

Edwin had one chance.

And he blew it.

Suddenly, he was shoved aside. 

In his place, Agolte wielded his sword. Mana surrounded him as earth energy created a veil around his form.

Agolte met the Synborn’s strike with his sword.

The world imploded.

A shockwave rippled out from the black. It sent Edwin flying. The dead bodies slammed outward into buildings. Stalls of wood fell apart. Windows shattered inward. Loose panels off buildings flew. Door broke inward. The ground cracked, punctured, and burst downward creating a crater.

It was but one hit.

Agolte followed up, swinging to decorate the Synborn.

It darted backward, sensing danger. It was the first time the Demon had taken a defensive action.

The shockwave of Agolte attack blew off the front part of a nearby building, sending debris upward at a diagonal angle.

The chance wasn’t wasted by either party.

The Synborn lunged at Agolte in the gap of the attack.

Agolte slammed his foot down.

The earth exploded upward from the hit, sending a shockwave rippling down the street in the Synborn’s direction.

It flew up in the air. 

Agolte followed after it, swinging his sword, aiming again for the Demon’s head.

It was the first time Edwin had seen his father fight before without holding back. He felt the insurmountable gap between them. Even centuries of training wouldn’t close it. His father had 300 years of combat on him, and it showed.

Agolte slammed his sword down on the Synborn.

The Synborn braced with its arms. Only they were severed, as that deliberate act saved it from being decapitated a second time in just a  few minutes.

It slammed into the ground, spewing dust and splotches of black mana into the air

He’ll kill it. Edwin thought.

Out of the dust, the Synborn came running—straight at Edwin.

Edwin lifted his sword, wind mana swirling in his legs.

The Demon lunged.

Edwin deftly dodged.

Something flew at him.

He noticed it—the Synborn had severed its arm and thrown it like a dart right at Edwin.

He wouldn’t be able to dodge it in time.

A shadow appeared in front of Edwin again.

Thunk!

The hand slammed into Agolte, pierced his guts, and jutted out the back. The resistance changed the hands direction. It slid left and bolted right underneath Edwin’s armpit.

Edwin stared as his father blood poured out of him like a macabre fountain.

In the next moment, the Synborn was perched on his father torso. It digs its remaining hand under his throat and jabbed both its feet into Agolte’s ribs. The Synborn scream into his face, spewing black spittle as its grey, voidless eyes stared into Agolte.

Blood dripped from Agolte’s mouth. He abandoned his sword.

Edwin flinched.

“Surpass me,” Agolte rasped.

He gripped the Synborn’s face, ignoring its screams as it pressed closer. With a final roar he poured mana into his arms and pulled.

The black skin around its neck tore. With a sickening rip, the head came free. Agolte held it aloft, defiant, even as the demon’s body remained skewered through him like a living spear.

He turned to Edwin. Their eyes met in silence.

Then Agolte collapsed forward, crushing the corpse beneath him. The severed head rolled from his hand and tumbled away.

All Edwin could do was stare.

•

A massive statue loomed over the temple: a winged beast with scales, a long tail, horns, and jagged teeth. To outsiders it might look like a monster, but to the Fey it was the visage of their ancestor—their god.

A dragon.

Long ago, the Gods created Dragons with power over life and death, to bend reality itself. They shaped the sun, earth, and water, giving the world its first breath. As the proxies of the divine, they watched over mortals with reverence, intervening only at the world’s end.

Many temples in Paradise displayed images of Dragons, but none compared to the colossal, allegedly lifelike statue in Castle Elarindris. It dwarfed every building outside a castle, radiating a presence no other creature could rival.

Edwin stared at the Dragon’s face, his own void of emotions. 

“Agolte Syn was a loyal member of the Hellknights, and a warrior until the end,” concluded the Priest of the Dragons.

Edwin’s gaze slowly tilted downward. He stood by his mother mere inches away from a black casket surrounded by flowers. It was lifted on a platform for all to see. The room was packed. Behind Edwin, thousands of people stood in attendance with candles in hand. The balconies held Fey nobles and dignitaries. It is where Edwin and his mother would be if they were not a part of the procession. 

At the back of the hall stood twelve thrones—the seats of the Ethereal Council, advisors to Oberon Syn, the Ancient One. Each man and woman was the height of nobility, akin to kings in their own right, and they watched the funeral in stoic silence.

Above them, embedded in the wall in a seat unreachable by ordinary means, sat Oberon Syn. If the Council were kings, then Oberon was a god. Emperor was too small a title. The oldest living being on the planet, his power was unmatched; a flick of his wrist could destroy cities, and his very name inspired fear across Paradise.

And yet, all the Etherial Council and the Ancient One himself were there to send Edwin’s father off to the afterlife.

It struck Edwin how little he truly knew of his father.

He also wondered why they bothered with such a ceremony. His father was dead. He would be replaced. Their kind claimed to feel nothing, yet this ritual was the height of feeling. The dead were gone; the service was for the living.

Maybe that’s why, Edwin thought. To give us something to strive for. To show that even as we pursue only ourselves, there is still a collective that honors effort.

Even if it wasn’t true, Edwin clung to the thought. He could think of no other reason.

Edwin’s mother, Yasmine, sat beside him. Her expression was as blank as everyone else’s in the room. She’d lived with Agolte for over two-hundred years, and yet not a single tear left her eye from his passing.

Such was life for Primordials.

It was either that or risk becoming a Synborn. And that fate had already cost too many lives.

When the funeral ended, Edwin and his mother were led to a quiet chamber away from the crowd. They sat in silence, contemplating what Agolte’s death meant. It was meant as a time for families to gather themselves, to plan for what came next, with death as a reminder of urgency.

“Surpass your father,” Yasmine said at last. She didn’t look at him.

“I plan to,” Edwin replied without hesitation.

“Good.” Yasmine’s orange eyes slid toward him, sharp as a blade. “He died for you. It’s the least you can do.”

•

“Captain.” Olive, a Theriad Fey, padded across the darkened camp toward a large tent. Her catlike ears and tail brushed the canvas as she slipped inside. “Scouts returned. We found the humans.”

Edwin looked up from his desk. Papers were strewn across it, a single candle casting their shadows. He wore black armor lined with red trim—light, functional, and unmistakably Primordial craftsmanship.

Three decades had hardened him. He became the youngest HellKnight ever, beating the record by nearly twenty years. From there he rose to Captain, skipping ranks by achieving feats that normally required entire companies. He was capable, intelligent, and relentless—unlike anyone the order had seen in centuries.

He had all three bands on his fingers, was a Heavenly Master, a Warring Master, and a Chaos Master—all feats seemingly impossible with under a century of life experience. Yet Edwin had accomplished it all single-handedly. 

It was fair to say that, besides the Ancient One himself, Edwin was the single most accomplished Primordial of this time, and like the most powerful to spawn in many, many years. 

“How many?” Edwin asked Olive.

“Thirty,” Olive responded immediately. Her ears flickered with her words. 

“That many, and its taken this long to find them?” wondered Edwin.

“From what I’ve gathered, they’ve built themselves an aritifical cave system, using an opening on a cliffbase by the ocean as a dock,” reported Olive. “The Slavers must have stumbled on it on accident. It’s large enough to house an entire ship, and it isn’t on any maps the locals gave us.”

“Interesting.” Edwin sat back in his chair. “We’ll repurpose it when we free the capture Fey and kill the humans. It’ll make a good outpost for our intelligence operations.”

“As you wish, my Lord.” Olive ducked her head in reverance.

“How many times have I told you not to do that out in the field?” Edwin said briskly. “Just Captain is fine. We’re all risking our lives. We could all end up as bloody corpses in the dirt. Being a Lord won’t save me from that.”

“Yes, my Lord,” teased Olive.

Edwin snorted, hiding laughter. “Anything else?”

Olive walked over to the desk, looked at the map, and pointed at a general location. “Here.”

“Perfect.” Edwin stood, cracked his neck, and began walking out of the tent. 

“We’ll be here taking naps in case you need us,” joked Olive.

“Bring the squad toward the site,” ordered Edwin, looking back slightly. “I’ll need help relocating the hostages.”

“Yes, Captain. I’ll mobilize them immediatly.”

Edwin nodded. Wind funneled inside his legs. In the blink of an eye, he disappeared from view. 

HellKnight High Command tasked Edwin with eradicating a persistent, known slave organization known as the Devil’s Hand. It had overgrown out of the north-eastern part of Arcadia for more than eight months. Numerous attempts to stop the organization had fallen short. It was up to Edwin to close the gap. 

Edwin reached the Devil’s Hand’s camp in under an hour, running at full speed. His company would need three times as long to follow, even at their best.

From the cliff he saw the mouth of a cave. It was dark, nothing visible from his angle—but his ears caught the telltale signs: the clatter of metal, the crash of water against wood, the muted voices of men.

“Common sounds of a slaver’s den,” he muttered.

He stepped off the cliff. Wind mana bore him aloft until he drifted down over the water. Switching his core from wind to water, he set his feet on the surface. The lake held his weight. Calmly, hands behind his back, he strolled into the cave as if it were a garden path.

The mouth of the cave was larger than Edwin expected. Yet, sure enough, at the end, a massive wooden ship with room enough for dozens of people was perched against the rocky shore. It was perfectly level with the land, making it ideal to transport cargo of any kind while hidden away from unwanted eyes. 

“This place will be perfect for us,” Edwin said to himself as he walked beside the ship. Peeking inside, he saw Fey children of all sorts, though no Primordials, lying frozen in the wooden ships. They barely had warm clothes, they were sitting in their own excrement, and most of them looked malnourished. “Who would want a product of this quality?” wondered Edwin. “You’d think they’d treat them better.”

Sighing, Edwin moved away from the ship and made his way to shore. He jumped, changed his external mana to wind, and floated in the air. His body rose high enough that no one would see him unless they looked up. 

Lights fueled with mana crystals were placed strategically around the cave. There were makeshift cabins placed around the ring of the cave. It looked like a small shantytown hidden in the darkness. Outside, there were extra cages. They were much larger than the holdings on the ship Edwin saw, but more Fey were crammed into them than below deck. Again, they were mostly children. However, in another cage, much closer to the cabins, were Fey women. While the children were granted clothing, the women were not. Their skin was bruised and lacerated. Their legs bore the brunt of the damage. 

“Humans,” muttered Edwin as he glanced over the atrocious scene. “Savages, as always.”

A small group of the humans were out by the fire pit next to the cage full of females. They were drinking and leering over them. 

“Which one’s your favorite?” uttered one of the drunken humans. He was dressed in messy, beer-soaked clothing with a knife at his hip and a cloak over his shoulder. 

“The Beast Devils,” muttered another. A fat, drunken brute with no meaning, littered in terrible tattoos. “They’ve got the right amount of fat on them. Those Forest Devils are too thin. Like humping a stick.”

“Wish we could have caught one of those Sky Devils we saw,” muttered a third. 

The crowd, all ten of them, murmured in agreement. 

“Damn shame,” uttered the first guy. 

“Disgusting.” Edwin raised his hand. Mana tethered to the ceiling, splitting into ten stone pikes. He measured their fall with a glance.

He flicked his wrist.

Massive rocks plummeted.

Each one struck true, crushing a slaver into blood and bone.

At the same time Edwin softened the earth beneath them, muting the impact. The cave quivered under his control, but outside of his will, no sound carried—only the crackle of the fire remained.

Taking advantage of his connection to the earth, Edwin sent little tremors through the cave. They resonated with each other, creating a map in his mind. Everyone else was sleeping. That made fifteen in total. Five more were guarding the ship. That total matched what Olive had told him.

Edwin lightly landed on the ground and walked to the first house. The Devils in the cages saw his horns and froze. Edwin could feel their eyes, though. They didn’t make a sound, but he could almost hear their voices. They were begging him for help. And he would oblige. 

He pushed open the first door. It wasn’t locked. There was no sense in installing one in an area you thought was one hundred percent secure. Even still, a rational person would have put a lock on the door just in case. But these weren’t rational people. 

Edwin stepped inside, softening his footsteps with wind so his body was weightless. He glided through the cabin, glazing his eyes over the abode. It was filthy. Dishes with molding food sat in a corner. There was ashes from pipes, piss stains, and vomit.

The bedroom was no better. The entire room smelled of bodily fluids of all kinds. There was very little ventilation and no windows, so the smells seemed to cook into the floorboards. The snoring humans only made it worse.

Edwin stood over one, peering at the man’s mustached face and balding head. He channeled it back into his hand, quickly placed it over the man’s mouth and nose, then filled as much wind in as he could. The man’s eyes open. He had less than a second to register what was happening before his eyes burst and his brain exploded.

It sounded like wet meat. But the death was instant. And mostly silent. 

Edwin repeated this four more times until all in the room were dead. He concluded the ordeal by pulling off each of their heads once the room was cleared to ensure no Demons would emerge from their corpses. 

He went house to house, repeating that action until the only living beings were the Fey in the cages, the Fey on the ship, and five remaining humans aboard that ship. 

“Two on deck, two below deck, and…is one sleeping in the crow’s nest?” muttered Edwin, reassessing the ship using the wind and earth as his sonars. “Good thing he’s asleep. He’d have seen me surveying the place overhead otherwise.”

And because of that, the man in the crow’s nest was Edwin’s first victim from the ship. He floated up to him and landed deftly beside him in the wooden circle. That man was curled up in a ball around the post, his body fastened to the side incase he fell. The man looked absolutely, blissfully at peace with the world. 

Edwin removed a knife from the man’s waste, severed the rope holding him, then jammed the blade into his throat. The man awoke, gasping in pain. Edwin merely lifted him, a blank expression on his face, and threw him over the side after decapitating him. 

Splash!

The dead man’s body hit the water.

“What?!” one of the men above deck shouted. “What was that?!”

Him and his companion ran to the other side.

Edwin gently floated down to the deck until he was right behind the men. 

“Did that fool really fall off?!” wondered one of the men. 

“Obviously! You think he’s dead!?”

“No way he could have survived that––”

Edwin rotated the wind around his hand and sliced it forward at the men’s heads. It was one movement; they came off cleanly. Little splashes followed as their heads and then their bodies landed in the water. 

Whistling, the Primordial moved below deck. He opened his codex once he reached the section where the final two men were sleeping. The first was in a hammock. Edwin reached into his codex, grabbed out a knife, and jammed it into the man’s belly. He reached in again, grabbed another knife, and stabbed it into his heart. With a third, he put it in his neck.

The man gurgled until he died. 

The second and final man was sleeping between some barrels. It looks very uncomfortable.

Again, Edwin reached into his codex and pulled out a knife. He threw it. The sharp metal hit the man’s kidney, waking him into a world of pain. Edwin repeated the trick. A second knife hit the man’s lower intestine, a third slipped between his right ribs, a fourth nailed his hair, and the fifth his other eye. Those final two shots pinned his head against the barrel, killing him instantly. 

“Did I sweat?” Edwin touched his forehead. “Nope. And not even a drop of blood.” He spat on the human he pinned to the barrels with knives. “Weak.” He then readjusted himself and looked around. “I’ll free the ones on the ship, guide them to the other Fey, and release them. They’ll be able to eat and walk around until my people show up. But first, the heads.”

Edwin removed the final two human heads, completely sealing the cove from any threats of demons. Without a head connected to a corpse, a humanoid body could not manifest a demon, no matter how brutally or abruptly they were killed. 

Below deck, Edwin released the Fey children. They were malnourished and could hardly walk, but seeing Edwin, his horns, and the hope he provided them proded them into moving. When he told them to leave the ship and free the others, they did not hesitate. It was as if they’d been renewed with life. 

The last kid to leave, a Dryad, tugged on Edwin’s clothes before she left him. “Can you help the nice human they have locked up, too?”

“Nice human?” uttered Edwin, confused. He didn’t sense any other people on the ship. “Where?”

“He’s in a cage in the leader’s quarters on the top deck,” said the kid.

Edwin ruffled the child’s hair. He only did it because he knew it would calm the kid and serve as an additional reward for the information. “Thank you. Now run along. Help free the others.”

“Yes, sir!” The kid bounded away and headed up the deck.

“Nice human?” muttered Edwin to himself. “There is no such thing.”

In no time, Edwin made it to the top deck and entered the bandit leaders quarters. It looked better than the rest of the camp. At least it was clean and didn’t completely smell of piss. But Edwin didn’t pick out any captain amongst the bunch. If he had to guess, the Captain was a part of those by the fire. He couldn’t imagine the man sleeping in those cabins when he had this place on the ship.

As the child said, there was a cage inside: a small bed, a bucket, and an empty tray of food. A man sat cross-legged on the bed, dressed in dirty rags. He had long brown hair tied upward in a top-heavy bun and a messy, unshaven face. But his skin looked good, he seemed young, and he had no discernable injuries. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and rhythmic—meditation, Edwin guessed.

“Wake up, human,” Edwin ordered, approaching the cage. “Why are you imprisoned here?”

The man opened his eyes. “Oh? A visitor.”

Edwin staggered back, startled.

Brilliant blue eyes, brighter than sea or sky, shimmered like pools of purified light. As they met Edwin’s, his soul quivered with fear and awe.

In Agias, the country where the human Pantheon religion had a hold, there were beings with yellow eyes called the Voiced. They were the beings of absolute power, akin to the Ancient One. All five were human. All resided in Agias, only intervening in the world at the behest of the country’s Holy King and Pope. 

Oberon Syn, a holder of red eyes, was but one of six with the same shade. Five others, each a leader among the different Fey species, held such eyes. Still, Oberon Syn was the oldest of the six, and the most powerful, even with comparable mana levels. Experience mattered just as more with all things equal. Even amongst those with yellow eyes, only one of them could hold a candle to Oberon Syn.

Yellow and Red eye individuals represented the pinnacle of power. They were Gods among men, so to speak. But they were not alone. In the world, there were six other individuals of supreme, equal power out in the world. 

Those with blue eyes. The Prophets. 

“Forgive me.” Edwin took another step back. “Are you a part of these men?”

“I tried to offer them guidance,” said the blue-eyed Prophet. His voice was laced with sadness. “Alas, they never heeded my words. They pillaged, tortured, and killed with nary a mind.”

Edwin’s brow twitched. “And you did nothing?”

The Prophet smiled. “It is not my role to cause more violence in this world.”

“Then that is my role,” Edwin uttered. “The men are dead.”

“I heard.” The Prophet shook his head. “A shame.”

Edwin stared, bewildered.

“Then there is no sense staying here.” The Prophet rose from the bed and walked to the bars. Without channeling mana, he folded one right until it touched another, and kept doing so until a sizable path had been created in the steel. He stepped through the opening and stopped before Edwin. “How is Oberon?”

Edwin’s face grew cold. “He is well.”

“That is good to hear.” The Prophet genuinely nodded with happiness on his face. “I have not seen him in many centuries. A wise man, he is.” He offered his hand to Edwin. “Ezekiel.” 

Edwin stared at the palm, disgusted.

“You disapprove of me?” Ezekiel pulled back his hand. 

“You watched children rot in cages and chose silence. That isn’t wisdom. It’s waste.”

“I could chain every soul, keep them fed, safe, and healthy until the day they die. But that would be no life. Choice, even in suffering, is what makes us human.”

“Choice doesn’t matter when you’re dead.”

Ezekiel stared at Edwin, his eyes like a vast ocean of knowledge. “Everyone deserves a chance. Even killers. Even you.”

Before Edwin could respond, the man disappeared. He was faster, much faster, than even Edwin at his top speed. 

Edwin gritted his teeth, disgusted by the man. He envied his power and loathed its waste. 

“Oberon must win this war of the eighteen,” muttered Edwin as he exited the ship.