Chapter 115

Bloody Mist

“There is little we know of the past, and even less we know of the future. The most we can ascertain is the present.”

Proverb

By the time Noah returned to his room, the sun had slowly began setting. He sent Kolk off and entered, quickly washing the irritating makeup from his face, stripping himself down and cleaning up. He hung his head low as his dark hair grew wet and glistening, the feeling of somewhat cool water quite refreshing. He had done it again, he mused, smiling bitterly. He wrung himself into yet another story that he shouldn't have become a part of. Everything was slowly becoming too much, and he wished he could slow down the time, at least for a few days, just to forget everything and everyone exists.

After washing up, he did a quick set of daily exercises; he slowly began noticing his muscle mass dwindling, but not by much. In part, it was because he lacked the well-prepared diet and nutrients from Earth, but it was also because he was simply growing old. If there was one thing back on Earth that humans were never able to defeat… it was age. Yes, there were means of extending one's life, even transhumanizing the mind, effectively turning immortal. He, however, never quite accepted it.

He was raised in flesh and blood and bones, and he’d grown under the reality that death is a universal binder, that no matter how rich or how poor people were, everyone would eventually die. But, in many ways, he was wrong. His reality was such, but the world’s wasn’t.

The same story unfolded here, he mused as he dried himself up, putting on a robe and sitting down onto a chair, pouring himself a cup of wine. By now, he was almost certain there were people somewhere in the world that lived for hundreds if not thousands of years. It wasn't a blind guess, but a basic deduction. If even he, a layman in magic, saw such considerable improvements to his body by merely tinkering with the Dark, then there should be magic somewhere in the world that prevented aging or at least slowed it down considerably.

Part of him wanted it, yet the other part didn’t. He liked the idea of finite living; it was the greatest motivator for all of humanity. As soon as transhumanism became available, the lazy nature of people set in. There was no fire anymore, no impending death to push people to better themselves against all odds. Everything was taken in stride, and while the world was much calmer for it, with worldwide conflicts dropping until he was almost out of jobs, it also became… quite boring, dispassionate.

He stared emptily at the cup in his hands, his thoughts drifting. He’d done it often ever since arriving here; after all, there was little else to do when the night seeped in and the world fell asleep. A great deal of time was devoted to sitting around, reading notes, getting progressively angrier at their vague language, drinking, sleeping, working out… there were fewer and fewer things he could do to delay the onslaught of his thoughts. I need to get laid…

Chuckling bitterly, he was just about to pop open the newest tome he’d taken from the library when he heard a few knocks on his door. He frowned, not expecting any visitors, but still invited them in.

“… Sash?” Noah mumbled in confusion, noting that the man was alone. “What’s wrong?”

“… nothing,” the black man shook his head, slowly walking up to Noah. “I… may I ask something of you?”

“… what?” Noah asked, quite interested.

“I know it is improper and sinful,” Sash said. “But… I was wondering if we could erect a grave… for Myrell.” He added, sighing. “I know… you care little for the superstitions, but… it doesn’t feel right, Master. People far worse than her… have massive tombs raised in their names… but she can’t even get a simple grave, just a mark that she existed in this world?”

“… we already burned her body, Sash,” Noah said. “So, I’m assuming you want it done symbolically?”

“—I… I just want to somehow acknowledge her. She could be me, Master,” Sash added. “She could be any one of us – tomorrow, a week after, or in a year. Either way, one day we’ll all die. I’d want someone to mark the name of mine, however feebly, somewhere.”

"… I've no problem erecting a simple grave, Sash," Noah said after a brief silence. "But we don't remember the dead by some mark that will wane in time.”

“… how do we remember them, then?” Sash asked.

“… the same way we remember the living,” Noah smiled faintly, getting up and placing his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Take all she meant for you,” he added, fisting Sash’s chest. “And ask yourself – what did she want to do with her life? What did she want you to do with yours? The dead are our encouragement, Sash. A reminder of how short and feeble life is, and just how easy it is to waste it. Nonetheless, I'll arrange a funeral for her in a week. It will be a proper sendoff."

“… thank you, Master,” Sash bowed, biting his lower lip. “Thank you…”

Noah silently watched the man leave before sighing and slumping back into his chair. He felt cheap, even filthy, as his intentions were hardly pure. Everything he did orbited the central image, the plan he had in his mind – to erode away the frost felt toward Olivia and propel her at the throne. And, he just realized, he wasn't even above using his dead slaves as a means of achieving that.

Write out a story… of how Myrell dutifully served Olivia and died alongside other soldiers, fighting for the Kingdom. Olivia, touched by the sacrifice, chooses to do what no other person of status had ever done – erect a proper grave for a woman who died a slave. Show the world that the status can be transcended, that people’s worth can be recognized regardless of their class. Ignite the flames further, and, adjacent with the Lo’kret’s song, cement Olivia further into their minds.

At the same time, he was certain he could provoke Olivia’s further breakdown in front of the masses, a genuine one, and also cement the excuse for her to ‘devote’ herself entirely to the Principality and leave the public life.

The story was mesmerizing, yet a part of him felt stained writing it. He was never entirely comfortable using the misery of others to conduct a symphony that would sway the world to his advantage, and even less so now when it was with the people he knew quite well. He was manipulating everyone, friends and foes alike, and even in part himself.

Sighing, he was just about to pour himself another cup of wine when he felt an almost electric-like sensation storm his veins; his body instinctively reacted, hairs on his arms rising as he jumped to his feet. Rapidly coating himself in the Dark, he bolted out of the room and put a hood and a mask over his face as he raced through the corridors like a maddened dog, gusts of wind swelling behind him and swaying the flames of the hanging torches.

A great number of guards felt that very same gust, growing alarmed and looking around but seeing nothing. Noah, on the other hand, quickly left the swelling corridors and landed in the entrance hall of Olivia's mansion; his eyes like eagle's scoured every inch of the place before he suddenly reached toward a hidden belt and took out a dagger, thrusting it between his finger and tossing it like a bullet toward a small corner to his right.

Space there suddenly rippled as a blood-stained mist unfurled, swallowing the dagger and eroding it immediately. A pair of eyes swelled from the nothing, a pair of eyes so red they even outpaced Asandra’s – they quickly located him, shocking Noah as this was the first time anyone had ever spotted him when he coated himself in the Dark.

The two men stared at each other of a moment before both exploded in a flurry of speed; Noah descended the railing, tossing one dagger after another – each made of Dark instead of the actual, physical ones – while the figure down below darted around the supporting columns, using the blood-red mist to swallow the daggers of Dark while also firing back arrays of red light at Noah who nimbly dodged them.

The arrays pierced the walls, digging out dozens of holes in the process, kicking up dust. The two met just below the grand staircase, Noah summoning a blade of Dark while the figure mimicked him, summoning a blade of blood. The two clashed, space around rippling and distorting as Noah felt a massive force render him backward; somersaulting, he landed skillfully on the ground and bolted toward the figure that was still struggling to stabilize.

Just like Noah's, the figure's features were hidden behind a mask, though Noah was able to discern it was a man and a rather young one at that based on his complexion.

Noah swung the blade in a wide arc, the figure ducking and swinging his own in an upward one; Noah leaned back, the blade just missing his chin, as he spun in a half-circle, his heel belting the figure's ribs and swaying him to the side as Noah used the momentum to stab the blade toward the figure's heart. The latter parried rapidly and took a step back, evading the follow-up kick, creating some distance between the two. Seemingly sensing something, the figure looked beyond Noah and up toward the staircase where Asandra suddenly landed, her eyes beaming with fire.

“… two?” the figure mumbled, looking back at Noah. “The Princess is off-limits?”

“…” Noah remained silent, his eyes perched on the figure, waiting for any signal of the sudden movement.

“Or the whole Family?”

“… Weepwoods,” Noah said in a slightly distorted voice. “Tomorrow at midnight.”

“… very well.” The figure nodded, glancing at Asandra before turning into a bloody mist and vanishing like a puff of smoke.

Noah was still able to trace his movements but didn’t give chase; it wouldn’t be wise to go out in the heart of the city, risking exposure. He glanced at Asandra and nodded, indicating she should meet him in the room. She nodded back and disappeared, as did he, just moments before guards swelled toward the entrance hall. Noting the holes in the walls and the several loose tiles on the floor, they began panicking and relaying the news throughout the Royal Palace – there seemed to have been another attempt at Princess Olivia’s life, but it was thwarted by some mysterious figure.

Meanwhile, Noah was already back in his room, sipping wine with a deep frown on his face. Asandra was similarly shaken, sitting across from him, a trace of uncertainty in her eyes.

“… will you really go to meet him?” she asked.

“I have to,” Noah shrugged. “That wasn’t an ordinary assassin, Asandra. Looks like the sleepers have awoken…”

“… should I come with you?” she asked.

“No,” he shook his head. “From now on, at least one of us will always have to stay close to Olivia.”

“… that wasn’t Light he was using, was it?” she asked after a moment’s silence, looking into Noah’s eyes.

“No.” Noah shook his head.

“And neither were you…”

“…” Noah remained silent, though that silence was more of a confirmation than the words could be.

“And neither do I…” she said, taking a deep breath. “What the hell is going on, Noah?”

“…” Noah didn’t have an answer, at least not one that made any sense. However, he did realize one thing – the man that had snuck in was exactly like Asandra and himself – the ‘Chosen’ of sorts rather than someone endowed by a ‘Fake God’. Hopefully, he'll be more talkative tomorrow…