Chapter 95: Under the Mask of Misunderstanding

The roof shook. The priest n black robes merely smiled. The explosion and the sounds were all too familiar to him. It was like a long lost sound that he hasn’t heard for years. That cruel sound and the loud thunder-like ring on were music to his ears.

He wore a smile, his eyes glancing at the grassy glass. He could hear his acolyte fumbling about near the walls scared to death by the explosions and the battles above. The black robe priest said:

“Calm down my dear Acolyte, there is no need to fear, for the God of Light is with you as always!” He said piously, “Fear is the killer, and once you succumbed to it, it will bring forth only despair. So my dear Acolyte, do not fear!”

The Acolyte nodded his head, still covering his head. The Priest could only wearily smile at him. He turned his eyes back to the grassy glass, the light reflecting dearly in his eyes. His thoughts went back to the light, his mind emptied of anything. A pebble fell on his shoulder, yet he remained impassive. He then sang an awful song:

There was an old man,

In the corner of the room,

He saw two men, two children,

The children were both good, and evil,

While two men were not!

The two men look at the children,

Their mouth sticking out, their jaws breaking out of their skin!

The old man yet stayed in the corner of the room,

And there was no fear.

The old man in the corner room did not fear.

He wore a black and a long scythe with his face grim and pale,

The old man watched in the corner of the room,

As the two men played,

They play and play, with the two children,

With their hands dyeing red,

The two men then stopped for a while, as they laugh in disdain

The old man with the scythe then whispered, which was followed by an embrace,

Two whispers replied, the old man then went away.

The two men then laugh, as the smell spreads away.

The black robe man stopped singing, yet his mouth was muttering hums. The explosion above him accompanied his whistling and humming, his stolid eyes filled with serenity continued unfazed at the explosions. The acolyte could only wonder what is up with his master.

The roars continued, and the Acolyte could only cower. His ears could only hear the hum and the whistle, and the explosions from above. Pebbles were falling on top, his forearms were aching, yet when he looked at the black robed priest. He could only wonder. How could the old priest be so calm? Does he really know no fear?

And as if the mind of the acolyte was read, the proud, the unfearing priest said:

“Ah, my dear Acolyte, is your fate lacking?” He wore a flat smile, “why do you not trust the God of Light that bellow light?”

Fear, the acolyte suddenly felt fear. He could only lie, and face his fears, making the priest say:

“Good...”

...

His blows were heavy. No, they could not be called as blows. He shot thunder bullets from his weapon, almost all of them could not hear or see it coming, it was like thunder, and even the strongest spell could not match something that fast, it fired in succession, and the Knight’s who could not parry would meet their end.

Only one person had that kind of weapon, they knew him from the way he killed. They know him as Mage killer. The infamous killer of Mages, the one who both sides of the continent feared for his prowess in killing human and nonhumans without any hint of mercy. Mercy would be suffering, and all who faced the Mage killer knew that they would meet their end if they do not fight.

So they fought like maddened creatures, and as Knights, how can they be weak? How can they be cowardly when it is time to be brave? Thus with hearts on the line, they engaged the violent blasphemer.

Yet it proves difficult to beat the blasphemer. The blasphemer’s weapon easily made their armor caved in, and their body pierced by something burning hot. The bullets stayed in their flesh, and before they could heal, they would be shot dead in the head.

They did not fear, however, even as the old man in the corner of the room watches them with a smile on the face. His pale white face, his pearly teeth smiling upon them, the scythe of black in his arms embrace.

Shells fell on the floor it thunder-like shot spitting out on the floor, rolling across, and gathering in one single file. The Blasphemer shot around, evading, shooting the Knight’s while those would sometimes fall on his hands would have been converted into fuel. Using some of the knights as fuels, the blasphemer continued his attack until he reached a coiled stairway leading down.

Behind him was a trail of blood and corpses, as he moves his body acted like a brush, painting the floor red with his own and the others.

His once newly made overcoat and mantle were cut and filled with holes and slashes, his body armor was tattered, and his legs lashed with deep wounds. His body staggered to go down, his arms were trembling as he carries the machine gun on his hand with difficulty.

As he descends down the stairs, few brave Knights came upon him. He would fill them with holes, and he would then use their Mana as fuel for his own self, allowing him to continue moving on despite the threat. His eyes glowed with burning grim determination, his soul was burning, his moving cadaver for a body moved as if possessed by something heinous.

Every step he made would echo around, his blood sounding out. His blood droplets making a rhythmic sound as it dyes the coiled stairway to red, like a beautiful red coiled canvas, the trail he made seems to leave a bloody presence.

He arrived upon the underground basement. There he saw the acolyte, nuns, and men of the monastery cowering in fear. A look of outright terror, a look of disgust and most of all a look of bleakness, a look that felt like it would bore holes on him.

He ignored them, yet those would try would have their knees capped. Those who wouldn’t answer would have their heads smashed on the wall.

Violent tendencies, a thing that someone who does all of this for the sake of the people wouldn’t do. He did something casual and violent for the sake of intimidating.

That man he smashed on the wall, he had dreams and he had a good heart. He fed the orphans, helped the old and care for his neighbors. He was loved, yet when he could not answer someone, he died.

The man was good. Yet he died out of spite. The man, who killed him, was nothing but a single-minded imitation born out of fire and despair.

There is a misconception out of Arden.

He enjoys helping people for he gets pleasured doing it. Yet despite knowing good and evil he truly knows nothing about it, and judges based on what he sees. For he is machine-like human, with a brittle glass heart, steeled mind yet what lurks inside him is a twisted soul, blackened by the fires on that he died. Black as charcoal, the real Arden was no Hero.

The man he smashed on the wall was a more of a hero. But Arden is more of a beastly imitation acting on instinct alone. A being of reckless abandon that serves on a rather malign understanding of justice that was based on a rather twisted foster father of another world. A being he would never hope to understand, for a mind so modern, was something that lowly commoner like him would fully absorb. He has the knowledge, yet but the imprint was rather incompatible and only those who he trained well, was hammered upon him. For no one understood what he says, and for no one can know what he knows, he can only put aside those moralities to the corner of his mind.

Hence he could not be called a Hero, a rightful hero. For no Hero would torture, no Hero would kill without mercy. And no Hero would kill those who are good, no hero would throw a fit, no hero would ever go on and destroy the protection that is the monastery’s sun.

What’s under the mask?

The priest could only wonder.

He stared at the blasphemer before him with o fear on him. He looked at the enemy, his weapons, his garb and all of him and the man can only say:

“And who are you?”

A hero would reply:

“I came here for answers”

But no, Arden’s no Hero. Thus, he pounced at the black robed priest, gripped his cervix and smashed him on the wall, asking for what he wanted.

“Where is the Witch?”

The villain of the story said.