There was once a time where the demons wreaked havoc upon the lands. It was a time of fear and despair, where men fought for their lives and their children hid in their closets. The kingdoms were weak, nothing more than a fodder for the hellspawns. Forests decayed and crops rot, leaving nothing for the stomach. There was none with a smile, even the drunkards.

Once, eight misfits lived and met one another. The drunk warrior. The frightful knight. The mad scholar. The vengeful monk. The lost ranger. The thoughtless saint. The brash thief. The sane one.

It was a union of insanity. No common goal, no common enemy, nothing but own wishes of escape and survival. Their faces were never void from bruises and scars. Not from combat, but from inane arguments and meaningless fighting. No army wanted them for their cowardice, no village wanted them for their mischiefs. Yet, what was the need to escape will irreversibly change the world forever.

This is how their legend began.

Death of The Demon King, Prologue

Smoke, ash, and metal entered her nose.

The previous events flashed through her mind. She opened her eyes, seeing the destroyed fortress on top of her, metal and flames. She could feel stones and rubbles around her. Her whole body was aching, but she could still move each and all of her limbs. Slowly, she stood up, moving the rubble from on top of her. Other than the wound that came from getting grazed, she didn’t gain any additional injury, even with the high drop. She will have to thank Haytham for that later.

She looked around, seeing nothing but the destroyed remnants of the flying fortress, leaning cautiously onto the cliff. Taking her dropped claymore, she started walking stealthily, making sure she didn't alert any surviving puppets. She made sure to not dust off her uniform, as the dust would hide her better in this dirty environment.

She followed the unblocked path, as stones and broken metal pieces made navigating the ruin a tad bit one dimensional. She looked up to the ceiling and saw tens, if not hundreds of puppets. They laid there without their otherworldly glow, dead yet unscathed. The scene would’ve looked surreal to her if she hadn’t seen them in this state hundreds of times. She continued her path forward, keeping alert.

As she followed the path, she found a tunnel. A huge, gaping tunnel. Its sides were perfectly cut, indicating that it was manmade. Beside the tunnel, she could see two huge slabs of stone. There was no doubt that it was the two doors she saw from afar. The patterns were strange, but she could make sense of a few of the shapes. A greatsword, stabbing into a giant, horned beast. A massive elephant. A human heart.

An echo from inside the cave pulled her attention away. The puppets were inside the cave, possibly along with the person she saw. She considered her odds. Escaping means safety, but this might be her one and only chance. Ambushing might work, but there was no way of telling their numbers, and fighting in an open space gave them the advantage. The last option would be…

...She's going to regret this one, isn't she?

There was no telling that another chance would come to her. It was never like that in her short life.

Taking in a deep breath of the cool, underground air, she took her first step forward, not knowing what lies underneath.

Here he lies in his solemn abandon.

Hidden from prying eyes, rejecting his godhood.

A tomb.

The text she read was of an ancient language, something she was forced to learn during her time in The Order. She touched the walls of the tunnel softly, making sure to not make any sounds. Murals filled with glyphs and ancient drawings covered the walls, lit by a dim hue of natural energy. Cracks and patches of green could be seen, showing the true age of the tomb.

An ancient hero. A greater being. A prophet of an unknown faith. A forgotten king. No matter where her mind goes, she could not find a proper reason why the puppets would go to this place. This place reeks of history, mystique and ancient magics. Something she knew that they have no interest in from their past actions of desecrating temples and burning libraries.

She kept walking along. Short steps, staying alert. Her hand kept hold of her sword's handle. The footsteps on the thin layer of dust told her their numbers. Seven puppets. Another with a shoe and the last person was barefoot, possibly the man with shards in his head and the dragged old man he brought along. The sounds of metal clanging against stone kept echoing and ringing on her ears, confirming her direction.

The tunnel got smaller and the moss grew thicker as its end neared. A deep, dark hole lies in front of her. The faint illumination was gone, but few dots of light could be seen. The fact that it moved gave her more reason to worry. The clang echoes once again, coming from down under. Sounds of destruction and friction of stones came along.

There were no ladders, no stairs. The only option would be flight, just like what they did. It wasn't something she could attempt in any manner. She wished that she had an explosive in hand, but then burying them alive won't result in any progression towards the war effort.

She looked around the dark tunnel. She touched and probed at everything. Between the murals and drawings, there must be something she could use. A small indent, a hole, a hidden path, broken pieces of rocks, something.

Jackpot.

Natural energy is powerful, but it is not a solution for all problems. Given light, moss will grow in any place it could be. Even without the light of the sun, just the dim hue illuminating the tunnel. Not even the strongest of constructs could protect everything from hundreds, maybe thousands of years of moss growth. As it once created soil from rocks, the stone walls of this tomb will eventually wither away, destroyed by mother nature.

She stuck her hand in, measuring the small nook she found. Her skin felt the cool touch of the moss blanket, softly enveloping her arm. She kept pushing further and stronger as the thickness of the moss pushed her back. Eventually, her hand met the end of it. It wasn't long enough for her full arm's length, but it was long enough for her body to fit in. Pulling out her knife and lighter, she heated the edge of the blade, slicing the moss enough to fit in.

She entered the gap, fully letting herself in. The dark green of moss and the faint lights complemented her dark green uniform she wore, camouflaging her to the walls. As the layers of moss covered her body, she could feel the softness and chill invigorating her. The thin gaps in the moss allowed her to breathe and see what's in front of her. If this was in any other situation, then the tired, bruised, and battered side of her would've simply dozed off to death.

But she waited and waited. Five minutes. Then ten. Another fifteen came. Her perception of time was gone, all she could think of was to wait, and wait. She could time numbing her mind, taking a toll on her already tired body. The clanging of metal and rocks echoed around the tunnels, keeping her awake and notified.

A blast of their gun followed by the echo of an old man screaming at the top of his lungs. Combustion. Crackling flames. Wind, whistling. Metal and stone. Footsteps. All getting closer. She held her breath, staying still. A faint sound of breath came to her ear. They were getting closer. She held her only flashbang tight, pin quietly dropped onto the soft moss. Two shadows entered her vision.

There were seven puppets. The two shadows confirmed the position of the ones in front. Triangle formation is the norm. Two more behind them, three in the last line. The man was either behind the first two or in front of the last three, as it would provide the most protection. Keeping him alive would be preferable. Second guessing would result in failure. Whatever option she took, she must be able to destroy the line within the flash. The flash must blind every unit, therefore she needed them to look in one singular direction. A distraction.

She waited. Two figures passed. Then another two. He's behind the second line. Each one of them instantly turned around as she jumped outside of the nook. The flashbang has been thrown above her, stunning everyone with a blinding light and an ear shattering sound. She looked down and away from it, while holding the pain from the loud bang the flashbang produced. She had no time to waste. Pulling out her claymore in a swift motion, she took the heads of the three puppets in the last line. The other puppets' weapons started to glow. She had a good look at the man's surprised face. A man in his late sixties, his hair and beard ashen white, roughly 5 centimeters taller than her. A thin piece of metal shard embedded above his right eye as she looked at his blue orbs that reflected her body.

Hesitation is defeat.

She grabbed the man's neck, strangling him with her sword barely scratching his skin. Three neon blue projectiles breezed past her, the last one hitting her already injured left leg. She pressed her sword tighter, hiding herself behind the man's body.

"One wrong move and you're dead."

She had doubts whether or not he could understand her, but the puppets lowering their guns removed her assumption.

"Good," she started, gesturing towards the puppets, "tell them to go out."

She saw his eyes flickering towards her before looking back at the puppets. They turned around and started walking away, leaving them alone.

Too easy.

The man stood still. His body was too relaxed for a person taken hostage. There was something up his sleeve. With a push and a leg trip, she slammed his body to the tunnel wall with all of her strength, knocking him out. Pulling out her gun, she shot all of the puppets in the neck, dropping them in an instant.

She looked down at her injured leg. The clothing and the skin was now gone, leaving only flesh and burn marks. She winced as the pain started settling in. Taking out a roll of bandage and a small blue vial, she started dressing the wound while keeping a lookout on the man.

Despite her wounded leg, she stood up and walked towards the man, limping. She rummaged through his coat, looking for the reason they searched this tomb in the first place. A square shaped device made out of glass and a smaller version of their gun. Judging by their streamlined design, the use of very light metals, and lack of ancient markings, they were not what she was looking for.

She continued her search with vigilance, still not sure of what move he will make next. His thick overcoat was as light as feather and as warm as a bonfire in the middle of winter. It has an unsurprising amount of pockets, making her search a little more time consuming. She counted seven-- no, nine pockets. Three outside, six inside. Most of them are empty, filled with nothing but layers of dust. His upper right pocket, however, contains something inside of it. A circular medallion, made out of gold, steel and precious metals and minerals she has no knowledge of. She could see a number of seals and carvings on the medallion, but it was something that would interest an archeologist rather than the military, much less people who seek to destroy the world and its history. No ludicrous amounts of energy, no intricate mechanisms, nothing.

It reminded her of something. Maybe she saw similar artifacts before. Was it the natural energy? Completely possible, but she has no way of telling. Times like this made her wish she wasn’t a defect.

She flipped around the medallion multiple times. It was just a plain, old artifact. Why would they-?

She saw it. A tiny spot in the center of the medallion. It sucked every light that shines upon it, yet somehow she could see through it very clearly. A place, a dream, a world, a time. Somewhere far beyond their reach, away from this world. A mesmerizing green, where nature was unprovoked and untouched. Then, a flash of white.

Blue. Deep, dark, ocean blue. Unrelenting, unflinching. Waves upon waves crashed upon one another. Another flash. This time, purple, grey. Dark clouds and thunder raining upon tall, iron structures. Streaks of light could be seen passing through one another, going as fast as it could. Another flash. Red. Fire. She could feel her sweat dripping just by a simple glance. Roaring demons and burning flames. Torn, burnt, destroyed pieces of human body parts. People say that war is hell, but what she was looking at was hell itself, and it reminded her of fear long forgotten.

Another flash. Pitch black. Then, dots of light. Red, yellow, green, blue, everything in between. There are hundreds, thousands, maybe even millions of them. Then, on her peripheral vision, flying fortresses. Bigger than anything that has set foot upon Terra. They flew across the pitch black space, carrying an unimaginable amount of items. Then it flashed again, and again, and again.

It couldn’t stop. She couldn’t stop it. She kept seeing visions of war, of peace, of death, of life. She lost track of time as her mind was shackled onto the visions. Her body was still at the desolate tomb, her skin feeling the cool gust of wind. Then, she heard it. A person’s voice. It didn’t come from the medallion, but rather from the outside world.

“This war was meaningless from the start. You will succumb regardless.”

His voice was thick and rough. It sounded regretful, yet there was a tone of conviction. The familiar sound of a charging gun came in front of her. She tried moving, but her body found itself ignoring her commands.

“I’m sorry.”

The visions stopped.