~ 37 ~

Does the Ascent Ever End?

The axe swung downward, but it was no longer a threat, its wooden pole caught by Zinnine's bare hand. One hand. He hunched forward, tensing his stomach. No greater exertion followed. Zinnine looked upward from behind his black, spiky bangs, glaring at the other man.

"That's... it?" Zinnine asked as his shoulders fell. "You just keep wanting more? It never ends?"

Tul'mor nervously grinned, applying more force—but not feeling the axe descend by more than an inch. "Did you think you would find peace upon having your greater crop of land? That your people will ever be satisfied? You think you'll be complete upon reaching the next level?"

Zinnine watched him.

And Tul'mor spat.

"Nothing but boredom awaits," Tul'more said, heaving his weight on the smaller man. Zinnine's arm didn't budge. "You'll be content for a moment. Then you'll want more. You'll fight and slaughter to get it. Then you'll breathe free once you have it—only to repeat the whole thing."

Zinnine thought about it. Everything around him ceased to matter.

Was that what would happen to his people in search of better land and life? After expanding, would they desire more? Once he was able to fulfil the needs of his people—how soon would their wants start to emerge? The want for better crops, housing, better everything?

There's nothing wrong with looking for better... until it comes at a cost.

What would Gero do?

No.

That's a foolish question.

"We'll never be like you." Red fire flared from Zinnine's hand, spreading across the weapon. The tool burnt from existence, succumbing to the smaller man's unnatural power. Tul'mor stumbled, but unleashed a cry. Heedless to the display he began joining his hands into one giant fist slamming downward. "And once all of you are dead..."

Zinnine caught the fist with both hands, lowered to his knees but holding steady. A scarlet fire burned from his other hand, and the flames carried into the giant's fists. "The lands will belong to none."

Zinnine stepped away once the pressure on him relented. He wobbled backward, watching the giant scream, jumping between his feet and looking at his arms. Tul'mor's death hadn't been special.

The fires had seeped beneath Tul'mor skin to the bone, burning him away from the inside; his fingers, phasing out from existence and the effect carrying to his wrists, disintegrating his forearms. He hyperventilated, looking weak on his feet, deflated of air.

"No..." Tul'mor's head shook. "Not that easy." He looked at his shoulders, bladed stumps half-burnt through. Then glared at Zinnine. "You don't fucking kill us that easy."

Zinnine watched the man disappear with an exhausted expression.

"That's just the thing about power."

He watched Tul'mor stumble toward him.

"It's easy to get."

And burn away completely.

"Easy to use."

Not even ashes remained of the giant.

"And is hollowed of meaning."

Another blotch of magic broke out from behind his neck, even though his body ran on empty. The red dragon's head had sprouted and loomed over his own. It snarled, its consciousness removed. It was blind power now. Something powered from spite and red-blooded hate[./i]

I wonder if I don't feel it so strongly anymore if it's being used as a power source.

During his thoughts, the dragon unleashed a gale of fires, the fury flooding the tunnels and engulfing all. Distant footsteps and screams perished as the flames billowed through. The same monsters that sent prisoners scraping through the underground maze of tubes—now meeting the same fate.

The time of the Old Dragons... is done? Zinnine walked toward and into the tunnel, unaffected by the burning sensation at his feet. Lines of red swivelled across the ground and winded around the tunnel, illuminating the way. Dragons don't have ages. Their lifespans rival that of immortals. The old are always stronger than the young. The books said that it was the Old Dragons that were unslayable.

Zinnine's feet touched the ground, crunching it as he carried on. The dragon's head slithered forward, blowing another gale of flames down the way. The fire filled the tunnel and flared out its openings, burning any and all cavernous rooms.

Even with him chained up, were the Mofasos able to kill the Red Dragon? Or could they only torture it? And a dragon transmuting with a human? We connected on our spite for these people... but to give his power and soul to someone as worthless as myself...

His head shook.

Damn it, Gero. Why the hell did you pick me? Why didn't you kill me? You smiled. You fuckin' smiled. Didn't say a word before you went. You picked the wrong fucking guy. The wrong person. How am I supposed to go back home like this?

Zinnine raised a hand to his face, seeing his fingers and the magical essence of talons encapsulating them.

Astria. What will she even think of her Daddy now? Gone from home for months, returned with the claws of a dragon. Gero. Fucking Gero. He should have been your father. Not me.

A voice spoke inside of him.

Is that how you justify your terribleness? That someone better than you should be doing what you should be doing?

The voice was and wasn't his.

You're a failure. You've accepted this. You wish you were someone better—not that you were better. You want to escape this identity. Want yourself and others to see you as someone different. You feel as though you're fundamentally lacking. Nothing on the surface can fix that.

Zinnine carried on blindly through the tunnels, burning them and turning everything black.

Your feelings of guilt do not absolve you. Your incompetence will continue to hurt others regardless of how [i]ashamed you feel. Your people will be without direction, and your daughters will still feel neglected.

An opening loomed ahead. The fire spread across an area, lit across lakes of blood and butchered corpses. Zinnine stumbled into the arena, stepping out from behind Tul'mor's throne. The spread of bodies below were logs of wood to the bonfire before him.

And Zinnine continued to stand in the middle of the furnace.

The only one unaffected by the flames.

You will feel better about yourself once you start doing better. You won't feel like a shitty parent if you're more there for your kids. You'll feel like a better leader once you've learned how to lead well. You are not Gero. But you cannot let your lack of being someone else... stop you from being all that you can be.

Zinnine watched as everything burned. He looked over the pit and the charring of brothers. Holding a hand inside a transparent claw over the area, he closed his eyes. I promise that this will not be for nothing. Even out of spite, your deaths meant something to our people.

His eyes opened.

Gero.

You choose wrongly.

But I'll do my best.

Despite that.

The underground complex fell shortly after that.

Few had fled. Everything in the complex, from its rooms to armouries, all burned away in the magical flame. And it wasn't before long on the western shore of the Mainland that the current gathering of Laleens captured the view of a lone figure in the distance.

Zinnine had returned to them—changed, and with his explanation and hidden power, he led the army back over the lands, destroying every outpost and looting all they could carry. It came to be that at the final siege for the western front, the Laleen's, through the savagery of their leader, had quickly taken the land.

The drawbridge pulled up as the army approached. A massive, burning claw reached, holding its size, and yanked it down. The men then charged across it and attacked. None killed more than Zinnine Laleen.

The men celebrated their victory for a week—before it was announced that they would all return home with their spoils of war and leave the land as it was.

An outcry followed. Men, having lost brothers and friends, were told to give up what their sacrifices had bought them. In his greatest time of uncertainty, when he would have needed Gero most of all to speak for their people—Zinnine stood tall and shouted proudly.

There was no trace of doubt on him.

No sign of remorse.

Arms behind his back and hands clasped together, he issued the order that would lose him both men and respect and earn him shame back home. But it all ceased to frighten him. The worst brother had lived, and he had also merged with a dragon—after many of his people were dead, with conquered lands left behind.

But Zinnine was firm in knowing that this was the proper way.

And never felt that guilty feeling.

Or the need to be someone else.