Apart from the dripping of rain water, and maybe the scuttling of little rat feet against the cold, stone floors, there was but absolute silence. The air was still, the dead were asleep, and yet, screams from decades ago could still be heard echoing throughout the many corridors that turned, twisted, and dropped into a labyrinthine maze.

​

400 years. It had been more or less 400 years since my soul was first bound to these very walls, chained to my call of duty for the eternities to come. For however-many centuries I remained entrapped within the prison confines, my rest had been without disturbance. But now — now comes a band of god-forsaken misfits who, without a doubt, lusted for the riches and wealth buried underneath these very lands. I was quite upset ⁠— no, actually ⁠— utterly pissed.

​

See, I was perfectly content with my current charge: “protect the riches chasms below, and execute any soul that dares taint the gold with their filthy hands.” That was more or less the extent of my duty, and I was more than happy to abide by them. Let's be honest, how often do a band of raiders invade a historic prison out in the middle of nowhere? What’s that? Never, you say? Quite frankly, I thought so too, but evidently, I am mistaken.

​

Despite the dark that clouded their vision, my eyes scanned the room with perfect clarity. There were five of them; lightly armed with mortal weapons, little to no magical training, but most importantly, they were but pitiful humans.

​

Thank Father Destiny for that last bit. Humans these sorts pose little trouble to someone of my stature; demons, on the other hand, are a tad bit trickier to deal with, (this isn't taking into account the mess that tends to follow suit). And don’t even get me started on Voidbornes and Creations.

​

“This is foolish,” said one of the bandits. “Father is delusional to believe in some fairy tale.”

​

“Hush, now,” said another. “Father has his reasons to believe what he believes. There has to be cause behind his hysterics.”

​

“He's mad.”

​

“He’s old.”

​

“The contradiction being?”

​

And at this exact moment did I decide to make my presence known amongst the squabbling pipsqueaks. From patches of wreathing shadows and veils of shifting darkness emerged the Blackfall Legion's sole champion — forged in fire, bathed in blood, tested by war — Al'Nashur, the Iron Warden of East Escardia.

​

Hello. This is me, yes.

​

“Gentlemen,” boomed a voice from the shadows. This too, was mine of course.

​

The bandits looked to one another, torch still flickering lazily in hand. The eldest one stepped forth, sword unsheathed and ready to strike me down , (little did they know that such a blade could hardly even begin to scratch my skin). “Who speaks?”

​

Out of shadows and into the light stepped a knight in rusted armor, eyes flaring like fire in a darkened forest. What little confidence and bravado their faces retained vanished into complete nothingness. This was thanks to my magnificent appeal, of course ⁠— nothing to do with the massive claymore I swung around so effortlessly with one hand, (although that may have played a smudge bit part). “It is I, the guardian of these sacred grounds. Who dares ask?”

​

The bandits looked to one another. Perhaps they have finally noticed who they were addressing so arrogantly. Perhaps they have finally come to recognize my godly presence. Perhaps they have finally ⁠— tink!

​

I craned my neck. Lying roughly three feet from where I stood, tattered, split, and discarded, was a steel bolt of mediocre craftsmanship. The eldest bandit lowered his crossbow ever so slowly, lips slightly agape. “What manner of beast are you?”

​

“Beast?” I spat the words out. The audacity of this vile man! He dares call me a beast?! “I am no sort of beast, human!"

​

“Then. . . Then what are you?” asked the scrawny one. "Wraith? Revenant? Phantom? What be you?"

​

I let the claymore drive itself into the ground and adjusted the spiked gauntlets that gloved my undead hands. Oh boy, was I prepared to introduce my mightiness to these ignorant fools, (I always looked forward to this part). “I am Al-Nashur, Iron Warden of East Escardia! I have built the great Imperium palace brick by brick, mason by mason; I have torn down the Navylan States man by man, ruler by ruler; and I have guarded Solomon’s greatest treasures below these very grounds for centuries to come! I am a demon, boy, so I ask again, and for a final time. Who am I addressing?”

​

The youngest of bandits turned to face the cold stare of his elder. “Perhaps we should leave, brother.”

​

The eldest turned to face his companions. Some greeted him with nods and reassurance; others with dubious looks and blank faces. I could tell from their whispers ⁠— they were contemplating whether this whole fiasco that they had seemed to plan so meticulously was worth their lives. It was not of importance to me, of course. As far as I was concerned, I still had to uphold my charge. There was no escaping that.

​

“Leave?” I said.

​

They ceased all chattering and swiveled to meet me. Some drew their blades; others, their fists and bows.

​

My claymore left the ground. “You can’t leave. Not just yet."

​

Blades came unsheathed, bolts loaded into crossbows, fighting stances were taken up; certainly, they intended to not just roll over and die, (now that was quite the pity).

​

The prison doors slammed shut and locked themselves. “My charge is absolute and defined, gentlemen. No man leaves alive.”

***

Four sets of bolts rushed towards me: one was easily avoided with a tilt of my head, another blocked by a swing of my claymore, and a third crushed mid-flight by a quick jab from my fist. But the fourth — mundane in appearance as it might be — was quite the unpleasant surprise.

​

Much unlike its former predecessors, the bolt struck me through the chest and glowed a curious tint of yellow. After a moment's wait, the arrowhead erupted into a raging maelstrom of searing reds and blazing blacks. The inferno engulfed me completely, head to toe, front to back, scorching every inch of metal to dust.

Fortunately for myself, fire was an old friend of mine.

Unfortunately for them, it meant I was not even the slightest bit burned.

​

The bandits watched intently as the figure within was reduced to but misshapen scraps of rubble, (an illusion trick — quite a textbook one, might I add; if anything, it proved convincing). Most, by then, had decided to lower their crossbows and re-sheath their blades. They were not the brightest bunch, admittedly.

​

“That ought to be enough,” said one of the bandits from beyond the whirlwind of fire.

​

“Is it?” said another.

​

“I have yet to see a being survive the Vargas Inferno.”

​

"So you say."

​

The tornado of fire vanished into thin air, and by then, I was long gone.

​

Stalking ever so silently about the shadowy parapets above, a revenant of great power (guess who?) waited for an opportunity to present itself. It would be a swift death — lackluster, maybe, but swift regardless — for one, very unfortunate soul.

​

The band moved as one, heads flicking, torches alight. Whatever training they underwent in anticipation for tonight, I would gladly put to shame, (they were still just humans, after all).

Creak.

​

In a flash, I dropped from the ceiling above and drove the blade through one's skull. There was a short cry, a crunch, and a gasp of utter disbelief from the others.

​

The man's body had been reduced to but mushy piles of flesh, shards of broken bones, and puddles of oozing blood, (I know this sounds rather sadistic, but in hindsight, it was quite comedic, ⁠actually — take my word for it).

​

"Bastra!" hollered the eldest. "What have you done, demon?!"

​

I tilted my head, shaking a piece of flesh loose from my gauntlet. "I have upheld my charge, dear sir. I have sent Gentleman Death a gift."

​

Overcome with both rage and stupidity, (I mean, honestly, who would ever want to pick a fight with someone as mighty, glorious, and legendary as myself?), the eldest bandit reached into his coat pocket and produced an artifact of dubious origin: small, black, and spherical.

I recognized it, instantly.

It was an infernal, damned, torturous contraption, and a feared one too amongst all of Hell.

It was a Demon Sphere ⁠— any summoner's favorite tool. Think of it as a cage, but for demons and other malevolent spirits likewise. When broken, the demon within would be let loose and bound to the summoner's will for exactly a day's length. In my case, it was an additional threat.

You can see why this displeases me.

​

The eldest bandit hurled his makeshift Demon Sphere at a nearby pillar, immediately shattering it into a million glass shards. Curling wisps of smoke, midnight black and blood red in color, seeped from within the remains and snaked off into the darkness.

​

Silence.

​

A single word was not so much as even whispered.

​

Now, here's the thing about Demon Spheres, you see: understanding of arcane theoratics and an exceptionally specific practice was what allowed this otherwise mundane ball of glass to function properly, (failing to abide by a strict set of instructions meant that the entrapped demon could possibly escape, and could very possibly take one's life on its way out. You could also, in this instance, fail to trap a demon in the first place. It’s quite embarrassing really).

Obviously, manchild that this third-rate summoner was, he had neglected one or the other — or both — and thus nothing meaningful had been produced.

​

I laughed, long and hard.

How pathet—

​

"Iron. Warden."

​

Inhumane, ominous, and sounded like half a dozen different voices in an instance? Yep, I knew quite well whose voice this was (a little, quite too well, might I add).

​

I turned and bowed to the shadows behind. "Astoscillis."

​

"Al-Nashur."

​

"They pit us against each other once more."

​

"It seems they have."

​

"Fate is cruel, no?"

​

"You're one to talk. Whilst I slave away for this idiot brat, your soul stands free; roam the lands, soar through skies, dive into depths unimaginable — I have neither liberty nor privilege to experience such and such."

​

"My soul stands free, eh? Now that, we can disagree upon."

​

Out of shadows and into light stepped my opponent: Hell's very own Death Baron and infamous bounty hunter, Astoscillis Void. From head to toe, he was dressed in a shade of black that blended seamlessly into the shadows, (his sense of fashion, I strive to say, has been what many would consider stale. Either that, or Astoscillis took a great liking to black).

​

"Enough!" Cried the eldest bandit. "Demon, I command you to destroy this. . . This. . . This entity!"

​

Astoscillis sighed.

For a split second, he almost, (a great emphasis on 'almost'), sounded sympathetic. "I apologize, Nashur."

​

"Oh, no. You shan’t be the one to apologize."

​

Polished daggers — crooked, savage ones able to tear through steel like paper — slid down Astoscillis' sleeves; somehow, someway, amidst a deadly ballad of twists, turns, and flicks, they managed their way into his grasps without so much as a scratch.

​

He bowed; I bowed. We both stood within arm’s reach of one another, clutching our blades so tightly one would be forgiven to think the handles might as well have snapped in twine. Behind us, the remaining band of rogues stood silently within shadows, watching ever so keenly.

​

Astoscillis made the first play: with a mighty kick of the heels, he launched himself forth, raising both daggers from the ground up. This charge was met by a parry of my claymore, and an attempted slash. He ducked below the blade, somersaulted, then managed a quick slice across my gut. Fortunately for myself, his blade had cut through steel, not flesh.

Yet more efforts followed suit: Astoscillis unleashed a flurry of blades my way, every slice but one drawing blood. This time, however, he seized what little window of opportunity presented itself in between strikes and landed a decisive blow: one, particularly hefty slug to my chin, (his jabs, last I recalled, were comparable to that of a toddler's. This one, strangely, packed quite the punch. Forgive the pun).

​

Dazed and unable to retaliate as I was, Astoscillis pressed on: a hook to the gut robbed me of breath; a boot to one knee brought me unto the other; a side-kick to the helmet sent me sprawling.

​

"You're slow, Nashur."

​

He played with the daggers in hand, flicking, spinning, and polishing them — all whilst goading me. "Has the infamous Iron Warden finally fallen from grace? Has Al'Nashur the Great succumbed to Mistress Time's call? Or perhaps. . . Could it be ⁠— I'm just better now?"

​

"Oh, please," I said, now back on my feet. "You're no different than the day we met."

​

"Oh, really? How so?"

​

"You're still a brat.”

I could see his frown through the dark. Oh, how so very upset he was.

“Still daddy’s little errand boy."

​

I moved quickly, (as quickly as the claymore allowed, that is), closing the gap in mere seconds. The blade swung, Astoscillis dodged. The blade swung again, and again it was avoided.

​

In a last ditch attempt to land just one blow, (I know, I know. . . Desperate times call for desperate measures), I cleaved the entire area before me in one fell swoop. The blade swung a third time, cutting through the air so swiftly it whistled a deathly note. Caught off guard by the sheer speed of my strike, Astoscillis raised the daggers and attempted to block the incoming attack, (good luck with that. Number 1 rule of fighting me: dodge, don't block).

​

The blade hit.

The daggers cracked.

Flesh were slashed apart, and bones torn asunder.

​

Blood splattered unto the floors beneath.

It was over.

***

Dear me, I didn't think that my first battle after 400 years of rest would be this intense. A band of thieves, I could handle; one or two low-level demons, I can manage; but a high-ranking baron under Lucifer’s direct command? More so, his son? That’s just not my cup of tea, thanks.

​

When the dust settled, all was still, and all was where it ought to be: rubble clattered throughout what once served as the prison cafeteria, while shards of colored glass and pieces of forlorn furniture lay uselessly about. I had a band of thieves left to deal with.

I had cleaning up to d—

​

Step, step.

​

Thud.

​

There was a deafening, ear-splitting crack; a short, abrupt wail; and what sounded like hunks of metal slamming unto stone, (in this particular case, the hunk of metal was none other than myself, and the stone, nothing more than the prison floors).

​

My grip loosened, the claymore slipped; what little vigor my undead body retained scattered off into the dark abyss of nothingness. In mere moments, I, Al-Nashur the Great, was once again down on a knee, dazed, stunned, and clearly bleeding.

​

A wave of searing pain — the kind your feeble human minds might struggle comprehending — shot up through my chest and crippled me. Once the many spasms resided, and the blood-curdling screaming ceased (don't forget the plethora of curses as well), I was left with little to no feeling, save for a very familiar numbness.

​

Roughly three feet from where I lay distressed, rose a branch, (for illustration's sake, think of a literal tree branch) of red and black. Skewered through one end, torn asunder, was a heart so fresh, so alive, and so bustling with life it refused Gentleman Death himself's warm embrace, and instead, chose to beat vigorously still.

​

This heart, without a doubt, was mine too.

​

Astoscillis wiped his cuffs clean of blood and tidied his tailored suit. "Shame, really. You were one of the few I respected, Nashur. Now look at you ⁠— wallowing about in your own filth. Disgusting."

​

He whirled around, flicked a piece of debris from his shoulders, and proceeded to rub both daggers clean against the sleeves of his coat. To his back, the heartless, (speaking both literally and metaphorically here, bear with me), knight rose from a puddle of his very own blood. The blade returned to my hands, the life to my eyes, and the spirit to my veins. It’s a miracle what willpower alone can accomplish, isn’t it?

​

"Lucifer spoke of you; he told me all about your heroic endeavors, Nashur."

​

In an instance, I was upon him.

​

"Turns out they were nothing but lies. Nothing but lies, inde—"

I seized Astoscillis by the throat and let him dangle about for a second. With as much power as my undead muscles could muster, I flung him through the prison walls and out into the blaring sunlight beyond, (It took all the strength in me not to stab the claymore through his spine and split it into halves. Had I done that, I would’ve been torn to shreds by every drop, speck, and splash of his blood. Less blood, less trouble; less trouble, less chance of me dying; less chance of me dying, more chance for me to whoop him. Fight smart).

​

Astoscillis barreled through the brick walls and into the wheat fields beyond; through the gaping hole, I watched as the sunlight scorched his skin and seared it to but grains of ash. There was the most audible crackling of charred flesh, and moments later, the most audible symphony of pain. Astoscillis threw himself about, hauling, screeching and yelling every such obscenities under the sun. He hauled himself from the ground up and, with a single bound, leaped out of my sight, (the screams didn't stop there, mind you).

So be it, then.

Let him cook for a while.

Let it get nice and toasty out there.

“That’s right. Burn you bastard.”

I savored the moment and sat myself down atop an overturned stone slab. While he was out there burning his skin to a crisp, I was inside the comforts of the prison, sparing my muscles a rest and my lungs, a breath, (don’t ask me how I’m still functioning without a heart. Demon biology is a long, exhausting topic).

Crash!

Oh, he’s back.

​

And he’s not quite happy.

​

Through each stained window flew one of Astoscillis’ daggers, (for reference, there were five windows). They landed in a perfect circle around me and marked the ground.

​

“You recognize this, don’t you?” Astoscillis landed before me. Half of his face was but an unrecognizable mess: torn shreds of skin wavered in the breeze, while pieces of flesh clung on lifelessly, (he didn’t look too good before, but dear me. This is a whole nother level. Personally speaking, he looks much better now than before).

​

I gazed upon the circle of daggers. Funny, they almost seemed to form a pentagram.

Oh.

“Crap.”

​

In the blink of an eye, Astoscillis made his move.

​

With the speed of a thunder strike, he dashed past me and let his daggers run along my arm. The blade sliced clean through the rusted armor and drew streaks of blood, splattering some onto the mossy cobblestone floors, and some onto its wielder.

​

Without sparing another second, Astoscillis spun on his heels and leaped before me, letting his daggers challenge my swordsmanship skills for a third time. He was faster now, and much nimbler. Nevertheless, if I lost against him right there and then, I’d die of shame rather than the wounds, (yes folks, no exaggeration to be found).

​

He sent a set of daggers my way, both clashed against the steel of my claymore; in a single swipe, I sent the blades shooting back into the palm of his gloved hands, poised for yet another strike.

​

He gave them a quick flick and leaped high into the air, blades out and ready to slice, tear, and decapitate. I moved just as quickly.

​

Preparing for what would happen in the split second to come, I raised the blade and channeled what little bit of energy I could muster to the arms.

​

The daggers dropped, the claymore held firm, both forces came to a lack-luster standstill. I was down on one knee, holding Astoscillis back with all my might. Had I faltered for but fractions of a second, his blade would have torn open my throat, (this won't kill me, sure, but it'll feel quite undesirable ⁠— ask anyone who's had their throats ripped open, they'll tell you. Oh. . . Wait).

​

"Why won't you die?!" he screamed.

​

Muscles refreshed, spirits relit, and blade eager, I made my final play. There were two cards left in my hand, and both could either spell my defeat, or announce my resounding victory. "After you."

​

I rose from the ground up and forced him a step back. With one final push, the playing field was now set for a checkmate.

​

Astoscillis went sailing through the air, his fine suit now but shreds of torn fabric dangling apathetically from scorched skin, and his trousers, laden with splinters of wood, specks of dust, and pieces of rubble. As soon as his back hit the bricks of a stone pillar, both daggers left the clutches of his hands and flew off into the distance. His body dropped unto the cobblestone floors with a thump, and for a second or two, he remained completely still, (part of me thought he was dead, and said part of me rejoiced).

​

But alas, the Hell Baron had more to offer.

​

Astoscillis hauled himself up and glared at me; not a word left his mouth that second.

​

Oh, how he lost it.

​

Fingernails grew into crooked claws, teeth into jagged fangs, and skin into hide of the darkest color. His jaws hung agape, then snapped shut, sending a savage crunch echoing throughout the prison halls.

​

His guise quickly fell apart, and in its place, stood the real Hell Baron: a being with one hell-of-an insatiable thirst for blood, (speaking rather highly of him, to be honest).

​

Black wings uncurled from his back and shot out at once, sweeping dust from the walls around. As for myself, I decided to put on a show of power as well. Instead of backing away from the nine-feet tall demon now approaching me, (looking back on things now, I probably should’ve ra ⁠— err. . . I mean, commenced a tactical retreat), I instead gripped the handle of my claymore and rested it atop my shoulders.

​

I stepped forward.

The demon did too.

​

He looked down at me.

I looked up at him.

​

Claws and fangs at the ready, Astoscillis charged full-speed ahead. With no such weaponry at my disposal, I raised the blade with both hands and readied that instead. Timing was absolutely crucial here, and a split second could very well determine the victor.

​

The floors below shook with every step Astoscillis took, and my nerves, with every second that passed.

​

He swung his claws.

I swung my blade.

Both clashed.

One cut straight through the other.

***

Astoscillis promptly returned to his human guise, a wicked smile splayed from ear to ear. "Exhilarating! Why, I haven't had such a thrill since the war! My humblest thanks, Nashur! Oh, how I’ve misjudged you. You make for quite an excellent opponent. I’ll send your kindest regards to father, though. . . I suppose you’d be seeing him s—"

​

Blood spilled from his mouth and dripped unto the floors below. He fell to a knee, coughing, grunting, and cursing beneath every breath, (also probably wondering why a flaring pain suddenly surged through his body).

​

“Ack!”

He spat out yet another mouthful of blood and shifted his gaze to me. His hands dropped, and so did his head. "Oh."

​

"Sorry," I said. "Maybe in another life, you would’ve been quicker. Maybe in another life we. . . Could've been better acquaintances."

​

He snickered. "Oh, don't pity me, Nashur. He's coming."

​

"Huh?"

​

"I tried to stop him. . . I couldn't. That human brat got in my way."

​

"Stop what — who?"

​

"Tell father. He knows."

​

His body disintegrated into a pile of ashes, and soon after, Astoscillis Void was no more. All that remained of the infamous Hell Baron were but specks of dust — and his parting message. Lucky him, he was home, now; I was still up here.

​

"I will, Baron. I will."

***

"Blast it open! Come on!"

​

"I'm trying!"

​

A set of molten fireballs erupted from the eldest bandit's palm, exploding against a nearby window. The colored glass held firm. "Hexes! Damn Hexes everywhere! It’s eating my magic!"

​

I drove my claymore through the cobblestone floors and coughed, (rather loudly too, might I add). "Gentlemen."

​

They all turned to face me, eyes wide, faces pale; some whispered prayers, others simply trembled. Gentlemen Death stalked about the shadows, a pep in his every step; scythe in hand, he awaited the harvest of six unfortunate souls, (I, for one, was more than happy to assist him in the reaping).

​

Contrary to my expectations, they did not flee — they stood their ground. The youngest of bandits stepped forth and stood before me, sword wield and unsheathed. Tears weld in his eyes.

​

The blade left his grasps, clattering unto the cold, stone floors with a deafening clang. "Please. You can have my life, but I pray to you, o' merciful one, leave my brothers be. They have wronged not a living soul."

​

The claymore swung quicker than the boy cared to notice, cutting right through his chest like butter. Half his body fell one way, and the second half, the other way.

​

"You pit me against my own kind," I said, trudging past the boy's corpse. "And you expect forgiveness?"

​

The eldest bandit readied yet another fireball.

​

"You don't deserve my mercy."