Zhang, Zor Empire,
Ascesion Age (As/A): 3084

...

The Wraith guards marched in. A dozen of them; face lost behind a skull mask, armed with crossbows and swords sheathed to their waist. They stormed through the crowds in lines of two, venturing like bolts of shot arrows deeper into the epicenter of town: the bull's eye of Zhang.

Their boots echoed as it met the hard stone ground, and many who heard them march, knew what it meant. Soon a loud thud came with their halt, commanding the inhabitants of Zhang to spring out of their houses.

To the pulpit of bonded timbers stationed at the center of this awe gripped town, a twine hanging over a single wooden pole that extended through the platform, dangled with a tiny copper bell at its end. The rope was immediately pulled lower with the guards halt, forcing the bell to swing and ring, as it were to both carve respect, and serve more cold platter of fear.

The sound of the bell told different stories, and it being at the town's center, mostly gave the notices of when public executions met it's set time.

These executions were all but of mercy and restraint. Hanging was common: one would either choke to death, or the dropping force would instantly crush their throat. Most were by slowly liquidating the flesh with corrosive substances—acidification. As incredibly intriguing the pleasuring sight of watching the human skin slowly bubble and melt into red sticky goo, there was another that served more epiphany, and utilized only in rarer occasions: The Mïjknotr. It is a set of execution carried out in three theatrical stages.

The punished is first anchored face-up to the wooden platform, their arms, legs, and torso bound by shackles. Metallic hook drawn from a burning stove, shimmering in redness from intense heat, is then plunged into the corners of the eyes. After it digs into the eye socket, the hook is then forced out, and with it is a scoop of an eyeball.

With the lightless eyes dangling from its sockets, a heavy tree stomp fashioned to look like a single log (though large) is let down with a rope, and made to first crash into the lower half of the body. The first hit ushers the second as the giant log is pulled up, and once high enough, the grip is freed, and yet again permitted to drop to the upper half, with a careful exclusion of the head. The same hammering processes continue, shuffling between the legs and the chest, pounding the body, shredding the bones, and near flattening the flesh, with heavy thuds as it stroke the skin, and puffs of dust that scurried away.

The executioners decide when the judged is near death, and if they are ready to cap up the show with the final piece: decapitation. The semi-conscious body is finally met with the edge of an axe that drives through the neck, ending the blissful life of the offender.

Hope in Valhalla awaits thou.

The Mïjknotr has always been a wild spectacle of torture and punishment, and it sometimes served as retribution for cases where the crime was either murder, thievery, or even rape, but not all crimes were honored with the three package deal torment, even though others were far less exciting than the Mïjknotr. Barbarians!

Today it was different. From the quaking feet of the Wraith guards, everyone knew that it was that time of the month, and they all began to make their way to the town's center for it. Most of the denizen of Zhang arrived the set spot, and stood by to listen to their next order.

On the execution stand, the sun shone behind a man, stretching his shadow before him, creating a silhouette blacker than his ebony skin and red long braided hair that slithered down his back and over his shoulder.

His appearance was that of a man slightly peaking the age of thirty, although crude with scars cutting across his face and places hidden within his clothes, yet lecherous and bold with a choking aura, and so were his red pupils: brutal and intimidating, with glances that clutches the heart and ends it beats with a stab - this was one of his unique magical technique called the death watch, one of his many killing techniques, one which a man dies simply by looking him right in the eye. But He wasn't using it, and many feared for their deaths and avoided his gaze.

Black boots gripped his ankle, so did a leather jacket tail down to his knees. An axe was locked within his fingers as he stood atop the execution platform, with every intention to make his speech as less pleasing as he could.

The sun's brilliance, though lost to his back still shimmered like a dark halo, revealing the wraith crest, an emblem worn on the person of both the captain and his crew. Frightening and bold were at a glance the pretext of their crest. It was of a white diamond shaped crystal, having red thorns protruding on it's surface, and a black serpent slithering between each thorn: wrapping around the crystal while escaping the tips of the thorns. "We thread upon Hades and churn its awe within our jaw..." That was their mantra, and they strut in pride with the words on their lips.

The crest visible, everyone who weren't part of the wraiths, could tell what platoon it was, and that the man who was about to address them, was Markens the blood red bastard himself, the nastiest there is in the trade of torture and gruesomeness. A heartless monster.

Markens was the Captain of the wraith guards, one of the Twelve Crimson Apostles of Zor; each Apostle stationed as the leader of a platoon known as the Twelve Guardian Pillars: a set of unique individual merged to form different powerful units headed by an Apostle. These units were different from the main military of the continent of Zor, and were under the direct command of the Emperor's Viceroy, so were the Apostles.

The Twelve guardian pillars were rarely deployed, and so seeing one march brazenly into Zhang, stole the soul of most in fear.

He, Markens, was a terror that spoke those very fear to the hearts of those who gathered around the huge bronze bell. Markens' reputation and tales were what mothers threatened their children to bed with, and even stating his name were as though receiving a death sentence, as it echoed death at every syllable.

He was a living mass of a brooding cultured bloodthirsty maniac. Even among the Twelve Crimson Apostles, Markens although wasn't the among the top Five strongest, his lust for blood, violence, and indiscriminate rampage was in a class of it's own at the peak.

He cleared his throat, then his hoarse voice began to lash out.

"I want the usual line of four..." He began laying off orders to the citizens of Zhang naturally as though it were a repeated procedure. "Women, children excluding babies, men, and the elderly." The gestures of his hands detailed the spaces he needed them to occupy, and they all began to fall within their respective order, moving like zombies reaching out to grab a floating cinder driven afar by the wind.

When he saw the extended lines of the converged populace, he began the second halve of his speech.
"So," He smiled. "let us all be friends today, uh?" The smiled was quenched, and his brows concaved as his eyes scanned the thin bundles of crowds before him. "Now, if you have anyone hiding somewhere, or someone who might've skipped town few days back, I'd like to have their names, their supposed destination, and possibly a facial description."
His eyes were still running through the numbers before him, anticipating a risen hand of compliance. But he found nothing, making him more agitated.

"Or, are there any recorded death within the three months since your last barcode survey?"
His agitation grew as he got no response.

"One last time, who chickened out from today's survey? Y'all know that deserting is a very big crime, and it is punishable by immediate death?"
No voice was heard from the crowd, neither were there hands up for attention.
"Fine! I'll deal with it myself, and trust me, there will be no mercy for whomsoever I catch."

He knew that the population had reduced by three people, and as it was the law in Zor that those who dwelt in the lower echleons were to be coordinated in sections of different kingdoms, and nobody was permitted to leave without a pass-save for the military. Assassins and bounty hunters got extra chips on their wrists and a plated license they wore on their person, which allowed them through the invisible barriers that separated each kingdom, but their presence were immediately recorded into a data base.

And those records were previously revised by Markens, and so the usual number of Two hundred and seven two thousand, five hundred and sixty seven (272,567) people, three was missing. Asides being a battle freak, Markens' intelligence was top tier, and highly respected by not just his platoon, but also by the top brass. So discerning the loss of three people just by casually glancing over the crowd before him, was as easy as blinking to him.

He gobbled air in, and slowly exhaled while closing his eyes to hasten more concentration. He opened his eyes, which immediately glowed in bright purple, and he began chanting a spell.

"Vilrik mur raïy, seor me munant turik nukaeis..." Amidst chanting a spell unique to mages of his race: The Bone witch known for their unique Violet pupil glow and powerful compulsion magic, he pulled out a dagger from his back, and had its tip piercing his palm. "Bararaq kei mein ka, ciet te tra vouz --"

His incantation was cut near the end by something unexpected.

"Tis a conspiracy Zorns. Let not our hearts be soiled by their lies and deceit!"
A priest from the sect, queuing in the crowd, cried, thus temporarily halting Marken's spell.

The Sectum Sanctum (also called The Sect) are avatars, a religious body in this faithless world. Avatars are individuals who secretly oppose the tyranny of the Emperors of Ekron - Ekryon. The Sect is of the believe that there will be the coming of another god who will bring light and warmth to their cold world.

Although vague, the knowledge of Vyorn and Ekron is known only by the top brass, even though such knowledge and religion were thoroughly abolished by the emperors during the war. These knowledge revised into the form of "we await the true god of light, and thus bear our fangs against the falsehood shrouded in darkness..." were what the members of The Sect carried fearlessly as an emblem.

Once again, religion had massive control over millions scattered all over the four continents. But the Emperors never saw them as a threat, and permitted their childish tantrums.

Marken silently watched the member of The Sect tear away from the crowd, and walked towards the podium he occupied.

A dull red robe laced with mud and dirt at its end which constantly licked the ground as he moved, swallowed him whole. Thick green vines of veins stemmed on his slender arms, which one from his incessant gesticulating was partly hidden within the sleeves, while the other arm was waving in air something like a crucifix.

His hair was mostly white, short, with baldness slowly chewing away from his forehead, marking out a round space on the crown of his head.

His face almost round at the upper corner, with a chin hanging down, evidently attacked by the cold fingers of time who drew tracks by the corner of his eyes, and sagged his cheeks.

The strength of his voice forcefully braced through the tremor braided into it, and although he paused a few seconds to catch his breath, the dry walls of his throat rubbed against each other, making his voice cease at some pitches, probing him to force it even harder through its leash.

Marken admired the old man's tenacity as the corner of his lips twirled in excitement, and offered the Avatar a chance to speak.

"...They tallied from birth our lives..." The priest continued. "by inserting tiny devices into our brains, with markings at the back of our ears and neck, just to regulate our lives and keep us in check like chicks." He quickly paused, and desperately scampered his tongue for any available liquid, which he gathered and gulped before continuing.

"They fear the power we possess. Although they take our children who are blessed with magic at birth, we still possess more than just sorcery to bring them to their knees. Unity!" He lifted his arms above his head, with the wooden cross horizontally stuffed within the fist he aimed high with power. Both fists were prevailing dauntingly in the air: it spoke of his courage, and hid his fears as he screamed the words with gusto.
"Together we are more powerful than their military, magic, and brainwashing chips!"
His voice suddenly became louder with more strength than before, and his eyes glimmered with anger shading the sorrow behind it.
"We. Are. IN-VIN-CI-BLEEEEE!"
He dragged the last sound of his last word like a war cry of burning passion on a battle field, and his voiced seized right after he ran out of breath.

The priest's sermon although were contemplated pleas of a saddened heart, his reality wasn't far off his mind.

Life was a walking despair in the year 3084. Earth was not as typical as what Sci-fis before the ascension had theatrically painted over the wide screen of a cinema. There were no monochromatic fashion, super computers, flying saucers and an invasion from the green folks, or cyborgs, and definitely no time traveling machine. Not even good electricity were as accessible as it were before everything went gray and dust over a hundred years back: lost to the war that shook the trenches of earth.

His out cry was ill met, as nobody felt enthusiastic enough to bet their heads against the blood red bastard obviously condescending from where he stood with a sinister grin. Although the priest was right to the bone, they were just too powerless to defend their perception. It was better to calmly give into this designed fate, than struggle hopelessly.

"Livestock! That's what they see us as; guinea pigs in a pen, caged in wait for the next science experiment. We are lambs, fattened by the butcher, awaiting a good taste of oil and boiling water! If we were even getting fed, death would have worth a day's meal." He added under breath, but a few caught those last words, and so did Markens.

His arms fell to his sides, his head dropped - his spirit dimmed - and dozen claws of fear gnawed at his mind.

He pressed his speech on.
"We strife! We plead!" With each word came the crashing of his energy, talking seemed pointless, and simply preaching wouldn't close the curtains on their choreographed display of fate. "Yet we suffer!" He dropped to his knee. The priest robe sprawled on the ground, and it wasn't long before his eyes went heavy and began to rain.

"We thresh our knees for a life of soundless unending grayness, yet, you try to keep us in check even though we dwellers of the slums of the great Empire of Zor, have given everything we have to the emperor and his cabal. What more do you think we own? Even our destinies are scripted for us. What more would you steal of this sad lives of ours?"
The priest was right. The only symphony that echoed through the nights were slashes of slaughter, fear of bloodshed, wailing of famine, and the cold whips of tyranny. Chips and barcodes were imprinted into the back of every man's earlobe and neck, that were routinely scanned to keep order, and to avoid the itching gnawing of shackles around the wrist awarded to those set in place for a public acidification, no one dared a hair out of place.

Yet the protested within their hearts, gave all to the Emperor who did more than draining them dry.

With it, no land was save. There were no places to run to. Magic and dark sorcery, monsters and creatures and the tales of the bogeyman now, were far from being just a myth and bonfire stories, these were as real as the fluff of a cat's fur: tempting, dangerous, mysterious, cunning, and above all, strictly outlawed. The emperor was careful for any opposition.

"Even our brothers sell us off for cheap change, and the battle our fathers from centuries past fought and conquered, are the ensemble we turn blind eyes to, yet we suffer with gritting teeth."

The hope for a utopia, was immersed in despair. The leadership was as it has always been in a typical dilapidated era, ruled by only power hungry lords. Ekryons, are the names of the emperors who ruled the four continents - Empire - that survived the last war: the servants of the god Ekron.

Dashing doom was what those tugging within the confines of the lower echleons of Zor, called their emperor. Who could blame them; scraping crumbs and threshing their nails just to survive...well that's not a life worth living. But yet a few survived the hardship, and dared venture the wilderness. They had no choice, the lands were barren, the magic barriers between them and the upper echleon was impregnable, and as such, bliss and hope was as thin as a stretched massless string.

"Dear citizens of Zhang..." Still on both knees, he turned to met the congregated men. "No hero can save us, only we hold the key to our salvation in our own hands..."
A hero? A super hero? Not even superman could stand the heat. Kryptonite won't be his only bane, starvation will. But if there were heroes, then he'd be ploughing the harsh soil, or robbing off a rich merchant.
"We must take a stand now, and FIGHT!"

Another outcry, but no one dared a word off their lips, nor did they hold any expression of hope on their faces.

Blinking in shock at the expression on their faces, the priest could see the despair in their eyes, and he too was forced down the same path. "Why did I even expect open supporters, or some sort of protest at all? We all know that opposing the Emperor is simple impossible and beyond imagination." His heavy gaze turned to Markens, and he could see the beast smiling as he looked down on him.

From where he knelt now, Markens looked to him as nothing short of a god, and he was barely an insect who would be swatted in a few seconds.

"Why, why did I choose to offend this demon?"

His spirit and bubbling adrenaline was dimming, and so was the unfolding realization of whom he had just defied cause him to immediately break into tears.

Brimming with joy, Markens spoke.
"That was very impressive." He applauded. "How about a motivational speech from me too, yes?" A devilish smile broke on his face again, and he leapt off from the platform unto the ground beside the already alerted priest shivering in fear.

"Now, my turn." He inhaled deeply as a boost to project his voice. "Listen maggots, your lives are meaningless, there are no heroes to save you, so quit yer yabbers and listen. A single sniff from anyone else..." He stretched his arms for the priest, grabbed his neck and slowly lifted him off the ground. "And I will kill every single person standing here." He clutched tightly the priest's neck until he heard his bones cave in and crumble.

His gaze swept swiftly at the priest's corpse laying cold on the ground, then back to the long lines of humans before him.

"The regular checkup will begin now!" He continued to speak. "And trust me, I will hunt and kill every single person who thought they could escape me today."
He turned to his men.
"You may begin!" He ordered.

Markens was powerful, as one of the twelve whose strengths were close enough to the rank of a lower tier general, his raw strength, tenacity, magic, and battle techniques had began a plundering rumor of the blood red bastard being in the class of the top hundred Tarots (obviously false) - beings of incredible powers. Those in the top ten were said to possess unimaginable unrivalled abilities that were on par with the Emperor's Valrians or even the Emperor. Although only said in whispers, the class of the Tarots, were simply myths and tales shrouded in mystery, nobody knew for sure if they existed or were just fables.

Kicking through the stabbing blizzard, those in the kingdoms of the lower echleons accepted their fates, hoping not to die in their sleeps, or by the silver fangs of the guillotine.

Yet, starvation and poverty and death, became the least of their worries later that very night, as it all grew darker with despair, the clouds hid the moon and shielded off her lights, preventing them from reaching the earth. The sky roared thunderously, and unsettled lightening pierced with joy between the clouds.

A ritual began with the banging of drums, the swirl dance of maidens, a slaughter, and the Sorcerer's chants.

Three stood upon the altar; naked and ready to receive of the Emperor's blessing. A curse they were prepared to bear for the purpose of the Empire. The Mountains of Eleàd at its very peak, now gathered five men and no more; The Emperor, his sorcerer and those chosen to be the blessed.

Each man was perfectly trained in the arts compatible with the blessing he is to receive, a blessing to offer chaos, and wroth destruction.

The sorcerer after a long incantation, offered a bowl of the emperor's blood to the chosen three, which they each took a gulp from.

As these men ingested the Emperor's blood, the sorcerer chanted again another unique spell which caused them to writ in an unsurmountable form of agony; a price for power which were mere scraps of the Emperor's darkness.

His power surged through them, bulging through their vein, cracking their bones, and exploding in its fullness, until they fully became one with it, and thus the end of the Eleàd ritual.

"You know your mission -" The Emperor's elegant yet commanding voice, pierced fear into the hearts of the three. "Do not fail me. Find them and offer me their heads, or I will have your head and the head of those you find dear made into a trophy for the pigs."

"Yes my Lord!"

They chorused, and the emperor slowly faded away into the darkness.