Chapter II

As small of a castle as one could imagine, a spec on a map with no indication of existence without knowledge or intrigue. So small, yet each inch is crammed with perfection. It stands alone dividing a dirt road and fields of man and earth from a forest stretching beyond the eye's extent of vision.

Passers-by become entranced with the slightest glimpse of this marvel. The whitewashed walls, glittered with love-infused paintings of the dramatized world it inhabits, surround what is a true masterpiece forged by the hands of no-one. The prism roof reflects away natural evil with its pearly tint; not even God himself could break into its shingle armour. This abode can be described simply: virtually perfect.

The sun blesses every corner with a natural glow worthy of heaven's halls. Freedom beyond the door's width is provided: a wardrobe populated with thousands of mannequins displays clothing ranging beyond the colour-confines of a rainbow, presenting options to last multiple lifetimes; across the room, a desk, deserving of a castle's keep, proudly guards countless trinkets of emerald and sapphire, while coated in 24-carat rose gold, a crest mounts it, bearing the history of multiple planets, mythical figures, mighty and royal.

Ahead from the door, he rests there on a polished bed, on a polished floor, between polished walls. The man blends into the room with his stoic comportment. Donning a flowing cloak bathed in the Garden of Eden, a body of white with the obsidian darkness begging by his knees. The cloak stretches from wrist to wrist, neck to ankles, his shoulders circled by a blood halo. A jade serpent snakes to his left halo from the darkness below; its fangs wrapping around the cloak's collar. The world asks for his presence and refrains from marking his attire. He is its demi-god. His holy appearance flows through to where his blood wishes it to, except for his peculiar face. Like most gods, he keeps his real face hidden from earth-bound humans. In replacement, a red mask reaches from cheek to cheek, chin to nose; a mouth is painted on, plagiarising the snake's teeth as its own. He bleeds power to all who are blessed to catch him in their eyes' reflection.

Covers of dreamy, woolly white blanket a flowing paillasse and massaging pillows raised with velvet and imperial swan feathers. The mattress relaxes upon a golden oak frame, its four spires topped with a sapphire cherry. Sentry bedside drawers keep the bed distant from the walls; fluffy daffodils keep watch over the air while the drawers focus on the ground.

At the head of the bed, a window gives freedom to the air. The ever-distant sun peeks through with confidence, keeping watch on its son in the flesh. It is through this window that the world reveals its truth to its guardian. To the far left of the horizon, a robust wall of mountain-peaks – called the Vestmuren – secures the perimeter. Rivers projecting pure tranquillity lightly leak from the unreachable heights beyond; livestock grazes by the riverside on the fertile fields that encompasses the domain; and the farmers, who act as nurse and disease, enjoy leisurely chatter and gossip by their trusty flimsy wagons.

Swinging left from the window, a round table is accompanied with a pair of seats, as the three gaze into the red motherly hands of the fireplace. The seats sit at opposite ends of the table watching over each other and the vacant contents of the table. The table bears empty slots for chairs: four more, roughly.

Further, a bathroom door locked closed by an angel white door waits in anticipation for usage, but its handle is yet to experience the touch of a germ.

Beside the bathroom door, a purified kitchen enjoys the warmth of rose wine, the cooling chill of champagne, the brisk thrill of whiskey. Such attention, such care, a pampered love given luxuries to be wasted; to be seen more than used. Stuffed refrigerator, well-fed cupboards; the kitchen lives the life of a blessed superstar.

The pride and joy of the environment is the legendary Plutus – the district capital –, with towers mocking the Vestmuren mountains' minuscule height and enterprises made of gold and coal blocking the farmers' future livelihood. It is said that this miracle-city was formed before the land itself, in an area above the sky. No-one can prove this right, but no-one can prove it false. It will baffle great minds and peasants alike for millennia to come.

However, despite sharing a godly aura, the demi-god does not revere his equals, nor admire their deeds. Quite the opposite. Spite seems to be all he feels towards the great city. No respect, no acknowledgement. A demon fire sparks behind his pupils if his mind stumbles upon it.

Every morning he reaches for his sword, a masterstroke of smithery. If one were to attempt the impossible feat of stealing the sword, their life would retreat from their arms and abandon them to the afterlife. No mere mortal can wield such a blade; its handle is comparable to a python, and the tip of the blade pierces the clouds with a stretched crescent. It is said one swing could flatten more than a square mile of forest, although its real strength remains a mystery. Nonetheless, it is undoubtedly legendary. Once he has grasped the weapon and sheathed it behind his back, he takes his leave.

With a firm grip on the door handle, he begins his daily journey into his world. It is his for the taking and therefore his to protect. Every time he holds this handle, he halts to pray. Standing in silence for a minute exactly each time – as if re-living all his past, glorious, victories –, he prepares himself.

"Each painting lies on a canvas, and each canvas lies in front of a shadow." – (Hannah, Lovkart).

He must keep the evil at bay. He must. Thankfully, this world can rest easy, he would give his many lives to guard what he loves more than anything. He will protect our home.

The door gives way to his grandeur like a peasant. One step outside of his palace and true beauty is unveiled. Directly in front of the house, a field of roses blooms, roses of all colours: red, blue, purple, white, silver, black, and gold glittered like a mosaic artwork that swept across the fields, fenced off by birch down each extent of the road. At the base of each rose, bugs and critters die for a taste at the wish of carnivorous folia. In the battle between beauty and ruin, harmony prevails.

With a deep breath, eyes stern, and a scowl, the hero once again heads toward Plutus, to continue his crusade. For what we wonder? Religion is not his purpose, so can it indeed be called a crusade, or is it just a righteous assertion of his will? We might never know his reasoning; we just know it is for the betterment of our world and our society.

Removing it from his back, his sword's thirst stretches it, nearly touching the city itself. As if sending signals from its point, everyone's nerves tremble and shiver like an elephant confronted with a snake. His vision runs down the blade, directing his animosity towards the city he despises so much. It cannot be denied that he is a demi-god, but the look on his face could trick the most loyal of followers into believing he is Lucifer's spawn.