Five Years Later

"SERAPHEL!" The sound of his name, distorted by rage and despair, echoed through the village streets, reaching Seraphel's ears as a distant whisper. He turned, his gaze cold and unforgiving.

The flames danced around him, casting flickering shadows on the ground. His once shining armor was now scarred and blackened, a testament to the destruction he caused.

At the end of the main street stood the towering building. The once gleaming stones were now stained with soot and ash. The sight filled Seraphel with cold, burning anger. This place, which had once been his sanctuary, now represented the very thing he sought to destroy.

As he looked up, he saw the Warden standing on the second floor balcony, his face a mask of shock and fury.

"Seraphel! What in the name of the Lifestream are you doing?" The Warden's voice boomed through the chaos, the words cutting through the din of screams and the crackle of the flames like a bolt of lightning.

Seraphel's hand paused in mid-air, the blood from the boy's neck still dripping from his sword. He turned to face the Warden, his smile twisted into a snarl. "The same thing you sent me to do," he spat, his eyes ablaze with the corruption that now consumed him. "Bring balance to the Arcane Weave."

The warden's face twisted, his eyes widening in horror as he looked at the scene before him. "You... You've been corrupted!" he exclaimed, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and disbelief. "Drop the sword... I... I will help you, but please stop the meaningless slaughter!"

But Seraphel only laughed, a sound that was both frightening and eerie amidst the carnage. "You want me to trust you?" He asked, his voice echoing through the ruined streets. "Professor, explain to me why you kept my true identity from me?"

The warden took a step back, his eyes darting around, searching for an escape or a way to reason with the man he had once called a student. "Seraphel, please," he pleaded, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. "We can talk about anything, but first of all, drop your weapon and get yourself captured... For my own safety."

Seraphel's smile faded. "Surrender me?" He spat out the word like a curse. "Tell me what I am!" He raised his sword and pointed it at the overseer, his hand trembling slightly.

The warden's eyes searched Seraphel's, despair in his voice. "You're... you're a failure," he said, his tone tinged with regret. "An experiment that failed. You were formed from the essence of the Lifestream to be its protector... But now look what you're doing."

Seraphel's grip on the sword tightened and his knuckles turned white. "Failure?" He hissed, his voice filled with malice. "So it's true... I was created in an artificial way..."

Seraphel looked to the warden with a slight smile. "You know... I didn't want to believe it, despite my strange eyes, my powers..." His smile disappeared and his head lowered to the ground. "But the Lifestream showed me... My true destiny."

The warden took a step forward, "you are insane... The Corruption is using you, showing you what you want to see and making you believe it all! Let me help you..."

But Seraphel's gaze was distant, lost in the memories that the lifestream had revealed to him. "No," he murmured, "it has shown me the truth... A truth that you have hidden for so long." He raised his sword again. "I see it clearly... It flows from this world, from me, from you! I see it clearly!"

"In the same way I see the thread of life that connects every life with the lifestream... Yours, theirs... Only I don't have one..." He paused briefly before continuing. "Its voices finally reached me, it showed me what its true state was.... It screams and howls in agony... I am able to hear what you cannot."

The warden's eyes filled with fear and pity. "Seraphel, you are not hearing the truth. Yet you seem to be lost already...." With a signal, he sent a troop of guards after Seraphel.

Seraphel's eyes snapped back to the present, and he met the warden's gaze with rage. "PROFESSOR!" he shouted as he charged at him.

....

723 A.Z. Viktoria, Continent of Lectricu.

Seraphel bolted upright, his heart hammering in his chest. The cold, hard floor of the cell met his back, and his wrists stung from the tight metal shackles that bit into his skin. The room spun around him, and the stench of oil and burnt metal filled his nostrils. The dampness of his shirt stuck to his back as beads of sweat rolled down his face.

Seraphel was wearing a shirt that used to be white, but was covered in dirt from the oils and the environment. It had several rips and was partially frayed, his pants were dark gray, with several holes forming around his knees. His long, black hair hung down in greasy strands and framed the stark white of his face. His piercing white-silver serpent eyes, were sunken, with dark circles underneath that bore witness to countless sleepless nights.

The cell was small, and the walls were a mixture of copper, brass and steel, with a few pipes leading out of the cell into the unknown. The light was dim, casting eerie shadows that danced with the flickering light of a single lamp mounted high on the wall. The floor was cold and hard, made of a dark stone that was slippery with moisture. The room was almost completely silent, except for the faint sound of dripping water echoing from somewhere in the distance.

Suddenly, Seraphel felt a sharp pain in his skull, as if an invisible hand was squeezing his brain. His vision blurred and his head spun. He let out a guttural groan and gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the pain that seemed to be growing stronger by the second. His breathing grew rapid and shallow, his chest rising and falling with each shallow inhale and exhale. The pain grew until it was unbearable, and he could feel his eyes bulging in their sockets.

A guard on watch outside heard the muffled screams from inside the cell. The sounds grew louder and more desperate. He stepped out of the warmth of his chamber into the damp, cold corridor that led to Seraphel's cell.

"Is it that time again?" he shouted, his voice echoing through the hallway.

The guard stepped closer to the cell, peering through the small barred window. Seraphel was convulsing, his body contorting in unnatural ways. The guard's expression remained stoic, a silent witness to the prisoner's ongoing torment.

"That's a hell of a reaction... Call Wathelet here," the guard barked, his voice echoing off the metal walls. His subordinate, who was waiting at the entrance to the corridor, nodded and quickly started moving.

After a few minutes, the door to the corridor creaked open and the sound of booted footsteps came closer. Through the haze of pain, Seraphel recognized the heavy footsteps; it was Commander Wathelet.

Wathelet was a man of few words, but his bronze military armor spoke volumes. It was a complex exoskeleton that encased his body like a second skin, each piece fitting meticulously together, leaving no gaps. The armor had a steampunk aesthetic, with visible cogs and gears that whirred and clicked with every movement. The helmet covered his face entirely, with a single, narrow slit for his eyes and a mask-like plate that concealed his mouth and nose. Above the visor, two gleaming horns curved outwards like those of a ram, symbolizing his rank and ferocity in battle. His chest plate was adorned with insignias, each one a stark reminder of the power he wielded and the trust that had been placed in him.

The guard in front of the cell greeted Wathelet with a gesture. He raised his right hand in a controlled movement towards his heart. With the palm of his hand, he lightly tapped his chest once before forming his fingers into a fist, which he then turned forward in one motion.

It is the official salute of the Viktorian Guards, serving as their symbolic reference to steam engines and mechanical parts. The movement is intended to make it look as if they are operating an invisible valve control.

With a wave of his hand, Wathelet dismissed the guard. The guard nodded, understanding the unspoken command, and retreated down the corridor, his footsteps fading into the distance.

Wathelet approached the cell, his gaze unwavering. The heavy door groaned open, revealing the shackled figure of Seraphel writhing in pain on the ground. His breathing grew erratic, his body jolting with spasms.