CH: 23: Death And Crimson Rain
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{Chapter: 23: Death And Crimson Rain}
With desperation breeding ingenuity, he conspired with another prisoner named Heto. Together, they ambushed a Grand Knight who had been struggling to stay conscious. With the precision of seasoned killers, they ended his life swiftly and brutally. His corpse was not mourned; instead, it became a means to an end. Hank, using every ounce of knowledge he had accumulated in his years as a thief, extracted the hardest bones from the fallen knight's body. He spent hours—perhaps days—grinding them down, shaping them into what he believed could serve as a makeshift key.
A key that could open their prison door and grant them escape from this hellish nightmare.
But fate had other plans.
The door's lock was positioned in such a way that he could not see it. He was forced to rely solely on instinct and experience. In his desperation, he miscalculated. The key, his last hope, jammed within the lock. A final, cruel twist of fate saw it snap inside, forever sealing the door shut.
Hank did not take his failure well. His last moments were spent convulsing on the ground, his final breath a choked, bitter gasp. His corpse lay just a few feet away from Pierce, twisted in a position that suggested he had fought against death to the very end.
If not for the naturally cool environment of the underground prison and the peculiar resilience of knights' bodies, rot would have set in long ago. Instead, the dead remained eerily intact, frozen in time like grotesque statues of suffering.
Now, Pierce was the only one left.
Those who were stronger or weaker than him were all dead. Instead, he is the only one with mediocre strength who is still surviving till now! They, either succumbing to their wounds or just dying, futile attempts to escape. The weak had long since faded into oblivion. Somehow, he—a man of merely average strength—was the sole survivor. He did not know why. He did not care.
He only knew that his time was running out.
Perhaps in the next moment, his body would give out. Perhaps the strange affliction that had claimed the others would finally claim him too.
'I heard that many people recall their lives before they die,' Pierce mused. He had never put much stock in such things, but now, standing on death's doorstep, he saw no harm in indulging the tradition.
So, he closed his eyes and let his memories take him.
…
When he opened them again, a smirk, equal parts bitter and mocking, tugged at his lips. Summoning the last of his strength, he slowly raised his middle finger toward the ceiling of his cage.
"What a piece of shit…"
He never finished the sentence.
His heart gave out, and silence reclaimed the cell.
His words may refer to his own life, or they may refer to something else.
—
Far away, in a different part of the manor, Dex paused.
Though separated by distance and walls of stone, he somehow heard those final words. He did not know why, nor did he particularly care. Instead, he chuckled to himself, shaking his head in amusement.
"Dog shit isn't so bad," he mused aloud, his voice dripping with lazy cynicism. "At least it serves a purpose. People go out of their way to avoid stepping in it. But a lot of people? Their lives are meaningless even to the end. One more, one less—it doesn't matter. No one remembers them. No one even acknowledges them. They're not even worth the effort to despise."
His gaze turned distant, lost in thought. A slow, unsettling grin crept onto his lips.
"I don't know if I'll be the last one standing, the one who conquers all and gazes down upon the countless dimensions of the world. But I do know one thing."
His eyes burned with an unnatural intensity.
"I refuse to be forgotten. Whether my name is praised or cursed, whether I am loved or feared, I will carve it into the fabric of the multiverse itself. Even if I cannot be revered, whether it is good or bad. Even if I can't have it revered and worshipped for eternity, I will become a disaster so great that no one will ever forget me. I will be a nightmare that lingers long after the dream has ended."
Dex reached out and dipped his fingers into the teacup before him. The still surface of the liquid rippled as his touch infused it with his magic. Slowly, the clear tea darkened, morphing into a blood-red hue that gleamed ominously in the candlelight. The power coursing through Dex's body coalesced around his fingertips, shaping the liquid into a crimson crystalline droplet that shimmered with unnatural brilliance.
With a single, casual flick, he sent the droplet soaring into the sky, where it vanished beyond the thick clouds above.
---
A deep, guttural rumble echoed across the heavens.
Boom… boom…
The once tranquil sky, devoid of stars, darkened further as dense clouds roiled into place, blotting out all traces of moonlight. The entire capital was swallowed in an abyssal gloom so thick that even an outstretched hand could barely be seen before one's own face. Then, in the oppressive stillness, a fork of lightning streaked through the heavens, illuminating the ominous storm forming above.
What began as a mere drizzle soon intensified, transforming into a torrential downpour. But this was no ordinary rain.
Crimson droplets splattered onto rooftops and stone pathways, pooling in the streets like fresh blood spilled from an unseen wound in the sky. The air was thick with the metallic scent of iron, an aroma so pungent it sent waves of unease rippling through the city. People emerging from their homes recoiled in horror as they realized the rain was staining their skin and clothing red. Terror erupted across the capital.
Screams filled the air.
Men, women, and children alike ran for cover, their frightened cries echoing through the alleys as they desperately sought shelter from the macabre storm. Markets were abandoned in chaos, and temples overflowed with panicked citizens seeking divine protection from this unnatural omen.
Standing beneath the rain, feeling the blood-red droplets trickle down his face, Dex opened his eyes slowly. A faint crimson glow flickered within them as he inhaled the scent of fear that now clung to the air. He tilted his head back slightly, allowing the rain to coat his face, before exhaling a quiet sigh.
"It seems I've been suppressing myself for far too long," he murmured, his voice laced with amusement and something darker. "Perhaps I'm getting sentimental. Ah, well... let this be my farewell gift to my dear test subjects."
---
Royal Palace of the Principality of Madon
"Damn it all!"
James Woz, ruler of the principality, stood at the towering windows of his grand hall, his fingers digging into the velvet curtains as he watched the horror unfold outside. The crimson storm had turned the streets into rivers of blood, and the people's frantic wails only deepened the ominous atmosphere. His face twisted in fury, veins throbbing against his temples.
This was a disaster. A catastrophe that could not have come at a worse time.
With the decisive battle against the Principality of Yar looming ever closer, this disturbing phenomenon would shatter the morale of both the military and the civilians. Whispers of divine wrath and ill omens would spread like wildfire, filling the hearts of his soldiers with dread.
And worst of all, James already had a strong suspicion of who was behind this horror. Yet knowing did nothing to change his predicament. He was powerless to stop it.
Standing nearby, Baron Duke, one of his most trusted advisors, observed his master's fury with a calculating gaze. He hesitated only briefly before stepping forward and bowing slightly.
"My Lord," Duke began carefully, his tone measured, "perhaps we should consider postponing the battle. The people are frightened, and our forces may hesitate in the face of such an ominous sign. However... there may be another way to turn this in our favor."
James's brows furrowed as he turned to face his advisor. "What do you mean?"
Duke allowed himself a small, knowing smirk. "We could reshape the narrative, my Lord. We can claim that this rain is not a curse, but a blessing. A divine omen sent to us as a sign of favor—a sign that we are chosen to emerge victorious in the coming battle."
James scoffed. "Who would believe such nonsense? The sky is raining blood, Duke! It reeks of death and misfortune."
Duke remained unfazed. "No ancient text explicitly states that blood rain is an ill omen, my Lord. It is an eerie sight, yes, but omens are shaped by those who tell the story. If we spread the right tale, with enough conviction, the people will believe it."
James fell silent, considering the idea. It was absurd. Yet…
A slow smirk stretched across his face as realization dawned.
Yes. If there was no precedent, they could create one. The people were desperate for reassurance. If they gave them a compelling story, something inspiring, something that turned fear into hope, they could control the public perception before panic consumed the city.
His expression darkened as he turned back to the storm outside. "Very well," he said at last. "Make up a story—something dramatic, something moving. Have it spread through the streets at dawn. I want our people repeating it before doubt has a chance to fester."
Duke bowed, his smirk widening. "As you command, my Lord."
Thus, before fear could solidify, they would mold it into faith.
And when the battle came, their soldiers would march beneath the blood-red sky, believing themselves blessed by the heavens.
*****
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