Soon, the void that is Est Vacuus, unable to support anything within itself in any capacity without losing what it is, allowed the infinitesimal something that had just entered its expanses to be obliterated and consumed until it returned to its natural state. For such a thing to happen to a living creature, even the smallest single-celled organism, torture is an incredibly useless word. One is never so certain they have a soul as they are the moment it is ripped from their body and destroyed.
The assailant, confident the deed was done, drew back the perfect blade and sheathed it beneath the blanket, careful to not let others see the action or the face of the one who had committed it. They were angry at themselves more than anything. They were well-trained in the control and manipulation of both people and situations, but the old man had struck a very sensitive nerve. The old man was in no way worthy of the destruction he had just endured. It was simply an over-reaction to a fool. Still, it was upsetting even now that the bastard was gone into the nothing. How he had laughed! How he mocked them right to their face! What had he known? What didn't he tell them?
There were no more answers here.
They left the scene of the horrible crime they had just committed. Once they had traveled down the road enough to be gone from the light of the fires and the range of the scouting parties each caravan had established to protect the others while they slept, they cast off the blanket, exposing their twisted visage to the night.
He had been human once, many years ago before the foolishness of mankind tried again to destroy itself. Now he was a terrifying mix of flesh and metal, a hybrid of all the fears of the people in these lands, because not only was he an advanced and efficient machine, he was also a human that possessed the Power on an unrivaled level. Only his right arm, upper torso, and head were still fully human, each being a part of himself he refused to have altered. His arm was toned and strong, his body hard and muscular, his head youthful, but not too much so. His eyes dark and narrow, the head smooth and hairless. His face was handsome once. Now it was scarred and battered, each wound telling a tale of unfathomable evils committed in another life.
Of course, there was also the smile, a glistening beacon of dubious intent. Even small dimples accentuated the edges.
Just like his father.
The rest was extremely similar to the monster that had ordered the destruction of Tan Torna Qu-ay. It was only fitting. It was designed in his image. Right down to the perfect, pleasant voice.
The most non-human part exposed itself. From his back unfolded his large, thin, nearly indestructible mechanical wings. Wide and skeletal, like a synthetic version of the ones belonging to the young man he had been hunting. A young man he had apparently just missed thanks to the interference of the phoenix at the last minute.
This evening’s task was complete, and he had to return to the south where the great army he commanded awaited his next set of orders. He had to ensure the proper next move was made. The wings, in what could be described as a perfect harmony of strength and motion, had him airborne instantly.
The old man was on his mind the whole trip, his laughter echoing like shrill background noise as it went.
He knew something, and it was important enough to defy the creature until the moment of his destruction. That said something very powerful to him as he flew. The old man was a fool, but not so foolish as to laugh at nothing while facing his death. Nor was he insane. Indeed, it was the amount of wit the man had about him that led to him being the one chosen to send Nixon. Damn it, why had he chosen to manipulate such a person. No good could come of it.
Oh well, lesson learned as he carried off south to where his word was law, and no one would dare laugh.
The weapon at his side and his readiness to use it was testimony to that.
Chapter 12
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The Power and the Foolish
From the time they had landed and set camp in the shade of an old cherry orchard he could begin to feel something powerful, but more disconcerting, he could hear the voices that flowed with it as well. This made the phoenix very sad. This was a sadness it had felt before, when last it was awake to clean up the mess of Tokugawa Ryu and his foolish actions.
These were the voices of the past. The lost and trapped. The fallen. The remnants of the powerful souls Ryu had purged. The voices on the edge of the Omnis.
Aryu was a complete wreck by this point in the trip. Nixon had maintained a hard and exhausting pace. Although he was much faster than even a few days ago, he was still nothing compared to Nixon.
The nights and moments of rest were almost as bad. The two unlikely compatriots were through the feeling out process of one another and had begun what could best be described as a very young acquaintanceship. For Aryu and Nixon, it seemed to be more of a teacher and student connection. Nixon told his stories and tried to express to Aryu the needs and morals of each. Aryu listened, enjoying the story more than the message, and took a little something from each one.
On day two, the question of the sword was asked.
“Do ya know how to handle such a thing, Aryu?” he was asked. “Could ya defend yerself if ya needed to?”
Aryu, unsure of the answer,
