Volume III. The Trials Of The Hollow Crown
The air in the Bleached Plains was still and heavy, a silence so profound it felt like a physical weight. Not far from the haunting silhouette of the Ossuary Valleys, a line of Weeping Stones stood like a row of grieving sentinels.
Massive obsidian formations, their surfaces unnaturally smooth, they wept a thick, viscous black substance that pooled at their bases. The air around them hummed with a low, discordant melody that resolved into the unmistakable sound of distant, echoing sobs.
It was a place shunned by all who had the misfortune to encounter them. Whispers spoke of its curse — a slow, insidious drain on the memories of any who lingered too long, leaving behind hollowed-out husks of men who could not remember their own names. Its origin and purpose were a mystery, a dark stain on the world’s fabric.
A mystery to all but one...
Suddenly, the center of the largest black pool shuddered. A ripple broke its tar-like surface. Then, a hand shot out, formed entirely of the glistening, weeping substance. It was followed by another. Both hands planted themselves on the ground, and with a slow, deliberate heave, a figure pulled itself from the depths.
It stood tall, a humanoid sculpture of living, flowing ink and shadow. For a moment, it was simply a silhouette of purest night against the pale wastes. Then, it shook its entire body, a violent, shuddering motion.
The liquid form rippled, condensed, and solidified. In the span of a few heartbeats, the shapeless entity was gone. In its place stood a young man. He had sun-tanned skin, tousled black hair, and features that were classically, dangerously handsome. But his eyes — a piercing, unnatural crimson — glowed with an intelligence that was anything but human.
He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture casual and familiar, and a wide, triumphant grin spread across his face.
"It’s a success," he murmured, his voice a smooth baritone that held the faintest echo of the stone’s sobbing.
The Architect of Discord—or at least, a significant shard of his consciousness, now housed in a new, mobile vessel—had taken his first free step in over half a million years.
All thanks to the ’help’ of his young friends and a fearsome enemy.
His grin widened as he flexed his fingers, marveling at the sensation of having a physical form again. The body was crude, hastily constructed from the essence of the Weeping Stones and fragments of his own power that had seeped into this cursed place over the centuries. But it would be enough to serve his purposes.
And of course, he couldn’t forget about that mysterious shard of probability. His crimson eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of genuine, calculating curiosity within them.
"Such an interesting little trinket," he mused aloud to the desolate plains, his voice soaking up the silence. "To show me the one future where I lose... so that I could ensure it came to pass in just the right way."
Had it not shown him a vision where he got outsmarted by a mere child and beaten to a pulp by his ancient master, he would have been truly, irrevocably done for. He still gets chills from that phantom pain.
But yeah, that glimpse of a doomed future had been the key to his freedom. It had allowed him to re-calibrate, to layer his deceptions just deeply enough to make his defeat seem like their victory.
"A pyrrhic victory for them," he chuckled, the sound carrying an edge of genuine appreciation. "They think they’ve won, think they’ve sealed me away completely. Meanwhile..."
He gestured to himself, his new form solid and real under the pale light filtering through the perpetual haze of the Bleached Plains. The irony was delicious - their very success had been his salvation. By ’defeating’ him so thoroughly, by believing they had crushed him entirely, they had given him the perfect cover to enact this resurrection.
The Architect began walking, his steps leaving no prints in the ashen ground. His movements were fluid, purposeful, but unhurried. After all, he had waited half a million years; what was a little more time to savor his freedom?
"Now then," he murmured, his crimson gaze sweeping across the horizon, "what to do first? Revenge would be satisfying, but premature. That boy has proven himself... formidable. Even if I could kill him, then I’ll be truly done for. Because his protector..."
The memory of his confrontation with the Winged Tyrant flickered through his mind, bringing with it a healthy dose of wariness. That had been an encounter he had no desire to repeat unprepared.
"No, patience is the most essential. So is observation and understanding." His grin took on a predatory quality. "After all, the most satisfying victories are those where your enemy doesn’t realize they’ve already lost until it’s far too late."
Not to mention the fact that his current self was considerably weak. This makeshift body was a pale shadow of his former power, cobbled together from cursed essence and desperate will. He would need to grow stronger fast. But he would have to be careful and strategic as well.
As if on cue, a low growl rumbled through the heavy air. A pack of Bonehounds emerged from the haze, their forms skeletal and jerky, eyes burning with mindless hunger as they marked their prey. They fanned out, preparing to charge the lone figure.
The Architect’s grin stretched into something wide and unnerving, a predator seeing its first meal delivered on a platter. He slowly ran his tongue over his lips.
The lead Bonehound lunged first, its spectral flames trailing behind it like a comet’s tail. The Architect didn’t even bother to move.
With a casual flick of his fingers, black tendrils erupted from his body like living shadow. They moved with serpentine grace, piercing through the attacking monster’s ribcage with a wet, satisfying crack. The flames in its eyes guttered out as its essence was immediately drawn into the dark appendages.
The remaining five barely had time to register their packmate’s destruction before the tendrils multiplied, spreading out like a web of death. One by one, they were impaled, their ghostly fires extinguished as their power flowed into the Architect’s improvised form.
In just under a minute, the massacre was complete. The Architect stood amid the scattered ashes, his form noticeably more solid, more defined. The absorbed essence had strengthened his vessel considerably.
"Not bad for an appetizer~"
His crimson gaze then lifted, drawn to a shadow circling high above. An Ashwing, a vile creature of smoke and cinder, drawn by the sudden silence where there had been conflict.
"Perfect," he murmured.
But, he didn’t bother with tendrils this time.
’Let’s try out the new move~’
His eyes glowed brighter, and twin beams of concentrated crimson light lanced skyward, striking the aerial predator dead center.
The Ashwing didn’t even have time to screech before it was obliterated, its essence raining down in motes of orange light that the Architect eagerly absorbed.
His form grew more refined with each consumed creature, the makeshift vessel becoming increasingly human-like as it incorporated the stolen vitality. The crude construction smoothed out, features sharpening, muscles gaining definition. Still far from his original power, but no longer the barely-held-together amalgamation he had started with.
"Much better," he murmured, rolling his shoulders and testing the improved flexibility of his new body.
The Architect resumed his journey across the barren landscape, his pace more confident now. Each step carried him further from the Weeping Stones and closer to... well, that remained to be decided. But first, he needed more power, more essence to fuel his new body. The Bleached Plains were teeming with creatures drawn to despair and decay, perfect feeding grounds for someone in his position.
As he walked, he allowed his senses to expand outward, searching for the next opportunity to grow stronger. The air tasted of ash and forgotten echoes, carrying the scent of countless other predators stalking through this desolate realm. Latest content published on NoveIＦire.net
All potential meals, all stepping stones on his path back to true power.
The Architect paused at the crest of a low hill, his crimson gaze sweeping across the endless expanse of pale earth and twisted formations. Somewhere beyond this wasteland lay civilization, lay the boy who had so cleverly orchestrated his downfall, lay all the pieces of the grand game he intended to rejoin.
"Wait for me, little mouse," he called out to the distant horizon, his voice carrying a promise of retribution that the wind seemed eager to deliver. "The cat is out of its bag now, and it’s ever so hungry."
’Our game is just beginning.’
Yet for all his cunning, the Architect had failed to notice that his ’resurrection’ had not gone entirely unobserved.
High above, where the ash-gray sky met the void, a single, unblinking eye of emerald shimmered into existence for a heartbeat, observing the tiny figure below. It saw the patchwork soul, the stolen power, the arrogant stride.
And then, as silently as it had appeared, the eye winked out, leaving no trace but a single, unspoken thought that echoed in the infinite stillness:
’So his intuition proved correct after all.’
’As expected of my boy~’