Master of the Loop
Chapter 203: There Was Once a Man Who Could Not Die (III)

Chapter 203

There Was Once a Man Who Could Not Die (III)

There was once a man who could not die. His songs were unsung, his words unspoken, his actions forgotten within the realms of time. The tiny, spirit motes would whisper ‘ere and there, and their whispers winds would bury, for it was heresy to speak of that which cannot be spoken of.

There was rage in the high skies, anger within the observing eyes. Though far, they saw it near–and they feared, protested, struggled. But they could not approach the man who could not die. He was above them, as they were above many others. He was beyond them, as they were beyond most others.

All they could do was watch the story unfold in silence, holding their breaths, wondering how it would end. For, unlike the man, they could die. They were merely old, but they were not eternal. Few things were, and fewer still were of living. Rage, lifetime by lifetime, became envy–and envy was ugly, rooted, festering like an infected wound, all-consuming. They punished the man who could not die, but that punishment was hollow. It was empty. Pointless. Petty. Human.

There was once a man who could not die, his wings of life eternal. His name was spoken into the aeons of nothing and it was known, though never truly uttered. All those who breathed wished to meet the man–but the man was beyond them. He was within a dome cast of things that terrified them. They could not approach, not by eyes, not by lips, not by feet.

For there were red eyes of the wolves, and the sapphire eyes of lions, and beasts beyond description watching them. The secret was within the touch of their lips, yet seemed incomparably far away. They could see, but never acquire. Forever tempted, eternally denied.

Sylas stood upon the cliff overseeing the capital city once again, his expression indifferent, eyes glazed in years eternal. By his side, Asha was playing with a cat they picked up along the way, petting the furry little creature as the latter meowed in protest whenever she stopped.

“I’m going,” he said.

“Good luck,” she replied as he jumped off the cliff and landed on the open plains.

Mere moments later, a figure like a phantom appeared from the rift in space, clad in armour even thicker than the last time. He appeared stout and determined, the look in his eyes one of fearlessness.

“Again?” Sylas chimed in as the world around them began to bleed, just as the last time, transforming from the idyllic plains into the infernal hell, long since forgotten by the time itself.

“Again,” the King replied with a nod and a brief mutter. Sᴇaʀch* Thᴇ NøvᴇlFirᴇ(.)nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of nøvels early and in the highest quality.

A flash of lightning forced Sylas to dip to the side, evading a sky-borne strike as he drew out his sword, slashing forward and bolting like a force unmatched toward the King. The latter blinked backwards and slammed his palms together, unleashing a torrent of a thousand bolts that, like spears, all fell toward Sylas.

Undaunted, he took several hundred head on as he pressed forward, slashing his sword about in deflection of others, crossing the distance between the two and stabbing toward the King’s heart. A transparent barrier deflected the strike and pushed Sylas back as the King used the momentum of collision to grow the distance between the two.

His hands alighted in brilliant sapphire as the world around him began to quake and shake, as though responding to the calling of its god. Sylas ignored it, grinning as blood began to pour out of the corner of his lips. Appearing bedevilled, he slammed forward like a berserk. The King welcomed the approach, spreading out his arms as energy around him flourished, syndicating fractured and fragmented motes of reality into guided missiles. Hundreds of rifts were ripped open around him and began spitting out bolts of lightning as the storm began to rage all around.

Rain began to fall in torrents, a downpour that would drown the world and flood it for aeons. And in their midst was the lightning and thunder, booming and flashing. Sylas’ smile widened as he welcomed the unknown magic. It washed over his body and froze him for a moment. Even he wasn’t entirely indifferent to the paralysing effects of a discharge curated by nature.

But it did not stop him–for he was a man that could not die. He pressed forward through the torrent and through the storm. The King continued flying backward, expending energy in such abundance that left him staggered and terrified. The man in front of him pressed forward, his fleshly body having melted hundreds of times over already. The man’s eyes were charred out, his limbs disintegrated, his arms dismembered. There was enough blood sprayed from his tiny body to fill out a lake–but he pressed forward.

Eventuality happened, however, and the man stopped. It was merely twenty yards away from the King who was running on fumes, too. The downpour had stopped, as did the storm, leaving behind only a few remnants of what once was a cataclysmic apocalypse.

The man was holding himself up with the help of the sword, using it as a cane, keeled over and breathing shallowly. Beneath the dishevelled black hair was a pair of eyes that remained undaunted. In fact, they were smiling. The world around stood in even larger ruin than before, and yet he appeared ruined the most–and smiled still he did. There wasn’t an inch of him that hadn’t melted off or wasn’t scraped as though by sandpaper, but it didn’t seem to matter. The man never once yelped out in pain. He never once cried out. Never so much as exclaimed.

Wyvenul realised that the man was not only impervious and indifferent to death… but to pain as well. It didn’t seem to register as anything more than a persistent reality that the man had grown accustomed to. The King walked up to the man, though still maintained some distance, fearing retaliation.

“You have won,” the man spoke in a clear and brisk voice. “I already told you–if I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t be playing these games. I would simply… well, kill you.”

“How reassuring.”

“Why lightning?” the man suddenly asked.

“Hm?”

“Of all the elements you could have converted your innate energy to,” the man continued. “Why did you choose lightning?”

“... there was a story that my Father used to tell me,” Wyvenul replied as distant memories flooded his mind for a moment. “Once upon a time, there was a tall and inordinately old oak tree. It stood at the centre of the world, thousands of feet up in the air, its canopy a shade to millions of men and animals. It was a gift from the gods to a man’s servitude. Despite it being an oak tree, it bore hundreds of different fruits each year that fed incalculable souls. It survived everything through the years–floods, fires, even storms that sent thousands of bolts of lightning at it.

“Eventually, man grew complacent and greedy and they forgot the gods. They stopped worshipping and praying and begging, and started indulging in sins. And thus, one day, in the midst of what they thought to just be another storm, a gash was ripped open in the sky–one so large that it seemed like a maw of a beast about to swallow the world. But rather than swallow, the gash spat out a bolt of lightning that obliterated the entire tree in a singular flash.”

“...”

“It’s childish and stupid, I know. But I always believed if there was one element that might stand the chance of harming the gods, it was lightning. I was wrong, obviously. It can barely harm you.”

“... I wouldn’t put too much thought into that,” the man replied, seeming to draw the last few breaths in him.

“Why?”

“I’m pretty sure I’m much, much harder to ‘kill’ than the gods,” the man replied as a torrent of shock swam through Wyvenul. “And, unlike me, once they die… they die. They don’t come back like an annoying hound to bite you back. Alas, it seems my time has come. This time around, anyway. If you don’t have more cards in your sleeve, I will kill you the next time, o’ ye mighty King. Don’t make it so boorish. Surprise me more and more.”

“... do you see me simply as entertainment?” the King asked with a wronged expression.

“I see the rest of this world as white noise that may as well not exist,” the man replied with a sombre smile. “You being entertainment… well, it is leagues beyond that. Farewell. Until next time.”

The man drew the last breath but, unlike the last time, the King didn’t feel the twine of time drag him back through hell. Frowning, he looked around when he spotted something that chilled his soul–just a few yards behind him, there was a milky-white doe and an ebony-black crow on top of its head, standing and staring at the man.

“We will help him, dear doe?” the crow seemed to speak suddenly, but Wyvenul couldn’t say a thing. He knew who these two were–they were with her. On par with her. The namesakes of eternity.

“We will help them both, dearest crow,” the doe responded, its beady eyes shifting away from the man who had died to the King. “One to die with dignity, and another to experience joy at last. Let there be a battle never forgotten, not even by time itself.”

“Let there be so, dearest doe.”

“No–”

“It is fine,” the crow interrupted as black tendrils began to shift out of its feathers. “I wish to curate one last spectacle, dearest doe. One last spectacle. Will you allow me?”

“... let it be the grandest spectacle of them all.”

“Let it be so.”

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