Note: This chapter contains severe, sustained scenes of extreme graphic violence, mutilation, and body horror. Be advised for detailed descriptions of gore, infanticide, and psychological torture
***
Zazm got up, his hand flicking once through the dim light.
A faint crack echoed — and the room dissolved around them.
When the world settled again, they stood in an enormous chamber.
The air was heavy — metallic. Silent.
Paul remained tied to the chair, his eyes darting rapidly as his breathing grew shallow.
Before him stretched a vast range — an industrial training ground, but the targets were not wood or steel.
They were people.
Dozens of humans — men and women of different ages— hung by their wrists from iron rods. Their bodies sagged, limp and unconscious. Some twitched faintly, others did not.
Paul's eyes widened. His throat made a dry sound, no words forming.
Zazm's voice cut through the air, calm and eerily composed.
"You may recognize some of these faces."
Paul turned slowly, scanning the hanging figures. And then he froze. His lips trembled. Recognition flickered in his gaze — once, twice, again.
Zazm continued, his tone still steady, precise.
"Throughout your life, you've had children with several women. But you provided for them, didn't you?
You gave their mothers enough money to raise your offspring in peace. Enough to last generations."
Paul swallowed hard, his voice cracking.
"You… you knew about that…?"
Zazm didn't look at him. He walked forward, inspecting the row of hanging bodies as though he were checking a collection of tools.
"Even you," he said softly, "aren't the kind of trash to abandon them."
Paul's pulse quickened. His chair creaked as he shifted.
"What are you planning?"
Zazm turned his head, the faintest tilt — not an expression, just motion.
"All seventy-eight people you see hanging before you," he said, "are your own children."
Paul's mouth fell open. He looked from one body to the next — disbelief warping into something more fragile, more terrified.
His breathing hitched.
"No… no, that's impossible…"
Zazm's gaze didn't move. "Some of them may not know you. But you know them. You've kept records, you've sent their mothers funds. Why thought?....You didn't wanted to ruin your reputation...?"
"No it's more like you still loved them."
Paul shook his head violently.
"What… what are you trying to do…?"
Paul's breath hitched, a thin, panicked squeak, as Zazm moved toward a darkened corner.
He returned, holding a box wrapped in cheap, cheerful gift paper, the mockery of it making Paul's stomach clench.
"Why don't you open this?" Zazm's voice was utterly flat—a sheet of cold iron. He untied Paul with a casual efficiency that spoke volumes of his contempt.
Paul's trembling fingers tore at the paper. As the lid lifted, the air seemed to congeal. His eyes didn't just widen; they shattered.
A choked, inhuman sound—a sound that could never be taken back—tore from his throat. He flung the box away, his body recoiling as if struck by lightning.
Inside, resting on a bed of stained velvet, was the severed head of a baby. It was small, delicate, and pale, the eyes dull milky marbles staring upward, a thin, dark line of coagulated blood tracing a smile beneath the chin.
"You must remember your youngest son," Zazm stated, his gaze fixed on the severed head, as if merely reciting a weather report. "Born only a few months back."
"You monster…" Paul stuttered, his knees giving out beneath him.
Zazm finally looked at him, his black eyes as hollow as the abyss, his expression unchanged.
"Yes, you're right. I'm a monster."
The air around Zazm shuddered, not with heat, but a profound coldness. His hand rose, and a meter-long, triangular steel spike, sharp enough to shave air, appeared in his grasp.
"Every second, one of your kids dies," Zazm said, his expression unchanged. He brought his arm back, not with effort, but mechanical precision, and slung the rod like a javelin.
The steel spear struck the first boy, not breaking the skin, but punching through it.
The man's face disintegrated into a spray of bone fragments, teeth, and hot, sticky arterial blood.
The rod's force carried it through the shattered back of the skull and continued, impaling the girl directly behind him.
The impact of the second kill was less messy—it punched straight through her chest, erupting from her spine in a bloom of rib-shards and aerated lung tissue.
The rod vibrated, the two children collapsing instantly, their blood already mixing into a glistening, dark pool.
Zazm raised his hand.
Another rod.
Another second.
Another death.
Splat.
A child crumpled, the spike skewering their abdomen, guts instantly spilling out in a heavy, steaming rope of gray and crimson. Crack. Another fell, the rod pinning their knee to their shoulder, their torso bent into an impossible, agonizing angle.
Paul's mind simply refused to process the kaleidoscope of ruin. He curled into a tight, shaking ball, rocking back and forth.
"This is a nightmare, a bad dream… It's an illusion, none of it is real…" he whispered, his sanity fraying like old rope.
Zazm walked closer. His boot swung out, connecting with Paul's side in a crushing, casual impact that stole the Supreme Commander's breath and sent him skidding.
Zazm grabbed Paul by the wet hair, hauling his tear-streaked face upward.
"Look carefully."
Another spike zipped from Zazm's hand, finding a girl—and piercing her heart with surgical brutality. She stiffened, a silent fountain of blood spurting briefly from the entry wound before her body went slack.
"Anna…" Paul choked out, his voice a ragged whisper of recognition and absolute horror.
Zazm leaned down, his face a chilling mask of disinterest.
"Oh, so you knew her name?"
He didn't pause. He summoned another rod and fired it into Anna's gut. The steel spike tore through, pushing deep inside her gut as blood flowed down.
Shink.
Another rod struck her face, obliterating an eye socket and burying itself deep into her mandible.
Thwack.
One more pinned her forearm, shattering the radius and ulna into powder. Clang. The final one bored through her thigh, tearing the muscle into strips.
Paul watched as the body, now a grotesque, multi-impaled pincushion, was systematically torn apart.
"Stop! STOP!" Paul screamed, his sanity snapping. Driven by primal, impotent fury, he lunged, seizing Zazm's collar and shoving him to the cold stone. Paul scrambled on top, his hands clamping onto Zazm's throat with desperation to strangle him.
"I'll kill you! I'LL KILL YOU!" Paul roared, his vision red.
Zazm's eyes, still hollow and emotionless, gazed past Paul's head. The attempt to strangle him was met with the same cold indifference a mountain shows a flea.
Zazm's legs moved, slamming his boots into Paul's ribs, the force sending Paul rolling away, gasping.
Zazm rose. A spike appeared. He brought it down, not throwing it, but plunging it through Paul's forearm and into the stone floor. The pain was absolute, a white-hot electrical current.
Paul's scream was cut short as a second spike materialized. Zazm slammed it down through Paul's other arm, crushing the bone and riveting the arm flush to the floor.
Paul was now a living, screaming display, pinned like an insect, the stone slick and warm beneath his arms with his own rapidly pooling blood.
The spikes held Paul rigid, the stone beneath his arms rapidly darkening. The pain was a blinding, screaming entity, yet it was the ruined, lifeless tableau of bodies that truly flayed his mind.
"Stop!" Paul's scream tore itself free, ragged and desperate.
"I'll listen! I'll do everything!"
He strained against the steel, the pins shearing and tearing at his muscle fibers, until he could wrench his bloodied hands free.
He collapsed, crawling toward Zazm's feet, his elbows dragging smears of crimson on the floor.
He seized Zazm's boots, his face buried against the hard leather.
"Please, no more... spare my life and the rest of my children.... I'll be your slave for the rest of my life, and even after death, just…"
Zazm's foot moved with abrupt, surgical force, a sharp, dispassionate kick that slammed into Paul's face. The heelbone crunched against his cheek, instantly cutting off the groveling plea.
"Don't touch me," Zazm stated, his voice devoid of annoyance, simply stating a rule.
Paul rolled away, spitting a mouthful of blood and a broken tooth onto the stone.
He scrambled back to his knees, then bowed low, his forehead hovering inches from the ground, the position of absolute subservience.
A final, sharp clink sounded as Zazm teleported a rod, throwing it carelessly into the air. It vanished before hitting anything.
Zazm walked past Paul to a his seat nearby and settled into it, looking more like an emperor than a torturer.
"It was this simple," Zazm said, his tone one of monotone and cold. "Had you done this a few seconds back, you would have saved 28 of your kids."
Zazm snapped his fingers, and the sudden, awful silence that followed was louder than any scream.
The survivors—were simply gone, their places empty. But the massacre itself remained. The stone floor was a slick, dark canvas of blood and viscous bodily fluids.
The scent of fresh copper and steaming organ matter hung thick and nauseating in the air. The twenty eight impaled bodies still hunged like broken dolls, steel spikes riveting shattered bone and ruined flesh to the ground.
Zazm had removed the insignificant witnesses, but the horrific proof of his power and Paul's total defeat was left behind, utterly undeniable.
"They'll be in their houses now," Zazm stated, granting the reprieve not as a gift, but as a tedious, administrative action.
Paul remained frozen, his head pressed to the floor, breathing shallowly into the dust. The overwhelming tide of horror began to recede, replaced by a cold, sharp core of instinctual survival and political ruthlessness.
He was a Supreme Commander. He could not afford insanity. He could only afford obedience.
"Thank you for your mercy," Paul whispered, the words tasting like rust and ash.
Zazm stood up. As Paul lifted his gaze, the world skipped. The cold, bloody room was gone. They were instantly back in the gilded, secure opulence of Paul's own private chambers.
Zazm extended his hand. A faint, sterile blue light washed over Paul, and the pierced, mangled flesh of his arms knitted together with a sickening speed that felt wrong and unnatural.
The pain was gone, but a deep, bone-deep phantom ache remained—a constant, physical reminder of the spikes.
Zazm closed the distance, his height imposing, and leaned in, the chill of his presence a physical weight. "Now, as per what you said: you are my slave."
Paul swallowed, the terror still bubbling just beneath his newly imposed composure. He straightened slightly, meeting the hollow, indifferent gaze.
He gave a sharp, formal nod, the corrupted leader reasserting control over his own shattered nerves.
"Yes."
"Then what I want is simple," Zazm continued.
"Get out of my way, and get rid of Supreme Commander Gilgamesh as well. The means are irrelevant."
"I will do that," Paul replied, his voice still ragged but regaining its old, hard edge of authority. "And I won't ever speak of this with anyone."
Zazm straightened, his face utterly unreadable, a statue carved from glacial ice.
"As you should." He paused, the cold eyes raking over Paul one last time, a predator measuring its newly broken, but useful, tool.
Zazm was about to step into the doorway, his silhouette stark against the opulent light of the chamber, when he suddenly halted.
He turned back toward Paul, the coldness in his eyes momentarily replaced by a deep, weary hollowness.
"Just like you," Zazm's voice was low, a rasp of sound that seemed worn down by years of suffering, "I have to do this for the sake of my family."
The statement was a psychological weapon, a final, brutal link connecting Zazm's monumental evil to Paul's petty corruption.
He didn't wait for a response. He simply turned and walked into the space where the doorway should have been, his voice fading with his form.
"I know someday they'll come to know of what I did and would despise and hate me. But that's fine."
The last word, fine, was the sound of a man accepting an eternal, self-imposed damnation. Zazm's body shimmered, dissolving into the air like cold smoke, leaving Paul alone in the vast, unnaturally quiet chamber.
---
Evening draped itself across the NullFlux district like a quiet mourning cloth. The command building lights shimmered against a sky too peaceful for the weight carried beneath it.
Lorriel stepped out of the hall after the meeting ended, the echo of responsibilities still chasing her heels.
"Toreth, hold up," she called out.
Toreth did not look back. His steps were tired, unhurried — the walk of a man drained beyond what a battlefield could do. Lorriel hurried forward and placed her hand on his shoulder.
He weakly shrugged it away, not aggressively — rather like someone whose strength had evaporated.
"Leave me alone, sister," he said, voice rough and exhausted.
"Not like how you are," Lorriel replied, worry tightening her throat.
Toreth — Supreme Commander, legendary engineer— gave a broken half-smile.
"I'm fine."
Lorriel opened her mouth to argue… but her voice locked itself behind clenched fists. She forced herself to turn away…
And saw Renzo standing nearby.
She inhaled.
"…Can I ask you for a favor, Renzo?"
---
Minos' footsteps echoed through towering machinery halls — walls alive with wires, gears, and glowing conduits guiding power through the beating mechanical heart of the Bastion.
He finally stood before the largest, most central tower. The entrance doors — massive steel, reinforced with obsidian plates — slid open with a deep hiss.
Minos entered… and knocked once on the giant office doors.
They opened.
Renzo sat behind a monumental desk of metal and crystal, cloaked in shadow like a titan resting.
Minos bowed deeply.
"Is there anything you want, Supreme Commander Renzo?"
Renzo nodded once.
"I wanted to tell you about the incident that occurred in EIAA."
Minos swallowed, bracing.
Renzo finished the report — short, blunt, merciless.
Minos' eyes widened, horror seizing his chest.
"This can't be…" he gasped, stepping forward.
"Yes," Renzo confirmed, folding his massive fingers. "However your friends are fine. You should go and meet them."
Minos forced his voice steady — but his trembling shoulders, his pale face, his shaking hands exposed him.
"I'll have to ask Supreme Commander Toreth for permission to leave."
"No need, for the time being," Renzo replied.
"All the decisions of Ember Forge fall on me."
Minos blinked. "Did something happen to Supreme Commander Toreth?"
Renzo let out a slow sigh.
"…Just think it like that."
He paused.
"But on the other hand… I suppose it wouldn't be too bad for you to talk to him yourself."
The ten-foot commander stood, cloak brushing the steel tiles like thunder.
"Follow me."
Minos said nothing — only obeyed, small in comparison to the walking mountain before him.
They entered the teleportation chamber and Renzo raised his sleeve — the AMI mark glowing under a scanner.
A blinding flash swallowed them—
They stood before an enormous estate — marble gates stretching into the skyline. Elegant gardens lined the path, sculptures of ancient engineers and fallen commanders watching over the grounds.
"Where is thi—?" Minos began.
"This is where Toreth lives," Renzo answered. "Recently… he has closed himself off in his room."
Renzo advanced. Minos followed.
Guards opened the gates instantly — bowing with urgency.
Gardeners halted their work to bow.
Maids hurriedly lowered their heads.
A refined butler in a black coat arrived.
"Good afternoon, Supreme Commander Renzo… and the student of the lord."
Minos blinked — confused.
"We're here to meet Toreth," Renzo stated.
The butler's polite expression cracked with concern.
"I don't think that's a good choice right now, Supreme Commander."
"I'm well aware," Renzo replied, "but someone needs to check up on him."
The butler finally nodded.
"Yes… you're correct. Then… how about you first meet Supreme Commander Lorriel?"
"Miss Lorriel is here?" Renzo asked.
The butler nodded.
"Alright," Renzo said. "Take us to her."
They crossed floors of polished white stone veined with emerald. Long banners hung displaying the history of Sable Veil's most decorated family. Chandeliers shaped like crystalline gyros spun gently overhead. The air smelled faintly of old paper, steel, and lavender.
The butler opened massive double doors.
"Kindly wait here," he said.
Renzo and Minos stepped inside — a grand sitting room with couches softer than clouds. Minos sat and almost sank too deep, blinking.
'These are some hella soft cushions…'
He forced himself to sit stiffly.
Four maids arrived, pushing serving trolleys, filling the table in seconds with pastries, snacks, and sweets that sparkled under the lights.
'Hospitality sure is something… and these look insanely good…'
Minos glanced at Renzo's stern expression.
'Yeah… definitely not the time to eat.'
The doors opened again.
Both stood instantly.
Supreme Commander Lorriel stepped in — green hair flowing freely, long elven ears visible, dressed casually: a soft sweater, fitted trousers, not her uniform that felt like she lived in that, no formal cloak.
Humanizing yet commanding.
Renzo offered his hand.
"Good afternoon, Supreme Commander Lorriel."
Lorriel nodded lightly.
"It's nice to see you, Renzo. As well as you, Minos."
Minos nodded, staring a moment too long.
Lorriel raised a brow. "Is it really that rare to see me in normal clothes?"
Minos flushed. "Sorry… but yes."
Renzo added calmly:
"She only goes home to sleep and works almost all day. That's Supreme Commander Lorriel."
Lorriel sighed. "I'm a doctor. My job is to help people, not wander around. And the position I have demands a lot."
She rubbed her temple.
"I'd dump it all and retire — but then I feel bad for Aina. And I doubt I'll be allowed to retire till I die."
"You can retire," Renzo noted. "You've been a Supreme Commander for almost 400 years now."
She clicked her tongue.
"Trust me — I'd love to retire, find a man, have kids — but the way things are going, I'll have to marry Death and call newborn planets my children."
Renzo and Minos let out a brief, surprised laugh.
"I didn't know you were so old, Supreme Commander Lorriel," Minos admitted.
"I'm an elf," she replied flatly. "One with an AMI mark."
"What does that mean?" Minos asked.
Renzo answered:
"Elves, unlike humans who live 90 years max, can live up to 2000 years. And an AMI mark increases lifespan even more. So Miss Lorriel is probably 15–18 years old… if you understand now."
"Oh… I see." Minos muttered, eyes wide.
'She's… way more chill without the uniform…'
Renzo crossed his arms.
"It's surprising for you to take a day off."
Lorriel exhaled sharply.
"I wouldn't — however I'm afraid my dumb brother might drown himself, so I had to. He's the only family I have left."
"It's understandable," Renzo said.
"It is," Lorriel replied. "But he's a Supreme Commander. He can't just throw himself like that."
"Should I go meet him?" Renzo asked.
"If he opens the door," Lorriel muttered. "He might open it for Minos."
"Me?" Minos pointed at himself.
"He enjoyed training you," Lorriel replied.
"Kept yapping about how he taught you this today, and that."
Renzo nodded.
"He sees you like his own kid. I think it'll be good if you go instead."
---
"And that's how I ended up here…" Minos sighed — staring at the dark wooden door that separated him from one of the people he admired most.
He swallowed, anxiety tightening his chest.
"But what even is wrong with Sir Toreth…? I have no idea…"
He inhaled deeply.
"…Here goes nothing."
He opened the door and went inside.
Darkness swallowed the place — curtains shut tight, only narrow slices of moonlight leaking through the cracks. The room had the look of an old fantasy war chamber: ancient wooden furniture, brass instruments, aging portraits — everything covered in an eerie stillness.
"Sir Toreth?" Minos called out. "It's me…"
A voice from the shadows:
"Why are you here, kid?"
Minos turned — and saw him.
Toreth sat slumped in a chair beside the massive bed. Long green hair unkempt, spilling over his face. Shirt unbuttoned. A bottle of alcohol dangling from his fingers — more empty bottles scattered around.
Minos stepped forward — then instantly covered his nose.
The smell of alcohol hit like a wall.
Toreth gave a tired crooked grin.
"You should keep a distance. I smell like shit right now."
Minos remained where he was.
"Sir Toreth… what exactly happened to you? Why are you sitting like this — drinking — when you don't even like alcohol?"
'That's right… Sir Toreth hates alcohol. He Always avoided it.'
"Alot happened, man. Alot." Toreth muttered, voice sinking.
He lifted the bottle slightly, gesturing toward a chair.
"Sit down, Minos. I'll tell you everything."
"P-Pardon?" Minos hesitated — then obeyed.
Toreth leaned his head back, staring upward — as if the past was painted on the ceiling.
"Where should I start…?
Now…
Uhh… let's go from the beginning."
"My dad… was the Supreme Commander of Sable Veil before my sister. My mom was a great doctor. It's like our family job — before my father, his dad was Supreme Commander too."
His hand trembled faintly.
"But I never wanted to become a doctor. I loved machines. Wanted to take them apart — build something new from nothing."
He exhaled shakily.
"My dad hated that. Always telling me I had to become the next Supreme Commander… and I rebelled. Hard."
The memories dragged a fragile smile from him.
"I ran from school. Went drinking. Clubs. Parties. My sister kept defending me… supporting me… hoping I'd find myself."
He wiped his eyes — but tears still formed.
"My father eventually gave up and passed the position to Lorriel. But I kept building… more inventions… more machines… and before I knew it — I became a Supreme Commander anyway. And they called me 'The Legendary Engineer.'"
He let out a hollow laugh.
"My parents had already died to remnants by then… and stupid me — I didn't care. Not enough."
His voice trembled.
"I worked two days a week. Partied the rest."
He shook his head.
"Then one day — she came crashing into one of my parties."
A name left his lips like a wound reopening:
"Myterl."
He stared at the floor — eyes glassy.
"I still remember her words:
'You're a Supreme Commander. Act like one. Stop this bullshit and get back to your position.'"
A broken chuckle.
"She was just as beautiful as ever. I was furious — a human Supreme Commander, lecturing me? Someone who'd die so much earlier than me?"
He swallowed.
"I didn't listen. But that insane woman dragged me to a battlefield — threw me right into the front — and said:
'Look.'"
The smile vanished.
"That's when I saw hell for the first time."
He rubbed his face with both hands — voice barely stable.
"We barely had soldiers with AMI marks… Renzo and a few others were working hard but since I kept neglecing my duties others got chill aswell. People were dying. Screaming. Burning. All because I had been selfish."
He exhaled.
"I laid awake afterward… staring at the ceiling. Realizing the weight I held… and the lives I had ignored."
His voice hardened — painful truth.
"I promised myself I would never drink, or smoke, or party again. And I kept that promise."
His mouth curved into a shaky smile.
"But I never forgot Myterl… she always looked like she was glowing. Charming. Inspiring. I wanted to confess but… always waited for the 'right moment.' Next time. After the war. When things calm down."
He choked.
"…But that time never came. And now she's gone."
He dropped the bottle — glass clinked against the floor.
"I'm so pathetic… I couldn't confess to the person I wanted the most. And now in her memory, I'm hurting the only family I have left."
A tear fell.
"I wasn't a good son either… I thought my parents were wrong. But they only wanted to save lives."
His voice cracked loudly now.
"I couldn't become anything! My title — everything — means nothing!"
Minos stood — instinctively.
"Sir Toreth… didn't you promise yourself you would never drink or smoke again? Then why…?"
Toreth offered the saddest smile Minos had ever seen.
"It's because I plan to retire, Minos. I plan to leave everything and live quietly somewhere."
"You can't do that!" Minos grabbed the armrests. "What about your duties? Your responsibilities? And… your craft?"
Toreth slowly pushed himself to his feet — swaying but steadying.
"You're right," he whispered. "That's why I won't be retiring right now."
He looked back — eyes softening.
"I'm going to make sure you become the next Legendary Engineer. And once that's done…"
His voice lowered — gentle, final:
"I'm going to rest."
He turned toward the bathroom — pausing at the doorway.
A faint smile.
"Thanks, Minos. I really needed someone to just throw it all at."
"Wh——WHA—" Minos stood frozen and shook.
"WHATTT DID HE JUST SAY?"
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