Chapter 11:Avalonian Awakening 2
As the moon hangs ominously over the city of Avalonia, it shrouds the damp cobblestone streets in a silvery, spectral glow. Shadows conspire in the corners, whispering secrets of dark triumph.
In the heart of this condemned night, a boy named Elric emerges, silhouetted against the daunting form of a defeated swamp tiger. Blood stains his chin, a cruel red beneath the pallor of his skin, a stark reminder of his violent victory. His blood-red eyes gleam with a primal ecstasy that sends shivers down the spine of the city itself.
Crouching over his kill , he embodies an untamed, savage— tearing flesh with a ferocity that transcends mere survival. he indulged in the taste of conquest, a wave of ecstasy courses through him, almost intoxicating. He tilts his head back, inhaling the night as if it were freedom, his eyes glazed with a fervent longing.
Delirious, he gasps, "Soon… I will leave this wretched place."
Yet, beneath the surface of his dark revelry lurks a fleeting shadow of doubt—an echo of something twisted that challenges his essence.
Suddenly, two Maids emerge from the obsidian veil of night, ethereal figures with stark white hair that glimmers like moonlight against the darkness. They regard him with unsettling serenity, their poise enigmatic.
In unison, their voices flow like silk, smooth yet chilling. "Young Master Elric, the Lord awaits your presence."
Elric's expression twists into disdain. With practiced nonchalance, he swipes blood from his mouth, every movement a subtle dance of irritation and prowess. "Lead the way."
As the maids glide forward, he follows, his predatory gaze raking over their elegant forms. They remain unfazed by his intensity—otherworldly in their mastery, untouched by his ominous aura —as if they are specters of a realm far beyond his grasp.
---
In the distant country of Forsterling, the sun's final breath presents a fiery horizon, enveloping three Children wrapped in the potent essence of their elemental lineage.
At the center stands Sazori, the eldest, his spirit burning as bright as the flames he commands. He shouts across the courtyard, laughter spilling like the flickering embers of a bonfire.
Energized, he calls, "Eon! Come here!"
The younger boy, EON, cloaked in a shroud of death m, gazes back with an unnerving calm. He raises a hand slowly, an echo of his brother's exuberance but muted with lethargy.
Sazori bounds toward him, his joy infectious. "Eon, you're so cold! At this rate, they'll mistake you for our father!"
He playfully punches Eon's shoulder, yet the mere contact meets with a stony facade. Eon's face remains unyielding, a stark contrast to Sazori's spirited demeanor.
Pensive, Eon replies, "No, dear brother. I'm merely contemplating the sound of screams over the wall."
Eon gestures toward a distant skyline, where the outline of an unknown city weighs heavy against the dying light.
A flicker of mischief ignites in Sazori.
"Then let's burn them!"
Eon's laughter drips with a cold malevolence. "Delightful."
In a reckless leap, the brothers vault off the towering wall, Sazori laughing as if untethered from the weight of the world, while Eon descends with the stillness of a predator anticipating its prey.
In quiet contrast, their triplet sister, Suzan, observes with narrowed eyes, her icy demeanor mirroring her elemental affinity. A snarl curls her lips in disbelief.
Muttering to herself, she seethes, "Bastards… all they crave is chaos."
She watches with a racing heart, torn between fascination and fear, unwilling to be ensnared by the dark gravitational pull of her brothers' thrill.
---
Elsewhere, shadows stir with malevolent intention, weaving through the corners of Avalonia, whispering ancient promises of dread.
In the brooding depths of the void clan, darkness looms heavily, where battles rage—echoes of fractured spirits clashing in a maelstrom of ferocity.
"Tap tap tap tap."
Damon maneuvers through the chaos, body embedded against the arena walls. PYO's gaze locks onto him as he releases himself from the prison of stone.
"Pull!" Pyo shouts, stretching out a hand, gripping for Damon with an invisible force.
In a frenzied state, Damon pushes against the void, twisting with harrowing speed, striking at Pyo's back only to recoil as if hitting solid steel.
Crazed, Damon levitates, gathering jagged stones above him, a tempest forming in the sky.
With cold fury, he hisses, "Fall!"
In that instant, three boulders thunder down upon the arena, crashing with cataclysmic strength.
The masked figures on the sidelines gaze with unease, murmuring, "These boys have been trained like wild beasts—each bred solely for battle and bloodshed."
One of the figures cloaked beneath a fox mask, watches with wary eyes.
"This boy is utterly insane," he mutters, concern edging his voice. "If we do not act soon, they will ruin everything."
The leader wearing a black dog mask turns his eyes toward the unfolding chaos, coldly assessing. "Calm yourself; do you think that old devil would allow use escape with our lives if we where to act here. Don't let your foolishness control you."
Apologies spill from the fox mask as panic rises within him.
"Stay focused; we cannot afford to lose our edge," he whispers, glancing around nervously, fearing the consequences of their involvement.
Meanwhile, within Damon's fractured mind he stood I complete darkness, an entity envelops his very essence —a visage ratified in darkness pulsing with terrible familiarity it was confident making it's prescense know.
"When do you plan to let go of my mind?" Damon questions, voice steady despite the turmoil.
Laughter echoes—mocking, visceral. "Hahaha, you don't know me, but I know you—the boy from a distant world," it taunts, It emerged from the veil of twilight like a shadow made flesh—tall, gaunt, and unnervingly silent. Its body, sleek and stretched like a dying star's final scream, was colored in hues of ashen grey, its sinewy muscles taut beneath a skin that seemed both stone and smoke. From its elongated skull rose a crown of twisted, gnarled horns—five of them, coiling like serpents in agony, adorned with tattered remnants of cloth, bones, and charms that whispered of ancient, forgotten rituals.
Where a face should have been, there was a huge tribal mask placed concealing It's face , but it was definitely a sinister creature with no mercy. And yet, it saw. It knew. Every step it took stirred the earth beneath it, as though the land itself recoiled from its presence. Its long arms ended in cruel, claw-like hands, crafted for rending both flesh and sanity. Behind it, the crescent moon hung low, casting an eerie halo that made its monstrous form seem almost divine—an avatar of the eldritch moon itself.
This was no mindless beast. It was a sentinel. A warden. A god's unfinished thought. It moved with intent, with purpose—drawn not by hunger, but by duty twisted through eons of madness.
Damon's heart quickens; fear creeps into his veins he had never seen such a creature in years of god hood.
"I have been with you for years—since you touched that tome," it snarls, laughter reverberating in the recesses of his mind. "Do you know how long it took for you to become vulnerable? I have been waiting, waiting! Yes! ,Yes! Now I have you in my grasp!"
Damon, expressionless, guards his emotions closely. "I don't care what you have to say. Who are you?"
"Oh, me? I am Rafahim of the masquerade realm!" it shrieks. In a shuddering motion, it appears directly behind him, its grotesque form blocking his sight.
"We are Rafahim!"
Damon remains steadfast, still refusing to give in to fear. "Why are you here?"
"Thank you for your existence in this realm—without it, how would I have tasted freedom?" it cackles, darkness swirling around it as five other figures slowly emerge from the shadows.
The madness flows through Damon's mind in torrents—"What should I do? This creature's held me prisoner in my own mind!"
He remembers the masquerade tome, panic rising. "But I never summoned any of the beings from that cursed book…"
"Ooh, the book! Hahaha!" it guffaws, placing its hands on its recognizably grotesque face. "That junk reveals nothing—it merely teaches you how to summon."
With abnormal grace, it dances across the shadows. "Once that book opens, it binds you to a masquerade, one that mirrors your strength. And sometimes, *yes*, sometimes, it gifts you to me!"
The creature's laughter pierces the darkness. "You are trapped with me until your very last breath," it sneers, disappearing back into the abyss, leaving behind an echo of dread.
"I shall see you again hahaha."
---
Suddenly, Damon awakens, his consciousness snapping back to the arena. Pyo lies unconscious on the ground, the cheers of the void family and the Martlock spectators echoing in a triumphant chorus. "Praise be the heavens!"
Amongst the crowd, young faces brim with uneven resolve, aspirations being shaped in the fires of conflict. A beautiful girl watches Damon—her eyes shimmering with admiration and disbelief.
"You have truly grown to be a monster," she murmurs, turning away, her cheeks flushed crimson.
The stage is set, shadows linger, and chaos looms—yet in this moment of mirrored triumph and torment, something brewed in the darkness.