A searing wave of pain washed over Sergei as he regained consciousness. Everything in his body felt like it was burning. His senses refused to come back to him; the world around him was silent and dark, with no sense of hot or cold. It felt like he was floating within a bottomless abyss.
Pins and needles shot down his spine and spread out across his arms and legs in a flash, and the concept of temperature returned. The surface beneath him was ice cold, almost soothing to the touch. Soon after came the deafening ringing in Sergei's ears, which quickly subsided, sparing his ears further torment.
His surroundings were silent save for the quiet tapping of rain outside and the occasional rumble of thunder that growled slowly through the air. Finally, vision returned in a mentally sickening assault of blurriness, static noise, and vortexes that made Sergei feel like his head was being torn apart in a million different ways. Eventually this effect ebbed away and was replaced with a monotonous grey stone ceiling.
Twisting his neck sent spasms of pain throughout his entire body, pleading with him to stop moving. Sergei gritted his teeth as he slowly sat up and looked carefully around the room, analysing every detail that he could see. It was a relatively small room that was dimly lit with a few lanterns that were left smouldering on benches that lined the walls. Smoke leaked lazily from the thin gaps in the glass case of the lanterns, drifting slowly up to the ceiling and dispersing into nothingness. Sergei swung his legs carefully over the edge of the stone bed that he had been lying on. Looking down at his body, he could see that his upper body was completely wrapped in bandages along with his left arm. His right leg was also strapped tightly with bandages, stopping just above the knee. Thankfully, he still had his trousers despite them having been fashioned into crude shorts that were singed at the edges. Everything moved as expected, with no immediate indication of bone fractures or torn muscles, yet moving still sent jolts of pain through him. In one corner of the room was a small pile of items that Sergei assumed to be some of his gear, judging by some of the silhouettes.
Limping over to inspect it, he found that his protective gear, or what remained of it, was a charred black mess that had been rendered unusable. Tossing this aside, he found other items: his sniper rifle and assault rifle, both in varying conditions. He scanned the pile for his sidearm, but its familiar shape was absent. The black metal of the sniper rifle seemed completely fine, but the wooden parts were missing. Similarly, the main body of the assault rifle was intact, but the bullets within its magazine had melted, fusing into a solid block of metal. Both defects render each weapon useless for the time being. The only usable weapon was a knuckleduster made of the same material as the rifle.
Sergei picked it up to get a better feel for it. A four-leaf clover engraved onto both sides was a lot heavier than it should have been.
"Luck-obsessed bastard." Grumbled Sergei under his breath.
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It was the early hours of the morning when Captain Lysander Thorne set down his quill, the report of the day's events finally complete. His superior officer back at the capital was notoriously particular about details, and Captain Thorne knew it was in his own best interest to avoid antagonising him. Rain slammed against the window in an effort to force its way in. Lightning struck at random intervals, illuminating Captain Thorne's study with a ghostly glow. Thunder followed not long after, rumbling steadily through the walls and floors and deep in his bones. Bookshelves lined the walls of the study, yet they were covered with more dust than they held actual volumes or scrolls. A large desk sat in the middle of the room, scuffed but well cared for. It had a neat pile of papers on one side that made up the report and a disorderly stack on the other that consisted of failed drafts.
Suddenly, his study door slammed open, and a guard stood there panting for a moment to catch his breath.
"Sir!" The guard panted, struggling to catch his breath. "That guy... the one you found... on the mountain... You'd better... take a look... for yourself!" he stammered out.
Captain Thorne glared at the guard. The sudden intrusion had made him spill the inkwell, which now lay shattered on the floor, its contents splashing across both piles of paper and his uniform. His frustration, however, was fleeting. He stood abruptly and swiftly followed the guard towards the source of the commotion. Men cleared a path for the captain as he marched past. The sounds of fighting grew louder, echoing off the walls as he neared. Turning a corner, he watched another guard fall unconscious, adding to the growing heap on the floor.
The adventurer—or so Captain Thorne presumed him to be—had been well cared for, just as he had ordered. Thorne could see that despite the significant healing magic already administered, much more was needed before the man would be in any condition to undertake such exertion—let alone what he was currently achieving. A total of ten men lay unconscious on the corridor floor—a mixture of mages and warriors, many bloodied. The bandages that covered the adventurer were stained a crimson red, and the bandage on his left arm had come loose, revealing severe burn scars that were healing cleanly. In his right hand, he gripped a black metal bar that wrapped around his fingers. Light from the lanterns overhead danced on its surface, which dripped slowly with blood. He was standing in the middle of the corridor, breathing heavily as the small group that had gathered stood, watching him, unsure what to do.
Captain Thorne pulled the nearest guard towards him. "Why haven't any of the mages cast any spells on him?" he asked the mage, a hint of worry in his voice. The mage jumped in surprise and took a step back at the captain's sudden presence, bowed his head, and quickly stuttered an answer.
"Sir, all of the mages that are here can't cast any spells because their counterpart simply isn't here. The ones that attempted to have already been knocked out, sir," replied the mage sheepishly.
Captain Thorne sighed deeply. "Dammit. Get Caspian Vancroft, he'll be in his chambers, they're in the topmost northern corner of the barracks. Tell him to come quickly. In the meantime, I'll have to keep our "guest" occupied for a while."
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Sergei was exhausted. The wave of guards had been tougher than he had expected; some of them had been a lot weaker than the rest, but the majority had been a pain to fight against. Although they had no fighting technique, their sheer strength and durability made winning no easy task. The confined space of the corridor meant that only one guard could fight him at a time, but it also meant that there was only one direction for Sergei to go.
A small group had formed at the end of the corridor during the fighting, but none of them dared to come forward after seeing what became of their colleagues. A few moments later, another guard arrived, except he gave off the impression of superiority. His posture was perfect along with his uniform, meaning that he was probably a captain. He was significantly taller than the guards, by around 6 inches or so, making it impossible for Sergei to not notice him. After a quick exchange with one of the guards at the back of the group, he pushed his way forward and took a fighting stance against Sergei.
Really? Thought Sergei. For someone of higher rank, I would have thought that he would have a better grasp of fighting fundamentals. His fighting stance is worse than the lackeys'.
Sergei blinked, and the captain had disappeared. A gust of wind rushed past him as he snapped around to feel his nose get crushed. Blood exploded down his face, pooling beneath him on the floor. Suddenly, Sergei felt himself get smashed against the wall, not registering that he had been in the air for a few seconds before. His left arm twisted in a sickening crunch, and his vision blurred.
What the fuck just happened? This guy's a monster, even with his shitty form.
Stumbling back to his feet to face the captain again, Sergei blinked again, and his opponent was gone. Ducking down and wildly spinning around, Sergei, by sheer chance, swept the captain's legs out from under him. The surprised captain managed to land on both feet, but as he looked up, Sergei's fist made contact with his face. The sudden attack made him take a few unguarded steps back, and this moment of vulnerability did not go unpunished. Sergei dashed forward, closing the gap between him and his opponent, and began to relentlessly pummel the captain.
Why can't I move? What is this?
Sergei's body had locked up. His fist had been stopped mere millimetres away from the captain's right eye, just barely sparing him from the lethal consequences. The captain stepped to the side to reveal a mage scribble something in the air, leaving behind trails of glowing yellow light. Sergei then felt a heavy weight press down on him, and his senses instantly cut to black.
Shit.
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Sergei's senses began to slowly drift back to him. At first it was the sharp crackle of fire, then the faint dancing shadows cast on the stone floor. The room was cold despite the fire, with very little furniture and no decorations. He was sat in a sturdy wooden chair, bound by invisible restraints that gave Sergei no room to move. Looking up, Sergei was greeted with the stone cold expressions of the Captain, who was sat behind a desk, and another man who was pacing behind him. At the sight of Sergei waking up, the Captain's face lit up.
"Sleep well?" Staerted the Captain.
Sergei had many questions. To begin with, how was he now able to understand what the people of this world were saying?
"Do you understand the words that are coming out of my mouth?" Asked the Captain, each word extended out to an annoying length. Sergei nodded once, but maintained his trained silence, his act of 'The Grey Man'. After around half an hour of questioning, the Captain gave up. The only information that Sergei gave was his name.
"Alright. Vancroft, he's all yours." Sighed the Captain. A small smile grew on the face of the man who was pacing behind him as he turned his attention towards Sergei. The man named Vancroft began waving his gloved right hand through the air, leaving behind a thin trail of light. A few minutes later and it suddenly shrunk down to the size of a coin on Vancroft's right thumb. He took three steps towards Sergei and gripped his head in his hand, placing his thumb in the middle of his forehead. Sergei writhed in his chair to no avail, and his mind was dragged back into darkness.
Captain Thorne had absolute faith in Caspian Vancroft. If there was something that the Captain couldn't do, Caspian always could. That was always true before they met Sergei Stalnoy. The mind delving spell was powerful, but it didn't come without any drawbacks. It was highly taxing on the Conduit, in this case the Captain, and sometimes resulted in fatalities. Except this time, the Captain had not been drained of an ounce of his aetherion. In fact it was Caspian Vancroft who was suffering, albeit psychological.
"Caspian what happened? What's wrong?" Stammered the Captain, he had never seen Vancroft so shaken up before. It was as if he had seen hell.
Caspian was silent for a moment before responding, steadying himself and breathing deeply. "There are two parts two his mind. The first, an empty abyss. Cold, dark, and silent. Absolute nothingness. It's like a concept that verges on non-existence, or something so large that it's impossible to comprehend. The second.... I can't describe. Everything is just... overwhelming." Throughout all of this, Caspian was stuttering, stumbling over his thoughts as he tried to grasp what he had just seen.
Sergei was of course delighted. He hadn't the slightest clue as to what had just happened, but he knew that he had psychologicaly won against Caspian Vancroft. Now it was time to get the Captain, and then the war would be his.
"Your mind does not work like that of living men. So tell me, what are you? A demon? Or something else?" The Captain's voice was measured and firm, but his eyes sold him out. Sergei grinned, and decided to finally drop the act of 'The Grey Man'.
"You see something you can't understand, and instantly begin making baseless claims. A monster. It's boring. It's pathetic. Seriously, is this how your society is ruled? Through some scripture that robs people of their freedom?" Sergei chuckled softly. He knew it was a gamble with many unknown factors, but it was working wonders.
"Blasphemy is a crime punishable by the pyre as a minimum sentence. Watch your words." Snapped The Captain, his calm facade cracking. "Enough of this." He continued, "What kind of artifacts did you carry here?" He pulled out the gear that had been found with Sergei originally from under his desk, and slammed them one by one onto the table. "They have no enchantments, weigh practically nothing compared to their sizes, and are made of material I know of. With these items, what master do you serve?"
"I serve masters that can destroy anything and everything with a single command. Almost nothing is impossible." The 'Emisary of Gods' card. It was his best chance of getting what he wanted. Although everything he said was technically true, Sergei left it up to the Captain and Vancroft to infer the meaning.
"Lysander, I think we should try to be on his good side. If the beings he serves are as powerful as he says they are..." Caspian Vancroft trailed off, leaving Lysander Thorne to complete his thoughts. After a moments hesitation, the Captain's attention turned back to Sergei.
"We will... afford you... the courtesy... of an emissary. For now. Vancroft, watch over him." Captain Thorne reluctantly accepted his loss, his every word laced with venom. "Never let him out of your sights."