Engrid stared at Agnes, his mind slowly unraveling, threads of memory weaving into a dreadful realization. He had seen this before, faint echoes buried beneath years of silence. Then it struck him.
The anomaly Mirah had caused.
A disastrous error, one that had allowed a human to access forbidden knowledge: the semantics of the Void. Knowledge potent enough to rival the Calamities themselves.
And then there was the black lightning. Kamah.
The nation that had birthed such danger had long since been wiped from existence. Its potential had been deemed too great, too unpredictable.
The eradication was swift, but incomplete. Engrid had witnessed the ritual meant to obliterate them, and he knew, with bitter certainty, that it had been halted midway.
Some had already been blessed by Kamah before the purge.
And now, standing before him, was one of their remnants, the mother of the Thirteenth Guard.
She was undoubtedly of that fallen bloodline.
This was a calamity of a different kind.
"Humans can't be trusted," Engrid muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "No matter how powerful the Calamities become, humans always find a way, through deceit, manipulation, and shameful cunning, to subdue even gods."
He lowered his head, resignation weighing on his shoulders.
"...And even I've stooped to their methods."
A voice cut in, sharp and mocking. "Who you talking to? The Abyss getting to you too?"
Engrid met the interruption with a glance, cold, dismissive, then looked away, like a sword half-drawn, then sheathed again.
His voice was bitter now. "I've lost respect in this realm. I should have kept my wits veiled."
Though humans held no raw power comparable to the entities of this realm, their ingenuity was a danger all its own.
This woman, this outlier, was proof. There were others like her too: humans cast down, believed to be dead, only to survive and slip unnoticed among the shadows.
Engrid knew them.
He knew of those who had endured, who had cloaked themselves in the skins of monsters.
One had even managed to deceive the realm itself, and was now honored as a Guard.
He had once tried striking a deal with that Guard, the one who wore human flesh beneath the guise of power.
From that exchange, he had gained something rare: the knowledge to leave this realm at will, unbound by Kamah's dominion. It had come at a price, but the freedom it granted was priceless.
Now, it was time to forge another bargain.
Engrid had little of value to offer Loki, the Third Guard of the Abyss. That alone was a problem.
But this woman... she was his ticket. She was the key to a new exchange.
He knew Loki's desire, buried beneath all that cold, calculating detachment, the hunger to ascend.
To become an Elder.
And Engrid had something Loki wanted: a path forward. Although, he was not certain it would suffice.
"Loki knows the location of the Rings of Solomon," Engrid mused, his thoughts flickering like firelight.
The mythical artifacts that, if real, could bind even devils into servitude. A whisper, once overheard in a forgotten conversation between Elders, had confirmed their existence.
That was why Engrid had first dared to leave the realm.
Desperation had driven him to confront the Guard, the human who had deceived all.
He had threatened him, foolishly, hoping to expose the truth. It had been a reckless move, a suicidal one in hindsight.
The Guard could have erased him in a heartbeat, snuffing him out like the weak flicker of a dying candle.
But instead, mercy, or calculation, had prevailed.
Rather than erasing him, the Guard allowed him to live... but only as a link to the outside world.
A living tether. A messenger. A pawn.
Engrid had survived the encounter.
But the price was a lifetime lived in the shadows.
Now, as fate turned again, he saw a new opportunity.
And this time, he intended to come out holding the better end of the deal.
What knowledge could he offer Loki in exchange for the location of the Rings?
He pondered, then suddenly, "Aha..."
A spark of satisfaction lit his face.
"This... this would stir quite the upheaval if it ever became known."
His tone was amused, though a calculating glint flickered in his eyes.
"There's even a chance that child might be the prophesied one." He paused, frowning. "No... their abilities don't align." Another pause, deeper this time.
"Still... it would be wise to alert Loki about that woman. If he learns of her origins and informs the Elders, it could tip the scales in his favor. Perhaps even open the path to Elderhood."
He smiled faintly, though doubt soon crept into his expression.
"Or perhaps... it'll be worthless to him. An echo with no weight."
A sigh escaped his lips.
Engrid drifted deeper into thought until movement caught his eye, a humanoid lesser Calamity, its mind long eroded by the realm.
Blank-eyed. Broken.
"Poor thing," Engrid murmured, voice touched with a cold pity. "This realm takes its toll on even our kind, driving many to madness."
He stepped closer, observing the husk. "Still... you'll make a fine vessel to carry my message."
He chuckled to himself, the bitterness of old lessons flickering beneath the sound.
His last encounter with the human Guard had taught him restraint... and wisdom.
A rare thing among Calamities, but valuable nonetheless.
He was just about to reach for the mindless creature when something else caught his attention.
A small cluster of figures, lesser Calamities as well, but these ones were different.
Sharper. Focused. Dangerous.
They moved with intention and unity. A crew, like humans formed in their social mimicry, and they bore a name stitched across their makeshift banner:
"DECKS."
Engrid narrowed his eyes.
"Curious... since when did lesser Calamities learn to form factions with names?"
In this realm, every Calamity not ranked as a Guard is labeled a "lesser Calamity," but even among the lesser, there exists a strict hierarchy, one built on raw power, sentience, and potential.
At the bottom were the Bjorns, mindless creatures driven solely by instinct. Ravenous and relentless, they consumed without purpose, guided by hunger alone.
Above them stood the Eransha, sentient Bjorns who had developed thought and self-awareness. Engrid himself belonged to this category.
Though sentient, Eransha's still bore the primitive hunger of their origins, tempered only by reason.
Then came the Arrakyns, powerhouses in their own right. Calamities of this tier exhibited unique talents and abilities, each capable of annihilating an entire village with ease.
They were feared, often left to their own devices unless tamed or aligned.
At the pinnacle of the lesser ranks were the Abrons, monsters evolved to a degree that entire nations trembled before them.
Some had grown so powerful they could level continents, and among them were those whispered to rival, or even surpass, the Guards themselves.
Ascension was not forbidden.
Any Calamity, if strong or cunning enough, could rise.
Engrid mused aloud, his fingers tracing the line of his chin thoughtfully.
"Come to think of it... two Abrons are said to be under consideration for elevation to Guards. And two Guards may soon ascend to Elderhood."
His eyes narrowed as he gazed into the distance.
"Perhaps... someone from that group. The crew that calls themselves DECKS."
The thought unsettled him, not from fear, but from the ripple it could cause in the hierarchy.
Just then, he felt the presence of the Araakyns who had passed moments ago, a pressure like smoke caught in the throat: subtle, choking, impossible to ignore.
Engrid's gaze lingered in their direction.
"Strange days," he muttered. "Stranger creatures."
Engrid advanced silently, communicating with precise hand signs. In a swift, calculated motion, he pinned the humanoid Bjorn to the ground. Sigils flared to life around the creature, etching themselves into the earth and onto its form, binding it with unnerving ease. It writhed but could not break free.
From within his cloak, Engrid retrieved a ring, an arcane tool acquired long ago through a cryptic bargain with a human. He pressed it firmly against the Bjorn's forehead. The creature growled at first, defiant, but the sound gradually faded into subdued silence as the enchantment took hold.
"A vessel of mine you shall become," Engrid intoned, his voice low and commanding, "a bearer of my will."
Unfurling a scroll he had prepared beforehand, Engrid began the ritual. Upon its surface were carefully recorded fragments, memories he intended to extract from his own mind and implant into the Bjorn.
With a shallow cut to his palm, he drew blood and traced a rune across the creature's brow. The symbol pulsed once, then dimmed, as the transfer began.
The knowledge flowed from him like mist unraveling at dawn, threading into the Bjorn's consciousness. As the final strand left his mind, he felt the memory dissolve within himself, lost, but not irretrievable.
For what he had given up was preserved in ink on the scroll. A safeguard. A reminder of what had been offered, and what could, in time, be reclaimed.
The Bjorn now carried fragments of knowledge, remnants of a half-baked technique once nurtured by the fallen nation: the use of Kamah. The same art wielded by the Thirteenth's mother. But there was more, a hidden echo from a secret exchange between the First Guard and Elder Jarul:
"She had the vision again," Jarul had said, his tone heavy with reverence.
"The king from the murals?" the First Guard asked, cautious.
The conversation had occurred in a pocket dimension, accessible only through an ancient relic, one Engrid had secured in a clandestine deal with a human Guard.
"She claims he bears the power of creation," Jarul continued, voice grave. "But I cannot tell whether he is our salvation… or our undoing. She insists she is not one of us, and yet calls him our messiah."
"I'd like to see the mural," the First Guard requested quietly.
Engrid, hidden beyond the veil of the rift he had conjured, carefully studied the Elder's movements. He etched the rune traced mid-air into memory as the mural shimmered into view.
"There has never been a king," Jarul intoned, gesturing to the ancient image. "And yet this mural was passed down to me long before her visions began."
"There's no telling when he will emerge… but when he does, we will judge, "
The First Guard's voice faltered mid-sentence. He had sensed it.
Engrid shut the rift without hesitation and fled with practiced silence.
"A king? Of this Abyss? A messiah?" he muttered to himself, the words lingering like static.
With a swift motion, he clasped a cloak around his shoulders, its surface laced with pulsing red sigils. As it shimmered into invisibility, Engrid vanished from sight, his thoughts racing.
Memory cuts off.
Engrid read the scroll he had written.
"Wow... I got this information?" he said, gleeful.
He glanced at the Bjorn. Allowing it to retain knowledge of his identity was a risk he could not afford. He wasn't certain of Loki's capabilities, and if the Third Guard could indeed peer into the creature's memories, then secrecy was paramount.
Without hesitation, Engrid bit into his thumb, drawing a thin line of blood. With a practiced hand, he etched a rune across the Bjorn's forehead. The spell unfurled like a silent wind, sifting through the beast's recollections. Every image of Engrid was stripped away, leaving only a vague silhouette in place of his form.
And one command remained, simple but precise:
Trade information for information. The Rings of Solomon for secrets unknown.
Engrid sent the creature toward Loki, watching from the shadows as it lumbered across the ravaged landscape.
But the plan unraveled.
Loki, unmoved by the offer, rejected the deal outright. In a single motion, he transmuted the Bjorn into a gnarled tree, its flesh turned to bark, its memories sealed forever within twisted roots.
Engrid exhaled slowly. "Well… I suppose I should be grateful I didn't go myself."
His eyes narrowed behind the shimmer of his cloak.
"If only I had leverage Loki couldn't refuse… it would have changed everything."
Just as Engrid turned to leave, a flicker of movement halted him mid-step.
The Thirteenth Guard stood over the transmuted Bjorn, its bark-flesh motionless, its essence sealed.
With a swift thrust, the Thirteenth plunged a jagged stone into its core.
"How merciful," Engrid mused coldly. "To put it out of its misery."
But then, something strange.
The Thirteenth knelt, pressing his palm flat against the ground. A faint black sigil rippled outward, slithering across the earth like a living scar, until it touched a corpse just barely within Engrid's line of sight.
Engrid's eyes narrowed.
The corpse stirred… then bolted upright, animated, reeking of old death, and began sprinting.
No one else noticed. Only Engrid.
With practiced stealth, he followed, maintaining a careful distance, his cloaked form undetectable amidst the haze of mana and ruin.
Then it happened.
The creature raised a hand and traced a symbol into the air, an arcane sign. Engrid froze.
That symbol… he had seen it before.
A sudden plume of smoke erupted around the corpse, obscuring all. When it cleared, the body was gone.
In its place stood a massive slab of stone, a mural, ancient and luminous. Upon it were inscriptions etched in old script, accompanied by a shadowed figure:
He who shall liberate the Abyss and usher in a new dawn,
He who bears the title: King of the Abyss.
Engrid's breath caught in his throat.
Marcellus.
He had peered into the Bjorn's stolen mind, absorbed its secrets, hijacked the plan.
A feat Engrid had feared Loki capable of, yet had never suspected from the Thirteenth.
And then came the noise.
A series of deafening blasts echoed across the landscape. Smoke billowed in all directions. As it cleared, more murals hovered, each one bearing divine inscriptions, holy imagery, and the unmistakable silhouette of the crowned figure.
Engrid drifted closer, weaving silently through a throng of lesser Calamities now gathering with bated breath.
Then, a whisper.
"Could the Thirteenth be the King…?"
And like wildfire, it spread.
Rumors surged through the Abyss like a plague, whispers becoming declarations.
The Thirteenth had descended like a herald of upheaval, and now, he was being hailed as the prophesied sovereign.
The King of the Abyss.
Engrid slowly turned in the direction of the Thirteenth. His body tensed with a mixture of awe and dread.
The realization struck with ruthless clarity:
Marcellus had seized control not through strength, but through knowledge.
He had manipulated the whispers, turned the murals into doctrine, and transformed the Abyss into a grand chessboard…
With himself as the player, and the rest, pieces.
And from a ledge high above, the Thirteenth watched, silent, unreadable.