~whoomph~
~boom~
~Whoomph~
~Boom~
~WHOOMPH~
~BOOM~
Deep, guttural roars were heard. As fierce as thunderclaps that tore through the air like the bellows of angry gods. Detonating sharp, percussive cracks that echoed across the land and rattled bones.
Slamming into the ground with sickening crunches, throwing up a geyser of dirt, rock, broken bones and severed limbs. The ground is punched inward, as if the world tried to swallow the pain. The impact shakes those nearby off their feet and leaves ears ringing with a high-pitched whine.
The air is thick with acrid smoke that darkened the sky and the stink of sulfur. Ears ring, chests ache from the concussive force, and hearts race. Bodies flung like ragdolls, some in piece and some in pieces...
Lines of artillery were in the rear of a massive battlefield, as the cannons continued to ring out, operated by skilled cannoneers. The cannon well cleaned after around ten shots, constantly adding the gunpowder then throwing the massive metal ball inside to fire upon the monsters invading human territory.
An footman breathed in and out, his hand shaking as he tried to grip his sword as firm as he could. Sweat dripped down his face like raindrops from a thundercloud. He stood his ground behind a smaller wall fortification, surrounded by his fellow infantry. All of them awaited the call of duty, as the officer in the back then sounded his whistle.
~WHEE~
The footmen were ready to give their lives for the country they served, protecting its leaders, assets, land and most importantly, their families. They yelled, charging forward with their swords, shields, spears and bows.
As if the monsters had their own artillery, flames fell like spears from the heavens—long, narrow streaks of molten red fire that whistled through the air before impaling the ground with explosive bursts. As they struck, infantry formations shattered and heaved, tongues of fire lashing out from the impact. Some descended in clusters, like meteorites, they burst in flaming shockwaves, lifting dirt, bodies, and debris into the air like leaves in a gale.
The clash between the armies had barely begun when the Earth began to shudder. Pulses that cracked the battlefield open. Jagged spikes of rock erupted beneath their formations, impaling ranks of footmen and tossing bodies into the air like leaves in a storm.
It prevented the infantry from creating anymore formations as they were then overwhelmed by the onslaught of monsters that overtook them in sheer numbers, as there were ten for every one.
Most of their number were decaying, reanimated, skeletal figures. Some had humanoid forms while others had the form of larger creatures that struck fear in the footmen that came across them: the towering undead walking amongst the living.
As time continued, the monsters had penetrated through the heavily fortified human lines through their otherworldly capabilities and the manpower they constantly threw out, as footmen protecting the rear were promptly cut down by several attacks at once or struck down by magical wrath.
One of the officers that had stayed behind found himself launched in a massive puddle of water and mud, as a cluster of flames exploded within the trench he was positioned in, erupting his fellow men in unsated fire.
Seconds past by.
The officer rose from the puddle, briefly coughing, desperately trying to breathe air. He then looked around him.
The sky was a bruised shade of ash-stained gray, choked with smoke from cannon and magical fire. The sun, barely visible behind the black clouds, cast a sickly orange glow over the war-torn fields—more like a dying ember than a source of life. It was not daylight, nor nightfall—it was the eternal twilight of battle.
The field itself was a mud-slicked grave, littered with broken spears, shattered swords, and crimson pools of blood collecting in the cratered earth. The air trembled with the thunderous blasts of iron cannons, mounted on wooden carriages bound with steel. These siege weapons, rudimentary yet powerful, left the ground split with fire-torn trenches and scattered limbs. Gunpowder smoke rolled like fog across the dead.
A infantry footman then shrieked in pain, as loudly as he could. "My eyes!"
"...A h-healer... Somebody get me a damn healer!" Another footman yelled out.
"Where are our reinforcements?! Aaaahhhh.... please, NO!" A footman then screamed in fear and agony as he was then eaten alive by several small, grotesque, monstrous humanoid creatures.
Another was struck down by several undead skeletons, stabbed and gutted until his body was deformed and unrecognizable.
The officer almost yelped out in fear himself, until he had a fit of rage instead, attempting to unsheath his saber until he realized that he had then been surrounded by monsters.
His eyes widened, his life flashing. His heart beating as fast as it could as his mind attempted to register what was about to happen. He felt his surroundings darken as he was paralyzed not by fear, but by a different emotion: rejection.
He fought off as many monsters as he physically could, but to no avail. They overwhelmed him like a pack of wolves, the only delay was the mud that he currently found himself in. The monsters attempted to tear his body apart, as he then found his legs torn off and his right arm slashed off. Blood poured into the puddle, as the officer screamed in agony.
In his moments of sudden death, the officer felt as the sky roared. The air trembled with unseen tension. The air thickened with pressure—every breath tasted like metal. Then came the thunder. The first bolt struck like a divine verdict—spears of white-blue lightning that split the sky and vaporized the monsters in an instant. The thunderclap that followed shattered eardrums, and for a moment, the entire battle paused in awe and terror.
A figure approached him, looking upon him with solemn eyes; filled with regret and failure.
The officer was lithe and underfed, with the wiry frame of a soldier who seemed to survive on scraps and instinct more than skillful training. Average, even short by military standards. A body shaped not by glory—but by hunger and hardship. Ash-brown hair, matted with sweat and blood, cut short with a dull blade and burned off by battlefire. Dull brown eyes—lifeless, cautious and unseeing. Pale and scarred skin, mottled by bruises and grime. Burn marks along his arms from siege fire. Wore patchwork officer's gear, barely armored.
And amidst it all, he laid.
"...A... Mythic..." The knight crouched and held out his hand; the officer grabbed onto it. The knight felt as he had no strength left. He knew his time had come.
"...So even... you... can... look like that..." The officers let those final words escape his mouth, as his body finally failed on him.
His sword broken. His armor cracked. His body cold and beyond repair.
The officer let out a smile. He looked upon what he wanted to be, with every fiber of his being. His soul cried out in agony and screamed with unending fury.
The earth beneath him then pulsed, ever so faintly.
As if something deep and ancient had taken notice.
The winds shifted. The cannons fell silent.
And in the stillness between heartbeats,
Chaos stirred.
~~~
In death, he did not find solace. He found his bond.
There was no light when he "awoke", only the echo of endless silence and the taste of ash on his tongue as he opened his mouth in disbelief.
He opened his eyes to find himself standing on a vast plane of scorched obsidian, cracked like a shattered mirror. Each fissure pulsed with a dull orange glow, as though fire slumbered beneath the surface, breathing slowly in its sleep. The sky above was not sky at all—a black void shot through with veins of lightning, coiling endlessly like serpents of raw power. Time felt thin here, like a dying breath stretched to eternity.
He was alone, yet not.
The air grew heavy, pressing on his chest like the weight of judgment. The distant rumble of thunder rolled across the dead land. Then, with a force that shook the very ground, It appeared.
The being did not step, it arrived, like a storm born from the bones of the world.
A towering figure emerged from flame and darkness, shaped from cracked volcanic stone and wreathed in roaring wind. Fire flowed beneath its skin, like rivers of molten fury, and its eyes were twin maelstroms of orange and white—storm and flame entwined. His mane of burning smoke coiled around his head like a crown of elemental dread, and its voice, when he finally spoke, was a thunderclap spoken in ancient tongues.
"...It seems this is the form that you can perceive me as..."
The man seemed confused at what was going on. A dream? It was clear he was looking at a mythical being, but it had been against everything that he had been taught or knew of. He had not known of a creature that could create its own space and domain; perhaps a God?
It had not been the Four that he remembered. It was a Fifth, one forgotten by history.
"You died like all mortals do. Forgotten. Broken. Crushed beneath the weight of your own powerlessness."
"But you screamed louder then the rest. Your soul resonated with me. And I heard you."
The man was on his knees, not of worship or reverence, but the sheer gravity of pressure. The presence before him. Every breath he took in this being's domain scorched his lungs and every heartbeat felt borrowed, as if he was constantly dying and resurrecting.
"...Why me?..." The man barely spoke, his voice deeply hoarse.
The God looked down at him, his eyes not filled with pity or mercy, but recognition.
"Because you died without meaning, without purpose. I am the Deity of all things that are meant to be destroyed and rebirth, the endless cycle of transformation. I am Kaeroth, the Father of Chaos and the God of Renewal, King of the Inhuman. I offer you power not to be saved... but to become a storm that cannot be silenced."
Behind Kaeroth, the endless black void twisted, revealing the Four Elemental Pantheons: Sun, Moon, Sky and the Earth, glowing like distant constellations in a never-ending circular motion.
Then, between them, a fifth emerged: a swirling, raw cyclone of darkness and fire, untouched by balance or harmony.
Kaeroth then extended his massive hand toward the man beneath him.
"Choose me and you will be reborn with the power you desire. You will bring the storm. You will be my Chosen, the next Beast Ascendant."
Through sheer willpower and the remaining vestiges of his anger, the man walked forward. Step after step, foot after foot. And briefly took Kaeroth's hand. Smiling.
"From corpse to cataclysm, a beast is born anew. The Prince of the Inhuman."
The moment the soldier's hand touched Kaeroth's, the god's power surged like a tidal wave of fury, swallowing the mortal whole. The four elements remade him. There was no pain—only unmaking. His body collapsed into ash, and in its place, his soul was dragged, screaming through the veins of Kaeroth himself. The four pantheons flashed around him, not in welcome, but in submission. Their balance, their order, merged into one. He was no longer meant to walk one of their paths, but all. He rose into a twisting forge of storms, flame, and fury, unbound by nature or law.
"Return now, my Chosen. Let the world remember what it tried to ignore. Let the Gods see what they buried in the dark, rise again in their light."