Standing before him was a man whose presence commanded the chaos to silence. Long, silken silver hair flowed down to his ankles, moving as if caught in a wind only he could feel. His lower face was obscured by thick black wrappings that extended down, binding his hands like a monk's repentance or an executioner's preparation. He wore a heavy black leather coat, reinforced and impenetrable.
But it was his eyes that froze Malik's blood—one burned with a violent crimson, the other pierced with a glacial blue.
In his hand, he held a long, black blade. It didn't just reflect light; it seemed to emit a strange, dark luminescence, an oxymoron that Malik's mind struggled to comprehend. How can darkness shine?
Malik stepped back, his grip on his own azure sword trembling. The bravado from moments ago evaporated.
"Who... are you?" Malik stammered.
The stranger raised an eyebrow, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing his exposed features. His voice was regal, resonating with the weight of absolute authority.
"Do you not know the King of the World? The Supreme Lord? You attempt to belittle me even now."
The Supreme Lord thrust his black sword forward, stabbing at empty air.
Suddenly, the blade elongated.
It shot forward with impossible speed, a streak of solid shadow aimed directly at Malik's heart. Malik yelped, throwing his body to the right. The black steel hissed past his ear, sparks flying as it grazed his own blade. It didn't stop there. It pierced through a row of soldiers behind him. Malik heard the wet thud of impact and their agonizing screams.
"I have never seen you..." Malik hissed through gritted teeth, "or heard of you, you hideous mongrel."
The Supreme Lord's eyes narrowed. His expression darkened.
"Did you not launch this entire war to topple me? Did you not preach of changing the politics of this world, liberating the slaves, and gathering the weak, the scum, and all my old enemies under your banner? And now, you renounce it all out of fear for your life?" The Supreme Lord scoffed. "So you are the Awaited Hero, as the rumors say. For a moment, I was actually concerned. What a disappointment."
Malik's mind raced. So that's it. This alleged hero launched a total war against the ruler of this world. What a mess that gambler has left me in.
He tried to rationalize the madness. But this is a dream or a hallucination, undoubtedly. I don't need to worry. But... if it is real... does that mean the real hero has taken my body, and I have taken his?
The thought chilled him more than the battlefield. This is a catastrophe. What if he doesn't go through with my coup against my brother because of some misguided moral code? What if everything I worked for falls apart?
The realization hit him: The stakes are terrifying. Dying here is too risky. And if this is a hallucination, my brother has surely captured me. It is better to live in this ugly nightmare than to fall into the hands of my brother's merciless jailers.
The black sword snapped back to its original length. The Supreme Lord swung it horizontally, and again it stretched, a whip of razor-sharp steel sweeping across the battlefield.
"You forced me to descend from my Sky Fortress, and this is the best you can do?" The Supreme Lord taunted. "Where are your thundering speeches that ignited the hearts of thousands? Where is your unyielding resolve? My followers suffered greatly at your hands, telling me that only I could defeat you! Yet, I see nothing but a hesitant man who doesn't know his left hand from his right."
Malik leaped, contorting his body in mid-air. The elongated blade sliced the space where his neck had been a second before. He landed awkwardly, tumbling into the dirt. He expected pain, a broken bone, but this body was far more durable than he had imagined.
He scrambled up, dusting himself off. He gripped his sword with shaking hands and licked his dry lips.
"Ease yourself," Malik said, his voice trembling but his mind working fast. "I didn't come to fight you. We can call a truce. I will become your most loyal follower. What do you think of this offer? It would be a great victory for you."
A great victory, Malik thought, the scheme forming instantly, until I stab you in the back. A nice, clean thrust through your chest, and I take the throne of this world from you.
The Supreme Lord looked at him with pure disdain. "And what happens after you drive that blade through my chest?"
Malik's heart seized. A cold shiver ran down his spine.
Can he read my thoughts? This is dangerous! What is the nature of this terrifying thing?
The Supreme Lord continued, his tone bored. "How do you think I have ruled this world if I did not know what transpires in the minds of those around me?"
A group of soldiers rallied, rushing to stand beside their "hero." One of them, a one-eyed veteran, shouted, "It is the Supreme Lord, sir! If we kill him now, this nightmare ends!"
Malik glared at him. "No need to tell me the obvious. He nearly killed me several times while you lazy fools were loitering on the battlefield. Go! Kill him now!"
The soldiers looked confused by the sudden shift in their leader's tone—the coarseness, the lack of nobility—but their conditioning held. They raised their swords and chanted, "For the Blessed One!"
Fifty soldiers charged. Five stayed back to guard Malik, shields raised.
Suddenly, the charging soldiers froze in place. They couldn't move a muscle.
The Supreme Lord blurred. He moved between them like a phantom. In a single fluid motion, he cut them down. They fell in unison, fifty bodies hitting the ground as one.
Terror, raw and primal, flooded Malik's heart. He needed to run. Now.
The Supreme Lord lunged toward him, that blue eye shining with a dim, lethal light. Malik flinched. Instinct took over. He grabbed the arm of one of the loyal guards beside him and shoved the man forward, directly into the path of the Supreme Lord.
The black blade pierced the soldier. The man gasped, eyes wide with shock, not at the pain, but at the betrayal of his Awaited Hero.
The Supreme Lord smiled—a cruel, knowing expression—as he pulled his sword from the soldier's chest and tossed the dying man aside.
"Sacrificing your own men?" The Supreme Lord mused. "You are even worse than I am. So, all those resonant slogans were empty, mere tools to reach the throne. You played the role so perfectly that even I believed you. The kings of the world gathered for the first time in centuries out of fear of you. But I see only a wretched man before me, seeking glory and dominion."
Sweat poured down Malik's forehead. He was barely holding it together.
This body surely possesses great abilities to challenge a monster like this, Malik reasoned desperately, but I know nothing of them. It is like owning a high-performance sports car but not knowing how to drive.
My brother waits for me with the most heinous torture devices in the real world. And this terrifying thing called the Supreme Lord waits for me here with even worse methods of death.
He hesitated, stepping back. His chest heaved.
Malik made his choice. He spun around and ran.
He sprinted as fast as he could, leaving his soldiers behind. They stood with their mouths agape, gasping in horror at this shameful display. But Malik didn't care. He knew exactly when a man should fight, and when he should flee.