Master of the Loop - Chapter 189: The One Who Writes the Story

Chapter 189

The One Who Writes the Story

Sylas watched as a small force of 400 cleave free of the charging formation, engaging a wide flank toward the vastly-outnumbering enemy. It was a lost cause, he knew, for he had seen this exact scenario six times now. By the time 400 strong force reached the flanking position, the ranks of the main army would have been already breached.

Numbering the many, many loops he’d spent getting here already got him feeling somewhat somber. There really appeared to be no way–if they stuck back for too long to gather more men, they’d get intercepted earlier at the Martyr’s Pass and be unable to cross it. And if they tried to speed their way through, picking up only the immediate forces… this would happen. A complete slaughter.

He watched, once more, hundreds of heads roll every minute, men crying out in vain, roaring in the act self-defiance, trying to outpace and outwith death, though to no avail.

“I’ll really have to step in, huh?” he mumbled under breath.

“You knew you’d have to eventually,” Asha, who was sitting beside him, said.

“Not this early,” he said. “I figured I’d make a stand at the capital.”

“Your belief in ordinary people is commendable,” she said. “But these aren’t wars of ordinary men and women, Sylas. And they are not fought for ordinary goals.”

“What a fancy way of saying that it’s just a bunch of superhuman people beating the shit out of each other while the ordinary ones suffer the ails without being able to do anything.”

“You think it’s unfair?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “But the lesser men always feel the world unfair, no matter what. And though in times ordinary their woes may be worth the word, these aren’t those.”

“… all times are ordinary,” he said. “When I was a lost lil’ pup in the castle, what, do you think I was concerning myself with the bigger picture? No. I was pissing at the clouds in frustration because I felt it was unfair. Look at them,” he nudged forward toward the last of their army dying. “Fighting, time and again, the unwinable. I was never that brave, Ash. Never. Not until the fear became the pointless cause. I could have never just picked up a sword and… ran into my death.”

“…”

“I want to give them a better place to live, however briefly,” he added. “A respite from the nature of man. But if I fight… if I intervene… they won’t have that.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he said. “We both do. We know people. You know what they’ll do? They’ll deify me. There will be statues of me, stories of the blood-soaked god who answered Valen’s call. And their King will be the terror that they’ll bow down to because he has the god of death at his beck and call. Someday in the distant future, when these lands are but ash and ember, there will still be letters in the walls warning against me. Though it matters little to me, Valen… won’t have a fun time. Every time there’s a war or a skirmish, and there will be those, all his advisors will ask him to summon me. That the sacrifice is unnecessary. That I can deal with it.”

“It is the same story, Sylas, as always,” she said as the last of the screams echoed, and the army fell. “You can’t escape the crown of someone who can bewitch fate and change the course of history. Some men use the crown to usurp all their forefathers worked for, some yet to seek higher glory than the one they were born into, and some… some dream of a world unshattered, a place not misbegotten. But all dreams are lies. Men, weak and strong, continue to suffer unto their curse until they die. And you… you cannot change or undo that. All you can do is… keep forward.”

“… just feels shitty, is all,” Sylas said, standing up and stretching. “Being a character in someone else’s story, destined to walk the path foretold long before I even came here. That’s life, I guess. An illusion of choices… but only one is ever right. I’ll see you soon.”

This time around, it took him six days to die. Six boring, painful, agonizing days of bleeding out, blacking out and waking up still alive. He missed it, the fear. The fear of looking over a tall cliff, the fear of deep cold, the fear of beastly, red eyes staring from the forest. He was a husk, fear-wise, unattached to the lingerings.

Once again they marched, through the winter-laden lands melting before their eyes. And once again the same story unwound, the same people spoke, and the same speeches were recited. And once again they were in an encampment, inside a tent, teetering at the edge of reason. Many plans and ideas were flung forward, all of which were already played out countless times, but none which worked. When the conversation was dying out, Sylas spoke out.

“I’ll go,” he said simply, much to the confusion of many. By now, most in here were aware that Sylas was likely the strongest person in the room. But even so, he’d at most be able to kill a hundred men before falling himself. He wouldn’t be making a difference. “I only hope at least you lot won’t be shivering in your boots when I return.”

Under Valen’s and Ryne’s shouts of concern, strange gazes of many, and confusion of the men outside, Sylas picked up a couple of ordinary swords and latched them onto his belt. One wouldn’t live long enough to kill, but four would suffice. After those, he could simply plunder them off of the dead men.

He descended and entered the plain, a solitary man bearing no armor, equipped with four miserly blades. He walked briskly, unassumingly, evenly, as though heading back home. The curtains unfurled, and there came an actor in a play that ought to have had thousands.

The other side noticed him soon enough, but rather than sending off a force, a barrage of arrows came. But they did nothing. They bounced off, fell, disappeared, turned to ash. Afterward, a cavalry of ten men came–and with a single, swift swipe of a blade, a shower of blood and gore erupted.

Then it was a hundred men, and hundred men bore spears and blades and axes and shields. And they wore armor made of metals, but the armors were paper beneath the ordinary blade. And the men fell, their heads rolling, confusion impaled in their eyes. Their last memory is that of an unassuming, homeless-looking man shattering their hopes and dreams.

Six men and two women came forward after, when Sylas was merely a thousand yards from the enemy’s encampment. Unlike those before, they all possessed unique energies, confidence evident on their faces. The six men charged in a formation–two per flank, and two at the front, while the two women dispersed into shadows, seeming to wait for a perfect point to strike.

Sylas didn’t bother dodging or even deflecting. Four of the six blades pierced through as he easily decapitated the two men that came from the front. Watching their heads roll for a moment, he looked to the side where he saw some glee in the eyes of the two that came from his left.

Suddenly, Sylas disappeared–like the wind, he was by the two men’s side in a flash, bladeless, holding up both men by his arms by their throats, lifting them into the air as though they were paperweight.

“You’ve worked hard,” he said simply. “Forgive me.”

He pressed his fingers closer and crushed their throats, their necks snapping to the side as their heads fell unnaturally, eyes glazed in dark abyss. A woman appeared behind him and stabbed the back of his neck with a dagger. The blade pressed through completely, its tip appearing at the front. Just before she could escape, Sylas managed to grab her arm and pulled her back from the shadow that she was trying to become.

A look of horror washed over her face as he took out the dagger from his throat and stabbed her between her eyes, killing her instantly. Of the eight, only three remained–and rather than charging forward and trying to kill him, all three fled in abject horror. By now, there was a silent song being sung by the spirits. And the song delighted the ushers of souls, while the living began to shake as though thrust neck-deep into frost.

For there was not a man standing there, surrounded by blood and gore and the corpses of some of the strongest people they’ve had on their side. No man could survive a dagger to his throat and no man could survive four stabs to his heart.

“CHARGE!!!!!! KILL THE DEVIL!!!!!” the order came down in a roar, one fueled with energy that worked desperately to disperse the fear and terror that had begun to coalesce within the hearts of the beholders. He could not be a God, for Gods were merciful and loving–and thus, the man was the devil. And thus… thousands roared in return and charged the devil. He was just one. And there were many. And today… today they would fell a devil and carve their names in the slabs of history. For eons, bards would sing songs about them–the brave men of Ethernia who charged fearless at the devil, slaying him. At least, in their hearts, that was the story they wrote out. A story that would never get to be played out, unfortunately.