It was hopeless.
They were utterly, irrevocably outmatched. Outclassed by the demons they once called brother, father, daughter. Outgunned by their enemies they once called fellow humans. It would take more than a miracle to turn the tide of the war, and not even the gods could convince those bloodthirsty warmongers to show them mercy.
Yet they chose to fight on, determined to throw their lives on the line in the hope that another might live to see the light again. They fought on stubbornly, against nature's intentions.
Against his intentions.
General Theodore stood pensively over the ledge, gripping onto the railings. His olive knuckles turned white as a muffled blast accompanied by screaming men shook the floor from beneath. He closed his eyes painfully. Guilt wracked his body with an intensity that never seemed to diminish, no matter how many times he was forced to send his men to their deaths.
"For mankind!" They would yell, charging towards soldiers who could breathe searing flames onto their carriages and cannons.
"Weep not, leader." They would lie in his arms, their ribs shattered by a single stomp from an enemy that grew to twice their size. "Smile, for this is but a glorious death."
The general sought comfort in the ephialtes that haunted his sleep, for nothing he dreamt of could even come close to the nightmare he woke up to everyday. But dawn was just beginning to break.
"Theodore," a voice called him from behind.
Theodore turned around, his tattered cloak sweeping in the charred wind. His boots creaked against the wooden floorboards heavily as he approached the man waiting by the door. His weary eyes stared at the singular horn atop his head for an uncomfortably long time.
Arcani.
Pockets of instability within reality itself that condensed themselves into a form of natural energy. An accursed energy that coursed through every living being. A magical energy that had one day decided to attune itself with half of humanity, granting them a variety of supernatural abilities. Abilities that they immediately used to enslave all that they deemed inferior.
'Metas', they called themselves. Born with the unstable parts of reality within them, the metas were imbued with a buffet of superpowers ranging from minor physical alterations to a god's ability to manipulate the elements. They banded together almost immediately, believing themselves higher beings and turned on their less gifted bloodkin.
The weaker metas were the exception, having chosen to ally themselves with the non-metas instead. Power was a universal law, so they knew better than to stay with their stronger brothers and amount to nothing more than bottom class slaves.
"Theodore?" the meta repeated himself. "Keep it together, my friend. Our soldiers fought valiantly, and they have done their part. It is our turn to launch the surprise attack now. And once we reclaim the capital of S-"
"Philemon," Theodore interrupted him. "There will be no more need for that."
"Have you come up with a new strategy?" Philemon's eyes brightened with hope.
"Indeed, I have." Theodore turned away to wipe away the tears brimming in his eyes. "And for all its worth, you really were a good friend. I'm sorry."
The general spun around without warning and plunged a dagger into his friend's heart.
Philemon screamed silently as his body slowly sank to the ground. His eyes darted around, looking for any sort of explanation for his friend's betrayal, but found none. Instead, they only met his grim expression as Theodore lowered him down gently.
"Forgive me, my friend. My people want to live, and so do I." Theodore's voice cracked with emotion. "And he needs your essence to fulfil our pact."
Philemon's body spasmed for the last time as the dagger was pulled out of his chest. A wispy, purplish substance coated the blade as it clanged onto the floor. Theodore fell to his knees, sobbing into his hands as the last breaths escaped from his friend's mouth.
There was a moment of silence.
"Took you long enough, mortal."
General Theodore felt a hand tap his shoulder. He looked up at the burly man who had materialised beside the dagger. The man picked it up, admiring the meta's glinting essence dancing around his fingers. He closed his eyes in satisfaction as he inhaled the smoky substance.
"This will do." He grinned sinisterly as the morning sun shone into the room, reflecting off his impossibly shiny bald head.
"I have completed your accursed summoning ritual, cannibalised my enemies' horrid flesh, even killed my best friend!" Theodore's body trembled with emotion as he stood up, glaring at the man. "I have done everything you've asked of me, Abaddon. When will you grant us our salvation?"
"Ah mortals, always so distrusting of their deities."
Abaddon threw his head back, his laugh ringing around the room as he placed a hand on Theodore's head. The general gasped as power began to surge through his body. He shut his eyes, shaking violently in response. The light left quickly, and the general fell to his knees once more. He stared at his glowing hands in awe.
"A demon always follows through on a deal. After all, we're still bound for the rest of your life," Abaddon said. "Your enemies' weapon is now yours to command. Go forth and conquer."
"What did you do to me?" Theodore began to hover in the air as strange symbols surrounded him. A fireball materialised in his hand as he cast his glowing eyes to the smirking demon.
"I have granted you and your people the ability to wield arcani directly." Abaddon waved his hands, showing him a vision of his soldiers also examining themselves in confusion and awe. "Metas may possess magic within their bodies, but your kind can now use magic however you wish. I look forward to your victories, general."
Abaddon vanished into thin air, leaving Theodore alone in the room. He could feel raw power surging through his entire body, as though the very fabric of reality itself was under his control. The general clenched his fists, feeling the power take the form of a cooling breeze. It swept over him, healing every wound and fading every scar on his body.
Theodore turned to his friend's body on the floor and raised his hand hesitantly, feeling the power hook onto the corpse like strings on a puppet. Philemon's lifeless eyes stared blankly back at him. The general put his hand back down and knelt in front of the body instead, bowing his head in condolence.
"Your sacrifice will not be wasted, Philemon," he muttered under his breath. Theodore snapped his fingers, opening a magic portal that led to a battlefield. He grinned in gleeful anticipation.
It was time to turn the tides.
~ ~ ~
Using their newfound abilities to manipulate reality itself, General Theodore and his army easily overwhelmed their superhuman adversaries with raw power and numbers. The surviving metas scattered themselves and surrendered quickly under the display of their enemies' sudden newfound abilities. They were clasped in arcani nullifying chains, a boon granted by those whose magic could call forth the power of minor deities. These were the first group of arcani users to band together, and they called themselves 'Clerics'.
An uneasy peace settled over the world as the non-metas ruled over the metas with an iron fist, determined never to let them rise up again. Business boomed in the weaponsmith and metallurgy industry as demand for arcani-imbued weapons soared. The crafters worked tirelessly, feverishly inventing new products to satisfy their ever growing customer base.
Academia was next to catch on, immediately delving into the sophisticated study of arcani manipulation, or in a simpler term, magic. Wielders of magic called themselves 'Magi', and they split themselves into different specialisations.
Mages, Soothsayers, Warlocks, Clerics, Necromancers, Druids; just to name a few. Magic became commonplace as academic institutions began to incorporate arcani into their syllabus. It did not take long for magic to become the core focus of education.
But with their short lives, humans are quick to forget. The superiority of magi kind slowly waned as vast improvements in the quality of life paved the way for more humanitarian laws. Technology developed in favour of the magi while metas had their rights slowly returned to them, eventually gaining the opportunity to use their rigid abilities to work menial jobs.
It took about two thousand years for magi and meta-kind to coexist peacefully under their uneven alliance, and the atrocities committed by both sides faded into obscurity. Most forget, but a few remember.
And they were determined to claim what was rightfully theirs.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWVB7BQKoTO
