Everything hurt for Supreme Meritocrat Berote. He had spent the last short while coughing up blood. He wept tears of crimson. He knew the symptoms. It was the Red Death, and he would be dead within hours.
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“Is there anyone there? In the name of Æbyss, reveal thyself!” Berote knew what he would find, who had brought his second life to a close.
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A failed dictator who originally dies in 182 YBP brought back to life by a goddess from another plane of existence over two hundred and fifty years later in 77 YAP / 0 AE. An entire age had passed in that time. Empyrea was different, and Berote was not Sydenham that he liked it.
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“Supreme Meritocrat Peter Maxwell Berote, CATAE sends its regards, as does Chairman Mao.” Said the assassin with a snigger.
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Berote knew that the Coalition Against the Æbyss would come after him sooner rather than later, but he had not expected the Red Death.
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“What is the agent you used? It has symptoms consistent with the Red Death.” Berote droned, a smug look on his face despite his impending death.
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“Eastern Haemorrhagic Fever type B, it is a modified version of the original that works far faster, courtesy of the Biotechnological Commission of Umbracrest, of course. You have between ten and fifteen minutes, Ætharch.” Mocked the assassin sent by Chairman Creutzfeldt Mao.
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Beeote sighed loudly. When he spoke again, it was slightly garbled by the blood welling up in sores forming in his mouth.
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Berote’s vision began to blur, so much so that he had to fight to keep his focus on the assassin’s face, but it seemed to fade in and out of view. He felt his body wracked with pain, his chest burning with a fire that threatened to consume him. The air was thick with the coppery scent of blood, and he knew that his time was running out.
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“Damn you,” he croaked, his voice barely audible over the sound of his own ragged breathing. “The C-Covenant will... it will hunt you down and a-avenge my second death.”
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The assassin’s features twisted into a smile that spoke of a job dome well, but Berote’s vision was too distorted to see it clearly. He raised a trembling hand, and his fingers closed around the assassin’s wrist. For a moment, their eyes locked, and Berote felt a surge of hatred and despair.
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“You’re... you’re like me ,” he spat, his words dripping with venom. “A pawn to be used, abused and discarded on the whims of an uncaring master. The Chairman will get rid of you once he has no need for people such as yourself.”
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Beeote's grip tightened around the assassin’s wrist, but he didn’t feel it. The Ætharchs vision was tunnelling down to a narrow focus as blood began to seep into his tear ducts from ruptures in the eyes, Berote wept tears of blood as he swam in self-pity.
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And then, as if summoned by his thoughts, a figure appeared before him. It was Æonex the Tormentor. He had taken a form that was tall and thin, with no discernible features. The Æbyssal God floated roughly a metre above the ground.
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Berote tried to speak, but his voice was nothing more than a faint whisper. “Why?” he asked, his words lost in the silence.
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The figure reached out and touched his forehead. "𐐒𐐮𐐿𐐫𐑆 𐑄𐐵 𐐸𐐰𐑃 𐑁𐐲𐑉𐑀𐐪𐐻𐐲𐑌 𐑄 𐑅𐐫𐑍 𐐲𐑂 𐑄 Æbyss.” (“Because thou hath forgotten the song of the Æbyss.”) croaked the god known as the Tormentor in the tongue of the Void. Berote realised that Æonex was only visible to him
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“𐐆𐑌 𐑄 𐐺𐐮𐑀𐐮𐑌𐐮𐑍, 𐑄𐐯𐑉 𐐶𐐲𐑆 𐐬𐑌𐑊𐐨 𐐲𐑅 𐐮𐑌 𐑄 𐐼𐐪𐑉𐐿𐑌𐐮𐑅. 𐐎𐐨 𐑁𐐫𐐻 𐐺𐐮𐐻𐐲𐑉𐑊𐐨 𐐶𐐮𐑄 𐐨𐐽 𐐮𐑌𐐸𐐯𐑉𐐮𐐻𐐮𐐼 𐐲𐑌𐐻𐐮𐑊 𐐶𐐲𐑌 𐐼𐐩 𐐩 𐑉𐐲𐐹𐐽𐐲𐑉 𐐮𐑌 𐑄 𐑁𐐰𐐺𐑉𐐮𐐿 𐐲𐑂 𐑄 Æbyss 𐑁𐐬𐑊𐐼𐐲𐐼 Empyrea 𐐮𐑌𐐻𐐭 𐐮𐐻.” (“In the beginning, there was only us in the darkness. We fought bitterly with each inherited until one day a rupture in the fabric of the Æbyss folded Empyrea into it.”)
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Berote’s eyes were full of blood, as was his mouth. The passage of time crumbled away, leaving the Supreme Meritocrat unsure of how much time he had left. He gargled on blood pooling in his mouth and shut his bloody eyes. The voice in his mind grew louder, more urgent.
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“𐐒𐐲𐐻 𐐰𐑆 𐑄 𐑊𐐮𐐻𐐲𐑊 𐑋𐐯𐑌 𐐮𐑌 Empyrea – 𐑊𐐫𐑍 𐐺𐐮𐑁𐐬𐑉 𐑄 𐐶𐐲𐑌 𐑃𐐵𐑆𐐲𐑌𐐼 𐐷𐐨𐑉 𐑉𐐩𐑌 𐐲𐑂 𐑄 Colestis Imperii – 𐑅𐐰𐑍 𐐹𐑉𐐩𐑆𐑆 𐐲𐑂 𐑄 Æbyss, 𐑄𐐩 𐑁𐐲𐑉𐑀𐐪𐐻 𐐮𐐻𐑅 𐐻𐑉𐐭 𐑌𐐩𐐽𐐲𐑉. 𐐜𐐩 𐑁𐐲𐑉𐑀𐐪𐐻 𐑄𐐰𐐻 𐐮𐐻 𐐶𐐲𐑆 𐑌𐐪𐐻 𐐩 𐐺𐐲𐑌𐐯𐑂𐐲𐑊𐐲𐑌𐐻 𐑁𐐬𐑉𐑅, 𐐺𐐲𐐻 𐐩 𐐸𐐲𐑍𐑀𐐲𐑉 𐑄𐐰𐐻 𐐿𐐲𐑌𐑅𐐭𐑋𐐼 𐐫𐑊 𐐮𐑌 𐐮𐐻𐑅 𐐹𐐰𐑃. 𐐈𐑌𐐼 𐑅𐐬 𐑄𐐩 𐐶𐐲𐑉 𐐿𐐲𐑌𐑅𐐭𐑋𐐼 𐐺𐐴 𐑋𐐨 𐐰𐑌𐐼 𐑋𐐴 𐑅𐐮𐑅𐐻𐐲𐑉𐑆 𐐮𐑌 𐐵𐑉 𐐸𐐲𐑍𐑀𐐲𐑉.”(“But as the little men in Empyrea – long before the one thousand year reign of the Colestis Imperii – sang praises of the Æbyss, they forgot its true nature. They forgot that it was not a benevolent force but a hunger that consumed all in its path. And so they were consumed by me and my sisters in our hunger.”) hissed the ancient deity in its dying puppets' minds.
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The room around Berote began to warp and twist, reality bending to accommodate the madness that gripped his mind. The god's voice grew distant, muffled by a sea of crimson mist that filled his vision. A small part of logic thst had not been shattered, and he told him he was experiencing psychosis as an effect of Æonex's direct presence in his mind rather than from the disease.
“𐐈𐑌𐐼 𐑄𐐯𐑌 𐑄𐐵 𐐶𐐲𐑉 𐑉𐐨𐐺𐐫𐑉𐑌 𐑊𐐩𐐻𐐲𐑉 𐑁𐐫𐑉 𐐩 𐑅𐐯𐐿𐐲𐑌𐐼 𐐻𐐴𐑋,” 𐐸𐐨 𐐶𐐮𐑅𐐹𐐲𐑉𐐲𐐼, 𐐸𐐲𐑉 𐐶𐐲𐑉𐐼𐑆 𐑊𐐫𐑅𐐻 𐐮𐑌 𐑄 𐐿𐐩𐐪𐑅. “𐐓𐐭 𐐩 𐐶𐐲𐑉𐑊𐐼 𐐲𐑂 𐐯𐑌𐐼𐑊𐐮𐑅 𐐶𐐪 𐐰𐑌𐐼 𐑅𐐻𐑉𐐴𐑁, 𐐶𐐯𐑉 𐑄 𐐹𐐨𐐹𐐲𐑊 𐑄𐐲𐑋𐑅𐐯𐑊𐑂𐑆 𐐪𐑉 𐐼𐐮𐑂𐐵𐑉𐐲𐐼 𐐺𐐴 𐑄𐐯𐑉 𐐬𐑌 𐐿𐑉𐐨𐐩𐑇𐐲𐑌𐑆. 𐐈𐑌𐐼 𐐲𐐻 𐐮𐐻𐑅 𐐸𐐪𐑉𐐻, 𐑄 Æbyss 𐑅𐐻𐐮𐑊 𐑅𐐮𐑍𐑆 𐐮𐐻𐑅 𐑅𐐫𐑍 𐐲𐑂 𐐿𐑉𐐨𐐩𐑇𐐲𐑌... 𐐰𐑌𐐼 𐐼𐐮𐑅𐐻𐑉𐐲𐐿𐑇𐐲𐑌." (“And then thou were reborn millenia later for a second time,” it whispered, “To a world of endless war and strife, where the people are devoured by their own creations. And at its heart, the Æbyss still sings its song of creation....and destruction.”)
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Berote’s body convulsed beneath Æonex the Tormentor form. his eyes rolling back in his head as the darkness closed in. The last thing he heard was the goddess’ laughter, echoing through eternity like a madwoman’s cackle.
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As the minutes ticked away, Berote’s vision faded to blackness, consumed by the endless void of his own mortality. The assassin watched with cold calculation as Berote’s body slumped forward, blood pooling around him like an altar sacrifice.
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One final thought echoed through Berote’s mind: “The Æbyss...it is beautiful.”
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And then there was nothing.
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The assassin stood up slowly, brushing off their clothes as if shaking off the stench of death that clung to them like a shroud. They turned to leave the room, leaving behind a trail of crimson footprints on the polished marble floor. He noted down that Supreme Meritocrat Berote had died as a result of a stroke, the assassin mused that the result would make Chairman Creutzfeldt Mao very happy indeed.
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As he disappeared into the shadows, a voice that he could not hesr echoed through the halls: “𐐈𐑌𐐼 𐑅𐐬 𐐮𐐻 𐐺𐐮𐑀𐐮𐑌𐑆... 𐐲𐑀𐐯𐑌. 𐐌 𐑅𐐻𐐮𐑊 𐐸𐐰𐑂 Xantè 𐐰𐑌𐐼 Malum. 𐐈𐑌𐐼 𐑄𐐵 𐐶𐐲𐑉 𐐫𐑊𐐶𐐩𐑆 𐐮𐐿𐑅𐐹𐐯𐑌𐐼𐐲𐐺𐐲𐑊, 𐑋𐐴 𐐼𐐨𐑉 𐐝𐐲𐐹𐑉𐐨𐑋.”(“And so it begins... again. I still have Xantè and Malum. And thou were always expendable, my dear Supreme Meritocrat.”) rasped Æonex to himself.
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Æonex the Tormentor, oldest and most feared of the Æbyssal Triumvirate, did something that he had not done since the beginning of what the mortals called the last Age five thousand years ago.
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He laughed.
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