Netori: Stealing The Hero's Party!

A long time ago, I was but a farmer's child. My mornings began with the lark and my nights ended with a bath in the river to wash off the field's muck. My father with a giant's heart, he raised many children, some his own, and some orphans. I was amongst those many, not his blood, but would've laid my life down to save the gray hair on that old man's skull.

I wish I had, for past his death to a plague that festered from an undead's flesh, all that he had garnered through his life was turned to cinder by the servants of the demon lord. His land was poisoned, his children all dead, and the plague left me alone as a sick child–as well as the only living proof that the farmer ever lived.

An orphan once more, the church of a goddess dragged me to be their servant. I trained amongst the best, the prodigies and the hardest of workers. But I? I was no warrior, much less an enemy that could strike fear in the eyes of the corrupted army. That is until one day, I saw the lord of death, in his ineffable grandeur arrive at the war theatre where the young were being trained against goblins.

We bowed, some kissed his heels, and most fell helpless to the haunting spirit of the undying lord. His hand and blades caressed many bowing heads, yet he stopped at none and continued to pass. Hundreds of us felt his soul-chilling touch on their head, but only as he arrived at the very end of our battalion, did he stop and turn to face Helga, me, and a dozen others.

"Say, my children," countless bony hands emerged from nowhere and pulled her head up so we could look him in the eyes. "Do you wish your enemies quiver at your name as they do mine?"

Through parched throats we struggled to get a single word out, even Helga who'd already become quite renowned couldn't dare speak with death incarnate standing right before her. And so he asked once more, the very same question but the impatient stomp of his sword on the ground reaped the words right out of our mouths.

"YES! MY LORD!" And from that day forward, we were granted the strength to fell the lesser gods. Under the undead lord's banner, we marched, we plundered the lands and faith of the enemy. Each conquest, a celebration of our strengths and a display of our loyalty towards the undying king.

Even so, I struggled, more than the rest. My body crumbled to the weight of my own powers, and eventually, it couldn't contain the blessing. Taking note of my weakness, Murdok called me to his council. There he offered me life eternal or to lay down my arms and retreat from battle. Blinded by my zeal, I begged him for a chance to prove myself.

He granted it, only for my body to fall under the weight of a giant's blade.

"Enough you have suffered, but your soul refuses to leave this world of mortals. Say my child, do you wish to make thine enemy quiver at your name as they do mine?" He didn't have to wait for me to answer, as he already knew the answer. Revived in an armor made of metal infernal, I was reborn as a spirit that only knew how to serve.

Once a farmer's child whose left hand was taken and one of his eyes, now a monster of murderous passion, that slaughtered the very giant who'd killed him in but a blink of an eye. How I did so? By swinging a sword through his belly that was twice as tall as his body. But that was just the start of our journey as the holy war was centuries from concluding.

Through those years, our master and Aphrodite separated from each other, for what reason exactly? The only one I could think of was the birth of a half-skeletal daughter.

None saw Athenia after their separation. Rumors had it that she was held captive in a spell of time. Even to this day, I wonder, how come the war ended a millennia ago, and yet the goddess of mockery was active for only a hundred and maybe a half.

Perhaps, it was the death of time god that slowly broke the spell keeping her captive, but then again, did it really take a thousand years for her to be unshackled from the spell?

In the end, however, that matters none. Where she is and what she does still remains a mystery to me and many curious others. All the while the rest of the populace praises her to be the goddess of life. Yet again, I digress from the matter. Where was I? Oh yes…the birth of the dark knight.

With my new vessel, no weapon dared refuse my command, no undead defied me, and no amount of strikes could take me down! I was the herald of death's army, the doom of monster kind! The demis suffered at my blade for their blasphemous bestiality with monsters and those born corrupted quivered at my emerald sight.

I had achieved what my master had promised, what else could I have desired? And so, I fought and fought, and fought again and again and over and over! I ripped through the bellies of dragons with my bare hands and chewed my way through infinitely imp swarms. No blade could pierce me, no magic could blow my head off, I thought myself invincible, until one day I saw the death of the time god.

A single foot soldier…a servant of his dead master, he'd slane a god–something we thought impossible for mere mortals. Razor was his name, and the orders came from Murdok. What deal they'd made, none had a clue, and the only reason for his sudden lash-out was said to be him being tired of serving a selfish and incompetent god.

Thus comes the conclusion of my ramblings. A herald of god's army, the dark knight, and the dragon slayer looking back on those titles and what all unraveled as the war progressed further, I wish I had remained…a farmer's child.