บท 36: What is it You Fight For
I knew since this kid came into my dungeon; I knew for he is like me: an invader. With power rivaling that of an S rank that doesn't come to mind. His face, his demeanor, I don't even know if calling him a kid is even right. Or if calling him a him is even proper. Technically, by sight and scent he is male, but I wonder if that's the same in his mind?
Subjugation? As if a single word would make me bow to him. Assuming he's similar to me, his powers would be out of this world. Although technically correct, the other meaning to that is quite mediocre. His words of power didn't work so he tried brute force– now he stands injured and bleeding. His eyes scorn me… how wasteful.
Still… he is another otherworlder aside from me… best not get cocky. Putting that thought into effect, as soon as his muscles flinched to do whatever, I didn't allow time to find out as I swiftly dashed and held his entire frame within the palm of my gauntlets. I made sure not to be gentle, but the speed alone cracked even more of his bones than I intended. Makes me wonder even more about the bases of his power– or even growth. Weak as hell despite giving off S rank aura; feeling him squirm within my grasp– I felt nothing more than soft movements of cloth– like that of a windy day and loose clothing gently rubs against your skin. Opting to go for brute force, I matched his fist with mine within seconds before contact. My evaluation: strong enough to wipe most unskilled A ranks… on the low end. Sent him flying– a fitting show of my strength; I'd say thirty-five percent of my prowess of brute strength. I'm still not strong enough.
With him calling to me for submission, I'd say he wanted most of his 'companions' to do all the dirty work. I may be an invader of his world, but this thing is a parasite. Killing him would do the world some good.
Not fast, not quick, a slow death. Seeing as I haven't allowed him to squirm off my grasp, I tightened my grip. Enough to let him feel it. I saw it, the fear. His movements turned dire as he had less and less room to even wiggle. I had him up high– feet flailing– head bobbing– shoulders swinging side to side like a worm. The scorn in his eyes was quickly buried by the need of survival.
"WAIT WAIT! I submit! JUST STOP! ~please." with whatever air he has left within the lung capacity I allowed room for, he managed to shout out a plea. The lack of air within him sent him gasping for more.
"Submit?" I asked in confirmation.
His eyes were slowly turning dull. I hadn't stopped squeezing him. Yet he managed a nod. All he can manage, even as it pains him to move. He now grimaced within every usage of his body.
With his surrender, a huge pool of orbs flew from him to me. It was like a violent stream worth a large pond. I guess an S rank is still an S rank even if not in the way one thinks. Seeing as he submitted– I let him go. Still holding him up, I released my grasp and let him fall on the hard concrete floor. Damaged as he was, hitting the floor slightly above my height could leave grievous internal and external wounds with his weakened state.
I craned my head down as I watched him slowly but surely recover. A healing factor of sorts? Worthy of S rank… maybe? On his knees, he looked up. Bloodied but no cuts. Clothes ripped and bones as if they were never cracked. I heard all the clicking and clacking of his bones being repaired. His eyes showed mischief, scorn, relief. Clearly thinking a fool of me, I had to clear him of the misunderstandings.
"Your life is now mine," I started. His eyes quivered upon my vox speakers. Yet I find no realization within the windows of his soul. Leads me to believe he does not know of my media… or he does not belong to my kind of place, "So I shall decree your useless-ness. Forgive yourself for being so by way of death."
His face morphed into various shades of fear and confusion, "F- forgive myself?"
His question needed further addressing, so I dumbed down my speech, "Kill yourself."
"Huh?– WAIT WAIT WAIT!"
His initial shock was quickly replaced by his involuntary body rapidly scratching his neck. From clean skin, to red, to raw, to profuse bleeding with some neck organs sticking out. As to how this happened– it was not by normal means. Using a miniscule amount of orbs– five– the results show themselves in a bloody mess. A deserving fate and a nice little reward– gaining another large pond amount of orbs with his physical defeat. All I needed to do was the good ole cod lobby insult. Him in a state of disarray helped in the activation of my enforced reality of command.
It's dangerous how minuscule amounts of orbs could result in such devastating consequences. With large masses now in hand, I might be able to create something.
Before I start reminiscing on my war crime lobby days, I now have another large pond worth of orbs, but I felt no happiness. I felt other things like the string of greed telling me to kill more for my gain… no more than a nuisance. I looked at his body– the kid I didn't even bother getting the name of. Looking further around, I found the source: the bodies of the fallen hunters.
As the days passed, as more hunters came, I slowly felt guilt. Killing them is no issue; it's like shooting a home invader. But they may be the invaders of my dungeon, but my dungeon is invading theirs.
I am invading their world.
Yet I felt joy in knowing I can feel this way. Makes me feel more human than human. Even so, as I lay my eyes upon their desecrated and mangled bodies, I knew I couldn't leave them like this– not in front of my mothers shrine.
The sound of my boots echoed throughout the room as I closed the distance between me and my mother's engraving. I stopped just a foot or two, my knees bent in respect and show. Looking up, I requested of my mother–
"These fallen trespassers, they know not of their own folly. I ask you to judge them for an opportunity to live amongst the world of Vendra."
Not a moment longer, a wall of fire engulfed the edges of the room. With such luminescence, it didn't so much as increase the visibility of the room. I stood up, knowing my request was heard and answered. The fire around me had momentum, one that increased inward within every moment. It soon passed me, its black and white hew a comfortable blaze as I was engulfed for but a moment. It stopped at the center, before slowly dying out. A scan of the room, I all but saw only one body, that being the boy I just ended. The walls were no longer cracked, blood no longer spaced around as if a child threw paint cans around– with the boy being the exception. Bodies, weapons, clothes, armor, damage, all engulfed in flames as if they were never there.
I closed my eyes, "Thank you…" I whispered.
A moment after a motherly feeling washes against my skin as if saying "you're welcome."
Now, by my lonesome again, I still have about six hours before my dungeon breaks and I am set free.
Looking over at the boys body, I had a thought–
'Will a corpse reduce certain cost of Orbis Designare?'
Only one way to test it.
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Duraeus's intriguing thought was put to the test. With six hours left, plenty of time to fool around. With his major pool of orbs– sitting at around 4,920 orbs in total– fooling around would be an understatement.
The body was mangled by the throat. Eyes still open– a haunting scene for the weaker heart. Ripped white clothing stained in the boy's blood, Duraeus first tested what he was working with. Through various scans of his suit as well as trusting his instincts, the boy was a miracle. The DNA was barely human. It wasn't by means of splicing but human would be a vail way of describing his race. He was human… only on the surface. Blood, body functions, facial structure, skin, all human like. He was human, yet higher. Whatever power or wish he wanted, certainly a very divisive one.
As to what's so special, his DNA shifted and cracked and reformed constantly. Ever evolving to what the boy needed himself to be. If… IF given time, he would've been a major threat.
'Now that I think about it, he seemed to get stronger as I let him heal…' Duraeus gave the boy a thought.
Probing furthermore, he found nothing else to be of use. Now, to see if using a preexisting existence could lower the cost of Orbis Designare.
First, the control. In his mind, he constructed a similar organism to the boy. With time, it was complete– from demeanor to physical build, the boy was in his blueprint.
3,180 orbs… quite a bit. Now, the blueprint is only similar to the boy. Some things like the boy's personality can't be exact… Another limitation of Orbis Designare. Now, using the boy's existence, he checked the price again… 1,590 orbs. Exactly half is cut. Which brings more questions than a single point. Is his state of death a reason why he's only cutting half? What if the boy was still alive? Will the deduction be reduced if only using a portion of the existence?
"~Haa~" Duraeus sighs. So many more tests to run, knowledge to obtain about himself.
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Time passed, five and a half hours to be exact. Duraeus tested and experimented with possible loopholes. The biggest one would be the fact that Duraeus could lower the cost by using even a portion of what he is basing his blueprints on. He couldn't answer all his silent curiosities, but he was at least occupied. With each tick of time, he felt his dungeon crack little by little.
"30 minutes left," he commented to himself.
Playing with Orbis Designare gave him what he wanted; at least a base for his legion. A blueprint of an Astartes– his astartes. Not one engineered by his father. One he himself thought to reality, one– by extension– created by his mother as a gift.
Using the last bit of time left, he perfected the blueprint to his liking. First was the Astartes himself– then, the armor– then, his mighty weapons he shall wield. Using the boy as a base, one can assume the astartes has an ever changing DNA.
"I'm not like my father," Duraeus says in solemn genuinity, "he only saw us as tools if the books have anything to say about it. I'm not like my mother, a being even I can't comprehend. The title God Empress being only a fraction of what she is… or can be. I'm not like the Chaos Gods, I'm not like my brothers, I'm not like their Legions, I'm not… established. My blueberry brother Roboute Guilliman, the Avenging Son, a man of longevity, fighting wars through logistics. My speedy brother Jaghatai Khan, winning battles through speed. My stealthy brother Corvus Corax, if one were to see his legion… It's already too late."
The room shakes as he says his piece. He speaks as if he's jealous– no– lost. Lost in what he shall be. Lost in what he wants to be known as. With so much experience from all forms of media, a plethora of characters and their experience. Lost in what his Legion shall be.
"I'm no like them–"
Yet, his loss is more… knowledgeable, as if he knows he can't be them.
"I am Duraeus Vendrandar, Primarch of the Draconic Wardens. A Primarch of a legion unknown to my world– they think of me dead and lost… a safe bet. My Legion– My… sons… they shall be wardens. A bulwark against the menace. A spear against the heretic. A bane against the xenos. A brother to each other and to humanity. As dragons, we are greedy, we are prideful. Though not entirely in form, we are bound by their spirit. My Draconic Wardens shall forever protect our treasure– a treasure not in gold– a treasure not in information– a treasure known as humanity."
As his last words were spoken, as if a rite of activation, the room spiraled with energy. The room shook, threatening to crumble. Standing in the middle, his golden visor pierced through as the energies all gathered in one place. Light blue in color, noodle pools or orbs in shape and length. The supernatural sight formed and gathered to one being; until he was whole.
The room sat still like it was never going to topple. Silence, awaiting further notice.
Duraeus saw his blueprint into reality, his very own astartes. The firstborn of many to come– certainly not the last. The greatest part, not the shade of that Chaos God of fate and trolling. A god destined to never win for it is his own ever changing fate. This… was his own son that carried his genes. His own son was a miracle from his mother.
His firstborn kneeled in slumber, bowing in respects clad in black like his father.
Savering his excitement, two words escaped his mouth. Words voiced with pride–
"Awaken… Bokas."
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