Chapter Text

Bekal sat by the flickering campfire, mask set aside, slowly sharpening his sword. Sparks flew with each scrape along the whetstone, though he remained unflinching. Horrible memories plagued his thoughts; his lust for power, the deal he made, and the gruesome rampage that followed. He continued to sharpen his sword. After about an hour of repetitive grinding, he stood up, raised the sword above a large boulder, and sunk it halfway down in a single stroke. Not sharp enough, he thought. Bekal sat back down and continued his work well into the night. It was never sharp enough.

As the sun broke over the horizon, Bekal got up from his resting place, craving something to eat. He set out to hunt, and before long had found a wild boar. While his sword was masterfully forged for use in combat, it was utterly useless in a hunt. Bekal had never been good at being stealthy, so the boar would take off long before he could reach it. Despite his reluctance, he’d have to once more resort to using his occult magic. How ironic, he scoffed at himself, I’ve come on this quest to rid myself of this black magic, yet I rely so heavily on it to survive . Bekal reached his hand towards the sky, and soon a bolt of lightning struck the boar where it stood. As he cooked and ate his meal, Bekal made a mental note of his route for the day. I’ll venture down the mountain until I reach that valley before setting up camp again. He gathered up his meager belongings, consisting of nothing more than his mask, sword, and whetstone, and continued his journey.

The trek towards the spire was a long and arduous one; he had no friends to keep him company, no mentors to give him guidance, and no fellow soldiers to help him fight. All he had was himself and the occasional creature that crossed his path. Whenever there was nothing of immediate concern, his mind would wander to the day of the slaughter. With the Dynasty weakened by the departure of his father and his followers, there was nobody who could stop Bekal when he channeled his demonic strength. For all of the innocent families and warriors he slew, nothing would haunt him more than the face his brother bore as Bekal plunged his sword directly into his heart.

Bekal did not know exactly what he would do once he reached the spire, but he knew that that was where he must go. The devil talked extensively of it, he pondered. Surely it must have come from there. Oh, what promises the devil had made to him. You’ll be stronger than any man in the Dynasty! Nobody will stand in your way as you ascend to the throne! He should have listened to those words more carefully.

There was little variation between the next several days. Hunt, walk, sharpen, sleep. However, as unnoticeable as it was, the surrounding atmosphere was ever so slowly warping as Bekal drew closer to the spire. The grass was turning greyer, the air was turning denser, and the wildlife was becoming stranger. He only took notice of this shift when he stumbled upon a creature foreign to everything he knew. It appeared to be a floating mass of spikes, held aloft by seemingly nothing. Bekal confirmed that it was actually alive when it reacted to his approach and bared its teeth at him. He decided to steer clear of this “spiker”.

Soon enough, Bekal started seeing people peering around the surrounding trees. There would only be one or two every dozen miles or so, but it was enough that he didn’t feel quite as lonely. None of them attempted to approach Bekal, and he was content to let them keep their distance. He had no idea how they might react to his presence should he get near, and he didn’t want to hurt an innocent person again. He was getting close to the spire.

After such a long journey, finally the last few miles stretched ahead between himself and the accursed spire. And yet even him, brave and powerful beyond measure, felt an immense wash of apprehension. How can I even hope to find answers to my questions in this massive spire? I could probably spend my entire life here and die more confused than before! Yet somehow, he continued to press forward. Despite how much he wanted to turn around, run away, and isolate himself from the rest of the world, something kept pulling him closer. It felt… involuntary, as if some force had grabbed hold of his heart and was dragging him on a leash. There’s something very wrong about all this.

Bekal decided to set up camp about 5 miles away from the entrance of the spire. With hardly any trees in the area, he elected to only light a fire to cook some food. The sticks he had been able to gather didn’t last for much longer, anyways. Just as he was about to try and get some sleep, he heard the faintest scuffle of rock from a few feet away, near a small patch of shrubs. So faint that it could easily be written off as a gust of wind. Yet Bekal did not want to take any chances. He had just barely enough time to bolt upright and raise his sword before a figure in a green cloak brought two curved daggers down upon him.