He must have retrieved Mya-im from the wreckage.
I do hope she is recovering well in my absence.
The core will be within my reach soon enough.
The strand inside my cheek convulses. I growl and whirl around on my heels to seize an incoming fist from behind me. I squeeze the fist until a loud, satisfying crack reaches the membrane of my inner auditory canals. The satisfaction of something different, something broken, in my grasp seduces the faltering suppression of my blood lust.
I grab his wrist and pull him towards me as I perform a side step. I release my grip, and he stumbles forward into the wall of fire. Demented screams of agony come forth from the crepitating impassionate flames, and a silhouette flounders behind the infernal screen in a spasm of pain-induced hysteria. He falls to the ground and tries to worm his way out of the fire.
Then, a horde of inexpressive faces gathers around me.
The nephilim stand together, shoulder-to-shoulder. Their impassive stares are fixated solely on me. A steaming blistering head emerges from the blaze. The stench of burning meat and charcoaled air infiltrates the senses. He claws at the torched dirt as he drags himself forward, striving to escape the unforgiving flames.
The horde shows no concern for the repulsive whelping, braving his chances. They have disowned him.
He clutches onto my ankle. I lift my foot and stomp down onto his skull, causing it to implode under the concentrated weight of my firm heel. Shells of white and crimson-soaked clumps explode outwards across the dirt, drenching my foot in blood. There is no reaction from the frozen hoard. I know they are not accustomed to witnessing the likes of me, but I smell no fear from them. They are familiar with the native fauna, flora, and the consistent resemblance of their beloved all-father in their brethren. His face. His fallacy.
I hold out my hand, gesturing for them to come to me.
No need to be coy.
A muscular, black-bearded giant charges from the front line and swings a hulking axe in a circular motion above his head. I wait for him to come a little closer. I leap back as he brings the axe head down and hacks into the turf. Realising my evasive manoeuvre, he tears his axe free with a firm tug of the solid wooden handle and swings it clumsily from side to side, cutting through the air, generating gusts of wind. I leap back as the axe head grazes my midsection. His swings are repetitive and slow. I persist with a brief evasive tactic until an opening presents itself.
I then step to the side and round the nephilim to avoid backing into the flames, turning him around to face the opposite side of the observing hoard.
I slice through his larynx.
His hand ghosts over his throat as livid red pours. He succumbs to his knees and topples over.
Then an incoming glint of sterling blears from the corner of my visual scope, prompting me to move. A triangular blade adjoined to a pole, darts past me, dividing me from my fallen opponent. Then a slight twinge brings my attention to my chest; a faint scratch.
Is that all?
So far, there has been little to no challenge. It is shameful, but not surprising.
Will this spear-wielder prove me wrong? I wonder.
She is tall and fairly slim in stature. Her scalp is almost completely hairless, and her striking amber irises are dappled with hints of red. Small pointed ears are adorned with multiple bronze rings hanging from the rim. The silent members of the horde share a commonality in skin and hair colouration, ranging from medium to dark. They are also clothed in thin and vibrant fabrics. Worn with loose and casual fittings. Dyed in primary colours such as yellows, greens, blues, and reds, with the additional exception of white.
My knuckles collide with the spear wielder's nose. I am graced again with yet another delightful crack. I knock her back and off balance. Blood rounds her bronze septum ring. I tear the weapon from her grasp and redirect the tip of the spearhead at her, then drive it through her sternum. Piercing through her ribcage and spine. Accompanied by a gratifying split of thick cartilage and bone. I place one foot forward and bend my knee while leaning backwards. Lifting her up. Then a surge of electricity charges furiously through the spear, striking the tip. Her body flails and judders uncontrollably. Her eyes went wide. Strained in shock.
She does not scream like her pathetic brethren. Her self-silence and refined abstinence from expressing pain are quite commendable. She even inflicted a scratch.
It is more than what I have received from the others.
For me, even the slightest of wounds is a rare sight these days.
I straighten my knee and point the spearhead at the soot-covered, bloodied loam. I stomp my foot down on the sack of soulless flesh, pushing it through the reddened triangle. Liberating the weapon from the burdensome load.
I twirl and tilt the spear, toying with it. It is lightweight and effortless to wield. I raise and angle it above my shoulder before throwing it. It shoots through the air with utmost ease and precision, impaling one of the hoard members in the nether regions. The spearhead penetrates the ground, and the pole stands at a diagonal slant, keeping the male recipient in place as he squeals miserably.
I cackle at his laughable howl.
Then a war cry erupts from the crowd. They charge towards me as a collective stampede, trembling the scorched earth. I trudge past the carcases of fallen filth and towards the horde. Reshilomed continues generating strong winds and unleashes a downpour of rain overhead. Taming the flames, reducing them to dying ambers. Soaking up the evidence of wreckage.
The wind strengthens, and the sound of whirling howls sweeps throughout the crater. Leaves of nearby trees quiver violently. Battered by winds, and filtering rain pours. Lightening rampages through the dark mass as the downpour wets and softens the ashen foundation I stand upon. Then the horde levitates in unison. They toss and turn in the air, crying out for their maker, but it is not me that they so desperately beckon. They cry out for the one who has clearly abandoned them.
Although their existence is through no fault of their own, they are deemed as a mistake, and the ironic aspect of this is that they all share rotaerc's face. A face I have come to despise.
It is a reminder of what we agreed upon. I did not foresee the implications and the scenarios following the evident collapse of our partnership. I was too self-centred to realise the precarious position I had put myself in. I should have heeded Ira's warning and considered his mistrust of Hunni kind. Our collaboration was predestined to end in ruin. If I had known of the events that would have transpired as a result of this farce, I would have taken my chances with the pending threat of my termination.
There is blame on both sides.
The watchers abused their position. Rotaerc should have taught them obedience and discipline. Managed them more effectively. Monitored their activities. Despite the unwanted ramifications of our failed long-term undertaking and the impending threat against me, a newfound intrigue was born within me when I finally came to know Eve when she was still inside the artificial womb. From there onwards, during the quiet hours when no one was present, I would visit her when she was nothing more than a mere clump of cells.
I mentally noted and monitored the progression of her growth development, from cellular to embryo, to fetal. It was fascinating, for I had never observed such a process. This was when I began to realise she was more than just a cell. She was alive.
And I was watching the budding potential for sentience in the making.
Daft as it seemed, in the later stages of her development, I spoke to her while her eyes were still shut as she floated inside the tank. She began to react to my voice with each passing cycle of Terria's moon. When she was ready to be born, she was carefully removed from the chamber and taken to meet Rotaerc. She was raised alongside Adam. When they reached adolescence, they were introduced into paradise.
His perfect eternal garden onboard the Erradise. He named it the Garden of Eden.
I was forbidden to enter.
From that point onwards, I began to wish my circumstances were different from what was initially agreed upon. They never truly knew me. To them, I am an undisclosed and redacted aspect of their personal history.
Nonetheless, my memories of them are still with me, and he will never take them.
Now all that awaits me is an unprecedented future and the pursuit of my executioner. He will hunt me to the ends of creation and destruction. And the valid reason for my extinction is my very existence. Just like the offspring of the watchers. To the hunni, our existence is a divine sin.
The Nephilim are elevated high into the sky.
"You have both my sympathies and my condemnation."
This is the closest they shall ever achieve to his holiness.
Then they fall from grace – from above. Bodies splatter onto the ground. Blood and entrails explode around me, preceded by crude crepitations.
Perhaps the one I am most frustrated with is myself.
I squat down on the edge of the crater and rub the granular grit between my fingers. I recognise the trailing scent of dry lucent blood - the smell of stagnant water. There is no mistaking the fact that he is nigh.
I proceed to venture on foot and leave the molten wreckage behind me. Accompanied by Reshilomed. Bringing the wind and rain with me. Hauling the brewing storm. My reprisal.