《Crimson Loop》 Chapter One: Epilogue The doors finally burst inwards with a splintering crash, and the four survivors pushed into the room. In the lead was the Captain in Crimson, her oversized plate armor leaving her puffing for breath. The other three figures followed her, two of her own Crimson Guard along with the mercenary in black. He followed the other two lazily, weapon not even drawn, scratching at a rashy patch across his cheek as his eyes flicked over the throne room. Time seemed to slow for the mercenary, as it always did when his soul had felt some lethal danger or another while his mind still tried to catch up. The scene in front of him was the most gruesome he had seen in this long day of butchery and betrayal. Before his eyes could trail the long Crimson Carpet that led across the palatial throne room up to the towering throne itself, he had already noticed far more red than the (admittedly short lived) visits before. It''s as though the whole room is awash in the royal colors, even the floor is... As the woman advanced down the carpet, eyes down and observing Imperial deference even as she no doubt planned deliver some speech absolving herself of her planned treason, the mercenary was already moving. Five, six, seven steps forward and he caught her and yanked her backwards hard enough to make her lead foot kick comically into the air. The two guardsmen didn''t even try to stop him, their long training impossible to break as they kept their eyes down on the floor. They don¡¯t see, they don''t understand. This was a terrible mistake. "How dare you-" she started, but now her gaze had been pulled up to see what he already had. The floor was covered in two inches of blood, her steps were closer to wading through a latrine of gore than treading the Crimson Carpet. Still, this wasn¡¯t what had made him pull her back. Where there ought to have been a single, thin, treacherous and winding path of plush crimson carpet barely wide enough for one foot to follow another winding through immaculate white sand, there was instead a congealing pool of sludge that rippled dully with each step. Floating in it, perfectly spaced throughout the massive room, were thirteen corpses laid face down with a single arm each outstretched. The mercenary had already realized who they were before he ever grabbed the woman, of course. They were the Conclave, marked easily by their robes even now as they laid soaking in blood. The thirteen magisters that had bankrupted the entire Empire with first their training, then their endless need for "research" and the importing of "historical artifacts". Absurdly, each of them had a single card from the Deck of Souls floating in the blood in front of their hand, as though the group had drunkenly passed out in the middle of late-night gambling at the tavern. Those corpses weren''t the reason he had dared to lay hands on the Captain in Crimson, a crime punishable by death under ancient law. "Run, you stupid bitch." He hissed into her helmet, shoving her back behind him and into the arms of the two guards. The Emperor''s corpse was at the foot of the Imperial steps, those that led to the throne itself. One step for each of the Conquests, each flat platform between the steps marking a great peace, each carved of marble. Those that approach reveal themselves in first how many steps in the sand they leave beside the Carpet, and next how long they take to climb the stairs, and on which peace and conquest they linger. A man that knows his history can flatter those upon the throne by choosing where to stop and speak from or impress with their subtlety even by which steps they tread upon and which they set foot upon. The mercenary remembered this suddenly, spoken in a forgotten tutor''s voice, although he had never cared at all about the deep symbolism and impenetrably archaic social rules of the Imperial Court. That tutor had been one of the most expensive and least useful investments the mercenary had ever made, even worse than hiring the whore with three tits. When he had finally done a great deed worthy of Imperial attention, the man upon the throne was already a gibbering lunatic more interested in the "arcane mysteries" than the battles being fought in his name across his collapsing empire. Worse, the whore with three tits was in actuality just a whore with two tits, one of which had two nipples. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. Everything in my life, a disappointment. He laughed to himself, softly. Desperately. Hysterically. The steps had bloody, bare footprints upon them. Every platform, no matter how large, was still pristinely white. I''ve gone mad. The mercenary realized this with a sort of calm detachment, not at all matching his usual irreverent (if self-proclaimed) charm. Behind him, he heard the screech of poorly fitting plate armor grinding against itself as the woman stood, but she was mercifully silent for the first time since all those months ago, right after her appointment, when she had first approached him in order to "discuss the future". The Emperor''s corpse was not why he had interposed himself between the girl and the throne. After all, wasn''t this exactly what they had planned? Sure, they had intended more of a graceful, dignified exit for the mad old fuck. After all, they had wanted to preserve the divine history of the office, to perfectly balance both the demands of propriety and those of the riotous citizens now carrying out their "second siege". Second siege, because as the citizens of the great Imperial City surrounded the palace, the city itself was of course surrounded by the barbarian horde. I''ve gone mad, and no amount of delaying will stop me from having to confront it. Atop the throne sat something. Every instinct the mercenary had developed over years of blood in battle, years of intrigue at court, even the years he had spent as a whore''s son on the streets of the capitol, screamed not to even look at it, let alone let it speak to him. The thing was wearing the skin of an unremarkable man, perhaps in his early to mid-twenties. From his seat on the throne far above, his features were difficult to make out beneath the gore that covered his skin. His posture, however, was clear. He sat with one leg crossed over the other. His elbows rested on the arms of the throne, leaving bloody smears on the white silk. One hand was pressed against his cheek, his head lazily tilted against it, while the other held an ornate dagger with so little care that the tip dangled towards the floor. The thing was nude, aside from the blood it wore like a second skin. "I don''t understand." The woman''s voice came from behind him, and she sounded like the girl she really was. Tired, broken, overwhelmed. Not a war leader, schemer, or politician. Just a teenage girl who had been given an ancient title to mock and spite and belittle the great men of the city. Just a girl who had desperately wanted her father to at least notice her, if not love her. The thing on the throne was watching her hungrily, leaning forward as though to speak, and the mercenary felt his body fill with the cold rush of ice water. The same feeling as when he saw an arrow flying towards him, or a blade slip past his guard. He didn''t have time to question why he was protecting her, this girl that had paid him to organize the betrayal of her own father, betray the divinely blessed Child of the Sun, the anointed Emperor of the civilized world. It was something native to every man, maybe, to protect a woman from the things that lurked in the dark. Before the creature could speak to her, the mercenary spoke first. If he had wanted to intimidate, or beg for mercy, or mock the creature and himself and the sort of sick world that allowed this to happen... all of that failed him. Instead, he could only rasp out the question that had been pounding in his head since he had entered the room and seen the lounging monster, this thing pretending to be a human being. "What are you?" He rasped out, his throat raw. For some reason, instinctual maybe, he asked it in the Old Tongue. The Tongue of Demons. The language he had learned only out of rebellious spite after the Emperor snubbed him instead of granting him a Triumph. The language it was death to be accused of speaking. The creature wearing the flesh of a man leaned back, clasping its hands together over its lap with the dagger pointed lazily outwards like an obscene, bloody mockery of an erection. A long silence filled the air. Its mouth slowly twitched into something like an echo of a smile. Even that twitching expression didn''t reach its eyes. The thing answered back in the same tongue that the question had been asked in. ¡°I am the only angel that comes when man calls its name.¡± The mercenary turned and ran, pushing the girl over as he sprinted to the splintered door. Then, the creature moved. Chapter Two: Prologue Malak gasped a giant breath of air in, feeling cold and wet and feverish all at once. There was a dull boom that filled his head and caused a headache, and he had passed out drunk at enough bars to know what was happening. I''m never drinking again. he promised himself, for the hundredth time. Something dripped off his body, but even as he opened his eyes to see if he had spilled beer himself or been spilled on, he was interrupted. Someone hissed a garbled word, their voice crackling. They sound like a dying cat. Malak thought. He heard another dull booming noise. Was there anything worse than passing out in a bar? He blinked his eyes open, his vision clearing to show him... red? Red and only red. Just the color red. Maybe he had gone blind in his sleep, or was still waking up? He was barely even old enough to do it legally, after all. As though that ever stopped me. His eyes were open now. Everywhere he looked all he saw was red. Did I fall asleep in some sort of themed club? This is taking "red light district" a little far. He looked down at his hands, finally able to make something out in his monochrome world only to see that they were red too. Another booming sound reached him, making his aching head split even worse. He heard someone gasping for air, it sounded like they might hyperventilate if they didn''t get ahold of themselves. Somebody¡¯s first time for sure. A bar is a terrible place to trip acid, though, they should have done their homework before coming out. A few test runs in a controlled environment. His thoughts were interrupted as he realized two things at the same time. One. He wasn''t only seeing red. It was more everything he saw was covered in red. Two. The ragged, pathetic breathing sound was coming from his own chest. Malak was awake now, and he started screaming. He wasn''t at the bar. There had been a car accident, an earthquake, or a tornado. He had been driving the Mercedez, hit someone, killed someone, been thrown through a glass window. Something had happened, was still happening if the third boom he was hearing was any sign, and now he was covered in blood and so was the world. He whirled to try and find help, only to discover he wasn''t on a street. Or in his house. Or at a club. Or outside, next to a smoking vehicle, crying and begging and trying to take it all back. He was in the center of a giant, cavernous room lit from above. Ornate decoration was everywhere, but his eyes were scanning by so quickly that they all faded into a blur. A red blur, because of course it was. I''m not drunk. I''m tripping. I¡¯m tripping, and I need to go home. The only thing not coated in blood was a series of white marble steps in front of him. He was perfectly positioned at the bottom of those steps, as though he had been in the process of climbing them before waking up. He looked up the stairs, and saw the steps climbed for what had to have been several flights before terminating in a- Oh Christ, what the fuck is coming at me. The thing hurtling down the stairs crashed into him, sending him sprawling into the pool of blood coating the ground. "Fucking Christ get off me, Jesus what the fuck!" He screamed, shoving the thing off him as he stood. "What do you think you''re..." If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. The thing was a corpse. Because of course it was. An old man wearing some sort of cringeworthy Roman cosplay costume, with his throat hacked to ribbons still seeping black-red blood. Malak shoved it off him, backing away as fast as his feet and hands could scrabble across the strangely malleable floor hidden under the thin pool of blood. His hands came back covered in... something. Thicker than blood. A red sludge. Sandcastles. Malak thought, absurdly. As he pushed himself to his feet, falling a few times in his attempts, he turned to face the source of the booming sounds. As he did, he saw more corpses, spread across the room. This is the worst trip of my fucking life. His eyes found the giant doors behind him that were the source of the booming sound just in time to watch them burst into splinters with a final, crashing noise. Four people advanced, three of them first dropping what looked like an ancient battering ram as the fourth pushed forward, helmet inclined to watch the ground as they walked in a slow gait in a strange, looping path towards Malak. Wait a second... helmet? He saw now that the figure approaching him was wearing some sort of medieval knight costume, thick metal painted a vibrant color and- Oh come on, more red? Am I broken? Are my eyes broken? Yes, the armor was a vibrant red, and so was the silken cape that was adorning the shoulders. He noticed now that two of the other men were in red armor as well, although the fourth wore what looked like a battered leather outfit with black chainmail over it. Did I take acid and go to comic-con? That isn''t a terrible idea... but is there an active shooter? The main in the leather armor was watching him, he realized, with a bemused smirk on his face. The two other men had their heads down much like the person in the lead approaching him, however. The leader stopped some distance away, not approaching any further than a few yards away from the steps, and began speaking in a high, clear voice that made it clear she was a woman. Is that fucking Klingon? Girl, we do not have time for this, someone is shooting up comic-con! Now that she was closer, Malak could tell she was wearing her brother or boyfriend''s spare costume. It was laughably oversized, clearly too heavy, and was making her puff and wheeze just from the weird winding path she walked to get to him. Despite her heavy breathing, she seemed VERY intent on giving Malak her Klingon speech. He was about to interrupt to tell her to call the cops, when he realized he was naked. Cursing, he awkwardly covered himself with his hands as he looked around for something to save himself from this situation. There were at least ten dead bodies in the room, he looked like he had just finished bathing in their guts, and he was now apparently flashing some poor nerd girl who hadn''t realized they were in the middle of an overpowering argument for gun control. Or maybe knife control? That guy was carved up, not shot. People shouldn''t even own spoons, just in case. Before he could brave telling the girl that comic-con was over and it was time to start larping as horror movie victims, the older man in the leather came forward. He was the only one who had ever even lifted his head, the only one that had realized what was going on. Malak felt his breathing slowing for the first time. An adult, finally. Not that Malak wasn''t technically an adult... but he had never really spent time developing "adult" behavior or habits. Not the proper kind, anyways. The man wasn''t panicking either. Clearly, he was some off duty emergency responder here to humor his kid, even his outfit was half-assed. He was probably the girl''s father. Even if he wasn''t, he had the sort of calm-but-not-serious air that marked him as someone used to catastrophe and capable of handling even the worst disaster with a quick-witted remark and a fine attention to- He started speaking Klingon to the girl. Oh god, it''s hopeless. They are all a bunch of fucking nerds. Malak seriously considered his options. These people didn''t understand the situation at all and seemed constitutionally incapable of dealing with reality. He needed to get out of here before whoever was on this little slashing spree decided to come back and finish off the guy on the acid trip. He did the smart thing, and began sprinting towards the door. One of the two other men lunged at him, and Malak realized the man had some sort of replica sword in his hand. Malak wasn''t about to let this overzealous role-player get in his way, though. Malak jerked to the side, his foot reaching out and pivoting as it landed to spin him past the man. Get juked, bitch. Try playing some basketball, maybe then you wouldn''t- His foot landed in what must have been the only spot to have solid ground under it, slipped, and Malak had the very odd experience of seeing a wall of red approaching his face turn into a wall of black. Chapter Three: Recovery Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.