Elar, now understanding the depth of Macellion's pain, realized that the only way to truly protect the world was to confront the divine being himself.
Despite knowing that only Macellion possessed the power to defeat this entity, he desperately wanted to shield his master from further involvement. How ironic, he mused, that those who once reviled Macellion as an enemy now clamored for his salvation, their audacity amplified by their commanding and demanding tone, as if Macellion owed them anything.
He understood this was likely a suicide mission. While he had gleaned dark magic from Macellion, he was no match for a divine entity. But he would try his best, for Macellion, for the world, for the chance to prove himself worthy.
Elar and the students journeyed straight to the capital and informed the King, the academies, the church, and the rulers of many cities, including the nobles, of his decision to confront the divine being alone. After Elar's proclamation, the world reacted with a mixture of fear, hope, and disbelief. The academy was horrified, denouncing Elar's actions as reckless and irrational.
The meeting at the capital was a cacophony of anxieties and veiled insults.
"Lord Elar," King Oberon began, his voice laced with thinly veiled skepticism, "while we commend your bravery, are you certain this is the wisest course of action? Perhaps a more… collaborative approach? We could assemble a team of the most skilled mages, strategists, and warriors from across the land. We could even petition the dwarves for their legendary craftsmanship of enchanted weaponry."
"With all due respect, Your Majesty," Elar replied, his voice calm but firm, "time is of the essence. A collaborative approach would be mired in endless debate and political maneuvering. We'd be arguing over tactics while the divine being tears our world apart. I intend to act swiftly and decisively."
Lord Aerion, a pompous noble with a penchant for theatrics, scoffed, adjusting the elaborate lace collar of his tunic. "Decisively? Against a divine being? With what, exactly? A stern lecture and a strongly worded letter? Or perhaps you plan to bore it to death with your brooding silence? I've heard you're quite the conversationalist, Lord Elar."
A ripple of nervous laughter spread through the room, but Elar remained unfazed. "I have the necessary skills and knowledge," he stated simply.
"Skills and knowledge gleaned from a dark mage," Archbishop Morian interjected, his eyes narrowed with suspicion, his fingers steepled in front of him. "Are we to trust the fate of the world to someone tainted by such influence? It's like asking a wolf to guard the sheep. Or perhaps more accurately, like asking a poisoned blade to perform delicate surgery."
Lady Isolde, a noble known for her sharp tongue and even sharper wit, leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with a predatory glint. "Speaking of dark mages," she drawled, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "where is your god-damned master, anyway? The great Macellion, the terror of the realm. Shouldn't he be the one saving us? After all, he's caused enough trouble in his time. He owes us, wouldn't you say? Perhaps he's finally decided to pay his debts."
Lord Theophyll, a younger noble eager to impress, chimed in, his voice dripping with false piety. "Perhaps this is his chance," he added, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "A final act of redemption. A way to atone for all the lives he's ruined, all the suffering he's caused. Though, knowing Macellion, he's probably hiding in some dark corner, terrified of facing the consequences of his actions. The coward. I bet he's shaking in his boots right now."
"Terrified, or perhaps simply indifferent," Lord Aerion sneered, taking a sip from his goblet. "After all, what does he care about the fate of the world? He's always been a selfish, self-absorbed monster. Probably enjoying the spectacle from afar, laughing at our misfortune."
"No wonder he's hiding," another noble snickered, a portly man with a double chin and a cruel glint in his eyes. "He must know about this divine being and got scared, haha! The great Macellion, cowering in fear! How the mighty have fallen! Perhaps he's finally realized that he's not as powerful as he thought he was, and now he expects us to clean up his mess! The nerve of that man!"
"Or perhaps," Lady Isolde mused, tapping a manicured finger against her chin, "he's simply enjoying the chaos. After all, destruction is his forte, isn't it? Maybe he's secretly rooting for the divine being, hoping to see the world burn, and then swoop in to pick up the pieces, claiming himself as the savior. A classic villain move, wouldn't you agree?"
The room erupted in laughter, a cruel, mocking sound that grated on Elar's ears. He clenched his fists, fighting to maintain his composure. The students, seated behind him, were equally incensed. Faen's hands trembled, and Diana's eyes flashed with anger. Gio, usually so quick with a retort, was silent, his jaw tight with suppressed fury.
"It's rather convenient, isn't it?" Lord Aerion continued, his voice dripping with suspicion. "Macellion disappears, and then suddenly a divine being appears, threatening to destroy the world. It's almost as if… they're working together. A grand scheme to destabilize the kingdoms and then seize power. A dark alliance, forged in shadows."
"Don't be absurd, Aerion," King Oberon snapped, his patience wearing thin. "Macellion may be a villain, but he's not a fool. He wouldn't align himself with something that could destroy him as well. That would be utter madness."
"Wouldn't he?" Lady Isolde countered, her voice laced with doubt. "Perhaps he's made a deal with this divine being, promising to help it destroy the world in exchange for some sort of reward. Power, immortality… who knows what a dark mage might desire? He's certainly never been one to shy away from questionable alliances for personal gain. He's always been a master of manipulation."
"And what about his disciple?" Archbishop Morian interjected, pointing a finger at Elar. "What guarantee do we have that Lord Elar isn't merely a pawn in Macellion's larger game? That this isn't some elaborate ruse to gain our trust, only to betray us when the time is right? After all, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
"Enough!" Diana, unable to contain herself any longer, rose to her feet, her voice trembling with rage. "How dare you speak of him that way? You know nothing of what he's been through! You're all so quick to judge him, to condemn him, but you have no idea what he's suffered! You sit here in your gilded halls, safe and comfortable, while he endured unimaginable pain! And now you demand he save you, after all you've done?! You should be ashamed of yourselves!"
Diana's sudden outburst silenced the room, but not in a way that brought her any satisfaction. Instead, she was met with a chorus of disapproving stares, a wave of cold disdain washing over her. The nobles exchanged glances, their faces etched with a mixture of shock and disgust.
"Diana," King Oberon said, his voice laced with disappointment, "please control yourself. Such behavior is unbecoming of a noblewoman, and especially an academy student."
Lady Isolde raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a sneer. "Indeed," she drawled. "It's quite shocking to see a member of the esteemed House Pirante acting in such a… vulgar manner. One would think she'd have more respect for her family's reputation."
Lord Aerion chuckled, shaking his head. "It seems the darkness has truly taken root," he said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Look at her, acting like a mere pawn of the darkness. It's rather pathetic, wouldn't you agree? To see someone of her standing reduced to this."
Archbishop Morian nodded solemnly. "It's a clear indication of the corrupting influence of Macellion and those who associate with him," he said, his gaze fixed on Elar. "It seems someone has been whispering dangerous ideas into her ear, poisoning her mind with their twisted ideology." He paused, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "Perhaps someone close to Macellion, someone who has gained her trust…"
Elar gently placed a hand on Diana's arm, stopping her. "Diana, please," he murmured, his voice barely audible. He understood her anger, shared it, but knew that engaging in a shouting match would accomplish nothing. It would only fuel their arrogance and confirm their prejudices, and now, it seemed, put her in a bad light.
The audacity of these people, he thought, his heart aching with a mixture of anger and disappointment. After learning about Macellion's past, Elar and the students felt a pang of disillusionment with the world, and this meeting only amplified that feeling. They were so carefree and brazen with their opinions, yet it was they who were in desperate need of Macellion's power, so why were they acting as if they were superior?
"Enough!" King Oberon boomed, silencing the room. "While I understand your concerns, we must focus on the task at hand. Lord Elar has offered to defend us, and we should support him in his endeavor. We have no other choice."
He turned to Elar, his expression softening slightly. "Lord Elar, I wish you the best of luck. May the light guide you. And may the gods have mercy on us all."
Elar nodded curtly, his gaze sweeping across the room, taking in the faces of the nobles, the academics, the clergy, each one a mask of fear, hope, and skepticism. He knew that they didn't truly believe in him, that they saw him as a last resort, a desperate gamble. But he didn't care. He would do this for Macellion, to prove that his master's teachings were not in vain, to show the world that even a dark mage's disciple could be a force for good.
As Elar prepared to leave, Lady Isolde approached him, her eyes narrowed with a calculating glint. "Lord Elar," she said, her voice low and suggestive, "if you succeed in this… endeavor, I'm sure the kingdom would be eternally grateful. And I, for one, would be most eager to express my gratitude in… person." She ran a finger down his arm, her touch sending a shiver of revulsion down his spine. "Perhaps we could discuss… alternative methods of defense. After all, a strong leader needs a strong… partner. One who understands the true nature of power. And I have a feeling you and I have a lot in common, Lord Elar."
Elar stared at her, his expression unreadable. "My only concern is the safety of the kingdom," he replied coldly, brushing past her and striding out of the room, the students following close behind.
...
Back at his mansion within the capital, Elar began his preparations. He pored over ancient texts, reviewed complex magical formulas, and sharpened his skills with relentless dedication. He meditated for hours, focusing his mind, steeling his resolve. He practiced his spells, pushing his abilities to their limits. He wanted to be ready, as ready as he could be, for the battle that lay ahead. But as the hours passed, a sense of loneliness began to creep into his heart, a deep, aching emptiness that threatened to consume him, a cold despair that whispered of the impossible chasm between him and the one he sought to protect.
For a sudden moment, a fragile tendril of hope, born of desperation and yearning, unfurled within him. He felt a surge of confidence, a strange, almost delusional certainty that Macellion might still be observing him. He imagined his master standing in the deepest shadows of the room, a silent, watchful presence, perhaps a faint, almost imperceptible shift in the air, a familiar chill that wasn't from the draft. He pictured Macellion's eyes, those fathomless pools of dark magic and ancient sorrow, fixed upon him with a mixture of pride and concern. He called out, his voice barely a whisper, a plea more than a question, "Master?"
Silence. Only the faint crackle of the hearth, the distant murmur of the city, answered him.
He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound that scraped against his raw throat. "Of course not. Why would you be here? You have better things to do. You're probably off somewhere, enjoying your freedom, finally at peace. Far away from all this… all us." The words were meant to reassure himself, to rationalize the crushing absence, but they tasted like ash.
He began to speak again, his voice growing louder, more animated, a desperate performance for an unseen, unheard audience. He spoke of his plans to confront the divine being, embellishing his strategies with forced humorous anecdotes and self-deprecating jokes, each one a desperate attempt to conjure a reaction, a flicker of that sardonic amusement he knew so well. He tried to sound confident, tried to sound brave, but his voice trembled, betraying the raw fear and profound longing that clawed at his soul.
"I'll just waltz right up to him and say, 'Excuse me, sir, but you're causing a bit of a ruckus. Could you please stop destroying the world? It's really quite inconvenient.' I'll offer him a cup of tea, maybe a biscuit. You know, try to reason with him. Perhaps a charming smile and a witty remark will disarm him. It always worked on you, Master, didn't it? Or maybe I'll just try to tickle him. Remember that time in the Sunken City, when I—" He broke off, a sharp, choked gasp escaping him. He was inventing memories, embellishing the past, anything to fill the void.
He paused, his laughter fading into a shuddering breath, replaced by a tremor that ran through his entire body. He walked over to the window, gazing out at the capital below, the lights twinkling like distant, uncaring stars. "Of course, it probably won't be that easy. He'll probably blast me into oblivion with a single thought. But hey, at least I'll go out with a bang, right? A spectacular, albeit short-lived, display of defiance. And perhaps, just perhaps, it will buy them enough time. Time for them to escape, to rebuild, to learn from their mistakes. Time for you to remain hidden, untouched."
His voice broke, the forced humor dissolving into a raw, guttural sob that tore from his chest. He sank to his knees, his body shaking uncontrollably, the carefully constructed facade crumbling into dust. "Master," he whispered, tears streaming down his face, blurring the glittering city lights into a shimmering, agonizing haze. "I wish you were here. I wish I could ask for your guidance, to know if what I'm doing is right. Are you doing great? Are you safe? Please, keep hiding. Don't show up. Don't let them take advantage of you. They don't deserve you. They don't deserve your kindness, your power, your sacrifice. They'll only try to use you, to control you, to break you again. And I… I couldn't bear to see that. Not again."
He closed his eyes, his mind filled with images of Macellion, vivid and agonizingly clear. He saw the exquisite lines of his master's face, a beauty so profound it could stop a man's breath, yet often marred by the shadows of his past, by the burdens he carried. He recalled Macellion's unnerving calm demeanor, a stillness that belied immense power, his composure unbreakable even in the face of utter chaos, a mask he wore to protect himself from a world that had only ever offered pain. He remembered the strict, almost rigid ways Macellion had taught him, demanding perfection and unwavering focus, yet always with an underlying logic, a hidden current of care. And then there was that uncanny smile, a rare, fleeting curve of the lips that promised both immense pleasure and utter devastation, a smile that spelled chaos and commanded attention, a smile Elar had yearned to understand, to earn, to see directed at him in genuine affection, a smile that was a testament to the shattered pieces of a soul forced to find beauty in destruction. He realized how much Macellion had come to mean to him, how much he admired him, how deeply he loved him.
"I miss you, Master," he whispered, his voice barely audible, choked with unshed grief. "I miss your sarcasm, your wit, your quiet strength. I miss your guidance, your wisdom, your unwavering support. I miss your presence, your warmth, your… everything. I miss the way you saw the world, the way you understood the darkness, the way you carried it all alone."
He longed to see Macellion, to feel his presence, to hear his voice, even if it was only to berate him for his foolishness, to tell him this was a pointless endeavor. He wanted to know that his master was safe, that he was happy, that he was finally free from the pain and suffering that had haunted him for so long. He wanted to tell him how much he appreciated him, how much he had learned from him, how much he cared for him. But he knew that he couldn't. He knew that this was goodbye, a final, desperate act of love and sacrifice.
Suddenly, he sensed a presence, a faint but unmistakable energy that sent a shiver down his spine, a warmth that was almost certainly a figment of his desperate imagination. He knew, without a doubt, that he was being watched, or at least, he needed to believe he was. A shadowy figure lingered just beyond the edge of his perception, its presence both comforting and unsettling, a cruel trick of his mind. He could almost feel Macellion's gaze upon him, a silent acknowledgment, a wordless farewell, a final, heartbreaking illusion.
He broke into a smile, a sincere, genuine smile, a satisfied smile, though it was tinged with the bitter taste of self-deception. He knew that Macellion was there, watching over him, even if he couldn't see him, couldn't touch him, couldn't hear his voice. He was not alone. He couldn't be alone.
Contented with this knowledge, this fragile delusion, even without Macellion showing his face, he strengthened his resolve to face the divine being, knowing that this would likely be his last act. He would fight with all his strength, with all his heart, to protect the world, to honor Macellion's legacy, to prove that even in the darkest of times, hope could still prevail.
He rose to his feet, his body trembling but his spirit strong, fueled by a love that transcended logic and a grief that threatened to consume him. He walked over to the window, his gaze fixed on the horizon, a faint, almost ghostly smile playing on his lips. The wind rustled through his hair, carrying with it the faintest whisper of a familiar voice, a whisper he knew was only in his mind. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment, feeling a sense of peace he had never known before, a peace born of utter surrender.
"Goodbye, Master," he whispered, his voice filled with longing and yearning, but also with a sense of grim contentment.
He knew that he would never see Macellion again, but he also knew that he would never forget him. He would carry his memory in his heart, a beacon of hope in the darkness, a reminder that even the most broken souls could find redemption.