The Jester of Apocalypse
Chapter 98: Freedom

The lovely tea flowed down Hunter’s throat. The gazebo allowed rays of sunshine to fall directly on his face as he absorbed the aroma. In his little corner, abandoned at that time, free of the politics and schemes of the sect elders, he basked in the warmth and comfort of the Zearthorn sect gardens. Red roses shimmered, blue orchids bloomed, and golden lotuses sang the glory of the sun.

Suddenly, his heart hurt. With a deathly grip, he grasped at his robes, unable to breathe. The outline of his veins along his skin grew sickly grey, his eyes bled, and, finally, his sight grew dark as his spirit unraveled.

His form grew hazy, however, and he appeared again, standing beside his corpse. With a tentative kick, he tried touching it, but his feet phased through it as if he were nothing but a phantom.

Suddenly, the gigantic claws of a dragon tore the gazebo into shreds, and a massive dragon appeared to pick the body up. In a dizzying whirl, his projection was dragged along with the corpse as he was flung into a mountain of corpses, many of whom he recognized as his fellow disciples.

For a few minutes, there was peace and quiet. Until, from behind the giant mass of flesh, the three-headed dragon appeared. Rather than serpentine heads, the first, on the left, had the face of Lady Kamella, the one on the right had the face of Elder Kaphor, and, finally, the one in the middle had the face of his mother, Lady Marrah.

The head of Lady Kamella dove into the mass of bodies and chewed with gory splatters of blood and guts.

…What the fuck is happening!? He screamed internally as he observed the absurd sight.

For a moment, he regretted drinking that alcohol, but as soon as he had that thought, he no longer remembered what drink he was even thinking of.

But he knew one thing. Where he was wasn’t real. It was a dream of sorts, well, a nightmare. A visage born of his inner self, an abyssal eidolon hunting him in the depths of his unconsciousness.

As more of the bodies went down the dragon’s gullet, he felt the image ringing more and more hollow. That was right. None of this was real. It couldn’t be. Had the Zearthorn sect been an abhorrent one? Yes, undeniably. But they weren’t a demonic sect. Well, they hadn’t become one. It hadn’t become this bad.

However, while this was nothing but an exaggerated phantom of his innermost fears, things could have gotten way worse.

Thank the heavens, he expressed his gratitude. For he had avoided having to witness this fate.

Suddenly, the heavens opened before his eyes, and a messenger appeared—a divine woman who asked Hunter a moral question he was far too stupid to answer.

Was it okay to be relieved? After all, it was his mother who had perished, his family that had been sacrificed to avoid this outcome. Shouldn’t he lament their fates? Wouldn’t it have been better for these people to be reformed, to be given a chance to see the error of their ways and repent?

Who knew? He knew he didn’t. His path had steered course due to much tragedy, and he often wondered what he should feel. And all he could conclude was that he didn't know the answer.

But that was alright. Screw the messenger! As far as he was concerned, heavenly messengers didn’t have good enough of a reputation to judge him. What was the right thing to do—the right thing to feel—anyway? Did one have to be a scholar to tell right from wrong?

He sighed a breath of relief, feeling the weight lift off his shoulders. That wasn’t the case.

Hunter simply had to do what he believed to be better than the alternative.

Certainly, it would have been best for them to repent.

But death was a better outcome for them than allowing them to spiral out of control.

As long as he kept picking the bigger good, he knew he would always be improving, always striving to not be bad. Perhaps then, others would respect him. Perhaps then, he wouldn’t suffer the fate of those who strayed off the beaten path.

Thank the heavens, Hunter thought again.

He would never have to eat a child alive.

***

Standing in his secret chamber, Dukean observed the numerous images, all connected through a red string, all trying to crack the code. A candle flickered on the small desk, and as he shifted another connection, he paused.

He grabbed the bit of red string that connected everyone and everything he had ever known and tied it to himself.

Hmmmm… he contemplated. It didn’t feel right.

The solution to him being the demon all along didn’t make any sense.

“This is stupid,” he said as he walked over to the mirror and asked peacefully, "Tell me, you demon bastard! Did you do it!?” He asked, squinting at his reflection. “And what else are you planning!?"

Before he could react, his reflection stepped out, grabbing his throat and choking him, "You know too much, child. I will be the one to ask questions instead. Speak, vermin. What can you even do to stop me?"

Dukean grinned. Then he laughed. "You miserable devil!” He forced through the strangling choke. “The hourglass… it is draining. He will come for you. No demon or devil can stop him!”

He cackled maniacally, overflowing in schadenfreude. "It serves you right!" The pictures and texts, all interconnected on the walls around him, burned in a red fire as Neave appeared, wreaking havoc wherever he went.

With his body wrought in crimson flames, limbs morphed into monstrous tools of slaughter, with an unyielding, unending hunger for destruction; the pink-haired child grew, looming larger than the realm itself as the world crumbled beneath his feet.

"He will be your undoing,” Dukean said, gloating at what he knew meant victory, “and I will be there to watch you burn!"

The devil growled. “That is your answer? You will follow the calamity!?” Then, with a wide grin, it said. “You already know that he will be your undoing.”

Grinning wider than the devil, Dukean replied, “You presume I have enough to lose to care.”

With an enraged roar, the demon jumped back and tried to crawl into the mirror. Dukean grabbed its leg and pulled it out, swinging its body and shattering the stone beneath. Suddenly, Neave’s gigantic foot crashed down and squashed the demonic entity into a pile of goo.

"You do not get to go there, vile thing,” he declared. “I may be a fool, but I am no sinner; I am no bane. I know my place. You should know your place as well."

***

"When will you learn, you brute!" Gabrias’ mother stood before him, barely reaching his chest as she screamed at him—again. "You skipped your lessons!? Why do you spit on every— single— thing we do for you?"

"I’m–I’m sorry, Mother,” he tried, but to no avail.

She smiled, eyes void of humor as she spoke, reciting her same criticisms in the well-practiced tone, dripping in disappointment, "You’re not sorry at all."

He had always wondered why. Even though she spoke with such shame in her voice, why did her eyes hold such glee inside? Was she happy? Pleased that he failed to satisfy her demands yet again?

No matter how much he apologized, she refused to forgive him, and his father appeared, beating him mercilessly. "You wretched brat,” he said, kicking Gabrias in the stomach. “You will never become anyone in your life."

"So…”

“Huuuh!?” His father demanded as he cupped his ear and bent down. “Are you trying to say something?”

“So… what!?" Gabrias froze, cursing his stupid mouth.

His father kicked him again. "You dare talk back!"

Why would he take this? No, this made no sense. A mortal couldn’t do substantial damage to someone on the bronze path.

His father struck repeatedly, but the kicks left no dent in his powerful body. It didn’t lessen the pain at all. His father was right.

Gabrias would never become anyone, but who said he had to? His parents?

He never respected their opinion, to begin with.

Marven grabbed the leg of Gabrias’ father, "Please, calm yourself, sir."

"Who!? Who—who are you?” Gabrias’ father demanded as he tried stepping back and tripped on his ass, bewildered at the fact that his son suddenly transformed into a complete stranger. “What happened to my son!?"

Berlan, the bulky coworker of Gabrias’, appeared next, still gripping the leg. "Aight, relax, you damn bastard, no need to get violent, eh?"

His mother screamed and stepped back. Elder Pagon appeared, lifting Gabrias’ father’s body and throwing it out of the window. "Hmph! Impudent! You dare strike at me!?"

The woman froze, suddenly transforming into a corrupt demon, and Lord Neave appeared behind her, blowing her body apart to pieces with a single, decisive blow.

Gabrias immediately prostrated, slamming his forehead into the wooden floor as he faced his Lord. "I–I am sorry, Lord Neave, for inconveniencing you. I… Tell me…” he pleaded, raising his head to face his Master. “Who do you want me to be? Who must I become!?" S~ᴇaʀᴄh the N0vᴇlFirᴇ.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of nøvels early and in the highest quality.

Neave nodded regally and decreed in his heavenly voice, "You are to become a pillar of my domain, Gabrias,” he said in a tone far manlier than usual. “The great builder, the peerless constructor! Your walls shan’t be pierced by devil nor god alike! Rejoice!"

Gabrias wept, getting down to his knees and praising the Lord’s name. He was wildly insufficient. That wouldn’t do.

Neave’s empire required a stronger foundation.

***

Sweat dripped down her neck, and the noon touch of the sun caressed her tanned skin. There was a slight circle around her, as people made space whenever she practiced.

Nobody wanted to be accidentally hit by Harel, the generation-defining prodigy and the future pillar of the Zearthorn sec.t

Not that she would let her sword stray by accident, not a million years, but that didn’t stop young kids from ostracizing her.

Swing, cut, slash.

Block, parry, dodge.

Stance.

Proceed to the following form.

Every day, the same training took place in the Zearthorn sect courtyard. And every single disciple had to participate—bar one.

Harel couldn’t stop herself from glancing over to Neave. Yet again, he sat, caressing his bruised leg after the elder beat him. He looked livid, as per usual. But yet again, there was no regret in his eyes. No sign that he wanted to change.

No indication that he felt he owed anything to anyone.

After blowing air angrily out of his nostrils, he clenched his teeth and got up.

The world froze.

Now… Where will you go, Neave?

Would he turn left, enter one of the hallways, and return to his room? Would he turn right, walk to the library, and spend his entire day there again?

Maybe he would climb the walls, strip naked, and run around on the roof of the sect. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Or, just perhaps, he would claw at the soil beneath his feet, striking it over and over until there was nothing but bloody stumps left of his fingers, and he would dig further and further, pulling Harel inside, dragging her into the underworld, the depths of the nightmare realm.

Harel suddenly woke up, but she wasn’t awake. All around her was black, broken by glowing threads of potential, lines of shining, shimmering white illuminating her inner sanctum's otherwise pure darkness.

She glanced over the countless specs that hung all around her. Potential she had realized throughout her life.

Out of habit, she combed her ethereal fingers over the fluffy cloud, seeking any new development on the sword's path.

The potential of improvised swords? Bah—

Insufficient. Useless. That wasn’t her path. She needed more. But it all seemed so… vague. The strands of potential were detached, glowed weakly, and the more she sought, the less she found.

Soon enough, all of the potential around her vanished. There were no more strands to comb through.

What is happening?

The core in her spirit glowed with the same cold, merciless light, cutting through the empty space and piercing right to the point of the matter. She was the sword. Her core was the blade. The potential she realized was the edge.

Little Harel sat before Marven, curiously looking at the sword in her hands. "I see a lot of strands in my spirit…” she said. “Why did you tell me not to grab them?"

The sect master opened his eyes and smiled gently. "You should only realize the potential of the sword, Harel."

"But why?"

He appeared taken aback. Then, he frowned. "I have explained it to you many times. Once you go far on the path, you will be granted the wayfarer’s privilege,” he explained patiently. “I haven’t followed the sword's path strictly enough, so my techniques are limited in value. You, on the other hand… Your privilege will be royal, and the power you will be granted over reality will surpass most cultivators."

"But why?"

“What do you mean?”

“Why do I need that privilege?”

Marven shook his head, "Harel, we as cultivators strive not only for power but also to leave a mark, one that will live on even once we no longer do."

"But why?"

He smiled a bit, patting her head. "You will understand once you’re older."

Teenage Harel cocked her head, grabbing his hand and gently pushing it off. "How much older do I have to get?"

"You have to grow up," he asserted.

"How old do I have to be to grow up?" Adult Harel stood before Hunter, her husband and sect master.

He smirked, mocking her in his usual condescending tone. "It isn’t a matter of age, Harel. It is a matter of maturity. And I suppose you simply aren’t there yet."

Elder Harel looked down on her son, the reigning sect master, and asked— "Will I be enlightened to the meaning of my life any time soon?" —with a small itch of impatience seeping into her words.

"What do you mean, Mother dearest?” He asked, truly bewildered. “You are a hero of the masses, a savior of the people. Your blade has cut down myriad monster, and demonic sects use your name to scare their vile cubs at night. Your techniques have landed Grandfather a place beside the emperor as the fifth of the Great Five. I am truly honored to have been born to someone as great as you. Tell me, Mother, what part of that do you not understand?"

Hunter shook his head at his wife in disappointment- "It is simple, isn’t it!? You’re so ungrateful, Harel. Such a clear-cut path is a privilege few are lucky to have."

Marven smiled, compassion void of understanding revealing his fangs as he spoke to little Harel, the child, and showed her the severed mountain lotus. "This a blessing, young mistress. You carry with you the fate of our sect."

Rather than reach for the lotus, she pushed her hand into his mouth, pulling out the potential of his sharp fangs. If she had teeth like that, she could bite through her core like an apple, crack it open, and see what seed lay inside.

Tell me, blade, what do you wish to cut through the most? What path do you want to carve for me?

Standing on the other side of her spirit, Marven grabbed the core and swung it, cutting through all of the empire's threats, solving every problem, and rising above the world as a legendary figure, a demi-god who sat beside Astrador.

The sword carved a message on the stone, leaving an eternal mark on reality, one that would outlive her forever.

I see.

Harel nodded. A path worth walking down.

She bit into the core, her teeth vanished, her face melted, and her eyes were liquified as her brain oozed out of her skull.

The bite mark revealed the shining core of the core, the center of existence, all there was and all there ever would be, all there could be for Harel—not the living tool—but the person who exists despite it.

The strands of potential appeared again.

One after another, they lit up the void of her spirit like stars in the eternal night.

The eternal night.

The eternal night…

The eternal night?

…

No. The eternal darkness. That was right. This place had no day. So it would be fine, right? That meant nobody would care. She didn’t have to care either.

Her spirit wouldn’t be sullied if she just took a glance.

The void of her spirit lit up, shining with the light of the day. The little strands vanished, not into the night, but like stars of the dark sky, they hid behind the day’s light as the sun-line itself appeared.

That was right. It wasn’t a big deal.

Harel grasped the squirming, eternal rope of white, which spread in every direction.

And placed the potential of freedom right into the core of her existence.

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