Chapter 37 — The Pact of the Fallen
When someone solemnly declares themselves a "servant of the Demon," most would dismiss them as mad. But when that same person demonstrates mastery over reality—walking through walls, conjuring chandeliers from thin air, and transforming barren caves into opulent parlors—the claim takes on a weight that chills the soul.
Bennett's attempt at laughter died in his throat. Beside him, Vivian and Joanna stood rigid, their faces pale as ash. The skeletal figure before them radiated no jest, only a glacial certainty.
"Ha… ha. So, Demon's servant," Bennett croaked, his voice brittle. "What purpose brings us here?"
"You may call me Krys." The man's mismatched eyes—one emerald, one pitch-black—locked onto Bennett. "Young noble, what is your view of… history?"
Bennett's jaw tightened. "History is lies penned by victors."
"Ah." Krys drifted to the far end of the stone table, his tattered robes whispering against the floor. "Fascinating. I've observed you these past days. Your words to the mage on the island—'might dictates justice'—intrigued me. Elaborate."
Bennett shrugged, defiance masking his unease. "Winners crown themselves righteous. Losers are branded evil. History's quill belongs to the strong."
Krys clapped his skeletal hands, the sound like dry branches snapping. "Magnificent!" He tilted his head skyward, as though addressing an unseen presence. "Master, another soul sees truth!"
"I'm no one's follower," Bennett snapped. "Not gods, not demons. I trust only myself."
Joanna gasped. "Bennett, you—!"
"Blasphemy!" Vivian whispered, crossing herself.
Krys' laughter slithered through the chamber. "Self-reliance… the essence of demonic creed. You deny labels, yet embody them."
"Enough riddles," Bennett growled. "What do you want?"
Krys floated closer, his translucent skin glowing faintly in the conjured lamplight. "Long ago, my master lost a war. The victors rewrote history, branding him 'Demon.' I, his loyal servant, was imprisoned here—within the island itself."
Joanna stiffened. "The… island?"
"Not an island." Krys gestured, and the walls rippled, revealing pulsing crimson veins beneath the stone. "A living titan. Your 'beast' was its tongue. The whirlpool, its breath. You've been crawling across a prison."
Vivian swayed, gripping the table. "This can't be—"
"Countless have stood where you stand," Krys interrupted. "Fools clung to their gods. The wise"—his gaze lingered on Bennett—"made bargains."
Bennett's pulse quickened. "Bargains?"
Krys' smile stretched his papery skin. "Centuries past, a man named Aragorn Roland sat at this table. He traded a vial of his blood for knowledge that forged an empire. You know his legacy."
The name struck like thunder.
"Aragorn the Unifier?" Joanna breathed, her dagger clattering to the floor. "The first emperor—he bargained with you?"
"His bloodline still rules, does it not?" Krys' black-and-green eyes gleamed. "Power cares not for its source. Only its use."
Bennett stepped forward, fists clenched. "What's your offer?"
Krys raised a finger. "First, enlighten your companions." He turned to Joanna, voice dripping mockery. "Little mage, if your god grants magic… from where does mine flow?"
Joanna faltered. "I— The Divine Codex states—"
"Lies," Krys hissed. "Magic is not bestowed. It is taken. Your gods hoard truth, fearing what awakens in those who seize it."
Vivian sank into a chair, trembling. "But… the Church says faith is the key—"
"Faith is a cage." Krys whirled, robes flaring. "Your Bennett understands. Strength needs no permission. That is the pact I offer: knowledge for a price. Secrets that toppled kingdoms. Power that made Aragorn… immortal."
Bennett's mind raced. Aragorn's blood. His rise. His empire. "What price?"
Krys leaned in, breath reeking of decay. "A thread of your soul. A whisper to my master. Small tokens, for gifts beyond mortal—"
"No!" Joanna slammed her palms on the table. "Demons consume souls! It's a trap!"
Krys sighed. "Still a fool, I see. Bennett—?"
The noble stared at his hands—calloused from battles, stained with choices he'd buried. Power to protect them. To never be helpless again…
"What," he said slowly, "must I do?"
Chapter 38 (Part I) — The Devil's Bargain and the Shadow of Empires
The cavern's cold seeped into Bennett's bones as Krys spoke, his voice a serpentine whisper. "Aragorn Roland arrived here a broken man. His ship, The Mariner's Folly, anchored on this island's accursed shores… and was devoured. Only he survived. Only he listened."
Bennett's mind raced. Aragorn Roland—the empire's founder, a figure mythologized in grandiloquent biographies. But this… this was no sanitized legend.
Krys drifted closer, his mismatched eyes gleaming. "You've read the tales, yes? The glorious conqueror, the mage-king who unified a fractured continent. But history omits… nuance."
Images flashed before Bennett: childhood lessons under stern tutors, leather-bound tomes depicting Aragorn as a paragon of virtue and divine favor. Yet Krys' words peeled back the gilded veneer.
"His first voyage ended in ruin," Krys continued. "The sea spat him onto these rocks, penniless and raving. Here, in this very chamber, he knelt—much like you—and bargained."
Bennett's pulse quickened. Bargained. For power. For destiny.
Aragorn Unmasked: The Fractured Legend
Krys' tale unfolded like a dagger twisting in the dark:
The Shipwrecked Prince: Young Aragorn, third son of a minor lord, squandered his inheritance on a merchant vessel. Its wreckage became his rebirth. "The sea took everything," Krys crooned. "So he took everything in return."
The Mercenary Turned Mage: Aragorn's rise from sellsword to battlemage defied logic. "How does a swordsman master incantations in months?" Krys' smile dripped malice. "Not through talent… through transaction."
The Opportunist King: When war engulfed his homeland, Aragorn's "timely" arrival at a besieged capital reeked of calculation. "He let lions maul each other," Krys hissed, "then claimed the carcass."
The Widower's Crown: Aragorn's marriage to a doomed queen, her mysterious illness, his seamless ascension… "Convenient," Krys purred. "Much like your father's rivals vanishing after that hunting accident."
Bennett stiffened. How does he know—
"Power," Krys interrupted, "demands sacrifice. Aragorn understood. Do you?"
The Temptation
Vivian and Joanna lay unconscious, Krys' magic erasing their presence. Bennett stood alone before the demon's envoy, history's weight crushing his resolve.
"Aragorn traded a vial of blood," Krys murmured, producing a crimson flask from his robes. Its contents shimmered with eldritch light. "A trifle… for what he gained."
Bennett's breath fogged the air. "What… did it cost him?"
Krys' laughter echoed. "Cost? Look around! His empire endures. His bloodline rules. What is cost to an immortal?"
"Answer me!"
Silence. Then:
"His soul." Krys floated closer, the vial hovering between them. "Not all at once. A sip here… a drop there. My master is… patient."
Bennett's hand trembled. Aragorn's blood. His power. His empire.
"You hunger," Krys pressed. "Not for gold or titles—for agency. To never again kneel to fools like your father. To reshape this wretched world."
Memories surged: Count Raymond's disdain, the sneers of courtiers, Joanna's pitying glances. Weak. Useless. Disappointment.
The vial glowed brighter.
Parallels in Blood
Krys' voice dropped to a whisper. "Aragorn stood where you stand. He seized his destiny. Will you rot as a footnote… or transcend?"
Bennett's fingers brushed the glass. Heat seared his skin—not pain, but promise. Visions erupted:
Aragorn at Sea: The young lord clinging to wreckage, screaming curses at the storm.
Aragorn in Battle: His blade carving through knights, eyes blazing with unnatural fire.
Aragorn the King: Crown upon his brow, shadowy tendrils writhing beneath his skin.
"A whisper of your essence," Krys urged. "Enough to awaken… potential."
Bennett's reflection warped in the vial's surface—older, fiercer, a conqueror's glint in his eyes.
"What…" His voice cracked. "What must I do?"
Krys' skeletal hand closed over his. "Consent."
Chapter 38 (Part II) — The Price of Ambition and the Hollow Throne
Bennett's breath hitched. "A deal? What do you offer… and demand?"
Krys circled the stone table, his shadow elongating like a serpent. "Before we discuss terms, ask yourself: What did I grant Aragorn?"
"Power," Bennett said flatly. "Strength to conquer armies, magic to shatter kingdoms. And… something more." His mind raced through histories of the unkillable emperor—a man who'd cheated death itself.
"Not something." Krys' smile turned feral. "Everything. I carved out his heart and kept it here. A heart untouched by poison, blade, or time. His body became… resilient."
Vivian gagged. Joanna's fingers dug into the table.
"You want my heart?" Bennett forced a laugh. "Planning to fry it with onions?"
"Merely a keepsake." Krys traced a claw over his chest, where a faint scar pulsed. "A king's heart—beating yet severed—is poetry. But fear not. I've no interest in repetition."
Bennett leaned forward. "Then what?"
The Devil's Bargain
Krys snapped his fingers. The air shimmered, conjuring visions:
The Siren's Gaze: A golden-eyed Bennett surrounded by adoring women—Joanna and Vivian among them, their robes pooling at their feet. "A glance to enslave hearts. Even priestesses would kneel."
Dragon's Might: Bennett's frail frame swelling with muscle, scales rippling beneath his skin as he shattered boulders with bare fists. "Strength to rival giants. Breath to melt steel."
Crown of Lies: Bennett in a senate hall, peers trembling as he dissected their secrets with a glance. "Hear whispers through walls. See sins etched in souls."
"Choose," Krys purred. "A taste of power. Prove your worth… and more follows."
Bennett studied the illusions. Tempting… but flawed.
"Women?" He snorted. "I've bedded nobles' daughters without magic."
"Brute force?" Bennett flexed his slender hands. "Why swing a sword when others do it for you?"
"Politics?" His lips twisted. "My father owns the court. I'll inherit his games."
Krys' composure cracked. "What then?"
The Unmasking
Bennett rose, meeting the demon's mismatched gaze. "Aragorn took your gifts but broke his vows. Now you fear me doing the same. Hence this… installment plan."
The chamber trembled. Stone dust rained from the ceiling.
"Clever boy." Krys' voice dropped to a growl. "But arrogance blinds you. Your 'inheritance'?" He flicked a hand, and the illusion shifted:
Count Raymond disinheriting Bennett before cold-eyed nobles.
Joanna pitying him after a duel.
Vivian flinching at his touch.
"Lies!" Bennett lunged, but the visions dissolved.
"Truth," Krys hissed. "You're a castoff. Powerless. Pathetic. Yet here I offer—"
"Nothing." Bennett's laugh was raw. "Aragorn's 'gifts' made him your puppet. His empire? A gilded cage. His heart?" He gestured at Krys' scar. "Yours now."
The Standoff
Silence stretched. Joanna's muffled sob echoed.
Finally, Krys spoke: "Name your price."
Bennett's eyes hardened. "Answers. Why does the island hunger? Why us? Why now?"
The demon hesitated—a first. "The titan stirs. Its jailers weaken. You… are the key."
"Key to what?"
Krys' form flickered, veins of darkness spreading across his skin. "To break chains. Mine. Its. Yours."
Bennett stepped closer. "And if I refuse?"
The walls pulsed. Distant roars shook the earth.
"Then," Krys whispered, "you'll drown in the belly of a god."
Chapter 39 — The Shattered Mirage and the Crimson Horizon
The world shattered like glass.
Bennett blinked at the flickering TV screen, smoke curling from his lips. Inter Milan 2, AC Milan 1. The commentator's manic voice pierced his skull: "Groooooosso! He's not a man! He's a legend reborn!"
"What fever-dream nonsense—" Bennett slapped the television. The screen warped.
Click.
His apartment dissolved—couch, coffee table, everything—twisting into a kaleidoscopic vortex.
"Wait! Let me finish the damn match!"
Boom.
Thunder roared inside his skull. Agony lanced through his temples. He clawed at his scalp, fingers brushing something… unnatural.
A horn. Cold, smooth, rooted deep in his crown.
"Oh, fuck me."
The Awakening
Saltwater stung his nostrils. Bennett lay sprawled on the raft, the horn's weight foreign yet inseparable. Chris's bargain. The price paid.
To his left, Vivian and Joanna slept entwined, oblivious.
They won't remember. The demon made sure of that.
Joanna stirred first. "The storm—the waves—!"
Bennett feigned innocence. "Storm? You've been sun-drunk, love."
Vivian rubbed her eyes. "I… dreamed we sank."
"Coincidence!" Bennett grinned, though his skull throbbed. "I dreamed of a featherbed with you two warming my—"
Thwack! Joanna's kick nearly capsized the raft.
"Bastard!"
"Just a dream!" Bennett wheezed, adjusting the cloth hiding his horn. Good enough.
Fractured Magic
Joanna leapt skyward, robes billowing—only to plunge into the sea.
"Graceful as a brick," Bennett drawled, hauling her back.
"S-Screw you!" She retched seawater.
Vivian's wind spell barely tousled their hair.
"Patience," Bennett said, echoing Chris's smug voice. "Two days. Their magic returns in two days."
Hunger gnawed. Bennett eyed Vivian's pet cage—the plump phantom imp within.
"N-No!" Vivian shielded it. "Not… Jujube!"
Jujube? Bennett nearly laughed. Desperation breeds terrible names.
Sails on the Bloodied Sea
Dusk brought salvation—or doom.
A ship emerged, black sails emblazoned with crossed cutlasses beneath a grinning skull.
Pirates.
Bennett's grin turned feral. "Perfect."
Joanna paled. "You're mad! We're half-drowned rats!"
"Rats bite." Bennett unwrapped his makeshift turban, horn glinting in sunset's glare. "Ever seen a devil play pirate?"
Vivian trembled. "Wh-What's your plan?"
"Same as Aragorn's." He flexed his hands—pale, soft, human. For now. "Improvise."