Shadow Slave

2871 The Prince and the Pauper

A lonesome mountain was looming over a vast mountain chain, cutting the sky with its jagged edges. A radiant moon bathed its slopes in a pale light, and strong winds crashed into its towering dark mass over and over again, screaming in powerless rage. At the highest point of the mountain, a vast expanse of flat rock was covered with snow. Countless bones were buried under its cold veil, and although there were no footprints marring the pristine white expanse, a lone figure stood in the center of the ancient killing field.

He was a man with dark skin and broad shoulders, his rugged physique seemingly carved from stone. His disheveled black hair was covered in snow, and his beard was brimming with ice.

The man was holding an imposing great bow in his hand, a scattering of siege arrows thrust into the snow around him like a palisade… or like a forest of tombstones rising from graveyard soil.

The man had once been Saint Dar of the Maharana clan. Now, he was the vessel of Mordret of Nowhere, the King of Nothing. The entirety of the Black Mountains was reflected in his all-seeing eyes.

Those mountains were drowning in the bloodshed and violence of a relentless war campaign. The defensive line of the Human Domain stretched from east to west, serving as a barrier between the heartland of the Dream Realm to the south and the relatively untamed regions of the northern reach.

It was composed of an interlocked chain of fortresses — the human strongholds occupied neighboring peaks, each capable of supporting two others with reinforcements and ranged fire. New layers of fortifications were being built as the old ones were destroyed, so even after breaking through several consecutive layers of the defensive line, Mordret still failed to destroy it.

Of course, he could have bypassed the Black Mountains entirely. His Ascended Ability allowed him to connect his Mirror Domain to numerous reflections, and use each reflection as a door — that allowed his army an unprecedented degree of mobility, and positional warfare was all but useless against him.

Or at least it was supposed to be… but not in this case.

After all, this was not a war where one side lost once its soldiers were routed. This was a war that would only end when one side went extinct, and so, Mordret would have to kill all these soldiers eventually. So, he was actually benefiting from having an orderly, conventional war. Instead of invading the territory of the Human Domain in a blitz campaign, he moved slowly, meticulously securing his rear before advancing further. That way, the losses among his vessels were curbed, and he could thoroughly prepare against a future counteroffensive.

So, the Black Mountains had turned into a bloodbath.

He was besieging several peaks at the moment, as well as fighting for control over a number of important mountain passes and using one of the strongholds he had already conquered to devastate the two neighboring ones.

The mountains were quaking, a cascade of avalanches rolling down to shroud the battlefields in frigid clouds of snow. Blood was streaming down the slopes of deep gorges, painting the mountains red… the sheer ferocity of the immense battlefront was so broad and daunting that it could hardly be conceived.

On one side, the best warriors of humanity fought side by side under the banner of their new master, the eldest Supreme — Asterion. Saints, Masters, and Awakened were all beholden to the same hex and united by the same resolve to resist the enemy. There were hundreds of thousands of them, all hardened by the wars of the past and armed by potent arsenals of Echoes and Memories.

On the other side was Mordret. He alone fought against the collective might of humanity, pushing humanity back.

The forces were about equally split… for now.

In truth, the Human Domain was weakened by the internal strife between those few still loyal to the Immortal Flame and those who had already been enthralled by the Dreamspawn. Once the last faithful warriors were bewitched or eliminated, that strife would become a thing of the past, replaced by unnatural unity.

Then, the power of humanity would take a qualitative leap, and Mordret would miss the days when all he had to contend against were all the warriors of humanity and nothing more.

Standing atop the towering black peak, Mordret inhaled deeply and pulled an arrow out of the snow. Knocking it on the string of his fearsome great bow, he raised it to the sky and pulled with all the might of his stolen Transcendent body.

When he released the string, a small hurricane rose to send the slaying arrow off.

Somewhere far away, a chain of ships was blocking the vast expanse of the River of Tears. An army that was only marginally inferior to the one guarding the Black Mountains was scattered across the thousands of armored and enchanted vessels, somberly waiting for the enemy to reveal itself.

Far below the surface of the water, an uncanny creature was slowly slithering across the bottom of the river. It was a gargantuan, ghastly being with a long pale body and dozens of flexible limbs, each ending in an appalling human-like hand. Several fins trailed behind it like translucent sails, and at the end of its long neck, a giant mask carved in the image of a human face was covering its own appalling visage.

The eerie beast hid in the deep water, looking at the bottoms of the ships far above. All around it, smaller abominations rose from the silt, ready to launch an attack. That was Mordret, as well.

Far north, an Ascended warrior was leaning on the rocks at the lip of a smoldering caldera, hidden in the clouds of billowing smoke. In front of him, on the horizon, Ravenheart sprawled under the ashen sky. He was Mordret, too,

On the opposite side of the Dream Realm, a ferryman was ending his shift, wiping the sweat off his brow as the reflection of the Castle rippled on the surface of the Mirror Lake.

He was another vessel of Mordret’s, of course.

Millions of his incarnations were scattered across the Dream Realm, fighting the war against the Human Domain on multiple fronts while spying on all the Citadels of humanity. His consciousness was like a vast ocean, split between the numerous vessels, each shard of his soul that animated them fighting for supremacy in the broken and fragmented expanse of his shattered self.

It was only Mordret’s will that kept his consciousness together like glue. Without it, he would have long splintered into numerous independent beings, each possessing only a fraction of his power and identity. By exerting his authority on his numerous incarnations to force them into the shape of an individual, he was making them a Domain.

That was why, to him, it was important to have at least a symbolic representation of his true self.

The very first of his vessels — the body that the Nightmare Spell had created for him in the image of his original mortal shell — was lounging in the Ebony Tower, far removed from the bloodshed and strife of the war against the Human Domain. He was studying the twisting runes carved into the walls of the ancient pagoda by the Demon of Destiny, grimacing from the pressure they exerted on his mind.

Then, however, a subtle shift forced him to look up and raise his eyebrows.

Stepping into a reflection, he moved to the uppermost floor of the Ebony Tower and watched as three women stepped out of the stone arch, bringing with them the smell of smoke, blood, and defeat.

One of the women was Hollow, while the other two…

“Well, well, well.”

One was a blind witch, while the other was the Princess of Shadows.

‘What splendid guests.’

Mordret remained silent for a few moments, then asked in a pleasant tone:

“What took you so long?”

He stared at Song of the Fallen, expecting an answer. She was truly a pitiful sight, covered in blood and barely clothed, her red tunic… no, had it been white once?… torn in more places than he could count.

‘Oh, no. I’ll have to wipe the floor.’

Being a one-man-kingdom had its pluses, but made it so that he had no attendants or servants. Rather, Mordret was both the king and the servant — both the person who wore the crown and the person who polished the crown, as well as wiped the floor for the king wearing it to tread upon. Song of the Fallen faced him and opened her mouth, as if wanting to say something. However, instead, she simply swayed and toppled to the floor, unconscious.

She had passed out.

Taken aback, Mordret lingered for a few moments, and then turned to the young woman who was looking at him with wary eyes.

He smiled.

“Oh, my. Dare I say, I’ve never made a young lady feint from simply looking at me.”

Mordret sighed,

“Should I be flattered or concerned, I wonder?”