Apocalypse Tamer

The Bohens left Paris like a modern Western’s ending: by preparing to ride into the sunset with a giant campervan full of guns.

Basil felt an unmistakable sense of enjoyment at seeing one of Apollyon’s cannons topping his Steamobile in place of the destroyed howitzer. Parts of the Horseman’s exoskeleton also reinforced the vehicle’s shielding. It was deliciously ironic. After destroying the Bohens’ former home, Apollyon had become part of the new one.

“We’ve set up a rookery for Garud and a vivarium for Ananta on the upper floors,” Basil told Kalki after giving a brief tour of the Steamobile. “You’ll have your own guest room, but it’s a bit cramped.”

“It is fine, my friend,” Kalki replied. “I usually sit and meditate instead of sleeping, so space is of little concern to me. Though I admit I would prefer to rest on grass rather than steel.”

“You truly are a hippie,” Basil mused. “You can also use the greenhouse, if you want.”

“I might.” Kalki’s hand brushed against the Steamobile’s metal walls. “All this steel makes me uncomfortable. I can feel the pain that went into forging it.”

Sometimes, Basil forgot that his vehicle started out as a conquering dragon’s property. The Bohens had once crossed paths with elves enslaved by the Unity; some probably perished building Steamslime’s shell.

“It will go away with time,” Basil told Kalki. “If we spend years making good memories, eventually they will drown out the bad ones.”

“The journey ahead should offer us many opportunities for it.” Kalki nodded in assent. “Have you chosen an itinerary yet?”

“I have.” Neria had helped provide maps of post-apocalyptic Europe, including the location of safe zones and more hostile ones. “We’ll travel to Bulgaria by going through Germany, Austria, Hungary, and then Romania. The first two are mostly under human control, but the latter two will make for a dangerous trip. Afterward, we’ll follow the Black and Aegean Seas until we reach Athens.”

Considering it had taken the party many weeks to travel from Bordeaux to Paris, Basil expected this particular journey across Europe to last months. He missed the days when a plane trip would let him move from Sofia to Paris in hours. Flying monsters made that impossible nowadays.

“I’m sorry,” Basil apologized to Kalki. “I know you would rather us move to Athens immediately to rescue your girlfriend.”

“I do not mind making a stop on the way,” Kalki replied calmly. “You have freed me from my prison and agreed to help me save my beloved. I would be ungrateful not to assist you in your own quest.”

“Thank you, my…” Basil stopped as he searched for the right word. “My…”

“My god?” Kalki joked. “I jest.”

“My friend,” Basil decided. “Thank you, my friend.”

“Was that so difficult to say?” Kalki teased him.

Yes, it was. Ignoring the godhood, Kalki was a goddamn hippie. Accepting him as a friend carried heavy social implications, a burden that Basil would have to bear for the rest of his life.

“I’m not good at the mushy-mushy stuff,” Basil admitted.

“You’re getting better at it,” Kalki replied kindly. “You are an entirely different person from the man I met in the southern marshes. Kinder, more open with his feelings… more charming too.”

“Are you flirting with me?” Basil joked. “We’re both taken.”

“I say things as they are,” Kalki replied, though his smile faltered a little. “Do not let Vasi go, Basil. You would regret it for the rest of your life.”

And he was probably right.

The duo walked outside the Steamobile, where everyone was getting ready to leave. Kalki’s monster allies helped Bugsy and Shellgirl store the last supplies; Neria and Zachariel offered magical scrolls to Vasi; and General Leblanc had an escort of soldiers surround Benjamin Leroy, who stared at Kalki with a strange look.

Plato, that lazy cat, rested on Rosemarine’s back while the tropidrake hummed a new tune Kalki had taught her. She intended to sing while carrying the Steamobile across the land, as she had done on the way to Paris.

“Are you certain you do not wish for a larger escort?” Neria asked with worry. “I know you can take care of yourself, but…”

“It’s all right,” Basil said, patting Kalki on the back. “He’s in good hands.”

“The larger a convoy, the slower it is,” General Leblanc said. “When moving quickly, it is better to travel light to avoid ambushes.”

A wise counsel not all armies understood.

The old military leader smiled at Basil’s group. “Nor do I believe numbers would make a difference. This party probably has the highest level in all of western Europe.”

“Meow, that’s right,” Plato boasted as he stretched his back. “We’re your gods now. Bring us your virgins, and your cat food.”

Leroy crossed his arms and remained sullenly silent.

“Yo Zach, would you be open to a joint venture?” Shellgirl asked the angel. “We open a new church, fifty-fifty on donations.”

“I will pass,” the angel said politely. “I’m under exclusive contract with the heavens above, and the penalties include bolts of divine retribution.”

“We’ll stay in contact through the Logs,” Neria promised as she shook Basil’s hand. “We’ll keep sending supplies through the Guild Inventory.”

“We’ll build teleporting Lairs wherever we can,” Basil replied. “And claim any dungeon we encounter.”

“Many still remain,” Leroy said, his voice barely audible. The man seemed a bit stabler and calmer than a few days ago, and he spent more time in his humanoid, batlike form than his shadowy one; but he often nervously fidgeted in place when he thought no one was looking. He was on a good path to mental recovery… but he still had a long way to go. “Most will be under a Faction’s control now. The Unity, the Apocalypse Force… my remaining colleagues. None will surrender without a fight. And all of them…”

Leroy glanced at Kalki.

“All will come for him,” he warned. “They will hunt you down.”

“Nothing unexpected,” Vasi said with a shrug. “We’re getting used to ambushes.”

“You shouldn’t. Tamura was boastful and Hypathia was a fool, but Ashok is cut from a different cloth. With him, it’s a fight to the death. As for Maxwell…” Leroy looked away. “You have seen what he is. With the essences, they can track you anywhere.”

Basil nodded grimly. While he was confident in his abilities, the warning hadn’t fallen on deaf ears. Maxwell and Ashok could potentially attack the group at any point. They could never let their guard down.

“Do you have any idea where Maxwell might be?” Neria questioned him. “We know Ashok is in the city of Athens, but his master could be anywhere.”

“Malta. He will be in Malta.” Leroy folded his arms. “Our European HQ was located in La Valletta for tax and infrastructure purposes.”

“Does Dismaker Labs’ list of crimes involve tax dodging too?” Basil asked with a groan. “You people know no shame.”

“It was legal,” Leroy said with a shrug. “And we paid our taxes on time. Fiscal evasion is the kind of activity that brings government attention, and Maxwell didn’t want that.”

“Why would he be there?” Neria asked. “Did you keep important resources on the island?”

“Yes,” Leroy confirmed. “We set up a data center with more processing power than you can fathom. Like my Naraka, it’s one of the hubs in the neurotower network.”

“We will send troops to Malta to investigate then,” General Leblanc decided. “We now have the resources to project power across the Mediterranean Sea.”

“Please give us a call if you can confirm Maxwell’s location,” Basil asked, his jaw clenching. “We owe him a reckoning.”

“So do we.” General Leblanc held Basil’s gaze. “Before you leave, young man, there is something I wish to give you.”

France’s leader grabbed at one of the many medals on his white military jacket; a five-pointed star bound to a red piece of cloth by a metal laurel crown. The golden visage of Marianne, the personification of France, occupied the center of the medal. The words ‘République Française’ formed a circle around her.

The System didn’t attribute magical properties to the decoration, but the general clearly cared for it. He stared at it with a nostalgic look, as if reminiscing about simpler times.

“A long-dead president gave me this a long time ago for serving my nation through difficult times,” General Leblanc told Basil. “There is no elected president or Grandmaster of the Legion d’Honneur to deliver this medal to you… so I’m going to do it myself.”

Basil straightened up almost instinctively as the general attached the medal to his scale and feather armor. The soldiers escorting the Steamobile, including Neria, lined up in a military salute.

“By the powers invested in me by the French state and in violation of proper protocol,” General Leblanc said, his voice heavy and solemn. “I hereby promote you to the rank of Chevalier de la Légion d’Honneur for your acts of bravery in the service of our nation.”

Basil held his breath as soldiers pointed their rifles at the sky and fired a shot loud enough to startle the rest of his party. Although he didn’t care much for rewards, he understood he was being honored; something doubly important since he was, at the end of the day, a foreigner in France. Basil knew such an award had been a rare occurrence even before the apocalypse.

“I’m…” Basil cleared his throat. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Then say nothing,” General Leblanc mused as he offered Basil a military salute. “Your acts have spoken more than your tongue ever could. You are a friend of France; and no matter what happens from now on, no matter how far you wander, you can always count on our support.”

Basil smiled as he returned the salute. The medal glittered on his chest. “Thank you for your trust, General,” he said, very much moved by the gesture. “You can always count on me.”

Congratulations, your faith, military expertise, and valor have been honored by a great nation. By earning these honors and reaching level 50, you have gained access to the prestigious [Warrior Saint] Fighter/Spellcaster hybrid class.

Warrior Saint: A celebrated champion well-versed in the arts of war, combat tactics, and holy magic. STR (A), AGI (A), VIT (B), SKI (A), MAG (A), INT (C), CHA (A), LCK (A).

Basil’s eyes widened as he saw the notification. Him, a saint? That was a bit too much, even for him.

Still, although it wasn’t the Paladin class… Warrior Saint was probably the next best thing.

With a final series of handshakes, Basil and his crew climbed into the Steamobile for their journey. The Tamer mounted Rosemarine herself to test out his new abilities. He gave her a light tap on the back and she dragged the vehicle away.

“Goodbye, sand!” Rosemarine said gleefully as she rode into the sunset. “You will not be missed!”

“I won’t miss Paris either,” Basil said as he waved goodbye to General Leblanc, Neria, Leroy, Zachariel, and all the soldiers that fought by his side. He had the feeling he would see some again… but not all. “I might miss this country though.”

He didn’t regret leaving it though.

His homeland needed his help.

Blackcinders, Queen-ranked general of the Unity, admired power.

She breathed it, worshiped it. The Dragons of the Unity were the multiverse’s supreme lifeform. They could adapt to any environment while in the egg, whether in abject cold or extreme heat. Blackcinders had been born in the void between stars, with scales of black steel and solar sail wings. Her crimson eyes could see magnetism and gravity currents. Her claws could tear through a battleship’s armor and her breath burned hotter than plasma.

Hard-won levels had only made her deadlier.

Blackcinders stood at the apex of her faction’s hierarchy, second only to the Grandmaster herself as commander of the Unity’s armies. Countless millions toiled in her shadow and fulfilled her orders. Many would have grown arrogant in her position, but not Blackcinders. A single look through her headquarters’ windows disabused her.

Her moon-throne was a facility of stone and steel vast enough to house thousands, yet it was nothing but an outpost. The true prize stared at her from beyond her window of reinforced nanoglass: the blue planet known as Earth. An insignificant ball of mud populated by an inferior species and infested with lesser breeds of monsters… yet a place that could very well decide the Unity’s fate.

For somewhere on this insignificant planet, a Horseman of the Apocalypse Force had fallen.

Blackcinders feared nothing except the Grandmaster’s displeasure. Yet even she wouldn’t have dueled one of the Apocalypse Force’s leaders without extensive preparations, for they rivaled her in power. That was why she had had a primitive space station booby-trapped into a projectile meant to slay Apollyon the moment he stepped into this reality. Some battles were simply too important to be left to chance.

Apollyon countered her scheme, only to die in battle anyway.

The exact circumstances still evaded Blackcinders for now, but the result remained the same: underleveled primates had somehow managed to defeat a foe Blackcinders would have almost called a peer. Apollyon had had all the power in the world, and yet he fell anyway.

Blackcinders would not grow so complacent. She would fight every battle as if it were the last, never lowering her guard. The task ahead of her demanded nothing less than complete dedication.

A great war was being fought, and she intended to win it.

“General?” one of her mechanical minions asked. Blackcinders had fired all the humanoids of flesh and blood in rage after the Steamslime debacle. “The Grandmaster is calling on the secured holo-channel.”

“Open it.” Blackcinders respectfully crouched on her back legs as a hologram appeared before her. An illusory representation of Grandmaster Wyrde, supreme master of the Unity, materialized in the form of great silver wings and piercing blue eyes. “Grandmaster.”

“Greetings, General.” The Grandmaster’s voice was always soft and soothing, beaming with warmth. “My condolences for your loss. I have learned about Steamslime’s demise. His death is a loss for all of dragonkind.”

“Pity him not, Grandmaster.” Blackcinders growled in scorn. She didn’t feel sorrow, but shame for her spawn’s pitiful performance. “His incompetence shames me still.”

She had never thought much of Steamslime. Of all of her brood, he had been the most disappointing. A runt that couldn’t even fly. Yet when he petitioned his mother for a chance to prove himself, Blackcinders had generously granted him governorship over the Electron Cluster. A minor post, but a chance nonetheless.

For a time, Steamslime surprised his mother. His discovery of Earth granted the Unity access to a new world teeming with potential minions and natural resources. But then he failed to establish a strong foothold and perished fighting local savages.

A failure to his last breath.

But this insult would not go unavenged. Pitiful as he might have been, Steamslime was her son. No ape in the universe could slay him and live to tell the tale; his very life was an insult, and only his death could cleanse Blackcinders’ honor.

Basil Bohen. The name had been recorded in their System’s Logs and by the Gearsmen that failed to defend her son. I will remember you, human, and you shall learn that there is no flame hotter than a dragon’s breath.

“You should not speak of your son that way. He died a martyr for our cause.” The Grandmaster let out a shrug. “But let us discuss more urgent matters. Report, General.”

“Our strategy is working perfectly, Grandmaster,” Blackcinders replied. “The Apocalypse Force is deploying troops on the ground while we complete the Lunar Cannon. We should be able to lure in the Horsemen and blow them all from orbit… perhaps even the Maleking.”

“We are taking an awful risk, General. I hope it will pay off. If the Maleking invades this planet before our weapon is fully operational…” The Grandmaster marked a short pause. “I will have no choice but to take matters into my own hands.”

“I will see to it that you do not have to sully your claws, Grandmaster.” Blackcinders nodded in submission. “I will not fail you as my son did.”

The primates had no idea of what awaited them.

On a beach of sand facing an azure sea, a man-shaped creature enjoyed the fruits of his labor. Drinking a Martini cocktail in one hand and holding a towel with the other, he watched on as the last of the Incursion rifts closed above him.

Millions had perished over the last week; more than in the first Incursion, but far less than he would have wanted. Benjamin’s betrayal, however predictable, had thrown a wrench in his plans. The creature was unhappy, unsatisfied.

But for someone like him, who had lived to watch empires rise and fall, patience had become less than a virtue and more of a part of himself. The second Incursion had been a bust, but it had set the stage for the third; the one where the big players would enter this planet and fight for supremacy.

He cared not who would live or die, or even who would win. All that mattered to him was that the blood kept flowing. Like a tick, he would grow fat on tormented souls and harvest his reward. He would feed and hoard until the fourth and last Incursion.

And then he would leave for a new world, to repeat the process again. As he had done countless times before.

“Two more to go,” Anton Maxwell mused. “And then this play will come to an end.”

The stage was set.

All he had to do was to wait for someone to set it on fire.

In the void between worlds, a fiend awoke in the deepest darkness.

One of the four had fallen.

It was not unusual. None of his Horsemen were the originals. Some had lasted a fortnight and others a century, but the eternal cycle of conflict demanded sacrifices. The weak were purged and the strong took their place.

The Maleking cared nothing for those who proclaimed themselves his servants. A creature like him had no need for lackeys or worshipers. He offered them guidance and let them share in his vision, but he granted neither punishment nor protection. In time, they too would be slain.

It was simply the nature of things. When two people met, they had to fight to determine who among them was the strongest. They might form groups of like-minded individuals to face common foes, but in time even allies had to fight for supremacy. Power progression was a constant process; there was always a higher level to reach, a new threshold to cross.

It was his duty to rise ever higher… or become a sacrifice, should he meet his end at the hands of a stronger foe. So far none had proved a true challenge, but he was not arrogant enough to believe himself invincible nor destined for victory. He didn’t believe in fate or destiny; only in strength.

He knew the spiral of death could only end one way. Four would become two, and then one. Life was a battle where there could only be one winner. Perhaps it would be him… or maybe someone else. Whatever the case, the result would be the same.

On the last day of the cosmos, only one being would stand atop the throne of countless corpses. They would face an empty, desolate universe and bask in the joy of victory. They would have proved themselves the strongest, the apex of the multiverse. They would say two words, two very simple words that would spell the end of the competition called life.

“I win,” the Maleking whispered.

The gate to the throne of Overgod would open soon.

He couldn’t wait for that day.

End of Arc V.

End of Volume II.