Era of Aberration

Natural Born Tyrant

The boughs of the trees shaded the soil, casting long, dark shadows in the dim light. Simple windows of the homes in Trula reflected the state of all living beings—fragile, illuminated by the light of several moons. Three arches of purple light crossed the sky, their steady glow marking the passing of a day, accompanying the moons in the absence of stars. Beneath this strange twilight, a lone man entered his twilight years as he walked the dirt road leading away from the small village.

The night sky's dim light fell upon his gaunt face, deepening the lines etched by time and hardship. His clothes, a simple tunic and pants of peasant brown, were worn and tattered, much like the village of Trula itself. It was a place where nothing ever changed, where he had spent his entire life. But today, as he ventured into the shimmering forest, something felt different. He moved with purpose, his eyes constantly shifting to the dark corners of the woods, watching for spirits, faeries, or worse—beasts.

His hand reached for the leather pouch at his waist, unstrapping it with practiced ease. With a resigned sigh, he scattered red powder around his area. The dust clung to his tan and blue skin, settling into the folds of his leathery face. Moments later, small green and black gerbils emerged from the underbrush. They were hideous little creatures, each with two grotesque faces seemingly fused into one unfortunate skull. A strange fungal growth protruded from their backs like a twisted tumor.

With a visceral hiss, the gerbils scattered into the darkness of the forest. The old man, however, remained unfazed. He had seen these creatures—known as murks—many times before. With practiced precision, he pulled a blowdart gun from his pouch. His weary gaze sharpened with focus, and his thin chest swelled as he blew several darts in quick succession. The darts flew true, pinning the ugly little murks to the ground, one by one.

But they kept running. The surviving murks darted deeper into the woods, and the old man followed. His footsteps were steady but cautious, his senses attuned to every sound and movement in the forest. The chase continued for several minutes as the murks retreated toward their den. The old man knew their behavior well—he had hunted them before. His target was the murk queen, a creature whose massive size and tough flesh would feed him for a good while.

Finally, they reached the den. A towering rock stood before the man, several meters high, with numerous holes around its base. The remaining murks disappeared underground, fleeing to the safety of their nest. The old man came to a stop, eyeing the rock with a mixture of suspicion and determination.

He put away his blowdart and took out a small hammer from his pouch. "If I remember correctly, the keystones should be connected to the queen's chamber," he muttered to himself. "These creatures primarily live underground and are sensitive to vibrations."

With that, he began tapping the hammer against the stone, imitating the rhythmic way the murks communicated with one another. The soft taps echoed through the quiet forest, and the man gradually increased the intensity of his strikes. The stone began to chip and crack under the force of his blows, but no sound came from the earth beneath him. No murk king burst forth in rage. In fact, none of the creatures reacted at all.

The eerie silence hung heavy in the air, unsettling the old man. His eyes narrowed, and a sense of unease crept into his thoughts. Something was wrong. He had been hunting murks his entire life and knew their patterns. This silence was unnatural.

But he had obligations. His mural craft didn't earn him enough money to buy food, and for years, he had been secretly donating what little he could to the townhouse. He couldn't stop now, no matter how dangerous things felt. After all, this was just a murk den. What could possibly be dangerous enough to kill him here?

With a determined grimace, the old man rubbed the white stubble on his leathery chin and steeled his resolve. His eyes hardened as he kicked out with surprising force, slamming his foot into the keystone. The stone, several meters taller than him, shattered like an egg under the blow. The ground trembled, and the tunnel network of the murks collapsed in on itself, the soil sinking smoothly, almost like water down a drain.

Without hesitation, the old man leapt into the newly formed hole, snapping a red stick as he did. The stick ignited with a pale flame, casting ghostly light around him as he landed in the queen's chamber. The den was massive, larger even than the village chief's house in Trula, but far less inviting. The air was thick with an acrid stench, a sharp and sour scent that made his nose wrinkle in disgust. Tiny particles of bio-debris floated in the air, making his skin itch. The ground was covered in muck and filth, each step accompanied by a sickening squelch that tugged at the man's stomach.

Despite the overwhelming disgust, the old man pressed on. He had seen worse in his years, and survival had taught him to endure. Yet, as he moved deeper into the chamber, his wariness returned. Something was terribly wrong. Dozens of murk corpses littered the ground, their bodies half-eaten, as though something had devoured them alive. Whatever had killed them had a full set of fangs—something much larger and more dangerous than an ordinary murk.

The man tensed, his weary body preparing for a fight. His gaze swept the chamber, eventually settling on the body of the murk queen. It was enormous, far larger than the keystone he had shattered. The queen lay motionless, her eyes glazed over in death. Outwardly, she appeared uninjured, but it was clear she had long since passed from this world.

And then, her skin moved.

At first, it was a subtle ripple, but soon the movement became more pronounced, as though something inside her was struggling to break free. The light from the moons and the arches intensified, casting an otherworldly glow over the scene. The queen's skin bulged grotesquely, stretching and swelling until, with a sickening tear, blood erupted from the body.

From within the murk queen, a beautiful blood-red spider lily bloomed, its petals glistening with fresh blood. Through death, life had emerged. And there, in the shadow of the lily, lay an infant. No more than a toddler, the child feasted on the flesh of the queen with ravenous hunger. Flesh that would have been difficult for the old man to cut with a knife was being effortlessly torn apart and devoured by the infant's small hands.

Under the light of the moons and the arches in the sky, the child remained indifferent to its surroundings, completely absorbed in its feast. To the old man, the heavens themselves seemed to serve as a backdrop for this uncaring, unfeeling infant—a creature who took with no regard for the death and destruction around it.

The old man's heart sank as he realized what he was witnessing. This was no ordinary child. This was a calamity—a natural-born Tyrant. A being of immense power and primal hunger had clawed its way into the world, and everything he knew was about to change.

In that moment, he knew without a doubt: he had stumbled upon something far more dangerous than any murk queen. The Tyrant would grow, and it would consume. And if the man survived, he would have to warn the others, though he doubted they would believe the truth of what he had seen.