The Hero

Chapter 16

Once the Champion took the first step in, he could picture it all. In great, vivid detail. He could see it as a masterpiece encased in gold strung across the wall of a great palace. Whoever would enter or leave could not miss it. On the bottom, it would read: Good's Conquest against Evil. Then, the picture would capture everything he was about to do. The killing, oh the brutal, merciless killing. Not a soul inside would live to see another speck of daylight. Of course, besides himself.

"Let the wrath of my fist turn this place into mere rubble coated in roaring flames and decay," the Champion muttered, as he proceeded further and further into the room. Not a soul had detected him, at least, from what he could tell. He did see a few bandits look his way, with some even rushing up the staircase. His gaze remained transfixed upon the cowards, but then shot straight ahead.

In a bout of thrill, an act of righteous justice and strength, the Champion reeled his sword back and plunged it right into the back of the nearest bandit's head. He let the body slide down with his sword slicing to his side, blood pursuing it in a single stroke. He waited for the reaction, a sign that he was going to kill all of them. And they couldn't do anything about it.

Slowly, news of the death spread through the room. It was really sluggish at first, like tiny ripples in the water, but it soon became fast waves roaring onto the shore. In a matter of seconds after shock had settled in, the bandits were all alerted. The Champion did a swift scan around him to see a whole mob forming in a tight circle. The thickness was immense. There were a few hundred at least. All just to die as useless pawns.

And what could display the mindless Evil more than pawns running forward one by one? Bandit after bandit, they ran forth. Then they died. The Champion would kill them by whatever means necessary, yet he reserved his gauntlet for only the most annoying pests: those that dared to flank him in a stealthy manner. The rest? Slash to the torso, across the neck, full decapitation, perhaps dismemberment, but they all died by sword.

The circle closed in as each bandit died, a replacement there without any hesitation. Fear was present in the ranks, though they all embraced their role. At least most, for there were still some running up the stairs. Their death would come later. It was just a temporary delay to their fate.

Die, die, die! the Champion thought madly, as he couldn't stop repeating the hateful word. His thoughts delved into utter madness with a serpent-like tone taking over. His vision became engulfed in red, something he never wished to wipe off. It was only a part of the performance. Blood was a sign of tasteful revenge and he wished to keep it around for as long as possible, for a reminder of his deeds.

A jolt surged through the Champion's left arm that forced him to reel his sword back and spin it around him. Heads flew off, but his enemies were smart. They backed away until his sword flew out of his grasp to penetrate a wall. Panting, he brought his right gauntlet into view and clenched it. A faint, misty black smoke rose off it, from where his fingers were hiding his palm.

Suddenly, a sensation emerged from the back of his head. He snapped his left gauntlet back and pulled out what was back there: a dagger. Its blade was already coated in black particles, and in a matter of moments, there was nothing left of it. It was as if it the blade had been eaten by termites at its very core.

"He just won't die!"

The Champion spun around toward the owner and leapt forward, his right gauntlet homing in onto his target. It clawed onto the bandit's face, the palm exerting so much heat that even his gauntlet began to sizzle. But when he withdrew it with a satisfying explosion rupturing inside of him, the bandit fell down with no face to show fear, no mouth to scream agony. It was faceless. It was purposeless. And it was dead.