Ninjago - Heart of Stone

Chapter Ten: Leviathan

The jungle was wet, humid, and reeked of stale blood and decaying flesh. The Stone Army had apparently already cut their way through the underbrush, their trail marked by the split tree trunks and stumps, hanging vines that dangled limply from above, and the deep wells their feet had indented into the soft earth. At the end of this trail of destruction would be the camp, where Garmadon knew his destiny awaited.

Overlord floated weirdly above Garmadon, leading him through the jungle. He didn't speak much, and when he did, it was unearthly and grating. Now that he had a body; or something like it; his voice seemed not to fit. Garmadon had much preferred it when Overlord was simply in his head, and not a real, tangible being.

He had to be careful what he thought, however. Overlord was mysterious, and Garmadon didn't know the full extent of his powers-- the Oni had been the ones to possess powers over the mind, and if Overlord could, in fact, read his thoughts, Garmadon was going to be in trouble. He needed to make sure he could guard his less compliant, more dangerous thoughts from Overlord's omniscient eye, and keep his surface thoughts ones of obedience and subordination.

"Are we close?" He couldn't remain patient for long. Garmadon was itching to see his new future, to lay eyes on what awaited him. "How soon will we be there?"

"Only a few more steps," Overlord replied, "don't be hasty, Garmadon."

It was, indeed, only a few more steps before they reached their destination-- although Garmadon did not get what he was expecting. He'd imagined iron gates, towers, banners bearing the symbols of power, or darkness, an ode to the Oni, a gesture of their might. A fortress that reached for the Heavens, brick to black it mocked the night.

Instead, the camp was quite literally just that. Beige tents were set up in rows, a large hole had been dug off to the side, weapons and armour were being forged by smouldering fires-- nothing differentiated this camp from that of a stonemason's family reunion other than the Stone Warriors who were milling about. Garmadon knew his expression was one of shock, and Overlord wouldn't need to read his mind to know he'd been expecting something more grandiose.

"I cannot build," Overlord said, his sudden speech causing Garmadon to wince, "I cannot touch matter, I cannot create majestic buildings and deadly weapons. I am power, that is all."

"All?" Garmadon echoed. "Is power not all anyone needs?"

"Clever boy," Overlord said, sending shivers down Garmadon's spine. He hadn't been called 'boy' since his father's death. "But still, young and foolish. Just a boy, after all." He floated downwards, his great, pulsing eye boring into Garmadon's skin like flame against silk. "And boys are full of potential. Men are full of pride." He laughed. It was an eerie sound, like the echoes of a scream. "Pride is a useless attribute if one wants to become great. Pride only ever means you think you are stronger than you are, and this can only lead to your own demise."

Garmadon nodded wordlessly. Had Overlord actually had a face, he might have known how to respond. He'd always been good with words; talking circles around opponents, lying and twisting his words to get what he wanted, using his silver tongue to escape anything. But in all his life, Garmadon had never gambled with a faceless foe. He'd always had eyes to rely on, to peer into. Overlord had no eyes. Overlord had no soul.

"Come with me, Garmadon," Overlord said, beginning to drift away, "there is something you must do for me."

Garmadon looked back only once, as he followed his master back into the jungle. He looked and saw the Stone Army, hard at work, creating weapons and armour and training for battle and mining for what the Dragon only knew. But for a moment, a single, fleeting moment, he did not see warriors of stone, doing as their master ordered. He saw lifeless, soulless rocks, kicked by the foot of one bigger and more powerful than they, marionettes being tugged and jerked at the will of their strings, a puppet master who cared not if they fell. He saw nothing but blind, faithless servitude, created to destroy.