Hero Is Now Villain

"One is not enough," echoed Laab's voice around the hall.

"What is enough then?" asked Betrard.

"A thousand. A million. The more, the better."

"You are asking for the impossible, Daemon."

Laab's voice paused for a moment.

"A million deaths is not an impossibility. It is called a 'war,' child."

"Is that what you want? A war?" scoffed Betrard.

"A war is a means, but yes, I want you to start a war, among other things."

Betrard shook his head.

"I just want a revenge, not a war."

"A revenge against the man who back-stabbed you to death."

"The very same."

"What if I told you that there are more than just one man who deserve your revenge?"

"What do you mean?" asked Betrard sharply.

"I am the Deceiver, so I know every deceit and deception that occur in Alvyond. Your death was not a whimsical betrayal by your subordinate, child. Rather, it was a scheme planned by none other than your own King, the one person you had sworn to protect with your life."

"Lies," spat Betrard.

"Your assassin has taken everything from you, as promised by the King. Your position, your properties, and even the lovely Crown Princess—"

"Enough!" yelled Betrard, his knuckles white from tightly curled fists.

"You know I speak the truth, child."

"Why? Why would the King have me dead?"

"Why would a King kill his own loyal, honorable, and humble knight? Because that knight is too loyal, honorable, and humble. Your popularity with the people of Alvyond eclipses that of the King himself. The King does not see you as his own, but a rival to the crown. Sure, it does not have to be you who wears the crown. The next King need only to have you at his side, the honorable and loyal King's General, as a proof of legitimacy of his reign."

"I would never dream of wearing the crown."

"But others did, without your knowing, and the King did too. You were to be the heart and symbol of the next rebellion that would have come within the next decade or so."

Betrard, lost in shock, responded to the one word that he heard amidst the Daemon's melodic voice.

"The Orcish Rebellion?" asked Betrard.

"That is a start, something you can work with if you plan to cause a grand war," answered Laab's voice dubiously.

"A grand war," muttered Betrard, still unable to recover from the shock upon learning the truth of his death.

"Feeling like killing more than one man now, are you?" asked the Daemonic voice.

Betrard swallowed with difficulty.

"The King, my King, is a weak man. I can understand his fear of both losing me and having me nearby."

Laab's voice made a disapproving tongue-cl.i.c.k.i.n.g sound..

"I did not want to bring this up, but you have given me no other choice, child."

"Shut up, Daemon," shouted Betrard in fear of what would come next.

"Forget the King and the Courtiers. Politics is and forever will be a dirty matter. But what about the laypeople? The ignorant, simple people of the Kingdom that you fought for and protected in the past decades?"

"I do not care anymore. I do not want to know!" cried Betrard, covering his ears to block the Daemon's voice but to no avail.

Laab's voice continued to echo inside Betrard's head. Betrard fell hard on his knees.

"The King made sure that all of your past services and accolades erased from the records. You are now remembered as the traitor who plotted and failed to overtake the throne by fighting alongside the Orcsinds. So much for an honorable and loyal life spent only for the people, the King... and Xon."

Betrard, kneeling, looked up at the mention of Xon.

"Xon is always watchful," muttered Betrard mechanically.

"Meaning he is watching you right now, betrayed, suffering, dishonored... and still has done nothing about it," said Laab's voice.

A spasm flickered across Betrard's pained face, eyes shut tight in disbelief, in agony.

"That is more like it, child. Feel the anger. Feed the anger," rang the Daemonic voice.

Betrard had not fed the anger yet, but the awareness of such a sentiment was enough for his dead heart to beat again.

A heartbeat thumped once, twice, with increasing pain from within. For some reason, amidst the burning sensation, Betrard was picturing a heart as black as a soot pumping out equally dark and opaque blood as his new heart throughout the entire body.

When the dark blood made a full circle and reached the heart again, Betrard opened his eyes but could see nothing but blinding white in front of him. He was moving, fast and involuntarily. Piercing and deafening sounds rang his ears as planes and dimensions were being ripped and cut to let his body to pass through.

.

.

.

Betrard was lying on the floor of a dark, damp cave. He got up gingerly and cautiously.

He realized he was no longer n.a.k.e.d. Instead—

[How do you feel, my child? Looking sharp with that black armor set. I wonder whose design it was. By the way, I matched your hair color accordingly, so heads up before you look yourself in the mirror next time.]

It was all too a familiar voice, much to Betrard's dislike.

"I never agreed to your terms, Daemon," hissed Betrard angrily.

[You thought you had a choice in the matter? All that talk was just a process for you to have the right, perfect heart to be my champion.]

"Seems like you failed, Daemon. I do not feel like I have become your champion."

[Oh, you have. You are.]

"Yeah? Is it normal for a champion to hate his master so much? This much?"

[I never beg for faith, nor do I force one on any of my children. You will come to love me as your master, sooner or later.]

"And what happens if I stay true to who I am and never serve you?"

[Nothing... Just know that you can only 'die' as my champion, meaning you are not allowed to die without a full and genuine devotion for me. Such is the curse of being a Daemonic Champion, so you have got about an eternity ahead of you to proclaim your love for me, anytime in between.]

"Sounds like a blessing more than a curse, the eternal life," scoffed Betrard audaciously.

[A mortal's thought, but you are beyond that now, my child.]

Betrard noticed that along with his new sleek, extraordinarily light jet black armor, he now had a sword hung on his waist.

He drew it out to see the flawlessly black blade that shined ominously and dangerously even in the dark.

[It is not Xonathan, but it is something else.]

"It is beautiful," said Betrard, awed and in earnest

[As are all of my creations.]

"Does it have a name?"

[Bloodrink, Laab's Thirst. The more blood it drinks, the stronger it gets.]

"Whose blood?"

[Any blood.]

Betrard nodded thoughtfully, feeling the hilt absorbing the sweat and the blood beneath the skin as he was holding. He sheathed the sword and finally looked around the dark cave whose only source of light came through a crack in the ceiling.

"Where am I?" demanded Betrard.

[You know, I am quite busy on my own, so you will not always have my voice helping you along or keeping you company.]

"Where am I, Daemon?"

Came a theatrical sigh, followed by a strained, impatient voice.

[The very same cave you died. Do you not see the bones of the Orcs you slayed?]

Betrard looked sharply around, this time indeed finding remains of the rebel bodies scattered across the floor.

"Where is my body?" asked Betrard, looking at the spot where he felt certain he was once lying down on the pool of blood, back-stabbed and betrayed.

[Your death was over a year ago.]

"What? Nonsense. The hall, the death, all of that was just hours ago!."

[Time works differently in the Underworld. Anyway, as to your carcass, wild animals ate the rest of your decaying body soon after your armors were looted by some loitering bandits nearby.]

Betrard managed to recover from the initial shock—a year's passing made sense considering that the Kingdom now saw him as a traitor, albeit according to the Daemon of Deception—and started to collect his thoughts calmly.

"I remember seeing bandit camps on the way here," nodded Betrard in a musing way.

[Your armor pieces are already either melted or sold away.]

"I am not looking for my old armor," said Betrard in disgust, his voice and temper rising irrationally, needlessly.

Laab's voice gasped in delight.

[Oh yes. It has begun.]

"What?" retorted Betrard nervously.

[The Blood Thirst.]

Betrard started and reflexively grabbed the hilt of Bloodrink. Something was indeed coming. Not from the outside, towards him, but from the inside, within him.

Suddenly, Betrard could feel the blood boil inside him, and the hand touching Bloodrink burning with eager anticipation.

"Damn it, Daemon! What have you done to my body?" cried Betrard.

[Nothing much on your body. Your soul, on the other hand—]

"It burns. Body, soul, everything, it is burning like fire!"

[Such is the life of a Daemonic Champion.]

"F.u.c.k that. How do I stop this... pain?" yelled Betrard, covered in sweat and cringing in agony.

[Draw the sword.]

Betrard drew Bloodrink. The pain immediately subsided, but not completely.

"So you want me to kill," said Betrard, still breathing heavily from the pain and the alien sensation—the urge to kill anyone and anything in sight.

[No. You want to kill.]

Betrard did not object as it was true. In a deadly, fierce silence, he marched towards the exit, not even glancing at the year-old carcasses that cracked and flattened under his purposeful steps.

"What is this now?"

Outside the cave, a handsome black horse was idly eating grass as the sun was almost setting in the faraway sky.

[Valforrest is a big region. I figured you will need a decent horse.]

"You call this decent?"

[Magnificent, if you will.]

"What is it called?" asked Betrard as he climbed onto the back of the docile creature, with the Daemonic sword still in his hand, desperately and firmly.

[Laabyrinth.]

"Funny name."

[No pursuer shall track its silent trails. Do not be fooled by its gentle appearance, Champion. This is no ordinary horse.]

"I can see that," said Betrard, feeling the power and intelligence of the beast beneath him.

[A Daemonic horse only eats human fleshes.]

"I... did not know that," said Betrard, no longer patting the horse's neck affectionately.

[Speaking of names, you will need a new name too, an alias. Remember that the Kingdom knows Betrard Falen as the traitor, not a betrayed hero.]

"Do I really need one?"

[You do if you are to wreak havoc in the Netherworld under my name. Or would you live on as Laab's Champion wherever you go, with whomever you meet?]

"Killing does not require a name."

[Living does. It is a matter of convenience.]

"You sound persistent. I presume you have already come up with my alias?"

[Ah. Are you willing to take the name I give you then?]

"I honestly do not care at all."

[But names have powers. It is a both a point and a direction, not just for mortals but for supernatural beings like myself—]

"Fine. I will take the name you give me," said Betrard, cutting off the Daemon's voice abruptly.

Laab's voice grunted softly at his champion's unwavering audacity, but resumed speaking with patience and mild amus.e.m.e.nt.

[Does 'Ryzen Venger' ring nice to your ears?]

"Sounds like garbage, but I will take it."

[... One day, I will have a good long laugh when you bow your arrogant head before me.]

Laab's voice warned cheerily as Betrard Falen, now known as Ryzen Venger, guided Laabyrinth away from the cave entrance and towards the dense forest ahead.

He had not sheathed Bloodrink, ready and eager to kill at first sight.

"Tell me, Daemon. The bandits I saw yesterday—a year ago, are they still there?"

Ryzen waited, but no voice came back inside his head.

"A busy Daemon. More like a pissed Daemon," scoffed Ryzen as he headed towards the direction based on his fresh memory of a few days ago.

.

.

.

Dusk had settled in when a large black shadow lurked several feet away from a bandit camp. A total of five bandits dressed in fur armors and clothes were either drinking, eating, or smoking pipes idly.

A black-haired man dressed in jet black armor riding on a shiny black horse appeared out of nowhere in front of the bandits. The horse was deadly quiet, and so was the man sitting on top of it.

The long, black sword he was holding flashed morbidly, thirstily.

The bandits took notice a second or two late and got up with their crude weapons of no uniformity.

Ryzen did not even feel the need to get off Laabyrinth as he raised the arm holding Bloodrink . The Daemonic sword responded sweetly and ravenously as it sensed preys were standing ahead.

"The pain is still here even when I am holding the sword. Will killing make it go away completely?"

Laab had not responded in the last hour or so.

The bandits were staring up at Ryzen as if they were looking at either a madman—or a ghost of some sort.

Ryzen sighed as he lowered Bloodrink in a strike position.

"There is only one way to find out then."

Laabyrinth silently and swiftly charged forward, and one lightning-quick swing of Bloodrink slashed three bandits at once, beheading one of them partially and diagonally in the process.

The blood that spilled and sprouted in the air hovered for a moment before it was soaked into Bloodrink. Ryzen could see that blood sprayed on his hand and the armor was also creeping towards the blade of the Daemonic sword.

Ryzen felt his tightened black heart immediately relaxing and finding peace as the sword absorbed—drank—blood. He looked down at Bloodrink, covered and glistening with all the blood, asking for more.

Ryzen stared at the remaining bandits with a calm, peaceful heart. The sword at his hand was still hungry and thirsty for blood.

And so was Ryzen.

While Ryzen was savoring the newly discovered p.l.e.a.s.u.r.e within himself, one of the bandits turned his back and began running towards the opposite direction of Ryzen.

Before Ryzen could react, Laabyrinth ran forward and stomped the runaway bandit on the back, crushing him beneath its feet. The Daemonic horse then began to feed on the dead body, and Ryzen did not feel the need to stop the beast from feasting for himself.

Ryzen got off the horse and walked towards the lone survivor of the bandit camp.

The last bandit was also covered in a fur armor like the rest of the group. The red-hair was also the smallest and leanest of them all.

Upon closer look, Ryzen could see that it was not a he, but a she. The female bandit had a war paint on her face, but Ryzen could make out some femininity beneath the barbaric makeup.

The bandit stood frozen on the ground, her small war axe raised in a defeated manner. Not only that, there was a puddle of water beneath her feet: she had peed herself as she was rendered immobile and petrified by the sudden deaths of her companions.

The sight of urination would have disgusted Ryzen in his Betrard days.

Instead, another hunger rose inside Ryzen.

Ryzen drew Bloodrink to the female bandit's neck and ordered with a raspy, greedy voice that he did not know he had in him.

"Take off your clothes."