Chapter 29 - Hell hath no fury (First Evolution arc)

　　The world does not vanish when you do. It does not wait for events to unfold—there is no grace lost in a single soul`s absence. In sleep as in death, the prince is a pauper. No fate or faith or hard-lining pride has a damn thing to alter.

　　All around the egg, green bodies moved with purpose or without. The difference was felt by the body and the world, but only in miniature. The true sense of scope is lost to each one mind. We all live in a daydream.

　　Days went by. The egg sat still enough in the corner of the room. Save for a rhythmic throb that spread like breath or a beating heart, there was no sign of life. Two third-grade goblins kept watch, the statistician always and the seeress at times. Things could go wrong, and on occasion intervention was wise.

　　But no hint of failure this time.

　　--

　　When a week had passed, the first cracks emerged at the frayed resealed edges. The egg wobbled more; it was all pretty standard. Another day or maybe two and...

　　In a fist-first flash, the prince smashed through the shell that shattered—a hard hell-green being being born; it was nothing like the first time, straining against the unknown, feeling out and feeling fragile.

　　The prince stood tall as a cascade of viscous liquid crashed out of the caved-in egg, splattering indiscriminately the walls of the fine space the statistician kept office in.

　　"Name?" she asked, the statistician, frazzled at the sight and violence, but still in the core of her composed—fully evolved goblins do not easily lose their wits.

　　The prince made his head swivel, slowly; he would look upon her as he spoke. "Prince Cedric of the Blackrose, former heir-apparent to the kingdom of Lothrian." The crest on his forehead shone a radiant blue. He knew who he was—contemplative and reserved in thought but not action. A hard solemn man, craven but too prideful to cower; a vainglorious bastard if ever there was one. And he was the dead lover to a deader love. He had only hate, ripping at him from the deep within, where reason dare not tread and nothing is sacred. It cooked him alive, the blood that boils against the world. Bring me hell and chaos and death and I will give back worse.

　　His gaze had stayed trained on the statistician, who was shaken it seemed—scanning with both eyes, the pupils dilating.

　　She wrote him a note like the times before, though her hand now quivered. "The first time I`ve seen it," she said. "To gain such strength in the egg... you are indeed an anomaly."

　　The paper said this, though the prince hardly cared:

　　--

　　Level 15 Second-grader

　　Constitution (CON): 36

　　Intelligence (INT): 24

　　Dexterity (DEX): 28

　　Strength (STR): 32

　　Magic (MAG): 9

　　--

　　He wanted to roam and run wild, seek Dicebolg and Gendrin. But they were both too far off, and he needed fight now.

　　The arena would do.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

　　Stalking off, the prince took long strides, a cold-blooded killer looking only for game.

　　The green-glowing moss lit his path; they were beacons. He went straight on the path, ignored all lone passers-by—the goblins and guards, they were all fellow captives. Some of them stared, at his mark and his gait, the bearing that did not belong. Valiant and hard, he moved like a king, for in essence he was one. The blood of the Blackrose still coursed through his veins.

　　--

　　It was late in the day, the prince knew as he entered. No rookies in sight, and like sweat and like blood, the arena smelled right—gods, he was anxious. The steel called his name, and his body moved first, though he thought it volition. He took a blade from the rack, swung it with force through the air so it sang a sweet song.

　　And as chance would have it, he was not alone. Delightfully far from it.

　　"Das him, boss," said a foul rotten voice, and the prince knew the shape of it, the sound and the shadow rising tall, from the corner of his eye—a dead man walking. The four-foot giant that had raised his axe over Linaria.

　　"Yeah, das him alright," chimed in another. The plate-wearing grunt that had grabbed the fair Lady. "He`s bigger now, boss. But it`s him."

　　They rounded on him like ghouls in a graveyard, hounding and stalking, a circle of flesh. The same old crowd as yesterday... no, the prince realized. Time had gone by, but how much was uncertain. He had lost his hold on the days or the weeks—how long had he been in that damn muck-filled egg?

　　No matter now—the prince would think later.

　　There were six foes in total; it was just like before—the same hard green bodies, battle-scarred and lean, though their faces did differ. They cut off his retreat... but the prince sought no shelter. Only blood.

　　The one they called boss stepped forward—the brash and curt step of a frame thick as oak, with two short swords swirling. Their raid captain no doubt. "And you fools have learned nothing," she said—a woman like Zazra, though their sex seemed like all that they shared. The brawn of her heaved under woven mail armour. Her eyes were alive with a light-coloured hue, some blue shade of green, but the prince could not tell. It was clear what would come, yet they kept a fair distance. Two war-bent forms wanting more of the same. The prince and the raid captain. The rest moved aside—there was no place for them here.

　　"To assault a Blackrose," the captain continued... "is madness." She licked her lips as though ready for supper. Her right-hand sword gleamed with a dull magestone edge. The faint sight of enchantment.

　　"Not a soul needs to know," said the prince, and his own deep voice shocked him. He was not the same runt he had been.

　　The air wove electric as the two met in stare—their strong gaze made them equals. It was time to find out, the prince thought, what his new build could do.

　　But a shadow stirred from the sidelines... an old subtle form that was eager to shine.

　　"Zazra," said the boss, sounding somehow concerned, like her kind could know mercy. With a lingering look they affirmed, the two women-warriors... and a ghost then stepped forth.

　　First raider Zazra was lithe as a cat and the prince felt like prey—the flash of an instinct that did not belong. She was no threat to him now, the way that she looked. Grim as death but still breathing, her face a lost mess—half the jaw had gone missing.

　　He could not stand to see her so damaged; it was not the fact that felt dire, but the truth deeper down. Her life was a sign, to him and to all—the broken-down thing that was made to endure. Gorkon had done it on purpose—of this, he was sure. See what comes to those that thwart me. The will of a god, the true force beyond nature.

　　Zazra did not speak—it was clear she could not. No teeth and no mouth and no sweet singsong voice. Lost to the wilds, a dark creature that leapt, straight for his throat—she was shattered but nimble. And fast... lightning fast. There are some parts that last.

　　Their blades crashed hard, that old rattle of metal. She swirled well away—to jab and recoup, that was her tactic. Zazra dipped down... she would pounce into range and dart swiftly back out. Speed was her asset. But it was also the prince`s.

　　He ran her down, moved before she could. Hammered his blade on her blade till she buckled, still holding on to her sword like to life. And the prince battered on—no rest now for the wicked. Not ever. With a hoarse wail she broke, and her blade clattered down. The prince saw her face and it hurt him to hurt her, and he could only guess why. The real reason was air—he had all right to hate her. But his fury fell still, and the prince walked away.

　　There was no sound from them, the raid members and captain. They stood back in solemn and shared discontent, all far removed from the nearest green body. Only in opposites was there room left to dwell.

　　When the prince took his leave, none dared to argue. The why was unclear; it was not what they asked. Moving mostly on impulse, the sense and the essence meant little to them.

　　Zazra alone gave signs of wretched life—her cries pierced the stillness in haunting lament. There was anguish and hate, both mournful and raw. Howls of a torment half-swallowed; she could not give it proper voice. Even that was denied her.

　　Hell hath no fury like the hard wrath of god.

　　Though alas, it did.