“Young, Karthuras. Do you understand the fundamentals of which—either man or woman would partake in the acts of true freedom? And what would the outcome be?” The Archphader said.

  Young Karthuras replied: “If—if the people are forever lost, desperate to find resources, they will eventually give in to the ruler who speaks of hope through the chaos... The outcome, I—think.”

  The Archphader interrupted: “They will be led into the path of standard assurance! A world without an individual will exist; there is only ‘all.’ And if everyone acts as a hive, there are only years upon years of nerve-wracking silence… Hettalies knew of this, but we prevailed—thanks to our lord, Sleeper, may the silver eye never fade from the heavens.”

  Karthuras opens his eyes from that distant memory and into the present world. He looks around his surroundings, witnessing the world down below—A city he would dare say if it was still inhabited.

  He and his people rest on the highest platform now. Admittedly, he was too enriched by the spiral of morbid beauty—Such as the cobblestone pillars that reach from the most bottomless pit and into the high ceiling. The walls have a pattern of arches with silver statues within the plethora of beings that Sleeper created. The site was undermined when four of the seventy-one had fallen ill and then perished in a short period. Sixty-seven is now the current number—if you could count, the former Flexenmires chieftain is alive in his current malformed state. Stumbling as he may, his lungs wither, still respiring.

  They stumbled across a bridge from that high platform, fetid from the decayed mold inside and out of its crevices. The malnourished child is more than willing to consume this black substance without consideration; no one has their eyes pointed to her action—thus withering away as she falls into the depths.

  In the farthest corner, turns with absurd illusions led them to waste precious time in their already dire moments. The blood trails were left behind in their wake, printed by Gatlis’s index finger. Their food was already scarce, but this became a necessary step on their journey. And with the dying souls and the change of religious perspective, they can refill once a few of many die abruptly. So sudden it was to watch their family and friends die, without remorse, and in a moment of prayer, their bodies were taken apart, their blood spilled within the empty vessels.

  During their rest, Karthuras felt his head against the cobblestone walls as he sat with the faceless woman. His people were separated into different corners and strayed somewhat far from safety. One was troubled beyond measure; sanity held firm by the whims of self-preservation became a substantial obstacle! With his wrist slit and the blood flowing, he scrapes his limb against the wall to form a circle, drawing an eye in between. “Ring Lord! Ring Lord! Ring Lord!” He yelled repeatedly, only hushed by the edge of Gatlis’s blade.

  When they decide to move forward a few miles more, their trek confines them in a room of abhorrent melancholy—lively as a beating heart that thumps from its anticipation. The walls are layered with thick nerve fibers stemming from human anatomy. Rotting as the shifting eyes that pulsate in between. A stranger stands in isolation as the many flesh cords bound to his broad head, eyes, and nose are not spared from this fusion; only his crimson lips were given such privilege of freedom. The obscure nature of his being had mechanical limbs pulsating from his back. Into his chest, a consistent rotation hinders him from withering—if that was indeed the case, of course, with such designs, would he be willing to go through the trial of the altered body? Karthuras wanted to remove himself and the others from this being, but he realized his passageway was unfortunately blocked. Without the typical curiosity of a pleasant greeting, the stranger spoke with a chilling echo resonating this expansive room:

  “It’s been a long since living beings marched through this labyrinth unaccounted. Sleeper had cursed us into perpetual desolation—it seems now that was nothing more than a bluff! After many years of silence, I often craved the sight of another being, a demon or a human; it doesn’t matter… I am no fool. I know you wish to venture forth—but to do so requires sacrifice, such is the nature of life we are all given, would you not agree?”

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Karthuras replied: “I only wish to continue forth without losing any more of my people. They deserve freedom from tyranny, a life free from their miserable circumstance.”

  “Life was fleeting from the very start… No mortal—and no immortal can withdraw those lingering strains of sand that fall from the Sleeper’s ring. That curse was cast many years prior… When dawn embraced these tarnished plains with the second wave of humanity, the many gods and goddesses fought for the chance to guide the next generations moving forward. And, of course, you know well of who succeeded.”

  “As he gave my ancestors a chance at a new life, so too will guide these people from the madness.”

  “I'm afraid your ignorant ways will halter your chance of progression... Without forfeiting a portion of your people, I will have no reason to open this door—thus allowing time to take its course.”

  “And what if I take your life instead?”

  “My life is forever stagnant, like yourself; there is no soul within me, just a husk. A man shifted by our god’s curious volition.”

  Karthuras thought of his decision thoroughly—and in his perception, he had to comply with the Demon’s needs. What came next was the offering of five randomly selected individuals—none of which had their merits considered. It was just a gamble and nothing more. There were no tears shed, nor would they be reluctant to hold the chosen back; no, in their hearts grew a specific criterion of the whims of the Demon they followed, believing he would lead all to that promised land—that utopia that never existed to begin with. When he enters the capital, this leads him into a darkened path in which resolve—or disorder will lead him to his destination.

  As the Demon takes these individuals into his bosom, abruptly, the loud—terrible screech of machinery echoes the room, along with its dreadful symphony of cries from their limbs and faces, gnawed by the steel teeth, compacted into the machine, minced into a pile of slop.

  The Demon continued: “This is the way—the deliverance of one's self is never forsaken if they know the conditions of humanity… Of course, you will learn this in time… if not already.” Without another word or a shred of expressed empathy. Karthuras and his people walk through the now-open door, holding bitterly to this unfortunate memory.

  Fifty-one became the current number.

  #

  Within the capital, a festering cloud of smog filled the air with its charred scent, and this oppressive curtain blinded the eyes of the many. Lungs became carriers—taking home such burdens, leading all to cough so suddenly. Time and time again—dreading in anguish—collapsing from either one or from the another. The alleyways are particularly derelict of activity; machines remain poised in their withering existence as the cancerous layers of rust erode the surrounding walls. Though dark as these scattered areas are, amidst the dread, the scattered artificial light becomes a place of refuge for the scattered groups of both humans and Gramnorians. Together, they are bundled, rambling in comedic expressions of their lives in the workforce—while they sip the fiery nectar of fermented blood, infecting their minds with momentary relief. One of them stumbled as they said:

  “Liquor is the most terrific poison I have ever consumed—ah, it presents my wounds into the fray—and—and I get to decide to either take charge or recoil in agony!”

  The opus in the background is a collection of hydraulics, scraping the metal skin with its limbs from the pressure tubes flowing with continuous breath. The ordinary mind dwells in the engineering of the macabre; from birth, they are used to these conditions with little to no doubt!

  Among these conversations, a parley of their troubled youth begins—a competition that defines who should be cared for the most. Empathy became a damnable offense with every sip from that nectar that the mind would never allow entrance. Thus, there is no consideration of their environment, no active change against the empress and her accursed son! No—the cycle shall repeat once more with that persistent phrase:

  "Once born, blood is drawn, and that’s it!”

  Upon a singular road, they take a moment to glance at the looming shadow roaming within the smog. A being of beastly design with rectangular limbs and sporadic mannerisms—shifting speeds as the loud hiss of air seep from every inch of movement, he howls often, a terrible cry that abrupts their passing thoughts. The sirens also echo from his limbs with a flashing red light as the monstrous voice yells from his confusion:

  “Move! Work! It doesn’t matter—it's all shit! Back to your mother! Back to the engineer! I can't stand this noise anymore!”