Long before the Imperial Empire was ever conceived, magic ran rampant and so too did spirits and beings of other worlds and realms. The ebbing tides of magic on Alternia was as natural as the wind and sea and would manifest as such, too. Those who could harness magic were known as Mages, and there were many. As many as there were gods and their servants.
Arceel grew up in a small tribe near the snowy mountains. Things were humble, resources were shared among everyone, and the old faith was sacred and tradition even more so. However, its seclusion and ironically made them an easy target for the influence of a being they did not understand: the first demoness.
A tall slender woman in a long green dress, horns a mesmerizing spiral, and eyes that flickered numbers and colors Arceel could yet fathom, she took to him and him alone. She spoke in prophecy, of cities and worlds he could not picture but would see in time. She told him the world will be shaped by his hands alone, cracks drawn by his blades, generations and their lives. She told him he will understand it all someday when he finally asks ‘why.’ She said that then, and only then, would she return with an answer given to her by her master. None of this made sense to Arceel, and over time he passed her off as some strange hag he had met in the woods and had given shelter to for a single day.
But she lingered in ways he did not see. She spoke in the ears of Trolls in all parts of the globe. She tempted them with blood, inspired them with riots and conquest, and set them loose upon each other. It was through her that they became familiar with the intimacies of war on a wider scale previously unknown. It was these barbaric fantasies that inspired a southern tribe to invade Arceel’s, who were not prepared and were utterly destroyed. Arceel had fought back fiercely, and it was through this battle he uncovered the rare element of his abilities: arcane; for this, and for his beauty, he was taken as prisoner.
For many sweeps he had been forced to be a warrior of the enemy. His captors made him a deal: they will keep him alive enough to tutor him in his magic to make him a fiercer warrior– but he must be their champion. Desperate to live, he followed their commands. He acted as gladiator and executioner, bloodying his hands over soil that was once loving and sacred. He slain Trolls of all colors and of all branches of mutation. He ate children and grubs. He took down beasts and monsters and anyone who got in his enemies’ way. He was prized. He was dangerous. A reaper who only grew stronger and deadlier, a feral warrior who refused to die. An epithet would echo wherever he went: The Balerion, soon as synonymous with his own name.
But this was not the life he was content with. He hated every moment. This wasn’t him. This wasn’t the way life should be. It all came to a head though when his lusus grew too defiant and protective of him. The masters commanded it to be put down after it had attacked one of them, but how could he? The only survivor beside him from his own tribe, who has witnessed everything with him? But it was this, or death, and so he destroyed the only thing left who understood him, starting a tradition that would be popular later with Subjuggulators.
It was with the destruction of his lusus that the cracks began to deepen. He cried and howled that night when no one was looking, cursing his gods and asking: “why?” Why this? Why was he condemned to this?
And then the demoness came, descended from the heavens and told him everything: that none of this was his own will. That all of his actions, all of the world’s actions, are dictated by an author with a notebook and pen. That everything was determined by what these higher beings considered ‘entertaining.’ This horrified Arceel, and it angered him just as much. The truth inspired him to slaughter his mastersand put an end to the tribe that held him by the throat. He ran off into the night determined to find a way to end it all, never once realizing that this was determined by the authors, too.
The fear he had garnered over the land turned to power and influence. He rallied other mages and tribes, allegiances and beasts. Though once feared, the anger the truth inspired was greater, and many banded under his reign. Camaraderie blossomed. Armies formed. Ambitions were set. The solution became the only thing Arceel knew at that time: slaughter. He was a newfound king, and there were cosmic gods to kill.
Long live Mage King Balerion.
Ironically he found a heart as a warlord: a witty Tealblood who reminded Arceel that the world was still capable of love. She warned him that his ambitions would doom everyone, but he did not heed her advice.
The arcane magic that he manipulated so masterfully and brutally would be used to open the door to then next world a tier above theirs: the Messiahn realm. They must enter through here to get to the tiers beyond, to reach the authors and slay them to usher the world into peace again. Arceel’s army, however, did not truly understand the eldritch horrors that awaited them. The Messiahs, emotional and mental parasites, would leave them fighting for centuries. Blood was spilled on either side, but the most damning numbers were suffered by the mortals who had been written to die.
Arceel’s loss was destined, and from it came a butterfly effect that would ripple throughout Alternia and influence the rest of the planet’s history.
As for Arceel himself, he was slain in battle. His soul was snatched by the Messiahs, and he was punished. He was to be sculpted out of stone, and sent back to the earths to answer only one question: the meaning to life, of which… there is none.
Arceel has spent all this time trying to answer that one unanswerable question. He longs to die, to be released from this prison and to join the friends he had led to slaughter. He’s tried everything, now relying on nonsensical experiments that will never bring the results he wants.
But now he also faces something that seems harsher than death, harsher than this punishment, harsher than he was when alive. Old loves, old friends, destined to be reborn and die again to save the world he ruined– and somehow, he finds them in every lifetime. He trains them to win, and they do, but then he loses them all over again while he’s stuck in this one undying form. It’ll happen, again and again, to no end in sight. Love gets reborn and fostered, only to be stripped so cruelly away.
Will he ever realize that they provide the answer he seeks? ... Will I let him realize?
