His frail structure walked along the narrow path that harbored trees on both sides. It was mid afternoon. He looked weak, a man at his limit, with his body showing signs of exhaustion. His half-opened eyes were dark blue, with a few bags lazing underneath them. There were a few blood stains on his torn white shirt. The weather did nothing to help the situation, as the sun hid cowardly behind the dark grey clouds that engulfed the sky, giving the land an eerie feeling. The chilly wind blew through his pale blonde hair, exposing its unkemptness and split ends. He dragged along a worn out steel claymore, leaving a crooked trail behind him. Its blade had a few dents and little spots of dry blood. The remaining strength his body had was used to keep his head afloat, trying his best to not give into his lurking sleepiness.
The abandon castle stood quiet on the deserted grassy plateau, overlooking the dead sea beneath its cliff. It was once a place of the elite and individuals of the highest royalty, with their dirty little secrets and snobbish attitudes. Where the grandest banquets were held, attracting society’s high class and most respected. It was also the place where she was rumored to have been born. A woman society had failed to affirm the existence of. *One said to be possessed by a supernatural phenomenon. He, however, knew confidently that she was as real as the cold sweat that ran down the side of his left cheek. His face was now peevish at the thought of her. Disgusted at the horrific memories she scarred into his mind, like the sight of his dead child. Revenge was his only reasoning, fueled by the thought of doing society the favor of ridding it of this sin.
He was now in front of the lone, grand castle. Its walls were decorated with moss and vines, giving it the look of a place with lost hopes. The view as it glistened, in one of the few rays that pierced through the clouds, was magnificent. He stood in sync with the beauty of the two attributes, captivated by the brilliance of nature in being able to create such art. With but a few moments of gazing, his daydreaming was cut short by the aura he felt from within the castle. He knew it was her. The grim look reappeared on his face, as he tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. He felt his heart racing with a mixture of anticipation and nervousness. In a desperate attempt of pinpointing the source of the energy, he spotted a figure watching him from the tip of the castle’s conical spire. He didn’t bother to make out the figure as he watched, cocksure that it was the devil herself.
His body then emitted a blue energy, an energy that was fueled by his death thoughts. Rage took over his thinking as he ran toward the castle doors. His claymore now to his side, held with the most intent.
“Who are you,” said an eerie voice behind him as he stopped dead in his tracks. Upon turning to confirm the body behind the voice he stood shocked. It was her, the perpetrator he sought after for months, even years. Her eyes glowing in a calm red hue as she watched him emotionlessly, trying to seek the purpose of him being here.
“Explain yourself,” she continued darkly, “this castle has nothing to offer you. I suggest that you make haste and leave at once.” He swung his claymore to his front now holding it up right with both of his scraggy hands, watching her intently, without even blinking.
“How dare you forget a victim of your torture,” he screamed furiously, “a man you left emotionally scarred as you burnt his village and kill his friends and only child. What a heartless bitch you are.” She showed no signs of sorrow or pity to his accusation as she continued to view his body cautiously.
“There is something about you,” she examined briskly, “I can’t quite put my hand on it but I can feel a strange aura from you.”
He stood disgusted by her curiosity, wondering how she was able to stand there as if oblivious to her murderous crimes. In a quick turn of events, she lost her footing for a split-second as she placed her hand to her forehead, as if checking for a fever. Her eyes were completely shut as she began sweating profusely. He continued watching her cautiously; engrossed at the abrupt, strange scenario that was taking place before him. She then stood still for a few seconds before opening her eyes which were now pitch black, watching him emotionally. There was an exchange of looks and he soon realized that she now harbored a different persona. He now felt a bit of confusion but realized that things were beginning to tie in with his grandfather’s story. Her expression was one normally seen in a lost child.
“Where is this?” she asked softly, but loud enough for him to hear, “who am I, what am I and who are you?” He stood there for a few moments trying to harbor the new mood that indiscreetly imposed itself. After deliberating by himself for a few split seconds, he realized she was actually unaware of her action and may actually be the original soul for this body.
“You are DM125,” he said relaxing his voice a little, but still maintaining his stance. “You are the devil’s advocate, a woman who kills mercilessly with no reason and keeps on cheating death by not aging.” She stretched out her hand examining it, checking for some sort of sign and then focused her eyes back on the man in front her.
“Really, am I that wicked?” she asked innocently.
“All I can say,” he began to explain unwillingly, “is that you were conceived here, in this very castle. Your birth was a secret, known by but a few, most of whom are now dead, thanks to your genocide.
There was a brief pause, causing a deafening silence to fall upon the plain where they stood. “I however,” he continued, “have no knowledge of the meaning behind your name and why you are the devil’s advocate. I can do you only one favor, and that’s killing you to rid you of this miserable life and send the devil back to hell.” She continued watching him innocently, unfazed by the fate he just imposed on her.
“If my living is your pain,” she said stretching her two hands outwards and closing her eyes, “then please kill me and rid me of this puppet existence.” He firmed his grip on his claymore readying his stance to attack. After watching her for a second he ran towards her speedily, with his claymore overhead, readying to land a vertical slash.
“May you have a better life in the afterlife,” he said as he swung his claymore to come down on her.
There was a loud thud. He stood frozen watching the spot where she stood a second ago. His claymore pierced through the grass into the earth. What just happened was beyond him.
“I am terribly sorry about that,” said a familiar voice behind him. It was her, DM125, but this time her eyes were glowing red again. “It seems that I had a slip in personality,” she explained smiling, “then again no one is perfect, not even your god in heaven.” He turned facing her, now as angry as their first encounter. Her dread locks reflected some of the light sent from the sky.
“I will be honest with you,” she said, “this was your only shot at me and you failed it with your bickering.” His faced turned red, powered with rage as he watch her profusely. There was a brief glance and he dashed toward her with his claymore to his side; held by one hand effortlessly. She stood there laughing at his attempt as he closed in on her. In an instant she raised her left hand pointing toward him; then formulating a ball of fire out of thin air. She sneered at him for a brief second before blasting the fireball at him, illuminating the grass below as it travelled. He responded by swinging the claymore prematurely, connecting the blade into the core of the fireball causing a wave of fire to engulf them both in its wrath.
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