[@Breo] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/aExv3Zs.png[/img][/center] [h1][center]In The Woods, Church Outskirts[/center][/h1] [h3][center]Fall of a King[/center][/h3] The wall crumbled. Ah. He was defeated again. He knew that even before the hit landed. This would be a ruinous blow, a blow to kill, to destroy. It is a blow that would be fatal to a servant, a blow that would break him even if he rallied all his strength against it. So knowing that he would be defeated he struggled to the end. Darius swung his axes, the blazing spiral of blue light of lightning and fel green flames raining two comets upon Achilles. It would not hurt him, but rather his actions were like a stake pounding a hammer. The full force of Darius who accepted his defeat and paradoxically struggled against it slammed into Achilles while the fist of the great greek hero blew through his chest. Drive him lower and lower. If this great hero would climb past himself, he would push him down even further and smother him. A parting gift. Together they would travel the path to ruin. The speed of Achilles and the strength of achilles was that even the singular moment needed to strike his heel was one that could not be attainable. Indeed, to hurt Achilles was in a way a miracle. So he would accept death in exchange. The mire concentrated its strength, aiming for that miracle that Darius attempted to bring forth in exchange for accepting the punch that he could not deny. The wall faded away, the army faded away. All that was left was the mire that was the last bit of defiance of Darius. He was not a normal servant who would immediately stop fighting, or fade away even with damage to his core. He flew. His chest exploded, his spiritual core damaged and the a full quarter of his body blown away. Yes, this battle was without a doubt a loss for the king who knew only defeat. But he didn’t stop. No, to simply kill him, to defeat him was not all that it took. He was the king who ruled over the immortal army who knew only defeat. To lose again and again and again, to be defeated so many times that he was sick of it, that it was the only aftermath he knew. Yet he was still alive, he was still able to fight again and again and again. To simply defeat Darius was a matter of course. To slay Darius was a given. But this fatal damage too could be returned from. What should be death was not death to him. He was no great king, and yet the symbol of his legend were the famed Immortals. The warriors who were the never diminishing, never weakening elite force. The most famous soldiers of the Persian Empire in this modern day. The armor he was granted broke. Not that it mattered with his body shattered as well. Yet his skill, Battle Continuation which gave him the tenacity needed to shrug off such a state, to keep his army present in even such a state, to fight until he was extinguished kept him in this world. The wall crumbled, the comet shined through and the dream of the warrior stood supreme. So what? He would try again. He would build that wall again. For most men it would be an empty boast, but for this stubborn king it was simply his reality and existence. With his disengage his retreated, the power of Achilles added to his will to survive and ability to flee from battle, not that this was truly a fight anymore. Darius retreated to his tomb, entombing himself in his place of death, of his ultimate defeat. Yet it was a symbol of life for him as well. For a man who abandoned his own hopes and ideals and dedicated himself as a wall, what could truly be said of his life. It did not live to fulfill passion, but to deny it. Yet that denial held as strong a passion as the actualization of a dream. Was that not beautiful in of itself? To create the ultimate struggle, to make something beautiful into something truly admirable? It wasn’t enough, it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t done yet, his foe wasn’t done yet. Iskander was not done yet. His broken body that was dead repaired itself. Spiritual Core damage, fatal damage. None of that mattered. In this place, where he was entombed he would be reborn to fight again. He had been slain, he had been defeated. But that was a given. He rose from defeat. He was not one who overcame, but rather one who forced himself to be what others had to overcome. A stepping stone he was called? How true it was. How laughably true. What pain was there in being told what one was? Especially if that’s what he himself consciously made himself into. No, it was a reaffirmation of his existence. What should have stung to any legend, to any hero was simply a validation of his purpose. Ah, he had been seeing a dream. A dream in which he could overcome himself. Or was he simply looking at himself the way his foe saw him? How he wished to be seen? For a moment he dreamed that he was the challenger. Achilles was indeed a great wall, while he was a mere stepping stone. But that was not proper at all, that was not how it was supposed to be. The hero does not block the ascension of others, the hero was one who had to rise. He’d been making a blunder. He was never about victory. The energy of the tomb, gathered from the spirits that had been harvested and the vast power released from the conflict between the Persian King and the fastest hero was almost overwhelming. If Achilles had armor who would deny his injury, that would deny harm and deny defeat. Then it was only perfect that he held an army that would accept harm and embody defeat, only to rise up again. Both were immortal in the polar opposite of ways. Yet for Achilles it was more than just his armor, it was his body, his own self as well. So he had to match that didn’t he? Darius accepted defeat. With that his path became clear. A moment of clarity brought by the damage of his saint graph, by the overwhelming push that was Achilles, by his own thoughts reaching the conclusion that they sought all this time. He knew what he then had to do. A new path was opened. As soon as he had entered the tomb the army remanifested. Or rather, the Anathanoi took upon a new meaning, a new shape in accordance to his resolve that swelled up in the face of that hero that he could absolutely not defeat. The Athanatoi surrounded the tomb, or rather, they became part of the tomb, part of Darius. His army was never about the army itself. He was not the Conquerer who stood with equals and friends. He was a king who stood alone, who defied greatness by himself, when all others would not. It was a defiance that went beyond common sense, it was a defiance that went against even his own dreams. It was indeed a form of defiance that could be called madness. This Athanatoi then was him. Death, death, death. He would accept death and strive with the vigor of life. The Athanatoi wrapped around his tomb, became one with his tomb, with Darius. It was no longer an army. His army was for facing that man, upon the field and in the manner of combat that he shone in. That glorious conflict was for him and him alone. It wasn’t proper. IT wasn’t proper at all. He had to fight Achilles in the way that best suited him if he was to be the ultimate obstacle. So ten-thousand became one. The mire disappeared as they too were called to Darius after spending all their strength to maim and hold Achilles. The complete Athanatoi became a garb of defeat and death for Darius who was entombed. His entire legend, his entire self would become one to become Achilles’s foe. His standards in walls were high, after all… that city known as Troy. Was there a city with walls as great as that? It was impossible to match them, wasn’t it? Well, good thing he wasn’t a city. [center][h1][b]Monachikós Athanatos Darius[/b][/h1][/center] [center] Lonely Deathless Darius[/center] [center][h1][b]Nikiménos Éndoxo Táfo[/b][/h1][/center] [center]Glorious Tomb of the Defeated[/center] [center][h2][color=662d91]“ISKANDER!” [/color][/h2][/center] The roar shook the forest as a birthcry came from Darius. He survived simply so he could be defeated and slain again and again. He was never about being alive. But with that dedication, with that madness. It would be an insult to his way of life to say that Darius the Third did not live. Overflowing with energy and passion to match the fast-burning comet, he loomed over the forest as a giant. This was the final round.