Avatar of Over Illusion
  • Last Seen: 2 yrs ago
  • Joined: 7 yrs ago
  • Posts: 135 (0.06 / day)
  • VMs: 0
  • Username history
    1. Over Illusion 7 yrs ago

Status

User has no status, yet

Bio

User has no bio, yet

Most Recent Posts

Commodus
Banquet of Kings, Academy
Directly Addressing: @ReallyDumb@Crusader Lord@Flood
Indirectly Addressing: @Froppy@Phlogistinator@Phonic@wug@Yankee@SSW@Aoko Aozaki@BB@Scallop@Argonaut

His arrow streaked forwards towards the Berserker. He did not know of the countless blessings heaped upon them, but that did not matter. His arrow, born from prayer, could not be simply dodged. A blessing against projectiles, and a combat precognition, they had enabled her to exit the path of the arrow even as she charged towards him, however-

This technique would not be so easily defeated.

The arrow turned, as though it had a life of its own, and pierced forwards, meeting the barrier that surrounded the Berserker.

The scream of wind tore through the surroundings as 'ruin' tore at that barrier, attempting to rend it apart and strike true at the enemy within. That power of undoing spread out, consuming the barrier, eating away at its very existence, until there was nothing left. The arrow had exhausted its power, but in doing so, it had consumed that wall of wind; even with the magical energy to restore it, there would be no function. The very concept of the barrier had been eroded away, and so it would remain, until the emperor's death.

But, there was a more pressing issue. The 'bullet' of wind that had shot out towards him was undoubtedly something on par with a great Noble Phantasm. If it were permitted to strike his body head-on, then without the invulnerability of Hercules, he would be utterly destroyed. But, as that attack came towards him, he was struck by a realization.

He had lived.

Surpassing all odds, the boy had lived. Surpassing the edict of fate, the boy had become something new.

He could feel it, he could feel the strength of that existence through the line that connected him, and yet he did not drink from it. If he so desired, he could sustain himself for longer with that premise, but he would not. That boy's life was his own now. He had but one duty, in this moment.

“Now, shine.”

"...you really are my Master, boy."

He could feel it. His very existence strained with each moment that passed. That miasma he formed was the essence of undoing, the destruction of Rome and all of its glories. The fall of the great leaders that had birthed it. The death of civilization, of people, of steels and golds, cloths and beasts, of that great monument to humanity's accomplishments.

And yet, there was something else.

The cheering of people, as they watched a fool struggle in the arena. The love in their eyes, as he spoke to them, one by one. The hope for a better tomorrow, even as their today crumbled.

Yes, this Noble Phantasm was terrible. It was horrific. It was repulsive. But beyond all of that, there was a simple faith in it.

"Those days were fun, weren't they?"

That childlike belief became a sword, and a bellow formed that shook the world every bit as much as the fog did. Sound and light mingled together. This was not a roar of pain as his Saint Graph cracked, nor out of desire or lust for victory. It was not to announce his presence, nor to impose his will on the surroundings. Instead, he roared for the simplest reason, free of that pointless sophistry.

He roared because he roared.

The miasma thickened around him, sparking like the instantiation of a counterfeit underworld.

The empire falls, and in this, there is terror. There is malice. There is tragedy.

But, for just a moment, burning up for a single instant of life, it is beautiful.

A fist flew out. The strength of Emperor Commodus is not enough to combat that blessing of wind, but in this moment, he does not stand alone. The hopes and terrors of the people of Rome stand at his side, and with that strength, a "zero" is turned into a "one".

The wind meets the miasma, and begins to corrode. Each bit of movement forwards takes more from it than the last. The miasma does not consume it, it does not drink of its power, it merely destroys. Eroding away at the power of that attack, it shatters apart, degraded to "zero" before it had reached his body.

"Well met, Berserker. That clash was inconclusive."

Through his Master's eyes, he could see that arrows would be ineffective against this foe unless he used that great technique again, and so he charged forwards to close the gap between the two of them even as that attack was canceled out. A clash in melee, if the mad warrior did not fall back.

"Let us try once again, your wind and my Rome."
"Hercules"
Banquet of Kings, Academy
Directly Addressing: @Phonic@ReallyDumb@Yankee@SSW

"What-"

It went without saying, but Nine Lives was something he prized. Beyond even that immortal body, it was a technique he had absolute faith in- it was everything that he aspired to attain by becoming Hercules. It was a beacon of heroism, a glorious monument to that great man's achievements.

And yet, at the same time that he had loosed that attack, swords which had barely pierced his flesh scarcely slowing him down, he felt something corrode at him. Like a poison which reached into his core, the 'rule' of another pervaded his spiritual foundation. The aptitude to conquer, to pillage, to take, that grand authority of the demon king seared at his very existence.

His vision shook, blackness creeping at the edges of it as he felt his magical energy begin to rampage. The great technique he had released faltered- yes, while it was fundamentally something with the power to 'kill the opponent, no matter how many times they revived', it would not be enough with its user crippled.

"■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■---!"

A scream that shook space tore itself from his throat. The force assaulting him from within was not something he could defeat at base- by being pierced by those swords, his body had become 'Samarkand'. It was only a matter of course that he was powerless against the strength of its king.

As his own attack failed to kill its target, Commodus fell.

[Shooting the Hundred Heads -> Twelve Labors]

And so, his body mended itself.

Restoration from death. The assault just now had robbed several of his lives. But, in spite of that, he had gained resistances. It was not over yet, the advantage still laid with him so long as he had this immortal body. The enemy was mighty, but-

"...I see."

As he prepared himself to counterattack, others had come. He could feel their approach before he saw them, his instincts crying out. Through his Master's eyes, he could see their strength. Two swordsmen wreathed in great power, and a mage whose eyes reminded him of hers.

In front, the monster whose endless torrent of power had robbed many of his lives.

At the side, the physician who had revealed his nature, and the king who opposed his ally.

Behind him, three powerful foes who he did not know the natures of.

And from afar, likely returning from their pursuit of the interloper, those two kings who had charged off to do battle.

Could he attempt to win some of them to his side? Surely, it was possible. His enemy, that mad demon king, appeared as the embodiment of evil. If he so desired, he could try to rally the newcomers to join him as the boy-king had. But, he could not bring himself to do that. He had to die here, he knew this- he would not let himself drag others to hell with him.

'Run away.'

'You'll die. You'll die. You'll die.'

'These are not a force you can defeat. You will be utterly destroyed.'


"...quiet. I knew that, already."

Those instincts roaring in his skull were silenced, a low breath leaving him as he rejected that one path of survival. In spite of the resistances that he had gained thus far, it was clear that the tide of battle disfavored the Faker. Indeed, "Hercules" could not defeat a group of enemies at this caliber. The demon king he had fought to a standstill was alone a first-rate hero, a monster who would require his full attention to defeat, but the addition of these others had made victory all but impossible.

Yes, the fact that his great technique had been crushed so resoundingly made that clear. Perhaps even against the Monster alone, "Hercules" was not sufficient.

If he was the true Hercules, the genuine article rather than a mere pretender, then there may have been a chance. Perhaps he could defeat even this force, but, even if he was able to accomplish that...

Eyes strayed to that human who had summoned him. One steeped in a curse from before their birth. Merely saving his life did not save him, merely winning the Grail War would not save him. The poison of his life ran deeper than that.  This was something even the true Hercules could not stop, for while he could vanquish any threat, the boy's curse was something that laid within. In that sense, even if he was genuinely Hercules, it would have been pointless. The true Hercules would have won the Holy Grail, but would have ultimately failed all the same, unable to save this boy. Defeat, even in victory, so long as that poison burned at the center of the human's soul.

Death bore in on him from all sides. There was no escaping it, he would fall here. Once again, he would die, accomplishing nothing, saving nothing. The pointless death of a villain.

Facing that certain death, he had a thought.

Just once.

Just once, let me be a hero.

Just once, let me save someone.

Just once, let me do something that Hercules could not.


"Muse, pharaoh, fall back. You have committed no wrongs. It is not yet your time to die."

Yes, Hercules could not save Tom Fruz. Even with all of his power, even with the might to oppose these great heroes, he could not save that child.

But-

"...and boy, it is the same for you. You have to live."

But, there was something else. A realization.

What was he fighting for? He was fighting to uphold the name of Hercules, to have his death mean something, to show his Master something worth witnessing. But, beyond that, he was fighting because he had not given up on saving Tom Fruz.

The revel of battle faded for an eternity within the mind of Commodus, and a moment from the perspective of the outside world. And so, acting purely on impulse, not even seeming to realize what he was doing, the emperor's will reached out. Through the connection that ran between them, he touched the core of his Master, and-

[Twelve Labors -> Descent of Mankind's Once Dazzling Star]

More. More. More. Hercules cannot save him, but you can. Decay that curse. Shatter the core impulse that forms him as a being. Break it apart, rend it, degenerate it, and allow him to become something new.

God Hand, the tool that had let him survive against his enemy. The life of Hercules, made manifest as a Noble Phantasm. The great legend that Commodus had sought after- broke off. Fell away. Came undone. In its place was that weight, that nature of ruin that was Commodus himself, focused squarely upon the core of his Master.

Yes, he was not Hercules. He was, in the end, a titan of ruin. But that was precisely why there was a chance, that was why there was a chance that his power to destroy could sever the curse this boy had been shouldered with.

Something was crushed, and so, his attention pulled back. That split-second fugue came to an end. Beaten and bloodied, no longer immortal, he stood tall before his opponents.

And yet, in those eyes, something new formed. Not a dying man's resignation, not a self-deprecating coyness, not a frantic fear of death.

There was something there. Something in the feelings that ran through him in that moment. He looked upon the boy whose soul he had tampered with in the gamble that he could save him from his fate. Had that gamble paid off? Had the boy survived such a foolish treatment? Whatever the answer, in the realization of what he had just done, something else came.

He had done something not as Hercules, but as himself. And with that knowledge came something else-

Not yet. He would not fall that easily, for there was one task that remained.

"...No, I see now."

His lips parted, the words flowing out as though they had been pent up for over a thousand years. His long-lost desires blazed anew.

He would die here. Here was a fitting hell to end his life.

The strength that had left his body did not return, but in its place was something else. Fire entered his eyes. Defiance of the world, defiance of his fate.

If he could glance upon himself now, he would likely be shocked, for his eyes now bore the same fire of that man he admired so much. As though that man's figure overlapped atop his own, his fist clenched, a grin steeped in a thousand emotions splitting his face.
 
"I suppose that I should act like a hero for once."

Not for himself. Not for the Grail, nor even for his Master.

He would simply fulfill his prerogative as a hero.

Come now. Even if you die, even if you're hated, even if for now and forever you remain preserved as a monster, set all of those thoughts aside. Set aside your fear, your hatred, your ideology, and in their place burn the fire at the heart of every human.
 
You are not a warrior. You are not a champion. You are not a god. But none of that matters. It doesn't matter that you'll lose. It doesn't matter that you'll die.

Look upon your enemy, for on this day, he is the villain, and you are the hero.

"This feeling...this is why you were strong, isn't it, Hercules?"

The name of that man leaves his throat, a hoarse whisper in which that other existence is rejected. Yes, because on this day he cannot deny his own self any longer, and by accepting it he will charge forwards headlong towards certain death.

"...well then, shouldn't it be my turn?"

Rise again, Commodus.

Though your strength is a far cry from His great might...

...it surely cannot be naught.


Commodus
Banquet of Kings, Academy
Directly Addressing: @Phonic@ReallyDumb@wug@Yankee@SSW@Aoko Aozaki@BB@Scallop@Crusader Lord
Indirectly Addressing: @Froppy@Phlogistinator

From the perspective of those outside his mind, there was mere nonsense being witnessed. He had not taken advantage of the window of his resurrection from his clash with Timurlane, instead flaring up his magical energy for some unknown reason. He had muttered words to himself, and forsaken his immortality. The flow of power around him was weak, far weaker than it was before. Even those three Servants who only just arrived, having barely glimpsed him a moment earlier, when he had still been Hercules, could tell this. What stood here was no longer a god, but merely a man.

"...that power that tore at me, Monster. That was 'ruin', was it not?"

The veil that hung over his parameters fell away, revealing his weakness to all. He was, without question, weak.

[Eye of the Mind (False) -> Born in the Purple]

[Battle Continuation -> Septem (False)]

[Bravery -> Incitement]

"Shall I show you how that power is meant to be used?"

So then, why?

Why did the instincts of each Master and Servant present scream that he had become more dangerous?

"My name is Lucius Aurelius Commodus."

[For He Is Another Hercules (False) -> For He Is Another Hercules (True)]

And so, around him, the world broke.

A purple miasma took form around him as space bent. A poison, a sentence, while the man himself shone as a glass figurine in the eye of a hurricane. The 'weight' that had settled on all things with his summoning was raised, that degradation accelerating. Beyond even this, though, the academy was a special place, a place where that 'ruin' was made into something truly terrifying.

Thanks to the great muse, this was a place where the texture of the world was weakened, and a place where civilization reigned supreme.

Thanks to the King of Babylon, this was a place where all things would proceed in line with the commands of fate.

Yes, indeed, this had become an area where that terrible Noble Phantasm was permitted to surpass its own limits.

Each being present could feel it bearing down upon them, crushing them. If the Faker had not been burning his spiritual foundation as fuel to survive in the fight prior, he surely was now- this was undoubtedly a grand suicide, a decision he could not step back from. Beyond that pressure, the miasma that had settled around him was on another level entirely. This was not the result of the two who had unknowingly empowered the emperor, but simply a result of control, of fine manipulation gained over the Noble Phantasm.

Even without the gift of Revelation, any Servant could tell- that fog was concentrated 'ruin' itself. If one of them were to touch it...

A single arrow was notched, that same miasma coalescing around it.

He was no longer Hercules, but the patterns were retained. Like muscle memory burned into his spiritual foundation. It was no longer the almighty strength of Hercules, rather being merely something that anyone could achieve with enough effort. But, that was enough.

"Fall."

The arrow was released, and broke apart into streaks of light, into pillars born of that same ruin. Towards each of the opposition, it shot forwards. The demon king he had opposed, the king of Babylon who had dueled his ally, the physician. Even those who he did not know for certain were enemies yet- the mathematician, the swordsman, the mad warrior, for he had accepted that they were all his opponents. It was not a Noble Phantasm, it was merely a prayer. An imitation of a god's technique, released with the will of a man. And yet, it carried a weight with it that surpassed anything the emperor had previously brought to bear. It was a radiance that surpassed the legend of Commodus.

The battle had begun in earnest.

Come, let us die brilliant deaths.

Nine Lives: Rust and Iron
Let the Ten Crowns of Gluttony be Toppled
"Hercules"
Banquet of Kings, Academy
Directly Addressing: @Phonic
Indirectly Addressing: @ReallyDumb@SSW@Froppy@wug@Yankee@BB@Crusader Lord@Phlogistinator@Aoko Aozaki

"Well met. Let us see who can endure for longer, Monster-"

In the same moment that those blades were loosed, Commodus fired his bow.

There was no doubt, these hundreds of blades were not trivial tools of war. Each and every single one of them would be enough to smash one's spiritual foundation into pieces. It was a swarm of steel that would have eradicated any ordinary Heroic Spirit.

And yet, the barrage of arrows that he fired were downing those blades by matching them shot by shot. Each arrow shot down multiple swords, but surpassing their force was the speed of the barrage- Commodus was nocking multiple arrows at once, and drawing his bow too fast for the eye to follow. And that was not all. His arrows changed trajectory in midair as if each shaft had a will of its own, precisely shooting down those blades.

Even with this, there were those he could not completely evade. Some simply fell or shattered off of his skin, but not all of them. And so, steel stole his flesh. He felt a pressure try to pull on him as those swords pierced him, only to grasp at air.

A sword plunged into his midsection, but still he fired.

A sword tore through his leg, but still he fired.

A sword buried itself into his shoulder, but still he fired.

A sword pierced his heart-

-And, Commodus stopped.

Yes, there was no doubt. Even if he had the capability to endure and battle with grievous wounds, having one's heart pierced was a decisively fatal blow. The steel rent that node of his spiritual core apart, blood burst out of his form, and the onslaught of swords continued forwards to mow his corpse down.

Space bent.

"---"

Dead eyes flared to life. His body writhed. Chunks of flesh, slashed-open muscles, ruined heart, all of them were mended in a mere moment, as though they had never existed. The fallen man was raised again, swords that had impaled him breaking off and dissipating away without a moment's warning.

Scarcely missing a beat, his arrows shot out once again, with the same strength that they had held moments ago.

...no, were they stronger now?

"Not enough."

The precision, the rate of fire, each aspect of his archery was improving as the fight drew on. He was learning the patterns, learning how to account for the speed of those blades' travel, waiting for an opening. The instincts of Hercules guided him- he would not let himself fall to a tactless storm such as this.

An opening would not come, of course. A master of war such as his enemy would show no weakness. There were moments when there were fewer swords approaching, but there was no opening, no room to breathe when he would not be disemboweled before he could take that breath.

In spite of that, he saw something, his expression tightening.

The Faker drew his bow back, and just as it seemed it was about to snap, a blade snuck past his own offensive and met his skin. The time needed to prepare himself had been too much, he could not hope to prepare a trump card to break through with this unceasing barrage bearing down on him-

-And yet, that sword, despite having the quality to pierce his immortal body, stopped after just piercing his skin, unable to penetrate any further. Yes, because in the first place, the same strategy would not work twice against this body.

A smirk.

"...Nine Lives."

[Twelve Labors -> Shooting the Hundred Heads]

That bow was released, and something took form in the sky above the academy.

It was nine arrows shrouded in pure divinity. A culmination of skill and heroism, clad in dragons. It was not the secret art of a legacy, but a myth that the great hero had created and perfected alone.

The dragons roared, the air shattering under their scream as they streaked forward. Devouring the swords, devouring the air, devouring the space itself that laid between the two, the legendary technique ran forwards to take his opponent's life.

And yet, he did not lower his guard for a moment. Even using that great technique, his instincts cautioned him- his foe would not be felled so easily. This was not an enemy he could underestimate.

"You wouldn't fall to something like this, would you?"

Even he knew not why he was smiling.
"Hercules"
Banquet of Kings, Academy
Directly Addressing: @ReallyDumb@SSW@Phonic
Indirectly Addressing: @Froppy@wug@Yankee@BB@Crusader Lord@Phlogistinator@Aoko Aozaki

"...ah, you as well. If I was a tyrant mad with weakness, then you are a tyrant mad with strength."

Facing the demon lord, the Faker's blood began to boil. The flow of magical energy around him was writhing, changing. Something impossible was taking shape.

It hurts. It hurts. The spiritual foundation is not meant to contain such things. A man is not meant to become a god.

Stop hesitating. Stop cowering. He would not be weighed down by weakness. He would not feel fear. He would not feel resignation.

The boy still believes in you. Your allies still believe in you. The muse seeks to play your story. For their sake, you must be strong.

So, stand up. Focus.

Make the energy usage from the magical energy circuit feasible. Backload processing through raising the corrective influence of the world. Analyze, interpret, and design a solution. Do not delay, this is not a foe that you can underestimate. An attack is coming, you must be faster.

[Born in the Purple -> Eye of the Mind (False)]

Faster.

[Septem (False) -> Battle Continuation]

Faster.

[Incitement -> Bravery]

Faster.

[Descent of Mankind's Once Dazzling Star -> Twelve Labors]

As those swords shot out, he moved.

No, perhaps it was mere moments before the attack was made.

Regardless of if the elephants launched their assault upon him, he would not be delayed. "Something" appeared over his form as his figure blurred, coming to a stop in front of Tom Fruz, his back turned to the human as he faced those swords head-on.

"Not enough-"

Life penalty, body penalty, freedom penalty, fame penalty, fortune penalty.

Arrows launched out towards his opponent. Three of them met swords, but the rest wove through that hellish lattice of steel, shooting towards their owner. At the gaps in his armor, at the vital areas, at every weakness those eyes could bear witness to.

Clouds of dust were kicked up as those swords met arrows, the Faker himself becoming obscured from sight in the clash that ensued between himself and the thirteen swords that remained.

This is foolish. With the combat skill of Hercules, he could surely have shot down the remaining thirteen swords before they had reached him. Instead, he had gambled upon attempting to hit the enemy. For this hubris, he will be pierced by those very blades he ignored. All the more so given that the assault from the artillery of the Rider's elephants has surely at least scratched him. To take such damage at the beginning of a fight is nothing short of idiocy.

And yet...

Give the penalty that extends so much punishment, mud, darkness, and malice.

When the dust clears, he stands, unharmed. The bombardment from the elephants does not seem to have even brought a scratch to him. The eleven swords are nowhere to be seen. In their place are thin scratches, barely breaking the skin along the Faker's fists as thin rivulets of blood stain his hands. Under the blessing of the music god, though, even those only last for a moment before fading, mending together in the blink of an eye. All the while, those arrows continue their path through the air to pierce the demon king.

"Do not get carried away, monster."

Laughter fell away. There was something more here. The kings who sought blood, the fear of the nature behind the one who had assaulted their gathering, but beyond that, a feeling of terror began to well up in the Faker's core. It was not until the arrival of Hippocrates that he realized what that terror was born from.

His expression tightened as he heard those words. No, even before it had been said, he knew somehow, knew that the man before him had seen through the faulty lie he had painted around himself. Yes, if the man before him was a physician, it was only right that he could see through the tumor that the Faker himself was.

But, this did not have to be the end. It was simply one man's word. He could attempt to persuade those present that it was not as the doctor had said, he could demand his Master use a Command Seal to have them vacate the premises, he could do any number of things that would see him live another day. And yet...

"...the antithesis of success, huh?"

Why was he smiling? Like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders, he let out a quiet laugh. The bravado of seconds earlier had melted away, replaced with a calm acceptance.

He was tired. So very tired. So then, perhaps it was for the best-

"You are more right than you know, physician. Very well. It is as he says, my existence is 'ruin'. If you permit me to live, then this city will fall. Your bodies will fail you, your belongings will crumble, and the Holy Grail shall fall apart. This is my curse."

A bow materialized in his hand, the dull trace of a shudder wracking his body as he spoke. Yes, for in the end, it is Emperor Commodus' role to be the enemy of man, to die as a villain. The antithesis of success- how apt a term, how tragic a sentence.

"If this is the path we will follow, then I ask one thing: let the boy be. He has not known of my true nature, he is faultless. The same for the two who arrived alongside me. The only one who must die is me."

He stepped away, away from that fool of a Master, away from those he had formed that slipshod alliance with. Changing the world? Changing fate? Of course Theseus would say that, of course a true hero could say such ridiculous things as if they were possible. That envy burned in his core.

Because, in the end, nothing here had changed. He was the same. He would always be the same.

"...no, hero Theseus. I am sorry to disappoint, but I am not a hero. I cannot save a person. However, He can."

But, at least, let him use His power to save that life. Even if it is a fool of a human, a child who does not know of the world, one who might die in a stiff breeze. Just once, just once.

Great hero, your strength is needed, for Emperor Commodus is but a faceless villain.

For He Is Another Hercules (False)

"Come, then. Cull the disease. Slay the monster. Once more, the villain will be toppled, and the day will be saved."

Power flowed through his body, counterfeit might stolen from a greater being. The resignation of a dying man was splayed across his face, but behind that was steel.

"-But, do not think I will simply lie down and perish. Even if I am but a counterfeit, Hercules will not fall so easily."

A promise. An oath to that man. If he will die as Hercules, then he will not see that name disgraced. He will carry that banner of the strongest hero until his spiritual core is crushed. This is all he can do.

So please, just once-

"...boy, don't turn your eyes away. You must watch this to its conclusion."

-Just once, let him feel that he saved someone.
"Hercules"
Banquet of Kings, Academy
Directly Addressing: @ReallyDumb @Breo
Indirectly Addressing: @Froppy@wug@Yankee@SSW@Reflection@BB@Crusader Lord@Phlogistinator@Aoko Aozaki@Phonic


The power of each of the Servants present was immaculate. A magus from the Age of Gods who wove spells with song, a tyrant whose command of war beasts brought to mind the stories of Hannibal Barca he had heard as a child, a king whose army served him even after death had taken them.

And yet, among them, he focused on one who, like him, had not acted.

"Why claim to be someone you are not—"

The Greek had been the one to utter those words. Looking through his Master's eyes, he saw the strength that Servant possessed, represented in 'costs'. They were mighty, to be sure; Hercules was mightier still, but it was nonetheless worth considering. One from the Age of Gods? Beyond that, one who was a contemporary of Hercules himself?

In some regard, he should have been terrified. The Faker class bore its strength in deception; by having one present who could lift that veil of deception, his advantage was nullified.

...was it his conversation with the pharaoh, weighing on his mind, that kept him from lashing out in response? Perhaps. Yes, perhaps. A low laugh left the emperor.

"To become someone who can make the people smile."

It was a response only meant for the Greek. It was a response that was no doubt absurd- the unconscious man who had been stuffed into a lion costume was certainly a testament to this much. That this man would speak of making the people smile while having just used one as a glorified prop was nothing short of ridiculous.

And yet, there was not a trace of deception in his words. Like a child who did not understand what he did wrong, he seemed to believe every word that he uttered.

Yes, in the first place, Emperor Commodus could not save a person.

His eyes strayed down to that costumed man, and a quiet breath slipped past his lips. Once more, the spell broke. Melancholy became spectacle. Introspection became performance. Arms spread wide, he looked to the gathered Masters and Servants once more.

"The Servant who attempted to attack us has violated peace, yes, but let us not ruin this occasion by chasing after them! They will likely be gone by the time we arrive!" A hand pointed towards Orpheus, nodding to himself several times.

"You, Caster, musician, whatever you choose to name yourself- are you able to scry the Servant's location? I propose we each observe their appearance, so that we know the face of the enemy, and then that we continue this gathering. There is no sense in letting such hospitality go to waste, fuahaha!"

For a moment, there was curiosity. Even if he was no magus, he, like any Servant, could feel the torrent of magical energy that was made manifest in the world. He could feel its meaning, its nature, resonating to his core with a similarity that he could feel the bare traces of.

"Oh...?"

For a moment, his expression sharpened, that grin sliding off of his face and replaced with cold steel. A kindred spirit? The same sort of existence? That thought was snuffed out once those javelins made their appearance, however. No, this was not the same as him. It was the same in some regard, it was undoubtedly a calamity that undid civilization, but it was far too different. It was a calamity that came from outside, that left nothing left, that eradicated civilization. It was not degradation or rot, it was simply a culling.

Had those other Servants, guided by the words of their gods, not been faster to address the threat, perhaps he would have deigned to answer it himself. That was a pointless conjecture, though; they had, and so he had no need to do that. He forced those thoughts, those feelings down. They were different than him; he had no duty to see their path through.

His expression slackened. That same carefree grin rose back to his face, as the assault made upon the academy was warded off. His arms spread out, hands unclenched as he let out a raucous laugh, the collision of Noble Phantasms in the sky above like the going-off of so many fireworks, in celebration of his arrival.

"Fuahaha, what a welcome! You have done well, to prepare such a glorious demonstration for the manifestation of Hercules!"

Declaring such nonsensical things, the fool reveled in his own foolhardiness.
"Hercules"
Fruz Estate, Western Farms
@ReallyDumb@Yankee@SSW

The Faker's gaze looked to the world outside, a smile toying at the edges of his lips in response to the Berserker. A few moments passed in silence before he shook his head, a low laugh leaving his throat. "...no, not at all. The two could not be further from one another. If it is born from hate, then it is far simpler. Hate has an 'end', boy. It has a focus, a finitude to it. You might scream, and rage, and curse, but when the object of your hatred is gone, though the hatred itself might linger, it will fade with time."

His expression sharpened, a fog entering his eyes as a hand came up to rest against glass. "Love, love is different. Love does not have an end, it does not fade away. If you wish to save something you love, your work is never truly done. No...perhaps that's a poor way of putting it. Rather, if your work is truly done, it means that the outcome is fixed, it means that the thing you love has been deprived of the chance to evolve and change. Love is never complete, that is its beauty and its terror."

Finally, the spell was broken, and he looked away from the glass. Now, he looked to the boy king with all of his attention. A question had been asked, and so out of gratitude to his Master and out of caution for the boy, he would answer truthfully.

"The name 'Hercules' was not always mine. I had another name before, a name I left behind, a name that sounds like that of a stranger's now." The words were calm, measured. Each statement was truthful. Indeed, his name had not always been Hercules, but Hercules' own name had not always been such; indeed, he was born Alkeides, and took the name Hercules to cleanse himself of his sins, of the curses of his father's wife. "I am Hercules, and in this I can be happy. I have the power to save the people before me, I have the power to slay the monsters before me. I am, without question, a hero."

That smile across his face became melancholy, a low breath leaving him. For a moment, the grandiose figure seemed small.

"...and yet, this was not my choice. Becoming a hero was something I was forced to partake in, something that I did to escape the curse placed upon me. By becoming Hercules, I defied my fate, I became a great hero and shattered that curse."

This was the story of Alkeides becoming Heracles. One destined for greatness, a man who was set upon the path of a hero before he was born, to atone for sins he had no choice in. Crushing the curse of Hera, he became something great.

This was the story of Commodus becoming Hercules. One destined for greatness, a man who was set upon the path of an emperor before he was born, and who found escape in the name of a hero. Crushing the curse of a crown, he became something terrible.

"But, seeing you, and seeing my contractor who bears a curse of the same make, I can't help but think that, if I was given the choice again, I wonder..."

Those last words did not leave him. 'Would I have been happier being a human?' 'Would I have been happier being a king?' 'Would I have been happier being Emperor Commodus?' He could not say those words. He could not think those words. He could not reject the strength that Hercules was.

Because, Hercules could defeat the people's enemies. Hercules could save the people's lives. Hercules could make the people smile. Emperor Commodus could do none of these things. Emperor Commodus was a small, weak man, who could only run.

"...that is enough for now. Boy, let us greet these kings. It is only right that ones who believe themselves to stand above the masses bear witness to the sky above the sky."

And so they went.



Yes, indeed, the time had come! Kings of the earth and sky, now you shall bear witness to something beyond such trivial mortalities!

"Fuahaha! The great Hercules has arrived to grace this gathering!"

The great fool arrived, alongside those he had allied. There was none of the emotion from his conversation with the boy king, there was merely bombastic spectacle, the desire to put on a show.

"As tribute, I have brought the spoils of war, the Nemean Lion, reborn and slain once again!"

The object that had been hefted over his shoulder was haphazardly thrown forwards into the middle of the gathering, the pelt of a lion. Or-

...wait, no.

No, that was definitely a lion costume.

That was definitely a random adult male civilian who had been stuffed into a lion costume.

"...h-help...m-m-me..."

A hoarse, choked plea left the costumed salaryman, who was evidently just barely still conscious. A lion paw shakily raised itself up off of the ground as he began straining to crawl in the direction of Timurlane, desperation splayed across his face.

"Hya!"

A mere moment later, though, the hero bravely stepped into action, delivering a chop onto the back of the salaryman's lion's neck, at which point the beast collapsed.

...shit, was he dea- okay, okay, he was still breathing. We're good. Phew.

"Fuahaha! That was a close one, he was coming right for your throat! No need to worry, though, the Nemean Lion is nothing of note when the great Hercules is present!"

After having saved Timurlane from that inevitable, lion-based demise, he struck a pose, awaiting the applause that was to come.
"Hercules"
Fruz Estate, Western Farms
@ReallyDumb@Yankee@SSW

The contractor he had allied with had begun operating on his own. It seemed that they were nearing completion- through the line that connected the two of them, he could feel it, feel his Master gaining some level of strength back. A cold pit formed in his stomach at that thought, though- all the other magus was doing was treating the symptom, but the disease lay much deeper. So long as it existed, Tom Fruz was trapped. Beyond that, though-

"A banquet of kings, hm?"

An interesting idea, and yet one that Commodus did not understand. Did it not make more sense to pivot such a gathering around a particular kind of culture or class of warrior, than something like the status of a king? A king was fundamentally something that could not coexist with another of the same kind. In that sense, a banquet to gather them made no sense.

...perhaps his own perceptions were merely coloring that view, though. In any event, it could be entertaining, if nothing else. To see and meet with those other heroes without the pretense of combat, to bear witness to great things. It was nothing if not enticing.

"Perhaps..."

But, no. Hercules could not attend such a banquet. Hercules was free from such things, after all, free from the strife and the politics and the trappings of that title. That was why he was Hercules. That was why he was no longer the man who was qualified to attend this gathering.

This was not a point to weep over, but a point to rejoice for. Hercules would not be weighed down by such pointless things as a crown. Hercules would not be forced into a chair that was built to bear the weight of a nation. Hercules would not be unable to stop the world from turning around him, singing to a predetermined tune. Hercules would not cause ruin wherever he stepped.

Hercules could reject his fate, for he was strong. Hercules could save people, for he was a hero. Hercules could be loved by the masses, for he was inspiring.

So long as he was Hercules, then, he should be happy. He should feel joy at the chance to live his life, at the chance to become incarnated and be Hercules once more.

So then, why-

Congratulations, my son. You have been named Imperator. From this day on, we will rule together.

...no matter. The voice was pushed aside, before it could swallow him. Instead, he looked to the child king, to a source of respite.

"...boy, your wish, is it fueled by hate, or by love?"
Jack
"Beantown" (Workshop), Shinto Town
@Cu Chulainn

Oh? There was a party going on, apparently.

Sad. Jack wanted to go. Mr. Tree would probably have a great time there! But, they'd already made plans for the evening. Mr. Tree had to roll around in the dirt a little bit, and Jack had to get his beauty sleep.

They could cancel their plans, but that felt a little wrong. Jack had to rest, or it was unhealthy, and they couldn't have that! Maybe they'd have enough time to attend after they'd both rested up? Let's see, he had to finish up with dinner, then do his stretches, then get his eight hours of sleep, and then check on his friends. The party would probably be over by then, which was sad, but maybe there would be another one.

"■■■■■■ ■■■■■, ■■■ ■■■ ■■■■■■■■?"

The plant he looked at didn't move, but whatever response it gave made the legumancer smile slightly. Morale was important, after all, and the most basic kind of morale was checking in that one's friends were okay!

Well, enough sitting around, time to start on the evening agenda. First up, dinner. And what a dinner it was, specially prepared for such a momentous occasion.

"Thanks for the food~"

Speaking only to himself, Jack looked to the plate on the table in front of him, on which were three beans. Unceremoniously, he lifted one bean up with two fingers, and popped it into his mouth. So began the delicious dinner.

...

...come on, were you really expecting anything else?
© 2007-2024
BBCode Cheatsheet