Chapter 11: To the Sunken Temple of Nirva
I wonder if it was always destined to be this way, to wander for an eternity always fighting. Perhaps I was simply fooling myself. Thinking that a life away from such a thing could become a reality.
Out in a flowery field, surrounding from all corners is a barricade. Within it revealing a castle stretching high into the sky. Negative energy surrounding the castle, malevolence emanating from the exterior. While on the outer appearance, it is seeming like such a nice place, but from the inside, it is holding a much darker story.
From end to end, quality in which most befitting nobility has been set into place. Down to the finer details, the ceiling layering with chandeliers. Along the walls with crystallized windows, and even the walkway having a long crimson carpet. Cyra in her younger days, standing before her father. The infamous Demon Tyrant Alastor. The maiden clad in golden armor, her rebellious eyes glaring straight into her father’s stern ones. The Tyrant coating in black steel, and eyes ferocious as the sea itself. Hair being white as snow.
“Cyra, this world has no place for a heart of compassion,” he speaks a bit strictly.
Those words of her father sparking a bit of hatred inside of her. Unlike her father, she is not so heartless. Ever since her mother’s disappearance, the Tyrant changing ever so much. Her father no longer being the man she remembers.
“How would you know? You spent your entire life making enemies...” she looks away with anger in her eyes.
Alastor taking a step towards her, the maiden looking in his direction. Her father looking away for a bit. Never once does he like upsetting her. However, the demon knowing that there are some things she must learn. Slowly inhaling and exhaling, the Tyrant soon looking towards her.
“I speak from experience. For a demon, actions speak louder than words. Give up your foolish love of traveling. This will only serve to dull your senses. If you aim to travel, you must claim the power needed to trample all those beneath your feet!” he strongly speaks.
Calming a bit, Cyra holding the upper part of her left arm with her right hand. The maiden looking away from him, unable to comply to such terms.
“I am not like you father...my power does not come from disposing of all those around me,” her tone pitiable upon him.
Alastor holding the back of his head with his right hand. Being a single father is no easy task, he has done all he can to ensure her safety. Perhaps deep down, letting go is really the harder thing to do, in the least he must try to have her see reason for such beliefs. Cyra looking towards her father, slowly motioning her hand towards the hilt of Lævateinn. A sigh escaping her father, sometimes he wonders why they can never have a simple father to daughter moment. Then again, the demon knowing that she takes well after her mother.
"Sigh, we go through this every single time, Cyra,” he grips his blade upon his waist.
Cyra standing to her side, directing Lævateinn at her father. Deep down, the maiden wishing to see that lovable father she has known so many years ago, to actually be a supportive family again. Such a time appearing no more than a dream.
“Indeed we do, father,” her daring eyes are upon him.
“I do wonder where this stubbornness comes from,” he faintly smiles at her.
“Perhaps it comes from you,” she takes a step towards him, returning a similar smile in kind.
The maiden noticing her father’s expression changing. This much he cannot deny in all actuality. In his younger days, the Tyrant has been quite a handful as well. Cyra looking on, seeing the malevolence slowly escaping from her father. The darkness thickening around the Tyrant.
“Heh, if anything, I do acknowledge you, but this feeling is being clouded by my rage at the moment,” his eyes are fearsome upon her.
A bright shining morning it is, birds chirping, and demons walking around the docks. An active place it is, ships around every corner, loud conversations from every direction, and smaller buildings with their businesses. A crowded place it is, and despite such, it is rather pleasant. The salty sea air refreshingly washing over the area, many enjoying the pastime of fishing by the shores. Cyra standing at an edge, looking over the ocean, feeling the gentle breeze hitting against her. The maidens eyes are distant, remembering the past. Deep down, the devil wishing that her life can go back to the time where her father and her have been so close. However, she knows well that the past is in the past.
“Old man...I respected you...even though you were a very poor father. Though, the one thing I can never forgive is being forced to marry Ardin,” she slightly looks away.
The maiden hearing the bells ringing, seeing a ship departing. Cyra turning away from the scene, walking onward. It will be some time until the ship she is to board will leave. For now, such time may be put to better use in gathering information. By the peers, there are two men appearing in distress. The maiden bracing back against the nearby wall, folding her arms, looking into the vast blue sky.
“You serious?” a man questions in a trembling voice.
A sailor facing the man. The person exhibiting such distress, expanding his arms.
“Yeah, the Tower of Time has been activated as the rumors goes, it seems like whoever activated it is trying to do the same to the rest,” a sailor responds in a rough tone.
Hearing of such, the man taking a step towards the sailor in much alarm.
“But why?! Activating those things spells disaster...I don’t even know why we even have those damn things in the first place!” the man frantically speaks.
“Why indeed would anyone want to activate such a monstrosity? Either way, this means nothing to me. Though...this could be troubling...” the maiden positioning her arms in a thinking posture.
Cyra hearing the bell ringing once again, soon lowering her arms. The maiden looking in the direction towards a ship, soon walking towards it. A yawn escaping her lips as she stretches. Never a moments rest it is appearing. However, this is something she is well aware of. A life of eternal torment.
“Not even getting paid for this damned job...oh well...cannot get paid if everyone is dead, I will simply charge them later,” she pleasantly speaks.
Cyra soon boarding the ship, taking in the refreshing air all around. The maiden shortly standing outside on the deck, her distant eyes gazing upon the slow moving waves.
—The Past Revisited—
The throne room of the Tyrant suffering intense damages from the effects of a battle. Broken platforms, cracked walls, shattered windows, it goes on and on. From end to end, it is appearing as if a tornado has passed through. Falling to her knee, Cyra gasping for breath. Barely able to hold herself up, pressing her blade firmly into the ground. The maiden looking towards her father with such hateful eyes. The Tyrant shaking his head from left to right, soon turning from her in disappointment.
“You spend your time too much with some god, concerning yourself with some grand adventure. Your power is pitiful, I am ashamed to even call you my daughter,” he strictly speaks.
Hanging her head low, frustration growing deep inside of her. No matter how many times she challenges her father, she can never defeat him. The same situation playing out time and time and again. It is making little sense, her power continuously growing, but yet the Tyrant continuing to surpass her.
“Why is my power so weak...? I come from the same bloodline...yet...” she punches the ground in aggravation.
The devil glancing back to his daughter, his words may be harsh, but he knows an extra push is of necessity. The Tyrant knowing well that great potential is within her, but she will never realize it so long as her heart is remaining soft.
“Accept your own weakness, Cyra. You will never be able to grasp the power I hold. Not as long as you hold onto such foolish ideals!” he raises his voice.
Those words deeply stinging, the maiden wondering why he even says such things. It is almost as if the bond they share so many years ago is nothing but a memory. Such sickening her really, those words are some she can never accept.
“You are wrong...” she speaks beneath her breath.
Taking notice of her words, the Tyrant facing the maiden. The expression on the devil becoming more stern. Perhaps her words does spark some interest within him.
“Speak up,” he commands.
The maiden pushing herself up to her feet, struggling to hold her balance. A dark energy burning from her body. The malevolence slowly surrounding her. The Tyrant looking on, seeing it slowly purifying. Such darkness becoming a pure white light. Looking on, seeing Cyra raising Lævateinn, her head hanging low. The weapon crying out, answering her deepest sorrow. Alastor taking a step back, tension rising inside of him. Malice emanating from the weapon.
“I will never be in your shadow!” she yells, unleashing the massive energy upon her father.
A wave of negative energy rushing towards Alastor. The assault becoming pure white, shredding apart the surrounding area. The intensity of the pressure crushing down upon the Demon Tyrant.
Such a development is not one he will expect. This taking him off-guard, without a second to spare, the Tyrant grasping his blade. With a single vertical swing of his sword, the demon unleashing a pure dark energy. Heavy darkness clashing against the divine assault. The two forces reacting, repelling each other. The exertion of the energy causing the area to violently explode. The Tyrant looking on, the smoke slowly clearing. Cold sweat running down the side of his face, feeling his heart pounding wildly within his chest. The demon seeing Cyra falling to her knees. There is no more energy within her, no more will to resist the power of the Tyrant. Alastor placing away his blade, his expression lightening a bit.
“Hmph...interesting, for once you did grab my attention,” he folds his arms.
The maiden looking into the vast blue sky, seeing the birds flying from afar, watching the clouds slowly moving away. Conflicts ever so deep inside the past. Sorrow forever so deep. Despair eternally crying out. Those older days, a time of simpleness.
Whatever happens after this point-happens. Though, I will not rest...not until the wrong that has been committed has been rectified...if it can be corrected that is. Valor...old friend...usually you would be here to guide me when I am lost, but...I suppose I have been relying on you for far too long. Perhaps my father was right...this world has no place for compassion. Those words I so wish not to believe. Yet...the further I travel into this endless abyss...the more his words seem true...