Smoke, a thin and elusive—almost unfathomable—gray cloud hung like a curtain over the backstage of the oldest theater in the Holy Rolandish Empire, exposing to the eager audience only the wavering silhouettes of the dress rehearsal for the tragedy that would soon be remembered as the greatest to ever be performed. It was a tale that explored the darkest sides of love, betrayal, and honor, whose screenplay—despite its scenes had already been envisioned by the ghostwriters of the world’s politics—would likely be written live, word by word, by the actors who, whether willing or not, were doomed to stand upon that chaotic stage. However, there was one thing both staff and audience alike already knew—this story will not have a happy ending.
”It’s a pleasure that you have graced us with your presence, His Highness.” Welcomed a young man sporting auburn hair and a cunning smile, hissing a cigarette inside a half-drunk cocktail over a short table at the center of what could be seen as a makeshift nightclub. ”Well, not that I had any doubt in the first place. It’s the High King’s duty to ride his Griffin straight into the storm of crisis, like a true heir of Hero Lionárd is supposed to do.”
Within the suffocating crawlspace at the bottom of an already claustrophobic bunker, four main actors sat on Brontosaurus-leather couches—Dinosaur Fashion had been in vogue during the ’20s, but never seen again outside Hycars—each occupying a compass point of a table over-crowded with the sins that had plagued humanity ever since Adam’s head was cut by a fool too impatient to hear the reasons behind a disappointing answer.
“So, do you like my little Paradiso? The decorations are crude—I perfectly know—but with a siege outside, we oughtn’t be so petty, ought we?”
The room had no walls, only a tangle of pipes—some copper, some tin, others of a bioengineered wood called Anti-Rust Polymer—interwoven on all sides, forming a tapestry whose colors ranged from dark brown to metallic gray, whitened here and there by the steam leaking from loose junctions. The young man’s back kissed a cluster of vertical tubes that irregularly released jets of vapor in irregular, like an organ wheezing out an offbeat symphony of whistles—its holiness grotesquely out of tune with the devilry of the nightclub he had assembled in that basement.
“As the Scion of the High Kingdom of the Highlands, it is my duty to hear my subjects. Moreover, the heirs of three of my reign’s most influential Fiefdoms…” Connor tried to mask his disgust at the speaker’s cologne, an unbearable stench of rotten eggs and fish, and even with that cursed Memento locked to his nose, the stinging ache was intolerable.
These bastards…they have no shame.
“That being said, Fachén, I won’t waste my time here only to be humiliated by this dirty Sasquatch.” The ’Clown’ tried to appear as kingly as his position of Scion required him to be, keeping his back straight and his tone sumptuous. Nevertheless, the bandage on his face was a permanent scar that could not be ignored, and while Fachén—the one seated before him—was proficient at hiding his true feelings, the young man to his left could not stop chuckling. “Tell your minion to shut up, or this meeting is over!” Connor roared, but all he received in return were pitying glances from Fachén and the third guest at his right.
“You, a filthy Class F, daring to threaten us? AHAH!” The chuckles inflated into unfiltered laughter. “Why are we even wasting our time with this fucking coward? I would never accept such a failure of a man as my High Kin—” He hastily rose from his seat to overdramatize the declaration, but forgetting his size—he was as large and hairy as a bear—the Bigfoot slammed his head against the mass of tubes covering the ceiling. Connor couldn’t help but chuckle at the scene, an unwise mistake he paid for an instant later as the Sasquatch’s massive hand seized his neck.
“You motherfucker,” he growled as his grip tightened more and more. “Do you think your surname gives you the right to be anything more than a worm?”
“Hmmph…hmhm…gmmfgg!” Connor wanted to scream, lecturing on the consequences for attacking his king’s son, but his throat was being crushed like an empty beer can. So, he desperately glanced at the Sasquatch’s boss, but Fachén made no move to intervene—his hawk eyes widening with wicked pleasure at each new Connor’s spasm.
“Lùgh, put your fat and disgusting ass on the couch right now, or I’ll skin it and turn it into a saddle for my Griffin!” The third actor finally spoke, but despite the fiery words, the tone was as cold as the bluish pipeline above them, the one that carried liquid nitrogen. “Regardless of his lack of any source of pride, Connor is still our Scion. Hence, if this act of violence doesn’t stop right now, my honor will oblige me to defend him myself.” After a brief exchange of sights between the speaker’s owl eyes and Lùgh’s raptor ones, the Sasquatch reluctantly obeyed, falling back into his seat.
“If you want to waste your time, fine, but don’t count on me.” As he spoke, his massive hand reached across the table for a syringe. “Ahhhhhh…perfect…Fachén, Maeve…just make up your minds…ahhhhhh…and when you’re done with the Class F…ahhhhhhh…wake…me…” With a swift jab, he injected himself with what he believed to be Imperfect Paradise—in truth, merely a cocktail of synthetic chemicals that poorly mimicked its effects but sold at the same outrageous price—and within seconds, S-Class ’Soothslayer’ Lùgh MacBeth began to twitch violently. His eyeballs jittered beneath their eyelids while his lips quivered at a frantic pace, as if he was possessed, but the water boiling lasted only a few instants before a loud snore announced the Bigfoot’s departure for the Spiritual World.
“YOU’VE…CALLED ME HERE…TO KILL ME?!” The ’Clown’ hyperventilated, struggling to stand due to several [Malus] afflicting him as a result of the garroting, and as he rose, his eyes met the stern gaze of his savior. Unlike the other two Scions, S-Class ’Xanthic Anomaly’ Maeve MacDheireadh neither looked nor dressed like a lascivious creature born to rule the night. There was no flaw in the Scion’s short, almost military, haircut, and the white business shirt only sharpened the maturity of the rigid features. “Anyway…thanks, for your help…” he muttered, trying to sound sincere.
However, his words earned the young man only a stare of sheer disgust because Maeve possessed the most unique quality among the Highlands’ chaste of noble warriors—she was a woman. For a Highlander Knight, there was no greater humiliation than being rescued by a lady—even if that lady was her.
Maeve was the only child of the Mormaer of Meall Buidhe, the final peak at the northern edge of the mountain range that formed the Highlands. More precisely, the site where many historians have located the ancient land known as Hyperborea. In the icy flats beneath her Kathàirda—roughly translated into Adamic as Sky Throne or Seat in the Heavens—the Highlander lady had been raised as a man in her father’s desperate attempt to prevent his despised brother from seizing power. Yet, despite the absence of any product labeled by Starfolk advertisers with the tag ’for females,’ the too-well-defined curves of her body betrayed her real beauty—a contradictory charm thought extinct since the last of the Mandrakian Valkyries perished on the battlefield in a desperate attempt to preserve the crumbling legacy of her beloved Emperor.
Maeve considered herself a Highlander Knight in full and in truth, and the thought of betraying her rightful Scion haunted her dreams each night. Nevertheless, she loved her father more than anything in this world, and she was willing to pay any price to fulfill his dream of seeing her crowned the first ’Everlasting Grace’—the Queen of Hyperborea—in two thousand years—even if that meant making a pact with the devil himself.
“Calm down, Your Highness. You should know our compatriots on the green side of our dear mountains still keep rather close ties with our Barbarian cousins, and that’s why…well…some of their more ’physical’ traditions persist. Lùgh was merely…aheh…training his future High King for such encounters.” As Fachén spoke, the damned smile on his face only widened more and more. “We are all here, after all, to help you keep that crown on your head. Hence, I strongly advise His Highness to hear what I—the Scion of the strongest, wealthiest, and most politically connected Mormaer of the High Kingdom—have to propose.”
The young man wasn’t lying. SS-Class ’Unforgivable Master’ Fachén O’Gahallghan was heir to the so-called ’Midlands,’ the vital artery linking the Highlands, the Draigesque Hills, and the New World, and by consequence, half of the ’HRE.’ Billions of tons of goods and millions of passengers passed daily through his fiefdom’s Hydroways, and his family milked a juicy toll on every one of them. Moreover, of the three times New Oasis had been sacked, an O’Gahallghan had been present each time to enrich the family coffers with the city’s spoils, wisely investing them into an intricate web of political alliances that extended into the deepest roots of the Highlander state.
No High King could rule without their gold, and no rebellion could ever rise without it.
Bad Cop, Nice Cop? I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but I can already smell it.
“Speak, then, but don’t think I’ll forget any of this.” Once again, his words inspired no fear, and the ’Clown’ could only wish it was a mere bluff.
“No unworthy can be elected High King, a rule written in our most sacred legislation—the Alta Carta. So, I’m sorry for you, His Highness, but no Class F will ever be deemed worthy of it, and I’m sure you realize that someone ambitious might use this to start a power play and steal your throne?” Maeve leaned forward, fingers interlaced, and her stone-cold expression hardened even more.
“Lies.” Connor’s tone finally got sharp and resolute. “Firstly, the Holy Axiomata clearly states that all beings—Essentia and Soulful alike—are potentially worthy of Heaven. Secondly, I’m sure we both agree that eternal bliss in Paradise is worth infinitely more than any throne in Avalon. Thirdly, I’m a loyal devotee of the Trinitarian Faith, who rejects sin and follows the teachings written into Holy Axiomata by the Holy Trinity, making me worthy to sit beside Adam. In conclusion, if I am worthy of eternal life, then I am also worthy of the mortal institution whose legitimacy—still according to the Alta Carta—derives from the divine being who created us all.” Fachén whistled and clapped, while Maeve visibly cringed at what she considered naive idealism.
“GET REAL! We don’t live in the Dark Century anymore! Do you honestly believe anyone with an ounce of power still cares about religion?” Bellowed the ’Xanthic Anomaly,’ slamming her fist onto the table, but her words had the opposite effect.
Connor’s spine straightened, his gaze sharpened, and his expression burned with unweavering conviction. “If all humanity but me denied Adam’s existence, that wouldn’t make it true! And that doesn’t apply only to religion, but to everything—consensus is just an opinion that constantly changes to fit a narrative, while a truth is correct until the World’s End!” He rose, fist striking against his chest—over his beating heart. “A Highlander Knight does what he must in spite of consequences, in spite of obstacles, and in spite of the Wheel of Time!”
The humiliated would-be Knight lowered her gaze, unable to find a reply that wouldn’t betray her years of hard study—the title she had longed for with every cell of her body suddenly felt more distant than ever.
“How stubborn must you be to still believe in your fairy tales, even in this situation?” The ’Unforgivable Master’ exhaled all his frustration before rising from his chair and handing a parchment to Connor. “Anyway, the deal is simple. Once the crown is on your head, you’ll grant me permission to industrialize strategic sections of the Midlands, boosting the daily traffic and, naturally, my family’s income—the people living there aren’t Highlanders anyway. Then, Maeve here will become the first female Knight in history, securing a Fiefdom full of rare minerals buried beneath it, vital for the aforementioned industrialization. And lastly, our friend Lùgh will be free to export as many mercenary bands as he pleases to the wealthy Warlords of Naturia. I know I’m asking you to bend your so-called honor, but come on, we’re not asking that much, are we?”
“Yeah, it’s a good deal—too good.” For the first time, Fachén’s smirk wavered, his expression shrinking as he met some sort of gleam in Connor’s eagle eyes. “You know the best way to enslave a man? Make him dependent on you.” As those words left his lips, a flashback engulfed his mind, dragging him back in time—one week before the siege.
***
“Just a couple of hours, and finally he’ll be here.” Excitement radiated from every pore of Connor’s skin. He hadn’t felt this joyful since the day before his first day at Miraval Academy. “Rìghiolar…my loyal steed…my oldest friend…” The Scion of the Highlands sat on a bench before the colossal Griffin cage that occupied a large section of Ranch Island. It was formed by millions of steel wires that intertwined together till they shaped a dome in the heavens, leaving many small holes through which one could admire the majestic beasts flying within. Their cries, screeches, and calls merged into a living orchestra, growing Connor’s anticipation for the grand reunion. “After so many problems, finally something good. Yeah, nothing could ruin this da—”
*KRANG-CLONG!*
A manhole cover got ejected from the cobblestone, crushing mere centimeters from Connor’s head. However, it wasn’t the impact that shocked him the most, but what emerged from the hole—a man reeking of urine and smeared with a mix of biological substances that could have made Connor vomit by just thinking about it.
“Holy shit, I can finally breathe! Those damned sewer mutants wasted two hours of my life down there, and worse, I didn’t even get the Griffin in the end! Well, at least I can now clean my bedr—CONNOR?! What are you doing here!?”
Fueled by pure adrenaline, the horrified ’Clown’ leapt from the bench, dodging the sewer man’s attempted hugs with outstanding acrobatics. “Stay away from me, Jacques! You’re all filthy!”
The ’Javelinist’ sniffed his sleeve, grimaced, and shrugged. “Sorry, bro, but if you swim in shit all your life, you get used to the stench of what people hide beneath their fancy facades.” And with that, he sat on a bench, taking a mortadella sandwich out of his [Inventory]. “So, dude, are you here to get a griffin for our lessons?”
“I don’t need that, I’m the Scion of the Highlands.” Connor proudly declared, his tone carrying all the weight of his lineage. “When I was born—while I still lay in my cradle—a pup from the line of magical beasts descended directly from Hero Lionárd’s Phoenix was gifted to me. You know, the right head of the Three-Headed Phoenix in the emblem of the Holy Rolandish Empire.” He sat back on the same bench—he, too, was used to the stench of Griffin Urine. “And today, after almost two weeks of separation—the longest we’ve ever endured—the Knight and his loyal steed will finally be reunited! Once I’m back on his back, I’ll reclaim my honor by becoming the best rider in our class—I swore it, Jacques!”
“One of these days, you’re going to give yourself a heart attack with how often you punch your chest,” the ’Javelinist’ muttered, finishing the last bite of his sandwich. “Anyway, I’m happy for you. If you’ve known your pet since childhood, you two must have an unbreakable bond.”
“Indeed, we have.” Connor’s tone softened for a moment as he remembered the hundreds of adventures they had once thought together. “There’s even a legend that says when a High King’s Blood Griffin dies, his reign dies with it.” That last line sparked an idea in Jacques’s mind.
“Connor, my dear and greatest friend ever, remind me—your homeland really is a Griffin’s paradise, right? Thousands of them living wild and ten thousand more ready to be sold to a rich Scion who wants to…why not…gift one to his dearest friend?” The ’Clown’ frowned, then nodded. “Okay, Connor, one more question—have I ever explained to you what slavery is?”
“No, and I think I already know.”
“Really? Then define it.”
Connor hesitated. “Well…slavery is when a man called master has total control over another called a slave, putting him in chains and making him do menial or humiliating jobs.”
“‘Menial’?” Jacques blinked in astonishment. “No honest job should ever be labeled as humiliating because work is the only true source of dignity. For example, if I enslave a surgeon and force him to operate on poor children who can’t afford healthcare—would that still be menial?” A few seconds passed before Connor admitted he’d oversimplified his answer.
“You don’t know, so let’s define slavery properly. As you said, it’s an intuitive concept—someone who obeys the orders of a master, right? Well, slavery may very well be the oldest form of contract, or, if you prefer a term less technical, call it the oldest form of social relationship.”
“Ahem…contract should produce benefits for both parties,” Connor objected.
“Meh, a master doesn’t sign the slavery contract with the slave, but it’s with the state that has won the right to decide on those lives in war. The truly weird thing is how the institution has persisted across centuries and still exists in some nations. Okay, you lost a war, fine, but your master ain’t a one-man army—just fight back! Why should anyone accept abuse and servitude instead of killing the bastard or simply running?”
“Are you kidding?” Connor grimaced. “Suppose a group of slaves overpowers their master and escapes, then what? Do you think the slaves of the Twilight Queen would have stood a chance against her Hounds?” He felt he’d landed a solid rebuttal, but Jacques’s smirk said otherwise.
“But they did,” Jacques replied. “Remember all those societies of runaway slaves that formed at the edges of her dominion? Thousands of cities were founded by those who had escaped her yoke. So, let’s imagine if there were a way to coordinate them all in that ancient age, a mass revolt of that scale would have liberated all of them, since the Twilight Queen’s Dogs would have been too few to stop everyone.”
“Easy to say,” Connor shot back. “But after escaping, they still need homes and food for their children.”
Jacques snapped his fingers. “Bingo. So, the chain around their necks is mostly symbolic because the real restraint is something more abstract—an intangible chain whose links are each a different ‘what if’—How can I escape without being found? What about the faith of the people I left behind? If I succeed, what will I eat or where will we sleep? All these doubts take root in the slave, spreading throughout his mind and body and restraining his will to create a docile and loyal servant. Thus, to escape, one must first break each fear-ring one by one, and only then can the slave snap the larger and tangible ring at the throat. That being said, since only a small minority ever reaches that stage, masters can easily manage these rebellions.”
Connor took a deep breath and placed his hand over his neck. ”And now you’re telling me that the chain has never left us. It still lingers, invisible but tight, bounding our lives to this toxic society and to the invisible masters hiding behind desks at the top of some skyscrapers?” The ’Clown’s’ tone broke into a soft whisper. “In other words…you want me to stop clinging to my duty and accept this pathetic life as a Class F?”
“You might very well think that, but I couldn’t possibly comment,” Jacques shrugged. “But, right now, I just wanted to tell you that if you ever want to sell one of your father’s many griffins, there is a buyer you could trust. Someone who wouldn’t try to—”
“Mr. MacMalley, the container is here,” a worker’s voice interrupted the conversation, and after hearing his words, Connor left a seething Jacques on the bench and rushed toward the delivery.
“Connor, wait, La Marquise De La March can vouch for me,” Jacques went after him, but when he reached the aluminum crate, the sight that met him was worse than anything he could have imagined.
Connor was on his knees in a pool of blood, cradling the severed head of his oldest friend. On the walls of the container, written with irregular brushstrokes of fresh blood, a single sentence bled into the metal.
IF YOU EVER COME BACK, YOU ARE NEXT, CLASS F.
***
I don’t care if I have to sell my soul, whoever killed Rìghiolar has to die. But I won’t be their slave.
“I agree. I will sign the contract, but on one condition—the Bigfoot has to go.”
“Well…I never liked him in the first place,” Maeve agreedwith Connor’s proposal, but the ’Unforgivable Master’s’ expression betrayed otherwise.
“No. I won’t accept anything less than what’s written on that parchment. Sign or leave—now!” A sights war ignited between the two most powerful Highlander scions—a couple of everlasting seconds that nearly spoiled the finale of the show.
“Good. Then we’re done for today—call me when you’ve cut the dead weight.” With decisiveness, the ’Clown’ stormed from the room, leaving a circus behind.
“You bastard, I won’t let you ruin my only chance to become a Knight!” The ’Xanthic Anomaly’ drew her ambered sword, ready to unleash the Eldritch Abomination caged within into the small room, but the Fachén did not flinch.
“You idiot. Without Lùgh’s father’s manpower, he has the upper hand.” He admitted it as he took a photograph from his [Inventory]—a pic of a gorgeous lady with a cascade of blonde curls.
“It’s Plan B, then.”
***
“Incredible. I was ready to storm the room and spank those bad boys myself, but that little prince not only survived on his own, he even dictated his terms.” Invisible within the shadows thanks to his [Boogeyman], Mr. Anhogi watched as Connor returned to the bunker’s living room.
“Class F, Class S—worthless definitions. In the end, it’s always chaos that decides the outcome,” whispered the ’Sinful Blade.’ Then, he waited a few minutes before deactivating his skill and heading back. However, halfway down the corridor, he was halted by two familiar figures– Chad’s face frozen in shock, and Anicet’s drawn with exhaustion.
“Professor, I’ve been looking for you for an hour…Ælfgifu…” The ’Hero’ approached, precipitously whispering into his teacher’s ear everything that had happened while he’d been busy stalking a child. And with each new word uttered, Mr. Anhogi’s expression grew paler.
“AGAIN!?”
