Awakening of the Weakest Slayer

Vesta looked at him with surprise, her ruby eyes widening with confusion. "What? Nothing else? What will you even do with your katana?" she asked frantically, her voice a mixture of disbelief and a strange, almost maternal concern.

And her confusion was justified. What could Sezel possibly do with his katana while both of his hands were bound, chained to the cold, unforgiving metal bars of his cage?

Sezel simply smiled, a faint, enigmatic smile that only seemed to confuse Vesta even further. He said nothing else.

But nonetheless, Vesta did what she could. She delivered his katana to him, its sheathless blade gleaming in the dim, artificial light of the Sanctuary.

It was nothing special, just a simple, unadorned weapon, and she was sure that there was no way it was going to break those chains or those bars.

Soon, the voice in Vesta's head, the commanding voice of their unseen Lord, became irresistible. She went back to talking about him, about harvesting Spirit Essence, her words a strange litany of devotion.

Eventually, she left, her mind and body once again given over to her work, leaving Sezel alone in his cage. By now, even Sezel's wound didn't hurt that much, the throbbing pain in his broken finger was a distant, fading memory, and his own thoughts were once again giving up, surrendering to the voice that whispered in the silent corners of his mind.

He was once again alone, and Mari was also asleep, her small body curled into a tight, protective ball. Sezel looked at the ground, tried to move his arms, he tried to touch her head, to make her feel that he was just here and hadn't lost, but couldn't.

Disappointed, he ceased all activity and looked up, closing his eyes.

The voice was slowly, subtly driving his thoughts away, making the fog in his mind even heavier, even more suffocating.

Sezel tried to think hard, to hold on to his fleeting sanity, and so he stumbled upon a story, a memory, a tale he had once read in a book he had found in a garbage heap, a lifetime ago.

"The Story of Theogony," he whispered.

Sezel's mind reeled as he tried to focus all his thoughts on the story that had always been there in the back of his mind. It had interested him so much that he had read it multiple times, its words a strange, comforting balm to his battered soul.

"In the beginning, there was only chaos. Everything started with a mother's pain. Gaia, the Earth. She bore children to Ouranos, the Sky.

The Cyclopes with their single, blazing eyes, the Hecatoncheires with their hundred throwing arms.

And Sky, he was terrified of them. So he forced them back inside her. Shoved them deep into her dark, crushing depths. She groaned under the weight, the agony of it.

So she made a weapon. A great, flint sickle, jagged and sharp. And she asked her other children, the Titans, 'Who will make this right? Who will free your siblings and check your father's cruelty?'

Only the youngest had the stomach for it. Kronos. He took the sickle and he waited for his father's return.

When Sky descended to embrace the Earth once again, Kronos struck. He reached out and… severed him. He cut Sky from Earth forever. The blood that fell from that wound gave birth to Furies and Giants and Nymphs.

Kronos took the throne. And he was just as bad. He freed the monsters from the earth only to chain them right back up in Tartarus. And he was so afraid of the prophecy—'that his own child would do to him what he did to his father'—that he started eating them. Swallowed every one of his children whole as they were born from Rhea. He did that to five of his children.

Rhea couldn't bear it anymore. When the last, sixth one, Zeus, was born, she tricked him. Gave Kronos a stone wrapped in blankets. He swallowed it without a second thought. The real child, she hid away in a cave. Raised in secret on milk and thunder.

Zeus grew. He came back. He made a potion—wine or something, and he forced Kronos to drink it. The old king choked, heaved, and disgorged them all. First the stone, then his brothers and sisters, alive and whole and furious. An army was born from vomit and revenge.

And thus, the war began. The Olympians versus the Titans. The fight they say went on for ten years.

Zeus, he was clever. He went down to Tartarus, to the deepest, darkest ends, and he freed the prisoners. The Cyclopes. The Hundred-Handed Ones. He unchained the very things his grandfather and father had feared most.

And they were grateful. The Cyclopes forged the weapons: the lightning bolt for Zeus, the trident for Poseidon, the helm of darkness for Hades.

They broke the Titans. Dragged them down and chained them in the black pit they'd once thrown others into.

They drew lots after. Zeus took the sky. Poseidon the sea. Hades the underworld. The earth was left for all.

And that was that. The old order ends with a scream in a dungeon. The new one begins with a thunderclap."

Sezel let out a disoriented, faint laugh. "Funny," he murmured, his voice a sardonic whisper. "They all became the very thing they hated. Kronos became his father. Zeus became Kronos. Maybe that's the way of it. Maybe that's the only way anything ever changes. At first I thought it was just a kids' story, well... Now I can't say for sure."

Sezel sighed, a small cloud of air escaping his lips. It was cold. He hadn't realized it till now. "I never believed in the existence of gods, but this place is making me think otherwise. Do they really exist? Do I really have to complete that mission? Where will i even find a God."

By the time he ended the story, Sezel felt a strange, unsettling comfort. He fell asleep, his mind and body finally surrendering to the exhaustion, to the faint, pulsing pain that was a constant, unwelcome companion.

He was fed properly that day. He was offered some of the beast's meat, and this time, he hadn't denied it. And surprisingly, it hadn't tasted as bad as he had thought.

Two days later, Sezel was almost healed. The pain in his broken finger was long gone. And the voice had again turned him into a slave.

He was released from the cage, and once again, he joined the spree of the beasts, along with Vesta and Shiki. Sezel was freed during the day, and they all talked about harvesting more Spirit Essence, of how they could increase their productivity, their efficiency, their devotion.

Vesta was far too silent, her eyes hollow. Sezel didn't like it, but he didn't care. All he cared about, all that mattered, was bringing more Spirit Essence to please his Lord.

As the night fell, as soon as the three moons started sparkling their ethereal, otherworldly lights on the ground below, they all walked again, their movements a coordinated symphony of purpose.

Through the lift, they went up, and out into the cold moonlight, they began their work as usual. During the starting days, they had had questions, doubts. But now, they just worked silently, their minds and bodies given over completely to the will of their unseen master.

It was as if they had turned into the mindless beasts around them. It only indicated one thing: that the longer the voice is in your head, the stronger the hypnosis, and soon, you will become nothing but a mindless slave, losing your ability to think, to question, to be human.

Sezel worked all night, his eyes half-lidded, as if he were about to fall asleep. But he wouldn't. They were the eyes of someone who had lost all purpose, all sense of self. And Vesta's own eyes, those once bright, fiery rubies, mirrored them quite well.

After a long, exhausting night of labor, Sezel raised his hand to clean the sweat from his forehead. He wiped it clean with his elbow, and as he was bringing his hand down, something caught his eye. A strange, dark mark on his skin.

He twisted his hand to get a good look at it, and his eyes widened with a dawning disbelief as he looked at his own hand, at the words that were written on it, carved into his skin with some sharp, unknown object.

He gulped hard as he read the words, his mind a swirling, chaotic vortex of confusion and fear. "What… What does this mean?" he asked. Suddenly, the pain in his head returned, a sharp, stabbing, skull-splitting agony that made him clench his jaw tight.

But he didn't blink. He didn't look away. The words, those strange, terrifying, impossible words, never left his eyesight.

There was something deep down that was telling him to believe them, to trust them.

"STAB YOURSELF."