Hero Of Broken History

Sleep could go fuck itself.

Avian lay in bed staring at the ceiling, trying to ignore the itch between his shoulder blades. Not a physical itch - he'd checked twice. This was something else. Something that made his teeth ache and his bones hum with wrongness.

The cemetery.

The thought wouldn't leave him alone. Like a splinter working its way deeper with each heartbeat. They'd cleared the ghouls, filed the report, collected payment. Job done. So why did it feel like he'd left something unfinished?

Because you did, you fucking idiot. Since when are ghouls the source? They're always symptoms.

He sat up, decision made. Kai snored in the other bed, dead to the world. Good. This felt like the kind of problem that didn't need witnesses.

The pre-dawn streets were empty except for drunks pissing in alleys and whores counting their night's earnings. Neither group bothered him - something about his posture suggested violence barely leashed. Amazing how body language could say 'fuck off' without words.

The cemetery gates hung open like a mouth full of broken teeth. Fog coiled through the iron, thicker than it had any right to be. The wrongness pulled harder now, fishing hook through his sternum, reeling him in.

This is stupid. Walking alone into obviously cursed graveyard because of a feeling. Exactly the kind of shit that gets people killed in stories.

But his feet kept moving, past the section they'd searched, deeper into the old quarter where tombstones leaned like drunks and names had worn away to suggestions. Here the fog was dense enough to chew, carrying scents that shouldn't exist - old copper, burnt prayer, and something sweet-sick that coated the back of his throat.

The pull led him to a mausoleum that looked like it had lost a fight with time and hadn't gotten up. Weathered stone wore patches of black moss like disease. The iron door hung askew, rust eating through metal in patterns that looked almost deliberate. But underneath the decay, wrongness radiated like heat from fever.

He pushed inside.

The entrance chamber was empty except for stone coffins and centuries of dust. But the floor... the floor was wrong. Scratches in the stone, too regular to be natural wear. Grooves worn by feet walking the same path over and over. Leading to the back wall where shadows gathered too thick.

Hidden door. Classic.

His fingers found the mechanism by instinct - a rose carved in relief, thorns worn smooth by use. Press in sequence, and... click. A section of wall swung inward on hinges that shouldn't have moved so smoothly after centuries.

Stone stairs descended into black thick enough to chew. Each step down, the temperature dropped and that sweet-sick smell grew stronger. Not rot - rot was natural. This was preservation through perversion. Death pickled in its own juices for flavor.

Twenty steps. Thirty. The stairs kept going, carved from living rock now rather than placed stone. Whoever built this had gone deep. Deep enough that the weight of earth above pressed against his awareness.

Forty steps. Fifty. His mana channels began to cramp, reacting to something in the air. Death magic. The concentrated kind that corrupted everything it touched, making even breathing feel like swallowing tar.

The stairs finally ended at another door. This one was newer - maybe only a century old. Wood reinforced with metal bands, carved with symbols that made his eyes water to follow. A ward lock, but crude. Powerful through brute force rather than elegance.

He pushed it open.

The chamber beyond made him stop breathing.

Souls. Hundreds of them. Pressed against barriers that shouldn't exist, mouths open in screams that had no sound. The walls were carved with circles within circles, necromantic mathematics that turned suffering into power. Green-black energy pulsed through carved channels, feeding on the trapped dead.

But worse than the sight was the recognition.

That face - Jenkins, the kid from Brightwall who wouldn't shut up about his girl back home. Still screaming about her five hundred years later. That one there, missing half her skull - Sergeant Mills, best scout he'd ever had, taken by a lucky arrow. And there - Cooper, Ross, Chen, Fitzgerald...

My soldiers. These are my fucking soldiers.

He moved among them, cataloging faces. Each one a memory, a name, a failure. They pressed against their barriers when they saw him, recognition flaring in dead eyes. They knew him. Even after five centuries, even through a different body, they knew their commander.

"Hendricks," he whispered, stopping at a soul whose throat was opened in a permanent scream. "You were at Thornwall. Held the gate for six hours with a broken spear and bad jokes."

The soul's mouth moved frantically, trying to speak through the barrier. No sound, but he read the shape of words: "Commander? Commander, is that you?"

"Martinez. You carved wooden horses for the village kids between battles."

Another soul, pressing desperately against the barrier. Tears that couldn't exist in death, running down phantom cheeks.

"Watson. Died saving my life from that ambush. Said it was worth it because I'd save more."

Soul after soul, name after name. His throat grew tight with memory and rage. These weren't just casualties of war. These were his people. His responsibility.

"My, my. An early morning visitor! How delightful!"

The voice came from deeper in the chamber - warm, cultured, bizarrely cheerful. A figure emerged from shadows, and Avian had to blink twice to process what he was seeing.

Not the skeletal death mancer in rotting robes he'd expected. This man looked like someone's favorite uncle. Mid-fifties, well-fed, wearing surprisingly normal merchant clothes. Pleasant face with laugh lines around the eyes. If it wasn't for the air around him being wrong - making Avian's mana channels cramp with corruption - he could have been anyone.

"Welcome to my collection!" The mancer spread his arms like a showman. "I don't often get visitors. Well, living ones. The dead are terrible conversationalists, all moaning and wailing. No appreciation for wordplay whatsoever."

"These souls..." Avian's voice came out raw.

"Five hundred years of careful curation," the mancer said proudly, moving among the trapped spirits like an art dealer in his gallery. "Started right after the war ended, you know. All those battlefields, absolutely littered with fresh souls! Everyone else was busy celebrating peace, and there I was with a bag and a binding spell, shopping for the finest specimens. Like picking mushrooms, really, if mushrooms screamed and begged. This fellow here - died thinking his wife had betrayed him. She hadn't, of course, but the doubt! The exquisite doubt flavors his suffering beautifully. Powers my tea kettle, actually. Nothing like existential dread to start the morning!"

He actually laughed at his own joke, genuine mirth that made the situation worse somehow.

"You're torturing them. For tea."

"Oh, not just tea! That would be wasteful." The mancer waggled a finger playfully. "This one here powers my reading lamp. That cluster runs the food preservation. And this delightful group - died in a failed cavalry charge - they keep my bath water at the perfect temperature. Efficiency!"

"These are people. Soldiers who died for—"

"For nothing, really. Some war or other. They're all the same after a few centuries." The mancer waved dismissively. "But in death, they've found purpose! Renewable energy, you might say. Very eco-friendly."

Avian's blade cleared its sheath before conscious thought engaged. The mancer danced back with surprising grace, still smiling.

"Oh, violence! How refreshing! Do you know how boring it gets down here? The souls can't fight back properly, and the occasional rat is hardly sporting." He pulled out what looked like a conductor's baton made of finger bones. "Shall we dance? I haven't had a proper duel in decades!"

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Avian lunged, putting enough force behind the strike to split stone. The mancer parried with his grotesque wand, death magic flaring at the impact. The corruption made Avian's skin crawl where it touched.

"Wonderful form!" the mancer laughed, spinning away from a follow-up slash. "Very direct. No wasted movement. You fight like someone who learned through necessity rather than instruction. Street fighter? Mercenary background? Oh, this is exciting!"

He gestured with his free hand, and bone spears erupted from the floor. Avian rolled between them, came up swinging. Another gesture filled the air with necrotic mist that burned his lungs.

"You know what your problem is?" The mancer backpedaled, still conversational despite Avian trying to remove his head. "No sense of humor! Death is hilarious if you think about it. All that struggling to stay alive, and for what? We all end up here anyway!"

"Shut up and die."

"See? No joy in the journey!" The mancer tsked, summoning shambling corpses from alcoves Avian hadn't noticed. "Let me guess - tragic backstory? Lost loved ones? Seeking vengeance? How wonderfully cliché!"

The zombies were old but well-preserved. Former guards, maybe, still wearing rusted armor. Avian carved through them without slowing, gravity making their legs forget how to support weight. But more kept coming, and the mancer kept talking.

"I had a tragic backstory once. Mother died, father drank, siblings sold me to pay debts. Very sad!" He laughed again, directing his minions with theatrical gestures. "Then I discovered necromancy and killed them all! Family reunions are much more pleasant when everyone's dead. They finally listen!"

This wasn't working. The mancer was too mobile, too prepared, and fighting in his own domain. Every moment wasted meant more power drawn from the tortured souls. Avian needed to—

His eyes found one soul among the hundreds. Smaller than the others, younger even in death. Round face that had never quite lost its baby fat, phantom uniform too big for his frame.

No. No no no. Not him.

The moment of distraction cost him. The mancer's spell caught him mid-dodge, necrotic energy slamming into his chest. Pain like ice and acid together, dropping him to one knee.

"Oh, did you see someone you know?" The mancer peered at the souls with interest. "How delightful! Nothing adds spice to combat like emotional investment. Which one caught your eye?"

Avian forced himself up, but his gaze kept returning to that small soul. Tommy Bracken. Farm boy from nowhere important. Fifteen but claimed eighteen to join up. Called everyone "big brother" or "big sister" because the unit was the first family he'd known.

The soul's eyes had found him too. Recognition dawned on that young face, and his mouth moved frantically: "Big Brother Dex? Big Brother Dex!"

"Oh. Oh my." The mancer's eyes went wide with genuine surprise. "Did that soul just... but you're a child. These are from the Demon War. That's impossible unless..."

He started laughing. Real, delighted laughter that echoed off stone walls.

"Reincarnation! Actual reincarnation! Do you have any idea how rare that is? The theological implications alone! Tell me, does it hurt? Having all those memories crammed into that tiny skull? Do they come in dreams? All at once? I have so many questions!"

Avian ignored him, stumbling toward Tommy's barrier. The soul pressed against it desperately, tears streaming down phantom cheeks.

"Big Brother! You came back! I knew you'd come back!"

"Tommy." His hand found the barrier, matching where the soul reached for him. "Fuck, Tommy, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

Tommy shook his head frantically, mouthing words: "Not. Your. Fault."

"I promised to keep you safe. You were just a kid—"

"So. Were. You." Tommy's expression was fierce despite the tears. "Only. Twenty. Remember? We. Were. All. Kids. Playing. At. War."

Right. He'd been twenty when Tommy died. Ancient by street standards, impossibly young by any other measure. Just another child pretending adulthood because someone had to lead.

"Did. My. Best. You. Did. Too." Tommy pressed harder against the barrier. "Proud. To. Follow. You. Proud. To. Call. You. Brother."

"This is fascinating!" The mancer had crept closer, observing like a scientist with a new specimen. "The emotional resonance between incarnations! Can you access his memories? Does he remember dying? Oh, we should document this!"

"Back. Off." Avian's voice came out wrong. Deeper. Older. Dangerous.

"Protective instincts carrying over too! Marvelous! You know, I've theorized about soul persistence, but to see it in action—"

Avian moved. Not the careful strikes from before. This was violence distilled, five hundred years of rage given focus. The mancer barely got his shield up in time, death magic flaring desperately against the assault.

"Oh my! Someone's upset!" But for the first time, sweat beaded on the mancer's forehead. "Perhaps we should discuss this like civilized—"

Fargrim carved through his shield like paper. Only a desperate dodge saved him from bisection. He stumbled back, no longer smiling.

"That sword... that's not possible. Demon-forged blades were all destroyed—"

"Not all."

The next exchange drove the mancer from his chamber. He fled down corridors Avian hadn't seen, throwing every curse and creature in his arsenal behind him. Bone walls erupted only to be shattered by gravity. Shadows rose only to be burned away by lightning as Lux materialized, eager for the hunt.

"You're not human!" the mancer screamed, all humor gone now. "No human child has this power!"

"Shut the fuck up. You're going to die. There's no talking your way out of this."

They burst into another chamber - this one filled with preserved corpses on tables, mid-vivisection. The mancer's workshop. He spun, desperation making him reckless.

"Fine! You want to play rough? Let's play rough!"

He slammed his palm on a circle carved into the floor. The entire complex shuddered as he drew power from every trapped soul at once. Green-black energy erupted around him, death magic so concentrated it had physical weight.

"Five hundred years of accumulated suffering! Let's see how you like—"

Avian's aura exploded outward. Not the careful Grandmaster show, but everything. Every drop of power he'd compressed into this child's body, released without restraint. The chamber cracked. Stone that had stood for centuries suddenly remembered it could break.

The mancer's eyes went impossibly wide. "That's not... you can't... what ARE you?"

"Dead man talking."

What followed wasn't a fight. It was a lesson in why you didn't torture the soldiers of someone who'd walked through hell and decided it was boring.

Gravity made the mancer's bones creak, then crack, then separate in ways that shouldn't allow consciousness. Lightning kept his nerves firing, ensuring he felt every adjustment. And Fargrim... Fargrim drank just enough life to keep him aware through experiences that should have granted mercy.

"Wait! Please!" The mancer's charm was gone, replaced by animal terror. "I'll release them! All of them! Just stop!"

"Yes. You will."

He dragged the broken thing back to the main chamber. The souls watched their tormentor forced to his knees before the circles that bound them. Tommy's eyes were wide, a mix of awe and old fear at seeing his commander truly unleashed.

"The spell," Avian said conversationally. "Break it."

"It's... it's tied to my life force. If I break it—"

"You die. I know. Do it anyway."

"That's murder!"

"No. That's you dying clean instead of screaming for however long this sword can keep you conscious. Which, fun fact, is about three days if I'm careful."

The mancer's hands shook as he began unweaving five centuries of work. Each broken connection aged him, life force burning to fuel the collapse. His skin wrinkled, hair whitening and falling out in clumps.

"My work," he whispered. "My legacy..."

"Your legacy is pain. Congratulations. It ends now."

Tommy was watching, mouth moving: "Thank. You. Big. Brother."

The binding circles failed one by one. As each broke, souls began to mill in confusion. Some vanished immediately, racing toward whatever peace waited. Others lingered, uncertain after so much captivity.

The mancer aged decades with each severed connection. By the time he reached Tommy's circle, he was ancient, held together by will alone.

"This one," he wheezed, "was my favorite. So much innocence to corrupt. Such pure suffering..."

Avian's hand found his throat. "Break. It. Now."

The last circle shattered. Tommy's soul stumbled free, no longer pressed against a barrier that had held him for five hundred years. He stood there, translucent and trembling, staring at Avian with wonder.

"It's really you," Tommy whispered, his voice thin but real now. "I can feel it. Your soul. Still the same. Still my big brother."

"Tommy, I—"

"Shh." The soul smiled, that same crooked grin that had made everyone protect him. "I know. You're sorry. You tried. You always tried so hard to save everyone."

"I failed. You died in my arms because I wasn't fast enough—"

"I died in your arms because a demon got lucky. That's war." Tommy stepped closer, ghostly hand reaching out. "But you know what? Best year of my life. Had a family. Had purpose. Had a big brother who gave a damn about some farm kid nobody."

Other souls were gathering now. Hendricks, Mills, Chen - all the faces he'd recognized. They formed a loose circle, watching their commander with expressions of recognition and peace.

"He tortured us," Mills said quietly. "Five hundred years of pain. But we held on. Know why?"

Avian shook his head, throat too tight for words.

"Because we knew you'd come." Hendricks stepped forward. "Maybe not how or when, but we knew. Our commander doesn't leave anyone behind. Even if it takes five fucking centuries."

"Language," Tommy chided with a ghost of his old humor. "There's officers present."

That broke something in Avian. Laughter or tears or both, watching his soldiers joke even in death. They were fading now, one by one. The spell broken, nothing held them to this plane.

"Tell the others," Chen called as she dissolved into light. "Tell everyone on the other side - the commander came back for us."

"Bet your ass we will," Ross grinned, saluting as he faded. "Gonna be the best fucking story in the afterlife."

Soon only Tommy remained, form already growing translucent at the edges.

"I have to go," he said softly. "Can feel it calling. But big brother? Thank you. For remembering us. For keeping your promise. For being you."

"Tommy, wait—"

But the soul straightened, gave that sloppy salute he'd never quite mastered, and spoke one last time:

"Duty's a bitch, yeah? But you always did yours. Let us do ours now. Let us rest." His grin was pure sunshine despite everything. "See you around, big brother. Try not to take another five hundred years."

He dissolved into light that rose through stone and earth, finally free. The chamber stood empty except for Avian and the dust that had been a death mancer.

Empty. Silent. Five hundred years of suffering ended in moments.

He sat among the broken circles and let himself feel it. The weight of command that never really left. The faces of everyone he'd failed to save. The bitter joke of doing his duty perfectly and being made the villain for it.

"I saved the fucking world," he told the empty air. "And they made me the monster. But you all... you paid the real price. Tortured for centuries because you believed in me."

No answer. The dead had found peace.

But their words echoed: We knew you'd come.

Even after everything, they'd had faith. In him. In their commander who'd been twenty years old and trying his best with impossible choices.

"Duty," he spat the word. But even as he rejected it, he knew the truth. He'd always come back for his people. Always. Even if it meant becoming the monster history painted him as.

Even if it was five hundred years too late.

Eventually, he stood. Tomorrow there'd be questions about the destroyed mausoleum, the freed souls, the mysterious deaths. Let them wonder. Let them investigate.

Tonight, he'd kept a promise he hadn't even known he'd made.

Big Brother Dex had saved his soldiers one last time.