Hero Of Broken History

What emerged defied easy description.

The construct unfolded like a flower made of nightmares, bone and meat and sorrow given grotesque form. Seven corpses that had been mothers twisted together into something that mocked the very concept of life-giving. It stood twelve feet tall on legs that shouldn't have supported its weight, reaching with fourteen arms that ended in hands still shaped for cradling infants.

Its seven heads wept tears that hissed and burned where they struck the warehouse floor. Each face was different - different ages, different features - but all wore the same expression of infinite grief twisted into hunger.

"The children," it moaned, and the voice was wrong. Not one voice but seven layered together, harmonizing in anguish. "Where are my children?"

Fuck me sideways. The Weeping Mother configuration. Haven't seen that particular war crime in five hundred years.

One of the heads turned toward Leontis, and recognition flickered in dead eyes.

"Oh," Leontis whispered, his theatrical mask crumbling entirely. "Oh, you bastard. You kept her voice. You kept her face."

The head that had focused on him was younger than the others. Pretty, even in death. Brown hair that might have been soft once hung in matted clumps around features that Leontis clearly knew.

"Leontis?" The voice was different from the others. Confused. Lost. "My baby boy? Where... where is my baby boy?"

"I'm here, Mama." Tears streamed down the bard's face, but his hands found his lute strings with muscle memory that transcended grief. "I'm right here."

And there's the hook. Emotional manipulation at its finest. Bet the sick fuck's been saving this reveal for years.

The construct lurched forward, all seven heads swiveling toward Leontis now. Fourteen arms reached with movements that might have been embracing or strangling - impossible to tell where maternal instinct ended and necromantic compulsion began.

Avian moved. Not with panic or desperation, but with the cold efficiency of someone who'd fought worse things in worse places. This was horror, yes. Psychological warfare of the highest order. But it was also just another undead abomination, and he'd been putting those down since before this body could properly hold a sword.

Fargrim sang as it carved through three reaching arms in a single sweep. The blade drank in the corrupt life force with evident satisfaction, humming contentment as it fed. The arms hit the floor, fingers still grasping at air, before beginning to crawl back toward the main body.

Regeneration. Of course. Because why make anything easy when you can make it annoying as fuck?

"Kai!" Avian barked while pivoting away from another swipe. "Buy me thirty seconds! I need to set something up!"

"Thirty seconds against that?" Kai's voice carried the perfect blend of terror and determination. "Sure, why not!"

Knives flew from the shadows, finding joints and tendons with surgical precision. They didn't stop the construct - nothing that simple would - but they slowed it, made it stumble as it tried to coordinate fourteen arms that suddenly didn't all work properly.

Avian dropped to one knee, Fargrim biting into his palm without hesitation. Blood welled up, rich and red and humming with more power than any twelve-year-old's should contain.

Haven't done this in... shit, centuries. Let's see if the old ways still work.

His finger traced symbols on the warehouse floor, blood serving as ink for patterns that predated the Empire by millennia. The shapes came from muscle memory older than this body - a ward configuration he'd learned from a dying shaman who'd claimed the knowledge came from before humans learned to forge iron.

"That's... that's old magic," Leontis breathed, momentarily distracted from his grief. "Impossibly old. Where did you—"

"Less talking, more stalling!" Avian snapped, adding another symbol to the growing pattern. The blood glowed faintly as it settled into the stone, recognizing its purpose.

The construct had recovered from Kai's assault, arms regenerated and reaching again. One caught Kai across the chest, sending him flying into a support beam with a crack that made Avian wince.

Twenty more seconds. Just need twenty more seconds.

"Hey!" Leontis's voice rang out, different now. Not the grieving son but the performer, the mask slamming back into place like armor. "You want to use my mother against me? Then let me play you her favorite song!"

The music that erupted from his lute was chaotic, discordant, nothing like the gentle lullaby from moments before. This was rage given melody, grief transformed into sonic assault. The construct actually recoiled, all seven heads cringing away from the sound.

Good. Buys me time and gives him an outlet. Two birds, one very angry bard.

The death mancer's voice echoed through the warehouse, no longer amused. "Stop that at once! You're disrupting the harmonic resonance!"

"Good!" Leontis snarled, fingers flying across the strings. "Let it all fall apart! Let them rest!"

Fifteen seconds. Ten. Five.

The final symbol clicked into place, and Avian slammed his bloody palm down in the center of the pattern. Power erupted outward, not visible to normal sight but felt in the bones, in the teeth, in that primitive part of the brain that recognized when reality had just been nailed down and told to behave.

"What—" The death mancer's voice cut off mid-word, confusion replacing confidence. "What did you just do?"

"Teleportation ward," Avian said, rising to his feet with a grin that had too many teeth. "Old style. The kind they used to trap demon generals who thought they could just pop in and out of reality."

"That's not possible! The knowledge is lost! The power requirements alone—"

"Shut the fuck up and die properly this time."

The construct, deprived of whatever escape route its master had planned, thrashed with new desperation. Seven voices wailed in harmony, but now there was fear mixed with the hunger. It knew it was trapped. Knew its master couldn't simply dismiss it or flee.

Now we do this properly. No rushing, no desperation. Just good old-fashioned dismemberment.

"Leontis," Avian called out, dodging another wild swing. "See those chains holding the corpses? Your mother's song - the real one, the lullaby - might help them let go."

The bard's hands stilled on his strings. "You mean..."

"The construct draws mass from them. But they're still in there, somewhere. If you can reach them..."

Understanding dawned in Leontis's eyes. The rage-filled performance shifted, softened, became something infinitely sadder and more powerful. The lullaby from before, but fuller now. Not just for his mother but for all of them, all seven women whose final moments had been twisted into this abomination.

The construct's movements slowed. The head that was his mother's turned toward him, and for a moment, just a moment, there was recognition that went beyond necromantic programming.

"My baby boy," she whispered, just her voice now, separate from the seven. "You grew up so handsome. So talented."

"Mama," Leontis's voice broke, but the music continued. "It's time to sleep now. Time to rest."

"Yes," she sighed, and something in the construct's structure loosened. "So tired. We're all so tired."

There's the opening.

Avian moved like violence given purpose. Gravity condensed around his blade, making each strike carry the weight of a falling mountain. He carved through the construct's supports - not the regenerating arms this time, but the core structures that held it together. Femurs that served as primary supports. The fused spinal column that connected the seven heads. The ribcage amalgamation that housed whatever served as its center.

The thing tried to regenerate, but Leontis's music interfered with the necromantic bindings. Flesh that should have knitted together simply fell away. Bones that should have reformed crumbled to dust.

"No!" The death mancer's voice had lost all pretense of calm amusement. "Centuries of preparation! You can't just—"

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

A figure burst from the shadows at the warehouse's far end. The death mancer himself, wearing a body that looked maybe twenty-five, handsome in that generic way that suggested he'd picked it from a catalog. He clutched a staff topped with what was definitely not a human skull - too many eye sockets, teeth in places teeth shouldn't be.

"If you won't appreciate my art," he snarled, raising the staff, "then you can join it!"

Power gathered around him, death magic so concentrated it made the air taste of copper and old graves. He gestured toward one of the marked circles on the floor, clearly intending to trigger some contingency, summon reinforcements, or just flee like the coward he was.

Nothing happened.

He tried again, channeling more power. Still nothing.

"That's..." His perfect features twisted in genuine confusion. "That's not possible. Those circles are anchored directly to—"

"To the dimensional substrate, yeah. I know." Avian's grin widened as he continued dismantling the construct piece by piece. "Funny thing about blood wards drawn with my particular vintage. They don't just block teleportation. They fuck with all dimensional anchoring in the area. Your circles, your escape routes, your contingencies - all of them are basically expensive floor decorations now."

The look on his face. Fucking priceless. Five hundred years of being the smartest asshole in the room, and a 'twelve-year-old' just out-maneuvered you.

Real fear flickered across the death mancer's stolen features. Without his escape routes, he was just another mage in close quarters with people who had significant reasons to want him dead.

"You can't be doing this," he muttered, backing away as Avian advanced. "A child can't know blood ward construction. The power requirements, the theoretical framework—"

"Really hung up on what children can and can't do, aren't you?" Avian tossed Fargrim up, caught it in a reverse grip. "Maybe update your assumptions."

Lux chose that moment to make her entrance, having circled the warehouse's perimeter like the predator she was. Lightning struck where the death mancer had been standing, forcing him to throw himself sideways with a yelp that was definitely not dignified.

"Spirit wolf!" Despite everything, academic interest flared in his eyes. "Pre-binding manifestation! But the energy requirements—"

"She's very motivated," Avian said dryly.

The construct gave one final shudder and collapsed properly this time. Seven bodies separated, no longer fused by necromantic will. One by one, as Leontis played his mother's lullaby, they faded. Not the violent dissolution of destroyed undead, but something gentler. Like going to sleep after too long awake.

"Rest now," Leontis whispered as his mother's form finally grew still. "Rest and dream of better things."

"My research!" The death mancer's scream was pure anguish. "Do you have any idea what you've just destroyed? The theoretical advances alone—"

Fargrim took his right hand off at the wrist, staff and all. The scream that followed was refreshingly human.

"Whoops," Avian said with false concern. "Slipped. Hard to control a demonic blade when you're annoyed."

The death mancer clutched his severed wrist, young features twisted in agony. "You... you barbarian! You absolute—"

"Kai, you alive over there?"

"Define alive," came the pained response. "Everything hurts but I'm breathing."

"Good enough. You and Leontis check the rest of the warehouse. Document everything - notes, artifacts, bodies. I need to have a private chat with our friend here."

Leontis looked up from where he knelt by his mother's fading form. "I want—"

"You'll get your turn," Avian promised. "But I need information first. Then he's all yours."

And I need to find out what he knows without two witnesses who might ask uncomfortable questions about how I know what to ask.

Kai helped Leontis to his feet, understanding the subtext. They moved deeper into the warehouse, leaving Avian alone with the crippled death mancer.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" Avian crouched down, studying the man's pain with clinical interest. "Young bodies feel everything so much more vividly. Probably seemed like a good idea at the time - youth, vitality, all that. Bet you're regretting it now."

"I have... I have patrons," the death mancer gasped. "Powerful ones. They'll—"

"The Black Mage Association?" Avian watched the man's eyes widen. "Yeah, I know about them. Here's what's going to happen. You're going to tell me everything - members, locations, goals, the works. In exchange, I don't let Leontis get creative with your remaining hand."

"You can't... I won't..."

"Let me make this clearer." Avian pressed Fargrim's point against the man's remaining wrist. "I've had a very long day. I've discovered my soldiers were tortured for five centuries. I've watched you use a mother's love as a weapon. My patience for games is exactly zero. Start talking or start screaming. Your choice."

The death mancer's resolve crumbled faster than week-old bread. "The Association... we're researchers. Scholars! We push the boundaries of—"

"Skip the recruitment pitch. How many members?"

"Forty? Fifty? We don't all know each other. The Elder keeps us compartmentalized."

Smart. Also concerning. Fifty death mancers running around with who knows what projects.

"This Elder. Tell me about them."

"Nobody's ever seen them directly. But they're old. Really old. They say..." He swallowed hard. "They say the Elder was there. At the Demon War. That they have artifacts from that time."

"What kind of artifacts?"

"Everything! Weapons, armor, bones, preserved specimens..." The death mancer's eyes gleamed with the fervor of a true believer despite his pain. "They say the Elder has the crown jewel of all specimens. The Demon King's original body, perfectly preserved!"

They have my corpse. They have my fucking corpse. What kind of sick bastard keeps a body for five hundred years?

Avian kept his expression neutral through sheer force of will. "And you've seen this body?"

"No one has except the Elder. But we all know it exists. Sometimes they share tissue samples for research. The cellular structure is incredible! Even after five centuries, it shows signs of—"

"Who funds this operation?"

"Merchants, mostly. Nobles who want life extension. Rich collectors obsessed with the Demon War." He winced as blood continued seeping from his stump. "There's one in particular. Goldus Merchantius. He throws money at anything involving pre-Empire artifacts."

That fucking merchant. Of course he's involved. Can't just be a greedy asshole, has to be a greedy asshole funding necromantic terrorism.

"Where does the Association meet?"

"We don't! Everything's done through dead drops, encoded messages. The Elder's paranoid about gatherings ever since the Church burned the Saltwood Enclave."

"How do you get assignments?"

"Coded letters. Different drop points each time. Mine was behind the Weeping Angel statue in Greenvale Cemetery."

Avian filed that information away. "The souls from the cemetery. My soldiers. Did any escape your collection?"

"Those were yours?" Despite everything, academic fascination crept into his voice. "The resonance patterns were incredible! The way they maintained cohesion despite centuries of—"

Fargrim pressed harder against his remaining wrist.

"Gone!" he yelped. "All freed! Five centuries of careful curation wasted! Do you have any idea how much work went into maintaining those bindings?"

"Good." Avian stood. "That's everything I needed."

"Wait, you said—"

"I said I wouldn't let Leontis get creative with your remaining hand." Avian raised his voice. "Leontis! He's all yours. Try to keep the screaming under an hour. We don't want to attract the city watch."

"What? No! You can't—"

Leontis emerged from the shadows like vengeance given theatrical form. His usual bright smile had been replaced by something altogether darker. In his hand, he held not his lute but a very sharp, very personal dagger.

"Hello, Wilhelm," he said softly. "Remember me? Little Leo from Sweetwater Village? You took my mother, my sisters, made me watch as you 'improved' them. Time to discuss your technique."

The death mancer - Wilhelm apparently - tried to scramble backward. "You can't do this! I have rights! The Association will—"

"The Association will find your body parts scattered across three districts," Leontis said conversationally. "If they find them at all. I've had years to plan this. Years to imagine every single thing I want to do to you."

"Kai and I will check the perimeter," Avian said, already walking away. "Make sure no one interrupts. Take your time."

"Avian!" Wilhelm screamed. "You can't leave me with him! I told you everything!"

"You tortured his family and used his mother's corpse as a weapon. What exactly did you think would happen?"

The first scream echoed through the warehouse as Avian closed the door behind him. He found Kai sorting through papers in what looked like a makeshift office, face pale but determined.

"Find anything useful?"

"Encoded notes, mostly. Some kind of cipher I don't recognize." Kai held up a leather journal. "But there's a ledger. Payment records. Our friend Goldus shows up a lot."

"Pack it all. We'll go through it properly later." Another scream, higher pitched. "Leontis is working through some issues."

"So I hear." Kai winced at a particularly creative sound. "Think he'll actually kill him?"

"Eventually. But not quickly." Avian started gathering anything that looked important. "The death mancer tortured his family, kept his mother's soul in that thing for over a decade. This is justice, just the messy kind."

"And the stuff about the Black Mage Association?"

"Problem for tomorrow. Tonight, we deal with one sadistic fuck at a time."

They worked in companionable silence, broken only by Wilhelm's increasingly desperate sounds. After about twenty minutes, those stopped entirely. Five minutes later, Leontis emerged, clothes splattered but expression peaceful.

"It's done," he said simply.

"Feel better?" Avian asked.

"No. But I feel... finished. If that makes sense." He looked down at his bloodied hands. "The protagonist got his revenge. Now I need to figure out what comes next."

"Bath, probably," Kai suggested. "You look like you murdered someone. Which, you know, accurate."

"The city watch will find a death mancer's workshop and a corpse that nobody will miss," Avian said. "Anonymous tip about strange lights and sounds. They'll chalk it up to necromancers being necromancers."

"And the Black Mage Association?"

"Will know someone's hunting them now." Avian smiled, and it wasn't a nice expression. "Good. Let them worry. Let them wonder who knows their secrets."

Fifty death mancers. An Elder with my corpse. Goldus funding it all. The game just got bigger, but at least now I know some of the players.

They left through the same door they'd entered, three Bronze-rank adventurers who'd completed another contract. The warehouse burned behind them - Lux had been enthusiastic about cleanup - taking Wilhelm's research with it.

But the information remained. Names, connections, a shape of something larger.

Avian touched the blood ward one last time before they left, feeling it dissolve at his will. The old magic sank back into the stone, waiting to be called again.

First the merchant. Then the Association. Then this Elder who's been playing with my corpse.