Location: Nektar’s Cauldron
Timeline: Sixth Age, 53rd Year, Spring
My hangover was, at last, receding, replaced by a cold sobriety. I dragged myself off the floor of the Gallery of Unholy Death, brushing the dust off my robes. The “feels,” as the mortals might call them—that messy, sweltering stew of self-pity and existential dread—had evaporated. I was done moping. I was done drinking ‘Vintner’s Regret’ and listening to the rhythmic weeping of my walls.
I had a universe to dismantle, and I was falling behind schedule.
“Enough,” I barked, my voice echoing through the three-hundred-foot vault of the throne room. I didn’t look at the fainted Derk goblins or the huddled Amorosi slaves. I had more pressing matters than the HR nightmare of my domestic staff.
I strode purposefully toward the rear of the Gallery, my boots clicking against the bone-inlaid floor with a sharp, military precision that signaled the end of my mourning period. I wasn’t heading for the comforting oblivion of the wine cellars or the soft sanctuary of my bedchambers this time. No, the God of Death was returning to his workshop. I was descending into the Life Labs.
To reach them, I had to pass through the Chamber of Sighs, a yawning vertical shaft that cut like a jagged needle deep into the cooling, prehistoric roots of the volcano. I stepped onto the levitation plate I’d installed recently—a massive, polished disc of solid obsidian held aloft by a proprietary blend of magnetic magic and raw, concentrated spite that I’d been testing out.
Sure, there was a technical risk the spell might flicker and I’d be dropped tens of thousands of feet into the roiling lava pits below. And yes, if I’m being entirely honest, that might have happened once or thrice to a few of my less-coordinated slaves while I was still working out the kinks in the gravitational coefficients. But it hadn’t happened to me yet. And even if the platform decided to take a spontaneous dive, what did I truly have to worry about? In the worst-case scenario, I’d enjoy a hell of a thrill ride on the way down, and the only lasting consequence would be my current physical vessel being burnt to a fragrant crisp. That’s the beauty of being a god—creating a new physical form is about as difficult as a mortal changing their socks.
I stepped onto the lift without a flicker of worry, and the descent went off without a hitch. As the platform hissed downward, the temperature began a strange, atmospheric dance. The humid heat of the upper palace died away, replaced by the dry heat of the deep lava pits.
I looked down into the abyss as I descended. The lowest levels—the ones that reached all the way down to the Doorway of Destiny and the Stairway of Infinity, those shimmering, terrible gateways to the underworld of Illusia—were still a vast distance below where I planned to disembark. Yet, even at this height, their specific “stink” wafted upward—Baal’s sulphurous odor, Lilith’s cloying perfumes, and eternal burning of countless tortured souls. Not to mention the sweaty musk of all the demons – ah, gag me with a spoon! Thankfully, the stinging aroma of the acids, formaldehyde, and various other volatile chemicals I used in my biological experiments acted as a functional olfactory shield, masking the unpleasant gases rising from the pits.
I reached the level of the labs and stepped off the plate, the obsidian humming a final, satisfied note as it locked into place.
“Score another win, for me.” I smiled as another experiment was a testament to my vast intellect.
Here, in the blue-tinted shadows of the deep mountain, my next great hope was waiting for the spark of life.
But just as quickly my mood grew more serious. “I knew I could not trust Ramssee. I knew it from the start. That silk-wearing scoundrel has likely had my precious dagger for quite some time. He’s probably sitting on a velvet cushion right now, practicing his ’emperor’ face and wondering if he can use the Grim to prune my skeleton.”
The injustice of it stung. “How could he dare turn on me? His creator? The one who gave him those charming green-and-gold eyes and that delightful capacity for deception?”
I sighed, hand on my heart as I admitted, “Because I would likely do the same thing were I in his position. Reliability is such a boring trait in a predator.”
It was time to move on. I was stepping into the sanctum of my most forbidden biological tinkerings—the deep-level corridors where the air itself felt heavy with the weight of unnatural creation. The hallways here weren’t just transit ways; they were a living gallery of the almost-was and the never-should-be.
Flanking the path were my Life Pods, a rhythmic succession of translucent, amber-filled cylinders that cast a sickly, jaundiced glow against the basalt walls. Within these pressurized tubes, my various “drafts” sat in perpetual, suspended stasis, drifting in a nutrient-rich slurry that kept their flawed hearts beating at a glacial pace.
I couldn’t help but chuckle as I passed them, my boots echoing with a hollow thud-thud that seemed to startle the inhabitants of the glass. There was a Chimera with three too many heads, all of them currently tangled in a frustrated, sleeping knot. Beside it, a row of Harpies sat with wings folded tight, their faces frozen in expressions of profound existential crisis—the result of a neural-mapping experiment where I’d accidentally granted them a conscience. And then, my personal favorite: a very confused-looking Centaur that I’d inadvertently gifted with the webbed, orange legs of a giant duck.
“Magnificent failures,” I whispered, tapping a long fingernail against the glass of the duck-centaur. Honestly, I’d probably never return to these drafts, but I wasn’t quite ready to pull the proverbial plug and flush them into the lava pits just yet.
Ignoring the pods and the first eight labs—each a dedicated theater of a different obsession—I marched toward the end of the hall. The previous labs were a chaotic mix of themes: Lab #4 was a gleaming, sterile hospital suite; Lab #6 was a cluttered den of old-world alchemy, smelling of bat guano and sulfur; you’ll recall the ‘work’ I did on poor Captain Gor in Lab #7, and Lab #8 was a gothic nightmare of lightning-conductors and oversized galvanization coils that would have made future Dr. Frankenstein’s feel right at home.
But I was here for Life Lab #9.
The heavy lead-lined doors groaned on their massive hinges, revealing a masterpiece of clinical cruelty. Unlike the cluttered chaos of the other rooms, Lab #9 was a temple of “cold storage.” The temperature here was kept at a biting, sub-zero constant, ensured by the proximity of a mountain-vein of blue-ice. Every single surface—the walls, the vaulted ceiling, the various brass instruments—was coated in a thin, shimmering layer of rime ice that sparkled like a million tiny diamonds in the emerald magi-light.
In the dead center of the room stood a lone, surgical table fashioned from blue-tempered steel, its surface radiating a lbiting chill. And upon it lay the body of a humanoid.
He was fully formed, a physical specimen of terrifying perfection. Every muscle was sculpted with the precision of a master mason; every vein was perfectly mapped beneath skin the color of a blood moon. He was utterly motionless, his chest a frozen plateau, his crimson-slitted eyes shut tight in a sleep that had lasted more than a year.
I approached the table, my breath blooming in the sub-zero air like a ghost. I smiled. This was my insurance policy. This was Xerxys.
“Ah, my silent masterpiece,” I whispered, my bony fingers hovering over his pale, unmoving chest. “Are you ready to serve a master who actually knows how to appreciate talent?”
I had begun to create Xerxys the moment the first tremors of Ramssee’s betrayal began to itch at the back of my mind like a persistent parasite. I truly hadn’t wanted to start over—the paperwork I required for my genomic records is tedious beyond belief — but I had learned long ago that in the business of godhood, one must always be prepared with backup plans for one’s backup plans.
Xerxys was a Viperz, yes—sharing that same base of treacherous, cold-blooded DNA that defined Ramssee—but he was a refined model. An elite upgrade. Let us call him Viperz 2.0: The Eradicator Edition.
Where Ramssee was a mere spy gifted with the magic of The Power of Persuasion, Xerxys was all that and more. I had spent months agonizing over the new genomic sequences, weaving into his helix the predatory instincts of a prehistoric krait and the raw, tactical brilliance of a field marshal. His shapeshifting was no longer a sluggish affair; he could transition from man to serpent in a fluid, terrifying blur of kinetic energy, mid-lunge if necessary. I’d even reinforced his skeletal structure with a trace of Rhokkium-infused marrow, making his humanoid form a powerhouse of unnatural durability.
But the real “chef’s kiss” was the biological surprise I’d engineered into his throat. I’d spent weeks tweaking the venom sacs, reinforcing the pressurized muscular walls to allow this model a genomic “twist”: Xerxys could projectile-spit his paralytic neurotoxin while in his serpentine form. A liquid strike across a room that could turn a victim’s central nervous system into useless jelly before he even saw the scales.
And yet, despite having completed this masterpiece a while back, I had kept him here “on ice,” quite literally. I had hovered over that frozen steel table for months, hoping beyond hope that either Ramssee or Kaoz would prove my cynicism wrong. I wanted to be wrong! I wanted to brag to the other gods about my “reliable” employees! But my recent, disastrous visit to the palace at Fubar had confirmed my most vitriolic fears.
Ramssee was too busy playing King in a house of cards, and Kaoz was already dancing to the tune of a rival deity’s flute. Neither of them was playing for me.
“The experiment is officially over,” I snarled, the frost on the floor cracking beneath my skeletal feet. “Ramssee and Kaoz are destined for the scrap heap. It’s time to bring in the professional.”
I leaned over the inert form of Xerxys, my shadow stretching across his perfectly sculpted chest like a funeral shroud. The emerald-amber light of the lab caught the deep, dormant crimson of his eyes—slits of frozen fire waiting for a spark.
“Time to wake up, child,” I whispered, my voice dropping into the Deep Tongue, a language that predated the first sunrise of your world.
I placed my left hand firmly upon his skullcap. The bone was more than cold; it was an absolute zero that threatened to fuse my skin to his prehistoric marrow – it was exhilarating. I hovered my right hand over the still silent cavity of his heart. I closed my eyes, magically reaching down, down through the obsidian and basalt, tapping into the humming heartbeat of The Cauldron. I could feel the magma churning beneath us, a terrestrial furnace fueled by Gaia’s essence.
I began to chant. It was a low, guttural sound that started in my diaphragm and rattled the surgical tools on the nearby trays. The rime ice on the walls began to dance, swirling in intricate patterns as the laws of physics took a backseat to my whim.
This wasn’t the flashy, golden nonsense of the Illyrian light-brigade. There were no trumpets, no shimmering halos, and certainly no choir of over-privileged angels. This was dark, heavy, and delicious—the kind of magic that left a taste of copper and graveyard dirt on the tongue. It was sinister, it was ancient, and frankly, it was a lot more fun than anything Michael the Mighty could conjure in his most sanctimonious dreams.
I reached into the swirling well of Xerxys’ essence and pulled.
Since he didn’t know life yet, I felt the vacuum of the void itself clawing back, fighting me for the spark of life I was forcing into this meat-vessel. It was a cosmic tug-of-war but I was used to it. The bones of my current form began to splinter, my spine popping like a string of firecrackers in the silence of the room, and I felt the raw power of Illusia coursing through my veins. With a snarl, I made a harsh, violent, backwards pulling motion with my fingers, as if yanking on the silver strings of a recalcitrant marionette. I felt the snap of the the void’s barrier and that’s when I slammed my hands downward with the force of a falling moon.
“LIVE!” I roared, the sound shattering the glass beakers in the far corner of the lab.
I leaned down, pressing my face near his, and blew a sharp, concentrated gust of my unused hellfire—pure, unadulterated creative destruction—directly into Xerxys’s open mouth.
For one agonizing heartbeat, the world stopped. The hum of the mountain died. The frost froze mid-air.
And…nothing happened.
I felt a pang of that familiar, manic-depressive dread. Oh, great. Another duck-centaur. I’ve killed him before he even started.
Then, the blue-tempered steel table buckled. It didn’t just creak; the heavy metal groaned and warped under a sudden, violent spasm that sent a shockwave through the floor. Xerxys’s chest heaved upward—a ragged, desperate, gasping inhalation that sounded like a drowning man breaking the surface of a frozen lake. He sucked in the freezing, chemical-laden air of the lab into lungs that had never known the indignity of breath.
And then his eyes snapped open.
There was no transition, no groggy awakening. One moment they were stones; the next, they were twin suns of piercing, predatory crimson. They didn’t have the swirling, manipulative green-gold of Ramssee’s “Persuasion.” These were the eyes of an apex predator that had been dreaming of the kill for an eternity. They lacked mercy. They lacked doubt. They lacked everything except intent.
He sat up with a serpentine grace that made my bones crawl with pride. He didn’t shiver from the sub-zero cold. He didn’t blink against the emerald glare. He simply turned that terrifying, crimson gaze toward me with the chilling clarity of a newborn shark sensing blood in the water.
“Master,” he hissed, the word sliding out of his throat like a blade from a sheath.
I straightened my robes, a manic, triumphant grin spreading across my face with the thrill of another successful necro-botany. “Welcome to the world, Xerxys. Do you understand your mission in life?”
Xerxys offered a slow sneer, his beautiful white fangs catching the emerald light of the lab. “Yes, Master. I am to do but two things.”
“Which are?”
His voice was a raspy slither. “Kill the defective viperz named Ramssee. Dismantle the witless beast called Kaoz.”
“And?” I encouraged, leaning in.
“Bring you the Grim. Without delay. Without excuse.”
“Excellent. Excellent!” I cackled, rubbing my hands together with a glee that probably looked a bit unhinged. I felt like a new god! The depression was gone! The wine-headache was a distant memory!
But then, I remembered the failure of my last “children,” and my mood flipped back to a cold snarl. I lunged forward, grabbing Xerxys by the throat with a strength that made his windpipe creak.
“But do not let my joy deceive you, child,” I hissed into his crimson eyes. “If you fail me… if you so much as hesitate to complete your quest… I will not merely kill you. I will dismantle you atom by atom while you are still conscious.”
I tightened my grip, my face inches from his. “I will search the entire Flat Earth for you. I will keep you alive in my labs for a thousand years, finding new and creative ways to make your nerves scream. And when I am finally bored of your agony? I will take you back with me to the void of Illusia. I will let Baal himself EAT your soul for all eternity. He is a very slow eater, Xerxys. He enjoys the texture of despair. Do you understand me?!” I screamed, the sound echoing off the lead-lined walls.
Xerxys didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Between my divine grip and the sheer, overwhelming brutality of my presence, his newly awakened consciousness flickered and failed. He slumped back onto the steel table, unconscious once more.
I let go of his throat, smoothing my robes and taking a deep, stabilizing breath. I felt much better. There’s nothing like a good threat of eternal damnation to clear the sinuses.
“I’ve made my point,” I muttered, looking down at the inert form of my new assassin. “He’ll be a good boy. And…he has my eyes. That’s so cute.”
I turned toward the exit, aiming for the levitation plate waiting for me in the hall.
“Once he revives, send him to Fubar,” I commanded the shadow-servants lurking in the hallway. “No second chances for this one. No more hopes for the ‘partners.’ The age of the snake has begun.”
I stepped onto the plate and began the long ascent back to my Gallery. I had a map to study. I had a throne to sit upon. And soon, very soon, I would have a black dagger to hold.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 