by Greg Laurel
The reaction from other species had been concern far more than malice. Even many other Humans agreed that there was something going on, something fundamentally altering the behavior of the species. Miles had his suspicions that the Dark Six were involved, but their telltale energy was not present on any Human, let alone the affected ones, whether good or bad.
“It is also possible that natural selection is finally doing its job,” Miles said to himself after finishing the soup he had been eating in the darkness. He remained at the table, trying to decide what was next. It was still odd to be able to just do something he wanted to. It likely would never stop being odd that he had a whole universe of whatever he chose to do. Opting to train in the Holographic Arena some, he looked at the cutlass that he had become very familiar with. Novasteel, the metal was called. Apparently, when a star went supernova, there was a point between the explosion itself and the formation of a Neutron Star where the material was manipulable. The metal produced would have the sheer durability of a Neutron Star’s material, but without the incredible density that would likely have his sword weigh as much as an average moon. Hunderfold simply referred to the number of times the metal had been folded. Exactly one hundred, and this made it capable of permanently killing Demons. No one was sure why this was the number, let alone why any more would negate this effect. But it worked, and that’s what mattered.
But while this blade was impressive, it lacked a certain… flair, as it were. But flair may not have been the right word for it. It didn’t really fit him. The metal looked like a rainbow puked on it, with that gasoline-like texture a metal can get after too intense an acid wash that tried and failed to bring out some color. It was nice at first, but it was getting old to look at. The hilt’s handle itself didn’t really scream his style, either. A sort of light polymer that while it worked and worked well, there had to be something better. The thing was translucent, and something about that just made him inherently uncomfortable. Probably the fact it looked like a plastic handle. The tools in his workshop certainly could help with a makeover for this thing. After 3D-scanning the cutlass into the Phase-Forge’s software, he toyed a bit with what he could do to improve it. To start, he looked at the hilt assembly. The Phase-Forge could remove the polymer handle around the tang, and replace it with a durable wood of some kind. After several hours more than what would normally be healthy, Miles had finally chosen to use a species called Belariq Ironwood, apparently highly valued in small-scale woodworking such as pens, keepsake boxes, and hilts. The wood was incredibly tough, but useless in construction due to making for very brittle construction material. But it was perfect for pen blanks and the like.
With that settled, something had to be done about the blade itself. This took a lot less time to figure out, as it was possible for the Phase-Forge to electroplate the sword with Carbon, which would render it jet-black in coloration, and no loss of durability. But speaking of durability, Miles learned of an interesting compound called Red Dust, typically used in projectile weapons. It was an enhancement compound that was used in place of gunpowder for kinetic projectile launchers (or “traditional firearms”, if you prefer) and worked better as an accelerant. In laser weapons, lacing the refractor prisms with Red Dust would amplify the beam’s power. Plasma would burn hotter, and energy weapons would get a bit more kick. But could Red Dust be used to enhance a sword?
Searching the Galus-Net, there were mixed accounts. Some said it was possible, others denied it entirely. But the closest thing to what Miles sought was a theory on creating a variant of Red Dust that could be bound into the metal of a sword as a sort of ‘ultimate sword oil,’ which would allow the blade to retain its edge for eons, and even protect it from rust for as long. The theory was promisingly solid, and it looked like the only thing it was missing was actually just a way to bind it to the metal. A way like a Phase-Forge, which a personal-use version hadn’t been created yet. It seemed a little too convenient, but within a few days, Miles had his Red Dust for the sword.
The final personal touch was to laser-etch some runes into the sword as the final step, and use the remaining Red Dust as a paint of sorts to make the Elder Futhark glow. Berkanan, Othila, Raido, Fehu upon both sides of the forte, just before the bell. With everything punched into the Phase-Forge and ready to go, the cutlass soon finally had its visual update, one might say. The edge itself glowed with the solid red of the runes on the forte. Not a bright or deep red, but a solid red indeed.
There it was, the Borfblade, as Miles addressed it. This was definitely a weapon he could be proud to have associated with him. Not a cowardly gun, not a ridiculously-designed impractical sword. But this. Maybe there’d be more to it in time, if he could think of it. But right now, this was his sword. As much as he had firearms, namely the AZP-621 pistol and the Collapse Rifle, he’d definitely choose this first. Those weapons would probably only come in battles with galaxies and more at stake. That aside, the Borfblade was the weapon he could be proud of.
While he consulted the makeover of his sword, Jaden made her own findings known to Miles. Apparently the human genome acted almost perfectly as a baseplate for many other life forms, including Demons. Even though she already had rewritten a willing Demon’s consciousness, the dark power half-woven into the human DNA sequence showed primordial links to Demonic genomes beyond consciousness itself. A solid idea for sure, but Miles insisted that only the consciousness of willing Demons be turned Laksorian, as Jaden made it clear that the template of her native species was the easiest to turn another creature into. There just didn’t be wanted the risk of a Demon overriding the process, and turning the whole plan into splinters of what was once a good idea.
Jaden continued her research, and Miles continued his overall quest to better understand himself, albeit interrupted by near entire days worth of pondering. But one could easily call that part of Miles’s goal, especially if you were the kind of person who could make a high school English teacher shudder at your overanalysis of symbolism.
Eventually, Jaden contacted Miles directly.
“If you’ve got a moment, Radien, you might be interested in what I’m sending your way right now.”
With nothing better to do, let alone much at all, Miles was more than willing to hear her out.
“I assume you aren’t familiar with the mythical text known as the Manifest of Apocalypse, so along with the information pertinent, I’ve attached a brief summary of what you need to know about it.”
Even with the amount of time Miles had spent traveling, he hadn’t heard of the Manifest of Apocalypse. But after a few hours study, he learned exactly why Jaden was quick to tell him. The Manifest of Apocalypse was supposedly written several billion years ago by a person named Xatrial Isenhart, who held the title known as Universal Defender, itself an honorific given to beings who alongside dealing with and fighting the most dangerous existential threats to the universe, tend to sort out fair play across the cosmos as well. Xatrial, however, was the one among these Defenders who few remember. A consequence of being the defender of a relatively peaceful universe. Even so, Xatrial was plagued by visions of doom that he would not be around to see, let alone stop. Thus, he had written the Manifest of Apocalypse before his death that no one actually knows the details of.
The book itself contained Xatrial’s many theorized ways that all time and space could end, as well as how to stop them. At least, that’s what the legend said. The information pertinent to the now was the idea that the Manifest of Apocalypse had been found. At least, quite possibly.
Miles piloted his ship to a solar system containing three worlds known as the Strife Planets: Zharekk, Kalivan Tor, and Raon-Arashal. The Manifest allegedly rested within a great bastion on Zharekk called Soulshatter Keep. The local Vulpians of the Death World variety (that were technically known as the Zharekai Vulpians, but were physically and ideologically similar to Death Worlders of Raon-Arashal) had built an outpost village not far from Soulshatter Keep. Miles met with one of the local
guidesmen, by the name of Moldrenor.
“Miles Radien, I came on the trail of a message from Jaden of Laksor!” Miles introduced himself, his voice able enough to cut through the howling winds.
“Good to meet you, Miles!” Moldrenor greeted. “This outpost is still rather under construction, but we’re not really counting on it to become a settlement! Hence our lack of a weather shield!”
Both men had to raise their voices considerably to make themselves clear. While not outright gales, the wind was strong indeed. The two walked towards the outer walls of the outpost overlooking the walls of Soulshatter Keep.
“How do we know that this is the resting place of the Manifest of Apocalypse?” Miles asked. “My contact’s information seemed unsure of even itself!”
“Right now, it’s mostly because of just how devious these traps are in that castle!” Moldrenor explained. “The architecture and age is also from the correct Era and species, and if there’s anywhere a guy like Xatrial would’ve left a book like the Manifest, it would be here!”
“Traps?” Miles inquired.
“Aye! The fort’s crawling with ‘em! Scan-Pulses can hardly count just how many mines are in front of the place, let alone how to disable them!”
“Well, it sounds like you just need someone who can get in and get out, avoiding the traps instead of asking the stars for a nice and clean yellow brick road!”
Moldrenor stopped for a moment, trying to figure out the metaphor. But Miles pressed forth, soon at the vista that allowed him to behold Soulshatter Keep. A massive stone castle of silvery grey, and it just felt dense. Like the roads of a highway town, driven across over decades without a single accident, and all the cars and bikes and footsteps made it seem even more solid than when it was first poured into place and set. It wasn’t even an extravagant-looking castle, either. Large, to be sure. But to call the place a Keep seemed a misnomer. More like… above-ground bunker. Just this giant rectangular prism of stone, with clearly much more priority given to what was to be held within than any outward appearance.
Miles’s initial attempt to use The Aura’s sight was met with a screeching sort of feedback, there was just too much information for him to process anything useful out of it.
“Damn, that wasn’t a trait of Xatrial, was it?” Miles asked as Moldrenor caught up with him.
Moldrenor shrugged. “Not sure. If there was ever a forgotten Defender, it was Xatrial Isenhart.”
“It shows.”
“Look, given enough time, we can figure out what’s where, how to disable it correctly, and do it. No one has to risk a bone in their body.”
“My patience is of a very specific kind,” Miles replied as he did a few limbering-up kicks, which were mostly just swinging his entire leg up and down in different ways to stretch the muscles a little. “This is not one of those kinds.”
Carefully making his way down the overlook hill, Miles kept The Aura’s sight in a state of revealing anything trap-like within fifteen meters of him, and getting past the minefield in front of Soulshatter Keep-But-More-Like-Bunker-Honestly became simply a matter of stepping just between their trigger radiuses. The path he was taking had an oddly deliberate feel, clearly Xatrial designed the fields to be navigated by the memory of someone who planted all these devices. To the long-deceased Defender’s credit, cosmic powers and technology in the universe wouldn’t have been able to detect the mines buried here like Miles was able to now.
Meanwhile at the camp, Moldrenor watched from afar with some binoculars.
“Well, it’s working,” Moldrenor commented.
“So would doing this safely, eventually,” a Kanikai from the camp muttered. Not disdainfully, just doubting the necessity of what Miles was doing.
“I get the feeling a guy like him prefers to be actively involved.”
A moment passed in awkward silence.
“Okay, that was the wrong way to say it, but I don’t have a solid wording yet. Gimme a break,” Moldrenor tentatively corrected himself.
Soon enough, Miles was inside the Keep-Technically-Bunker-But-Who’s-Actually-Keeping-Score, making his way through the halls, strangely devoid of traps. One could suppose this is where it was more earning the name of a fortress or castle. The interior of Soulshatter Keep wasn’t loomingly spacious, but comfortably so. An equilibrium between a vast openness that one could appreciate, without crossing the line to flat-out intimidating or foreboding. A hermit’s dream, this place was. Miles even considered asking Moldrenor how he might just make this fort his own, despite his already existent home on Cynofrax. The house on Cynofrax was a home, no doubt, but Soulshatter Keep was the kind of place you’d have at the end of an adventure game, where all the trophies and medals of your achievements and exploits were displayed, and where the most powerful weapons you acquired in your journey sat upon racks in a dedicated armory, where you would reminisce of how you acquired them, and the times you used them. Where you’d keep your library, of the many books you read, wrote, and learned from. Miles couldn’t think of the word to describe it, but Soulshatter Keep was definitely it.
But that would have to come later, if at all. Speaking of libraries, Miles needed to find the Manifest of Apocalypse, and that was likely the best place to start. And yes, Soulshatter Keep did possess a library that Miles was able to find handily enough.
While there were many eye-catching and curiosity-arousing titles present, such books as “They Called Him Doom”, “The Madman of Terevetz”, and “Chosen in Name”, the volume Miles sought wasn’t present. Out of curiosity, though, Miles grabbed the volume “They Called Him Doom”. But when he opened the book, it was empty. This thing had to be over a thousand pages long, but there was nothing written in it. Flipping through to confirm this, Miles did find a single line of text somewhere around page six hundred.
He was doom.
“I really don’t know what I expected,” Miles commented, returning the tome to its place on the shelf. Then he realized something.
“If Xatrial wrote the Manifest himself, he wouldn’t have kept it in his library. The library’s where you keep the ideas that weren’t yours to start,” Miles realized, heading into what he sure hoped was the study. As much as it would only make sense for the adjoining room to be a study, it might not have been the same standard for the Loriken that Xatrial was.
Sure enough, it was a study. It was oddly immaculate and well-organized for a being who’s one solid reputation was the visions of doom he’d be unable to help fight. Maybe he handled it better than one might expect. Miles opened the drawer in the desk itself, and beheld an ancient tome, still laced with power to stop it from decaying. Even though it didn’t look older than a decade, it sure felt like its age.
On the End of All Things: A Manifest of the Apocalypse I am doomed to not fight
This was Xatrial’s musings, all right. Miles opened the book carefully, purely out of curiosity. The first page looked like it was written after all the other ones, for some reason.
When I first began writing in this journal, I intentionally left this first page blank, that when all others are filled, I may return to this one and tell of my cruel understanding, that whoever reads this might better comprehend what they are about to read. I am Xatrial Isenhart, Loriken. I bear the title of Universal Defender, like four others before me. But unlike these men and women, I live in a time of calmness for the universe. My predecessor ended the Demon War, and secured many artifacts too powerful to be present in the universe at large, locking them away in the vault I now guard as his successor. My contributions, while not none, are likely fewer than any other who will bear this title will be. But that has not stopped my nightmares. Visions of doom that plague me constantly, and taunt me mercilessly with my knowledge that I will be long gone from the worlds before they have the chance to manifest themselves.
This has not stopped me from preparing, though. This is my Manifest of Apocalypse. Every nightmare I have had, and how to defeat it when I am not around to do it
myself. There are so many ways that the stars themselves can burn, that the worlds can be turned to ash. I did not have all of them dancing in my head cruelly, but I did have many. I hope that these… ravings, as they may seem, will one day be what I contribute to the safety of all worlds, and the peoples upon them.
I will not despair that ‘glory was stolen from me’. It is folly. I suppose someone needed to be the one with all the time to plan, but never the chance to act. If all this planning, then, leads to the act of someone, maybe a future Defender saving all reality… That will be my victory.
—Xatrial Isenhart, Loriken of Sharaeine
That would explain why the first page seemed like it was written last. It was. Clever idea, Miles admitted to himself before taking the book to an exit hatch.
The tunnel the hatch led to put him on the other side of the valley from the camp, and when Miles exited, the tunnel appeared to fill itself in with dirt and sand. Not even collapse, just fill itself. Illusion or not, it was likely easier to have done what he just did, even if this route was known of. Either way, he had Xatrial’s Manifest, and just needed to head back to Moldrenor’s camp.
