Chapter 3 - 0: Who Am I?
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Scrape! Scrape! Scrape!
The man did not wake up to pain this time.
He woke up to motion.
His body slid across stone like an old sack of grain, heavy, limp, and disrespected. His boots bumped uneven ground. The soles caught on cracks. Every few seconds his coat snagged on something sharp and tore a little more, as if even the fabric wanted to quit.
Drag! Drag! Drag!
Chains clinked in the distance, but not his chains. His wrists were no longer stretched above him. He was free of that hanging torment, yet his freedom was the kind a corpse got when it was moved.
His mind floated in and out.
There was the smell of smoke.
There was the smell of damp stone.
There was the smell of orc, which was like wet leather, old stew, and arrogance mixed together in a pot nobody had washed.
Thud
His shoulder hit a corner.
His body rolled slightly, and his cheek pressed against cold floor. A rough pebble scratched his skin. The sensation should have made him fully awake.
It did not.
Whatever strength remained in him was buried under exhaustion. His chaos energy felt like a fire that had been smothered and left only heatless ash. His stomach was an empty pit. His throat was sand. The punch from earlier still burned under his ribs like a glowing coal.
The world shifted again.
His body was lifted a little, dragged faster for a moment, then lowered again like someone had decided he was too heavy and not worth proper effort.
Grunt
Two orcs argued above him, but their words were blurred at the edges.
He caught only fragments.
Heavy
Lazy
Not my job
His mind tried to cling to the sound, to understand, but his consciousness kept slipping like wet hands on a smooth wall.
Then the air changed.
It grew warmer.
Torch smoke thickened.
The echo in the corridor widened, turning into something larger than narrow stone hallways.
Footsteps multiplied.
Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!
Many feet. Many bodies. The sound of a crowd. The man’s eyelids twitched.
His brain screamed at his body to wake up, to move, to do anything, because crowds in Null rarely gathered for kindness.
His eyes cracked open.
Light stabbed in again, not as brutal as the first time, but harsh enough to make him wince.
He saw a wide chamber with a high ceiling, carved from black stone and old bones of the earth. Torches lined the walls in iron brackets shaped like claws. Their flames danced and hissed, throwing orange light over green skin and metal spikes.
Fwoosh! Crackle!
Orcs filled the room.
Not two.
Dozens.
They stood in loose ranks, broad-shouldered, armed, and watching with the bored interest of people waiting for entertainment that was scheduled and guaranteed.
Some carried axes. Some carried crude spears. Some had clubs with nails hammered into them. A few wore armor made from stitched hide and plates of dark metal. Their bellies hung heavy over belts, and their tusks glinted whenever they smirked.
At the far end of the chamber sat a throne.
It was not elegant.
It was power pretending it did not need elegance.
The throne was carved from grey stone, wide enough to seat a creature twice the size of a man. Jagged lines ran across its surface like scars. The armrests were shaped like broken pillars. The back rose high like a cliff, and behind it the wall had been etched with symbols that looked like wounds carved into the rock.
And on that throne sat the one who made the room feel small.
The man’s heart gave a slow, careful beat.
Ba - dum,
The orc leader did not look like the others.
He was taller. Much taller.
Even seated, he looked like a tower that had chosen to rest. His shoulders were wider than the doorway the man had been dragged through. His skin was a darker shade of green, almost like deep forest leaves soaked in shadow. Scars ran across his chest and arms like ancient roads. The scars were not random. They formed patterns, as if pain had been carved into him with purpose.
He wore armor, but it was not the crude kind.
It was spiked, heavy, and shaped with cruel craft. Dark plates covered his shoulders and forearms, and a cloak of black fur spilled down his back like a night that refused to end. On his head sat a crown of jagged metal points, uneven and sharp, as if someone had torn pieces of a battlefield and forged them into a symbol of rule.
His tusks were longer than the others’ and curved upward in proud arcs. A thick black beard framed his mouth and jaw, giving him the look of a war god pretending to be mortal. His eyes burned with a deep orange glow that did not come from the torches. It came from him.
The man’s instincts stirred.
Not fear exactly.
Recognition.
This was not a simple orc.
This was a being that had tasted divinity and wanted more.
The man’s head lifted slightly, then dropped. His body was still too weak to hold itself up. He realized he was lying on the floor before the throne like an offering.
A laugh rolled out across the room.
Ha! Ha! Ha!
It was not a friendly laugh.
It was a laugh that said the world had rules, and those rules belonged to the one laughing.
The orc leader leaned forward slightly, resting one thick forearm on the throne’s armrest. The metal creaked under the weight.
Behind the man, the two orcs from before stepped into view.
One still held the red box.
He clutched it like it was a sacred treasure, his thick fingers careful around its edges. The box looked out of place in his hands, like a jewel in a butcher’s palm.
The other orc cracked his knuckles and looked pleased with himself, as if dragging a half-dead human across stone was a heroic accomplishment worthy of a song.
The orc with the box bowed his head toward the throne, though it looked awkward on a body that did not understand humility.
"My lord," he said, voice loud and proud, "we bring the human as you asked."
A murmur rippled through the room.
Orcs shifted. Weapons tapped lightly against the floor. A few grinned like children who had been promised a cruel gift.
The leader’s laughter deepened. His shoulders shook once, like thunder trapped in flesh.
Ha! Ha! Ha!
Then he stood.
The movement drew attention like a blade being unsheathed.
Clank
His armor shifted. His cloak fell into place. The crown caught torchlight and threw it back in sharp points.
When he rose fully, the room felt different. He was taller than the two orcs by a clear head and a half. A giant among giants. He stepped forward once, and the stone floor seemed to accept his foot with a dull tremor.
Thoom!
The orc with the box raised it quickly, remembering his second duty like someone remembering a forgotten chore at the worst time.
"We bring the box too," he announced, as if it was a grand surprise.
The leader’s glowing eyes slid to the red box.
The smile he showed was slow and hungry.
"Good," the leader said.
His voice was calm.
That calmness was more frightening than shouting.
"You did well," he continued. "Now I begin my plan. Now I get what I have wanted."
The man lay there, forcing his mind to remain sharp even while his body betrayed him. He stared at the throne, the symbols, the crowd of orcs, the box, and the leader’s eyes.
"Where am I?
What is this place?
Why does he want me?"
His thoughts ran in circles, tripping over each other because there were too many questions and not enough strength.
The leader’s gaze dropped onto him like a hand.
"Hey," the leader said, almost casually, as if calling a servant. "You puny human. What is your name."
The man blinked.
His lips parted slightly.
But his mind was still caught between waking and survival. His thoughts were loud inside his skull, and the sound of them drowned out the leader’s question for a moment.
He did not answer.
The room waited.
Torches crackled.
𝐟𝗿𝐞𝚎𝚠𝐞𝚋𝕟𝐨𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝕔𝕠𝚖
Crackle! Crackle!
Orcs stared like spectators at an arena.
The leader’s expression did not change, but the air seemed to tighten, as if even the firelight had become careful.
The orc without the box grew impatient.
He stepped forward and kicked the man in the back.
Thud!
Pain flared across the man’s spine and ribs. It was not a killing blow. It was a reminder. A message delivered in boot leather.
"Answer," the orc snapped. "My lord asked you."
The man’s teeth clenched. His hands tried to curl, but his fingers felt stiff, and his arms refused to rise properly. His chest burned when he inhaled.
He swallowed blood.
It tasted like iron and failure.
His mind shouted at him to fight.
His body whispered that fighting now would end with him dying on this stone floor while orcs laughed and argued about who had to clean up the mess.
He forced himself to think clearly.
"I cannot defeat them.
My situation is bad.
I will do what they tell me for now.
When I get the chance, I will run.
These things are savage.
I cannot die a fool’s death."
He lifted his head as much as he could. The motion made his neck ache. His hair fell into his eyes, and he blinked it away.
He looked at the leader.
The leader looked back like a judge who had already decided the verdict.
The man inhaled and spoke, voice rough but steady.
"I am Sekhmet Dawn," he said.
His name felt strange in the air, like a piece of himself had been taken and placed in a room full of strangers.
Then he added, because he could not help himself, because pride was a stubborn disease.
"Who are you. Did you capture me."
The leader’s mouth curved, amused.
"I am Benimaru," he said. "Son of Orc God Rimamaru."
He paused, letting the title land.
Then he added, with the simple confidence of a blade pressed to a throat.
"I am half-god."
The reaction was immediate.
Orcs slammed weapons against the stone.
Bang Bang Bang
They roared like a wave.
"Benimaru!"
"Our lord!"
"Son of Rimamaru!"
"Half-god!"
The room erupted in praise so loud it made the torches tremble. Orcs bared tusks. Eyes shone with devotion and fear. Some beat their chests. Some raised fists. Some shouted words that were half worship and half threat.
Sekhmet listened without speaking.
He watched their faces.
They were not praising out of love.
They were praising because they were afraid of what would happen if they did not.
Benimaru allowed the cheering for a while, as if it was a meal he enjoyed slowly. He stood with arms crossed, letting the noise fill the space like smoke.
Then he lifted one hand.
The room dropped into silence instantly.
The sudden quiet was terrifying.
It proved the orcs obeyed him like muscles obeyed bone.
Sekhmet’s gaze stayed fixed on Benimaru.
He did not lower his eyes.
He was weak, yes.
But he was still himself.
When Benimaru’s hand lowered, Sekhmet spoke again, his voice carrying the sharp edge of sarcasm despite his weak condition.
"I see," he said. "Nice to meet you."
He let the words sit, pretending politeness in a room that did not deserve it.
Then he continued.
"Why did your people capture me?"
Benimaru’s eyes glowed brighter for a moment, as if the question amused him.
"You will help me reach godhood," Benimaru said.
Sekhmet’s brows tightened.
Benimaru’s tone was calm, but there was hunger beneath it, and hunger was never calm for long.
"I have been stuck as a half-god for thousands of years," Benimaru continued. "I need your help."
Sekhmet stared.
Then he forced out a short, rough laugh that sounded more like a cough’s cousin.
"How," he asked. "I am not even a god myself. Not yet. How can I help you."
Benimaru did not answer immediately.
Instead, he tilted his head toward the orc holding the red box.
"Give me the box," he ordered.
The box-holder stepped forward quickly, eager to please. He nearly tripped over his own feet, caught himself, and shoved the box forward with both hands as if presenting tribute.
Benimaru took the box with surprising care.
His massive fingers did not crush it. They held it like a priest holding a relic.
He turned it slightly so Sekhmet could see the carved patterns on its surface. The patterns were not random decorations. They were symbols, faint and old, etched with a craft that felt too precise for brute hands.
Benimaru’s eyes flicked up to Sekhmet again.
"You can help me with this," Benimaru said.
Sekhmet’s pulse quickened.
Ba - dum Ba - dum
He tried to lift his body, but his muscles betrayed him again. His arms shook. His ribs screamed. He fell back against the stone with a low groan.
Benimaru’s mouth curved wider.
"I want you to eat what is inside this box," Benimaru said.
Sekhmet froze.
The words did not make sense at first.
"Eat.
Inside.
Box."
His mind chased the meaning like a dog chasing a shadow.
Benimaru continued, voice patient, like explaining something simple to a slow child.
"That is the only thing you have to do. After that, I will release you from your pain and suffering. You will be free."
Freedom!!!!
The word hit Sekhmet like a blade made of hope.
But in Null, hope was usually bait.
His eyes locked onto the red box. The patterns seemed to shift slightly in the torchlight, not moving exactly, but giving the impression that they were alive, watching.
"What is inside?
What happens if I eat it?
Can I trust them?"
His instincts stirred hard, loud, and clear.
Danger.
Not the simple danger of a fight.
The deeper danger of something that changed you.
His gut tightened.
He felt cold sweat on his skin, despite the warm torches.
He opened his mouth, about to ask questions, about to demand the truth, about to negotiate like a man who still believed negotiation mattered.
But Benimaru did not come here to negotiate.
Benimaru came here to take what he wanted.
Click!
The leader opened the box.
The lid lifted with a soft, almost polite sound, which was wrong because nothing in this place was polite. A faint red glow spilled out, painting Benimaru’s hands with bloody light.
The orcs leaned forward slightly.
Their eyes fixed on what was inside like hungry dogs staring at a butcher’s table.
Benimaru reached in.
He pulled out a glass tube.
The tube was thick, sealed, and cold enough that faint frost clung to its surface. Inside it was something red. It was not liquid. It looked like frozen blood shaped into a jagged crystal, like a rock carved from a heartbeat.
The red substance pulsed faintly, as if it remembered being alive.
Sekhmet stared.
His throat tightened.
His mind instinct screamed again.
Do not.
Benimaru stepped toward him.
The torches flickered as if reacting to the leader’s presence. Green-black chaos energy rippled faintly around his body, subtle but undeniable, like heat haze over a battlefield.
Sekhmet tried to crawl backward.
His palms scraped stone.
His legs dragged uselessly.
His body was too weak.
He had never hated weakness like this.
Benimaru crouched.
The movement alone made the orcs behind him shift, as if even they respected the moment.
Benimaru reached out and grabbed Sekhmet by the neck.
His hand wrapped around Sekhmet’s throat like an iron collar.
Sekhmet’s breath cut off instantly.
His eyes widened.
He clawed at Benimaru’s wrist, but his fingers were weak. It was like scratching a mountain.
Benimaru lifted his other hand, holding the tube.
Sekhmet tried to shake his head, but Benimaru’s grip controlled him completely.
Benimaru’s voice was quiet, almost gentle.
"Swallow it," he said.
Sekhmet’s mouth was forced open.
The glass tube pressed against his lips, cold enough to burn. Benimaru tilted it, and the red frozen thing slid toward Sekhmet’s mouth.
Sekhmet felt it touch his tongue.
The sensation was wrong.
It was cold and hot at the same time, like ice that burned, like fire that froze.
His entire body jolted.
He tried to spit it out.
Benimaru tightened his grip on Sekhmet’s throat just enough to make the choice disappear.
Sekhmet gagged.
His body tried to reject it.
Benimaru shoved the tube deeper.
Sekhmet’s eyes watered.
His throat convulsed.
Gulp!
The red frozen thing slipped past his tongue.
Sekhmet felt it slide down his throat like a shard of living ice.
It burned.
It burned so much that his vision blurred and his limbs spasmed.
He tried to scream, but Benimaru’s hand still held his neck, and the scream became a strangled sound trapped behind teeth.
Nggh!
His body arched.
Pain shot through him in waves.
It was not like being punched.
It was not like being cut.
It was like something inside him was waking up and tearing the walls down.
Sekhmet’s fingers dug into the stone floor until his nails cracked.
Crack! Crack!
He shook violently.
His coat fluttered.
His boots scraped.
Scrape! Scrape!
The orcs watched with wide eyes and eager grins. Some leaned in closer. Some whispered. Some licked their lips as if pain were a meal.
Benimaru released the tube, letting it fall away, and watched Sekhmet with intense interest.
Sekhmet’s throat burned.
His stomach felt like it was filling with molten metal.
He tried to breathe.
Each inhale scraped his lungs like blades.
His chest heaved.
His eyes rolled back for a moment.
Then something tugged at his neck.
A pendant.
Sekhmet’s pendant.
He had forgotten it was still there.
It hung from a chain around his neck, half hidden beneath his torn coat. It had been dull for days, just another piece of metal. A keepsake from his mother. He was told that his mother left it for him when he was baby.
Now it began to glow.
At first it was faint.
A small light.
A soft pulse.
Then it brightened.
Thrum! Thrum! Thrum!
The glow became stronger, turning from a dim shimmer into a sharp, radiant flare. The pendant radiated a strange warmth that fought against the burning cold inside Sekhmet’s body.
The orcs murmured.
Benimaru’s eyes narrowed, fascinated.
Sekhmet’s mouth opened in a silent cry.
His body shook harder.
His veins felt like they were on fire.
His bones felt like they were singing with pain.
The pendant’s glow reflected off the stone floor, painting Sekhmet’s face in bright, unnatural light.
Benimaru leaned closer, watching every detail like a man watching the start of a storm he had summoned.
Sekhmet’s consciousness began to fracture.
He could feel everything.
He could feel the red thing inside him.
He could feel it moving.
Melting.
Spreading.
He could feel it trying to become part of him.
His instincts screamed again, but now the scream was tangled with something else.
Something old.
Something buried.
Something that recognized the name he had spoken.
Sekhmet Dawn.
His jaw clenched.
His fists trembled.
The pendant flared brighter still, as if answering a call only it could hear.
Fwooom!
The room held its breath.
Orcs watched.
Benimaru watched.
Sekhmet suffered.
And the glow around his neck grew, pulsing like a heartbeat in the dark, on the moment before whatever was coming finally arrived. Something from the pendant is also trying to fight it back.
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