(Planet Granada, Mauriss’s POV)
*Thunder*
*Heavy rains*
"HA... HAHAHAHAHA!"
Mauriss’s laughter rolled through the storm like the voice of the ocean itself, the sound layered, echoing, and alive.
He sat bare-chested upon the sole rock that pierced the endless grey waters of Granada, rain tracing the lines of his body, as his hair rose slowly toward the clouds, defying gravity as if even the wind dared not touch him without permission.
"The Dragon..." he whispered, his smile splitting wider, the tone somewhere between glee and mockery, "the little fool who thought he could hide from me forever....."
*KABOOM*
Lightning danced in the clouds above him, white veins crawling through the dark sky, illuminating his features for a heartbeat, as he looked sharp, beautiful, and deranged.
He tilted his head back, eyes half closed, letting the rain strike his face as he laughed again, softer this time, his voice turning almost melodic.
"For two months you hid," he murmured, dragging his tongue across his teeth as if savoring the memory, "for two months you scurried like a rat, pretending like you could outpace me.... But no.
In the end you could not, as in the end, you dropped right into my palm, like I always knew you would."
He said as he reached forward and cupped some rainwater into his palms, before sending it down the throat.
"Do you know what’s beautiful about this, my dear ocean?" he asked softly, though there was no one but the female attendants to hear him.
"It’s not his capture. No, no. Capturing prey is ordinary. What is beautiful... is the orchestration of despair that follows."
The attendants behind him, two silent women draped in white veils, did not respond, for they knew better than to answer Mauriss when he was on a power trip.
By now, they knew that the Deceiver liked to talk to himself from time to time, with his conversations often sounding like senseless mumbling, which was why they steered clear of anything he said.
"With the Dragon in my palm, I can finally destroy the Cult.
Not through blood, not through annihilation, but through degradation so deep it makes death look merciful."
He said as he began pacing the rock, every step steady despite the slick surface beneath him, as his voice rose and fell with rhythm, like the sea breathing.
"First, I’ll arrange a humiliating spectacle," he said, lifting one hand as if conducting an invisible orchestra. "The Dragon will be stripped bare. Naked as the day he was born, before being chained within a cage forged from divine alloy that suppresses aura, voice, and dignity alike.
Then, he shall be paraded through the Righteous worlds, through streets filled with chanting citizens and vengeful soldiers, each of them carrying a pebble, a rotten fruit or feces, each of them throwing it at the universe’s biggest villain."
He stopped, his tone softening to something almost affectionate.
"And then we film and broadcast it.
Every hit, every drop of blood, every broken rib, every tear."
His grin twitched, a flash of genuine madness flickering across his face.
"The Cult commoners see him as a messiah, a beacon of hope, their shining flame in darkness.
But what happens when that flame is dragged through filth, when its light is reduced to flickering embers beneath the laughter of the masses?
Will their faith die then? Or will they choke on the fury of their helplessness?"
Mauriss wondered as he turned his gaze to the horizon, watching the rain blur the line between sea and sky.
"First, we film his humiliation.
Then we send the videos to every neutral planet, every black market, every nameless network.
We plant them in the very homes of those who still whisper the Cult’s name in prayer. And when that is done, we reach even deeper.... into the Time Stilled World they hide in itself."
He smiled, baring his teeth as thunder cracked across the sky.
"Yes... that cursed refuge where they hide, thinking themselves safe from the march of time. I will send cargo ships and fighters—to breach its edge and scatter memory chips through its heart. Each one containing the same footage. The same humiliation. The same truth. Over and over again, a million times, until it burrows into their dreams."
He crouched down, tracing a circle on the rock with one wet finger, his reflection trembling in the water below.
"They will wake and see him. They will sleep and see him. They will eat and still see him. Their mornings will begin with his shame, their nights will end with his whimpering. There will be no silence from it, no relief. They will breathe despair until their faith suffocates itself."
He rose, the rain now pouring harder, the waves crashing violently against the rock as if the ocean itself wanted to pull him under.
"And when their rage reaches its peak, when they can no longer tolerate their messiah’s humiliation" he whispered, his eyes glowing faintly cyan, "when even the most devout scream for vengeance, I shall grant it to them."
He began to laugh again—low, almost joyous, the sound of someone who genuinely loved his own cruelty.
"I will announce his execution," he said, voice shaking with excitement. "A date, a time, a place so public that even the stars will witness it.
I will give them a countdown to their own destruction.
They will come—Soron will come—because he can’t afford not to.
He will come, hoping to save his boy, his legacy, his Cult..."
Mauriss trailed off, tilting his head slightly as if savoring the thought. Then he smiled again, slow and vicious.
"But this time, he will not walk out.
No chance...
For Kaelith will be there. Helmuth will be there. The five gods of the Great Clans will be there.
He will arrive at my stage expecting to reclaim his Dragon, only to find himself performing in my play, where I put an end to his life and his Cult for once and for all."
He began to pace again, circling the narrow rock like a predator trapped in thought.
"I can see it already.
Soron descending in fury....
Angry Cult Fighters behind him, their banners raised, hearts burning, the faithful thinking their god has come to deliver them victory.
Only to walk into the ’Chakravyuh’, the lattice drawn, the sky webbed with anchor fields that deny entry into the Fourth Dimension, as they are left with nowhere to go, no room to retreat."
His laughter echoed again, shrill and thunderous.
"They will burn. They will die believing they can save their Dragon, when in truth, every step they take toward him will tighten the noose around their own throats.
Soron will fight, yes, and perhaps he will even win a few seconds of glory—but then Kaelith will move, Helmuth will move, and the five gods will close their palms."
He stopped, spreading his arms wide, rain streaming down his face like tears.
"And when the storm clears, there will be silence. No Cult. No rebellion. No songs. Only ashes floating over holy ground, and a broken Dragon still breathing in his cage."
His voice dropped to a whisper again, almost reverent.
"He will not die. Not yet. Not ever, if I can help it. His existence will become my hymn, my reminder to the cosmos of what happens when vermin think they can challenge the divine. I will feed him. Heal him. Parade him again every decade, just to remind the universe that the age of the Cult is gone forever."
Mauriss’s eyes gleamed with something close to ecstasy as he threw his head back and let out a piercing laugh that rose higher and higher until it nearly blended with the thunder.
"HAHAHAHAHA! Do you see it, Soron? Do you feel it already? I am not just ending your faith, I am unmaking its memory!"
He tilted his head downward suddenly, the laughter cutting off into a sharp smile.
"Relay my orders," he said quietly. "Make it beautiful. Let the Dragon’s humiliation begin from tomorrow itself. Let the people of the Cult see their fallen messiah being turned into a joke."
The attendants nodded silently, their eyes low, their hands trembling slightly as they began transmitting his orders.
Mauriss watched the rain for a long time after that, the corners of his mouth twitching upward every few seconds as if a new thought kept amusing him.
Then, after a long pause, he finally whispered—so softly that only the storm could hear:
"They call him Dragon. But soon, he shall be something else entirely....
For using him I’ll make a living symbol of what happens when you mess with Mauriss The Deceiver."
He mumbled, as he stood there in the rain motionless, whispering faintly to himself again and again as thunder rolled around him, his words nearly lost to the sea.
"Let the Cult come. Let them burn their wings chasing hope. Let them drown in the ashes of their own messiah."
He closed his eyes and smiled wider still.
"For I am the end they always prayed for."