(Meanwhile, Planet Granada, Mauriss’s POV)
*Drip*
*Drip*
*Drip*
The sound of rain hitting the endless ocean filled the silence like a heartbeat, slow and deliberate, while somewhere far below, the sea groaned and shifted as if even it dared not speak too loudly in the presence of the being seated above it.
Mauriss sat upon the only rock at the ocean’s heart, motionless save for the faint curl of his lips, his bare chest gleaming faintly under the stormlight as his long black hair floated above his head.
Before him knelt a man dressed in the standard military uniform of the Righteous Faction, his forehead pressed to the wet stone, his entire body trembling from the sheer weight of the god’s gaze.
"Are you sure," Mauriss asked softly, his tone almost playful, "that it was the most magnificent city you have ever seen?"
The Commander swallowed, his breath shallow as he dared not raise his eyes. "Y–yes, my lord. It was indeed the most magnificent city I’ve ever seen," he stammered. "I flew there myself, just as you commanded, and released the videotapes across the upper districts before their patrols could intercept us. The Cult’s defense systems locked onto our fleet immediately.
I... I barely made it out alive....
I was inside the only ship that survived out of the thousand you sent inside."
Mauriss tilted his head slightly, his eyes glinting through the curtain of rain as he studied the man’s shaking frame.
"But what lay before us," the Commander continued, his voice faltering as though the memory itself unnerved him, "was not the wasteland we expected. It wasn’t filled with tainted, half–demonic humans or ruins scorched by corruption. Instead, it was... alive. A metropolis so vast, so advanced, that even our strongest colonies pale in comparison. The Cult, my lord... they’re thriving."
For a moment, silence returned—so heavy that even the rain seemed to pause between its drops.
Then came a sound.
A low, guttural chuckle.
Mauriss’s shoulders trembled ever so slightly, his head dipping forward as his laughter echoed faintly across the endless horizon.
"Thriving, you say..." he murmured, running a hand through his soaked hair while the faintest smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. "That’s quite the report."
His fingers flexed slowly, water streaming down his palm as if tracing invisible veins of power.
"Well, well," he whispered, his eyes glimmering with a madness too calm to be ordinary, "that makes it all the more interesting, doesn’t it?"
He rose from the rock with unhurried grace, the water rippling beneath his bare feet as if bowing to him.
The Commander dared to lift his head just enough to see the god’s smile— and instantly regretted it.
For what he saw in that smile was not amusement, nor wrath, but a sick fascination, like the delight of a predator that had just found a new prey worth chasing.
Mauriss looked toward the distant clouds, where lightning forked through the storm like veins of silver fire, and said in a tone that sounded almost like reverence, "A thriving Cult means a beating heart still remains of that wretched organization... and hearts, my dear Commander, are so very enjoyable to shatter."
He began to laugh again, quietly at first, then louder, until his laughter bled into the sound of thunder rolling across the sea.
*CRACK*
*KABOOM*
The storm roared with him, as though the heavens themselves could not decide whether to echo or flee, as for a good two minutes, Mauriss indulged in his own fantasies.
"M-my Lord, if I may?" the Commander stammered, his voice thin as thread as he forced himself to rise, palms pressed to the slick rock as he steadied himself against Mauriss’s gaze.
"Yes, go on," Mauriss replied, amusement curling in the quiet of his tone.
"My Lord, I suggest we place an ambush outside the entrance to the Time Stilled World and lock the Cult terrorists in there forever.
If we ensure they cannot leave, then it will not matter what they do inside. They will be cut off, isolated, and become idle threats we never have to worry about.
I say we deploy a million ships outside that entrance, and just ensure that the Cultists can never hope to come out."
The Commander suggested in a meek tone, as for a heartbeat Mauriss only watched, his eyes like cold lanterns, as he seriously contemplated the proposal.
*Wag*
*Wag*
However, after thinking about it for a while, he began to slowly wag his finger, a soft chuckle unraveling from him as if the very idea tickled some pleasant part of his cruelty.
"No," he said, tasting the syllable with a mildness that made it more dangerous than a shout, "where is the fun in that?"
He bit the tip of his finger, a red bead forming, and watched it drip back into the storm, delight making his smile thin. "What we need is spectacle. We need them to believe they have a chance, to taste hope and to smell victory, so that when they move we can watch them run into the perfect trap I have set for them.
Ambushing their doorstep is clever, it is tidy, it is cowardly.
But what I truly want is for them to come out roaring, to gather their banners, to gather their old God, and to come charging in to save their Dragon."
*Gulp*
The Commander swallowed nervously, the idea settling in like ice, as Mauriss continued.
"The date for the Dragon’s execution is fixed, and with you successfully dropping those tapes within their sanctuary, I’m sure they will come.
When they see the devastating image of their messiah dragged through filth and being humiliated a thousand times, they will lose their cool, and their stupid urge for revenge will get the best of them.
And soon enough, they will pour out of the sewer-like world they hide in, like the rats they are, and jump straight into the trap I have set for their annihilation!"
Mauriss claimed, as he began to laugh once more, this time even more maniacally than before.