Every great endeavor throughout the annals of history have always started off as small, seemingly random occurrences before the accumulation of what was once thought to be insignificant acts give rise to the stories of impossible feats which had ceaselessly fueled the tales of the legendary heroes of yore. Armed with only the skills they have honed to perfection in times of great stress and strife, brave men and women risked their lives for reasons only they themselves know; trudging forward against all odds, even if there was no chance of success. Should they fail, people would say that they were cursed or destined to fall; and if they succeeded, they were praised and hailed as ‘Chosen Ones’, or those who have acquired the blessings of the gods through unknown means. In the world of TerraSphere where fanciful fiction and hard reality coalesce, a vast majority of the people who reside within still have trouble denying one simple and undeniable fact: that, in reality, the ancient myths and legends of infallible heroes were crafted by those people who freely and often willingly substituted divine providence and magic to explain the results of simple hard work, clever ingenuity, and steadfast dedication. They were often those who refused to believe that human beings were capable of a great many things through the sweat off their brown and dirt on their hands; and they were justified, to be sure. After all, if one were capable of splitting apart mountains and rivers without effort, it was only logical to assume that some great and mysterious power was behind it – it just had to, otherwise it would be impossible. While it may be true that the almighty forces may have had a hand during a hero’s trying times, only those who help themselves grow strong live long enough to ask themselves that question. For even the greatest legends of all time started out as simple men and women who had nothing but the penchant to work harder and dream bigger than the rest. Humble as it may be, this was what separated them from everyone else; no magic, power, or providence necessary. Nevertheless, it was the best proof of the universal truth behind all the tales of great heroism, no matter the time, the place, or whether it was rooted in harsh reality or computer-generated fiction— —legends are not born; they are willed into existence.
The austere living room of the abandoned house on the outskirts of Falderen had seen more than its fair share of pain, torture, and suffering. Its once pristine white walls made out of thick concrete were covered with cracks, mildew, and various scratches made by a myriad of things from knives, metal pipes, and even to human fingernails. Brownish stains from coagulated blood, possibly belonging to past detainees who were brought into the dismal chamber for Yuichi’s personal brand of questioning, replaced the once spotless floor and turned itself into a natural brown color. The windows were boarded up and only one door could be used to go in and out, with the sole source of light coming from a simple hanging gas lamp that looked so old that it would not be far-off to assume that it would fall off its hinges sooner rather than later. In this place of absolute hopelessness, Yuichi’s figure could be seen slightly with the help of the old lamp’s dim luminescence. He sat on the floor at the left-hand corner of the makeshift interrogation room nearest to the door, bare-chested except for his running pants, tending to his hands which had been wet by blood spurts that, by the clear lack of evidence from his pristine visage, was not his own. More clearly seen than his body would be the rusted knife and various body parts sitting on top of a small table where the young man tended to himself while humming Antonio Vivaldi’s Spring – a song that was completely contrary to the dismal surroundings where the masterpiece of classic music was being played in. “I really like classical music, Mr. McMillan,” said Yuichi in his an eerily calm and composed tone of voice. “Do you like classical music too? One of my favorites would be Vivaldi hands down. I love his work; I love his melodies. It really soothes the soul, even in times of great stress, do you not agree?” asked the youth with a sly smirk. The man he was addressing sat a few feet away from the young man, directly under the dim yellow light of the old lamp with his hands tied securely to the hardwood chair he had been sitting on for who knows how long. Such a tight-lipped nature was only natural; the NPC was 57-year old Tristan McMillan was as battle-hardened as any former veteran of the many battles once fought all over the kingdom, most notably of several campaigns that resulted in the very successful purging of rebel elements during his tenure as a vice-captain in the imperial army. This used to be his bread and butter, and it was not surprising that he would be resistant to its effects. Yuichi himself had already lost count of how many hours he had spent trying to get the NPC to talk, as the number of dried spatters of blood on the floor around him clearly showed. It was to be expected from one of Conrad Carlson’s lackeys. After all, it was to be expected a man who would easily give in to his desires and numb to the consequences of his acts to pick hard, unfeeling, and unbreakable men when choosing wards for his amassed wealth. More unfortunately, he was not just dealing with any manservant to Conrad Carlson’s newfound virtual wealth, but the head and caretaker of one of his provincial estates in charge of the fiend’s assets in Pormont. The only silver lining was that Yuichi was no longer the fumbling TerraSphere neophyte he was before and now knew just how to handle deadlocks like this. As impressive as Carlson’s power flourished, it was not just the unpunished rapist who had spent all that time improving himself and his social status. For his part, the brown-haired martial artist had likewise feverishly worked himself into a force to be reckoned with, capable of enacting the revenge he obsessively sought for the despair and humiliation the now-prominent adventurer and merchant had given to him. Yuichi would repay the beast who forced himself upon Annabelle with interest, and whoever stood in his way would meet the same fate. This might have been a game, but the feelings Yuichi felt were real, and nothing in this virtual world would deter him from his goal, even if it meant going down the same path of evil as the very person he was hunting for. Five months had already passed, but the hatred he felt for the man only burned hotter with each passing day. You cannot catch devils with angels, Yuichi reminded himself mentally. He was justified in his acts – that was what he told himself. Nothing in this world is true; hence, everything in this world is permitted, as long as one was able to accept the consequences of one’s actions. Yuichi had already accepted what he had to become for the sake of revenge, and this was a path he would rather tread alone. An eye for an eye; one sin weighed against another – that was the tit-for-tat logic that drove Yuichi to stomach his heinous acts to slowly, but surely, become the nightmare that would haunt Conrad Carlson in the void. Rakshasa.
