NT: My dream was always to create a fantasy world that could be known by the world. I hope we can create a good coexistence together on this wonderful journey, in stigmaverse.

It's summer in a small village going through tough times; what were once stone, cement, and tile houses now lie in ruins. Villagers head to the town square, lined up with tear-stained faces, carrying books and sculptures in bags, forced to throw them into a kind of bonfire burning uncontrollably. Flames devour these valuable possessions that mean so much to the villagers.

Those in line, those who took over the village, are beings that, in the eyes of the villagers, are nothing but blue demons; clad in thick, imposing-looking armor. The armor covers their entire bodies, an exoskeleton with seemingly impenetrable shielding that provides no room for common weapons to harm them. Possessing lesser resistance in the joints for greater mobility, their helmets cover their faces, round with a polarized blue visor that hides their eyes. They carry assault rifles in their hands and a pistol on the armor belt. Some people resist throwing their belongings into the fire and are met with nothing but gunfire in response. Bodies are thrown into the fire, and the villagers' resistance is thus diminished.

If the Baron's soldiers couldn't stand against these men, who were not even a quarter of those who invaded the area, the villagers have no choice but to submit. This army set up a camp on the outskirts of the village and forces the townspeople to discard their religious items, but they demand nothing more.

They are not simple bandits; they are now the authority and justice to the extent that getting into trouble is synonymous with execution or turning the offenders into sacrifices, for what the pastor claimed was the last hope of the people. Poor man, nothing remained of him; when he opened the door, what was the curse of the people quickly became the curse of all.

Days have passed since the incursion, and the villagers live normally but with the fear of breaking the law; the blue demons patrol the streets. At the entrance of the village, a strange foreigner walks calmly into the domain.

The soldiers raise their weapons, alert in case it's a Templar. The hooded figure walks past them, carrying a suitcase on his back. The stranger's gaze is firm and confident; he doesn't even bother making eye contact with the armed men.

The stranger enters a tavern, filled with mercenaries and foreigners passing through for a good drink or a bit of carnal warmth, capable of numbing the fatigue of the roads. Some have mechanical implants, replacing arms, legs, and even eyes.

Since the appearance of the blue demons, entry has been allowed for non-humans belonging to rebel groups that have supported the incursions of the armored soldiers, something that would be unthinkable for the Templars.

Young waitresses attend to the customers, in revealing dresses with prominent necklines that expose the surface of their lush attributes, earning several indiscreet glances from those present.

The hooded figure goes towards the bartender: a man around thirty years old, with well-groomed brown hair, who wears an elegant suit consisting of a gray vest over a tight white shirt with a red bow tie; black pants and matching shoes. His face is serene and calm. He gazes at the hooded figure, who sits at the bar, and places the suitcase beside him.

“What can I get you, son? “He greets amiably, while cleaning a glass. The man gives the typical smile of social interactions as he adds”.We have the best beer in the county, and if you want an unforgettable night... our girls will pamper you. It'll cost you, of course.

He adds with a mischievous smile, pointing with his thumb to the dancers on the stage, not breaking eye contact with the potential customer, who simply gives a quick glance at the young women, turning back to what concerns him.

From his hand covered by a crimson gauntlet, he brings out a paper. The bartender's smile disappears, turning into a displeased face as he lays his eyes on that flyer, which requests the annihilation of the horror lurking in the crypt.

“A death sentence bathed in gold. “The bartender nicknames it, aware that anyone who has tried to do that job ends up torn apart by that monstrosity. It has reached the point where mercenaries have become sacrifices to appease the creature.

“I'm here for this job. “Says the hooded figure in a low voice”. I've heard they'll pay a reward of five hundred golden crowns, as the army doesn't want to dirty their hands with this kind of thing.

“Do you realize that what you want to do is impossible? How old are you? “The bartender asks, concerned, seeing partially the face of the hooded figure, who appears to be under thirty.

“Old enough to belong to the order of the guardians, my friend. “Boasts the young man, smiling slyly, looking confident and defiant in the face of any danger. The bartender breaks into a cold sweat, looking at the young man with an expression that mixes fear and displeasure, then sighs resigned”. Enough age to belong to the order of the guardians, friend. I live for hunting monsters.

Boasts the young man, flashing a sly smile, looking confident and defiant in the face of any danger. The bartender breaks into a cold sweat, looking at the young man with a mixture of fear and disdain, then sighs resignedly. The conversation is interrupted when three rough-looking characters approach the bar, scowling.

“Well, look who the traveler brought us... I think I didn't hear correctly, did you say you're a guardian of Trisary? “

Exclaims a sturdy man with coppery skin, towering around two and a half meters. His eyes are yellowish, like a wolf's; he sports a wide grin exposing sharp fangs. He wears a war helmet with an arrowhead, his chest protected by bullet-resistant armor, and underneath the armor, a bear-skin shirt with no sleeves, revealing strong, scar-marked arms. Two matching leather boots and wrist guards on each arm, with long nails protruding from his hands. He wears tight woolen pants secured by a belt, on which rests a heavy war axe capable of penetrating armor, sheathed on the right side, and a revolver holstered on the left.

“A beast-man hybrid.

The young man thinks, analyzing the mercenary, then focuses on the other two men in similar attire: the second mercenary wears an eye patch over his right eye, and the third has a pockmarked face with clustered reddish pimples. Unlike the apparent leader, the others are entirely human.

“And what if I am? Is there a problem? “The young man looks down on them, tense like a bowstring, aiming arrows at each of these men's heads”. I just want to do my job. Nothing more, nothing less.

“I couldn't help but overhear your request. “Says the beastly man”.We are war veterans, came from afar first for the contract to kill the abomination. So, we won't let a brat from a clown monastery come and take our job. I'll give you two choices: leave the town in one piece or we'll take you out in several black bags... understood?

He puts his enormous hand on the boy's head, adding a certain degree of pressure in the grip, emphasizing the aggressive warning.

“What can a brat like you do? Tell me... “The one-eyed man stares into the young man's eyes, as red as blood, realizing he's not an ordinary human. Instead of feeling fear, that air of superiority increases”. What are you supposed to be? A freak? A magician? ... or a damned wretch. “He mocks, adding a derogatory tone to the last phrase”. If they don't crucify those, or put their heads on spikes, they turn them into living weapons until they go crazy and put them to sleep like dogs.

The young warrior remains silent at that question; under the shadow of the hood, two crimson eyes shine, emitting a deep displeasure directed at the aggressors.

“By your appearance, it seems you haven't detached from your mother's teat... or your father's dick.

Jeers the pockmarked one, gripping the handle of the sheathed axe. The mercenaries burst into laughter, thinking they have intimidated the young man, who simply stands up and swats away the giant's grip, limiting himself to look at each of the armed men, from head to toe, analyzing them.

Compared to the enormous size of the beastly man, the hooded one measures one meter eighty. The provocations, instead of breaking his composure, make him smile eerily, which slowly turns into a mocking laughter irritating the mercenaries, who draw their weapons.

“Guys... please settle it outside. Don't make me call the guards... I-warn you. “Stammers the hesitant bartender, but is ignored.

”What's your choice, spawn? Last warning. “The leader asks”. Cross the threshold and leave this town in one piece, or we'll take you out in pieces.

The hooded figure looks around, realizing that several people are stealthily leaving the establishment, while others remain expectant of what is about to happen. The bartender hides crouched behind the counter, giving a short and sharp silence.

“One warning. “He says, lifting his gaze”. Let me do my job to earn my bread, or I will remove you from the path. “He responds defiantly. A sharp arrogant smile is visible under the hood, showing no sign of fear.

In a warlike cry, the one-eyed man charges, swinging an axe at the warrior, who evades the attack by moving to the side. The rest of the group lunges; they believe numerical superiority guarantees victory. The hooded one then removes the cloak and throws it at them, momentarily halting the advance of the two men.

The warrior is a young man with short, dark black hair and blood-red eyes, emanating from a fiery gaze. His features identify him as a man with a warrior's bearing; tanned skin with several scars on his face, a vertical one passing over his lip, another short one above his right eye, although it remains healthy; another in a horizontal line passing over his nose and the last one on his left cheek. Muscular build. He wears a kind of full armor of crimson color, with black parts of sharp appearance, connected by an exoskeleton. He wears a dark coat of fiber in the small straits where it does not cover the mystical armor. The shoulder pads are adorned with spikes. It houses a choker, and at the waist it carries a tactical belt. The breastplate is not unlike the soldiers.

“I can't hide what I am; I hope what happened in Vomiza didn't get here. Hopefully they'll think I'm carrying a magic tool. “Thinks the crimson warrior.

From the neck of the boy's red armor, small and thin tentacles emerge, fragile in appearance, like earthworms that, at an alarming speed, grow in size and elongate in such a way that they could be mistaken for snakes.

Those fibrous protuberances soon cover the head completely, exposing only the eyes. The young man remains unmoved, as if this strange act were natural, being filled with a warm feeling of not being alone. The hodgepodge of trembling crawling beings, take shape hardening into a false metal, as the imposing crimson demon-like helmet with sharp spikes on the sides resembling horns is forged.

The mask has several holes in the mouth part, as respirators. The holes where the eyes are located, two green glows that completely cover the eyeballs, in a flaming gaze, emerald trails emanating as a fighting spirit manifested. From the gauntlet of the crimson armor emerge at an accelerated speed, protuberances whose watery form, enlarges as it builds a long sharp sword.

The tavern is filled with outraged screams, more than half of the patrons flee in terror, shouting words like demon or aberration. The only ones still standing in front of the warrior were the astonished mercenaries, shocked by the transformation.

“I knew it! He's a bastard! His crimson eyes gave him away! the one-eyed man shouted.

During the duo's confusion, the one-eyed man charges back to the rear. The guardian reacts by slashing upwards, which deflects the opponent's axe blow, breaking his balance. He then continues in a second slash, slicing horizontally across the mercenary's torso where the armor did not protect, releasing a stream of blood, scattered on the floor; unleashing panic in the crowded masses.

The one-eyed man presses his bleeding belly, half a hanging gut escaping; he backs away, leaning on the counter. The two mercenaries raise their weapons in tandem, planning to avenge their fallen comrade.

The beast-man delivers a horizontal slash to the right flank, aimed at the neck, exactly where the choker does not protect it, cutting only the air, as the guardian rotates on its own axis. The mercenary looks out of the corner of his eye, as in a second the crimson warrior moves to the left side, and finally delivers an elbow, which collides with his hundred.

Drops of blood splatter the floor; the red-haired man feels extreme pain, as if his brain exploded when he received the powerful impact. He falls rolling on the ground and after a few seconds he manages to get on his knees, holding his head, still dazed despite the protection of the helmet, he felt the damage.

The dive continues throwing a blow of his axe against the guardian, who deflects the weapon with a slash of the sword, followed by a stab in the thigh, pushing the dive hard against the wall, emitting a sound of thud in the collision.

The mercenary's axe, slips from between his fingers due to the pain; before falling to the ground it is grabbed by the red warrior, turning at a superhuman speed he crashes the steel against the long sword of the dazed redhead, making him fall back awkwardly, as he is still weakened by the past blow. The guardian turns in the direction of the bar, where the one-eyed man is in agony; detecting him, he throws the weapon, hitting him squarely in the face between eyebrow and eyebrow, splitting his skull in two.

“Do you still want to go on? “In steely temper, the guardian throws that question towards the last mercenary standing. The beast-man lowers his axe, as if surrendering, only to draw his pistol a second later, pointing it straight at the horned helmet. The guardian explodes in alarm. Fearing collateral damage, he shouts”. Everybody down!

The few customers still in the store, crowded at the exit, comply with the request by throwing themselves to the ground, and only hear the roar of the cannon. The guard raises both arms to face level in defense against the bullets, which impact on the wingspan of the bracelets, where they are compressed without causing any damage until the gun's magazine is finally emptied.

In a display of skill forged in experience, the mercenary reloads, placing the bullets as fluidly as liquid. However, that vengeful fury shatters like glass, and exposes the sheer terror of witnessing for the first time, something none of his contracts have ever made him face.

From the young man's back, three long appendages emerge composed of the red armor material. They move like flexible snakes of metallic build, at the armor wielder's command, as if they were part of his organism in a symbiotic union.

“You're a d-demon! Damn you!

On the verge of tears, the mercenary recoils in terror, breaking every nerve; then he shoots hysterically until he empties the magazine and all those bullets are blocked by the tentacles, as they cross in front of the young man like an impenetrable shield.

The warrior lets out a small chuckle, feeling a sinical mockery for the comparison he has made to him. He is not a demon by any stretch of the imagination, he is something else; a being of a kind feared, and disowned in the realms of gods and men. It throws out its tentacles, stretching out in a mighty lunge; it impales the beast-man through the middle of the torso, bursting it like a huge balloon of blood, guts and fat.

Entrails spill down the walls; the quiet tavern has become in the blink of an eye an ode to carnage. Everyone goes mad. A burst of screams echoes between the walls of the bar, some can't contain themselves and vomit the contents of their stomachs due to the brutal slaughter. In the midst of the chaos, they call for the guards in desperation.

The guard retracts his tentacles, freeing himself from the disemboweled corpse, letting it slump over the puddle of raw burst flesh. The red appendages are reabsorbed into the back of their bearer; they disappear as if they had never existed.

The crimson warrior sees out of the corner of his eye the stung man pinned to the wall: his arms dangle comically, like a puppet stripped of its strings, which stares at his feet, in a lost and lifeless gesture with pale skin. Hemorrhaging from the thigh emanates uncontrollably, bleeding to death.

The paralyzed tavern keeper emerges from his cover, scared to death leaning with both hands on the counter; he can do nothing but watch everything that has happened. His eyes widen and turn white, and his jaw hangs open. Trembling, almost on the verge of losing his balance as he is overcome by nausea, he finally speaks:

 

“All right, the job is yours. In the ruins on the outskirts of the city, there you'll find....

He is interrupted by the arrival of five guards; their guns point a laser pointer at the boy's head.

”Give us a reason not to blow your brains out right here. “Says the one who seems to be the leader of the platoon, his helmet has a yellow visor and the shoulder pads were wider. He seemed to be speaking through a megaphone.

”I want the job to kill the chimera, I am a guardian of Trisary. “Says the warrior in a serious tone, as he kneels down, with his hands behind his back”. I have an ID that is proof of that. These guys tried to kill me, I merely defended myself.

The soldiers look at each other, although their faces are covered with helmets, one of them sees the massacre, then looks into the young man's eyes and steps forward.

“It's one of them, it's one of those altered ones! “Shouts the soldier.

”Calm down, soldier! “The leader steps in”. We'll take him to Commander Forge; he'll decide what we'll do with this guy. Besides, I'd send him with that monster to kill each other, so we'd be better off.

”I'm here! I hear everything they say, and yes! I'll kill that thing. “He tries to have an air of superiority, but you can tell he's a little nervous. He knows that these are not soldiers to be taken lightly.

”Silence, scum. You're coming with us. “He shuts him up. He signals him to get up and leads him out of the tavern.

The warrior is escorted to the outskirts of the village. One of the guards keeps the assault rifle pointed at the guard's back, irritating him. On the way, the guardian sinks into his thoughts. He reasons about these so-called blue demons, recalling some of his experiences with the creds.

These types of experiences classify them as “traumas that should be removed from his service resume” The warrior seeks only to make a living by killing monsters. He has been attacked by extremists of all faiths on several occasions. Even when they have been his employers.

He has heard from their mouths absurd justifications such as: “You insulted our God”, “He did not burn the devil alive!”, “You have leaned on a sacred sculpture”, “You have turned your back on our God!” “You wear the head of a cantor on your back, it is a sign that he is a devil worshipper”.

 

They almost crucified him, just because he was fornicating with a woman he met in a bar, on a rock in a meadow far from the villas; according to that stone is the symbol of chastity and she was the mayor's daughter, who was supposed to have made a promise to be a virgin until marriage. She was not even chaste.

The warrior has a relationship of love and hate with “Free Thought”, that is how they call themselves the creed of this army. They hate everything religious, if they see anything of that nature they will not hesitate to destroy it in the face of the believers. The only thing they would miss, would be to show their middle finger right in the face of the believers. However, they will not harm anyone if they do not try to stop them from destroying religion. Many call them the real god killers.

They finally arrive at a military camp not far from the village. They have several tents surrounding the place, he can even see a war tank and several soldiers, who are carrying supplies. There are not as many as he would have expected, there are about two squads that lead him to the largest tent.

As he enters there is a desk with papers scattered about, sitting down he finds what appears to be the commander; he has one of those armors, but it is dark brown, on the shoulder pads, and on the chest it has claw marks, and dents, showing him as a warrior who stands at the forefront. He wears no helmet, exposing the tan-skinned face with black military-cut hair; a thick-featured face of a middle-aged man with a tired look.

“That's a lot of men to capture a single person. “The commander finds himself intrigued by the event, staring at the prisoner. Seeing the flaming green eyes of the helmet, he recognizes the crimson warrior as an inhuman being, nothing to do with the Templars”. And who is this guy? “He expresses indifferently, as he gets up from his chair.

”Supposedly he's a guardian. .... “He killed three mercenaries in the tavern of Palistria and says he came to go to the dungeon.

”Those guys assaulted me, I merely defended myself. “He excuses himself.

“I don't give a damn about the lives of those bastards, as long as you are useful to me. “Commander Forge puts his hand on his jaw with a thoughtful expression, a couple of seconds pass before he speaks again: “Take out your badge to see if you are the person I requested and take off your helmet, please.

”Finally, it's time to shut these bitches up!

In a better mood, the emerald flames turn into crimson eyes and the helmet deactivates becoming opening to half, as if it were a huge crest, exposing the face. The two halves become gelatinous and are absorbed by the armor.

 

Struck by a sense of revulsion, the escort recoils in a restrained shriek, readying their weapons. Instead, Forge gives a shriek of impression while remaining calm and raises his hand, in a gesture for his men to remain serene.

The guardian shows a medallion, whose emblem has the shape of a sword whose blade is shaped like a crack. He hands it to the commander, who smiles after a first glance. He opens the second one, dividing the object, on which a legend is printed with information about the warrior, next to a black and white photograph of the face of its bearer.

”Your name is Drake Requiem. You are... twenty-three years old?... you are quite tall and stocky with a bratty face. Anyway, you belong to the guild “Wolves of the Night”. Good. Your religion is blank... What does it mean?

”I follow the code of the guardians to the letter, sir.

Drake smiles proudly, those years at the “dark fortress” military academy, where he was taught to talk to people to solicit contracts are paying off. I admire free thinking. You put religion aside and have obtained technology that equals magic, but let's leave that aside; I'll just do my job.

“We're doing fine, kid... -Forge is pleased by that answer”, as for your power, how does it work? just tell me something brief, I understand that many prefer to keep their best tricks.

«Fuck! I'm a bit disgusted to have to explain those things. But all for the crowns», thinks annoyed”: It's my armor, I'm a 'wearer'. How I got my power I keep to myself. The armor lives inside me and comes out when I command it, it works to my imagination which gives me the ability to create simple constructions. Changing the subject, I want to ask you a question about the chimera.

“What do you want to know? “He asks, getting serious and clasping his hands together. He leans his elbows on the desk.

”Why haven't you been able to kill a chimera yourselves, or at least block the dungeon entrance.

The truth Drake gets an idea of the motives, however, he wants Forge to tell him the details; they are armed to the teeth, but the place is monster territory. Earlier the red warrior saw the dungeon from outside when the guards weren't looking, and with only a slight glance inside he witnessed immense darkness.

“I can't lose my soldiers in this. “He explained, running his hand over his hair. The man's features harden, showing his stress”. That place was an old elven fortress; it's a labyrinth with trap corridors and multiple entrances all around. We tried to plug one of the caverns. The next day the huge boulder we put in was completely destroyed... a sign that we can't stop it.

 

“The chimera is fornicating this town as well as you. “He smiles eloquently. Forge doesn't seem bothered by what Drake has said; you can even see a hint of a smile on his face, but it stays at that.

”Reinforcements are limited in the vicinity to secure the area from any emergency attack by the baron, or any opponent of our creed. Besides, I have several of my men holding off the advance of ghouls in the mountains; those pests have a high destructive potential and I don't intend to ignore them.

”The dungeon is their hideout... that doesn't explain where it came from. “Drake launches the last question”. one of the sayings learned at the Academy.

”According to the villagers... on the eve of our siege of the village, the shepherd hired a novice wizard... one who barely had a fuzz on his face, an idiot nobody. “Forge struggles to remember”. Between the two of them they did a summoning ritual in the dungeon; they hoped to bring a monster with which they could make a familiar contract and use it as a weapon... they wanted to bite off more than they could eat. -He laughed cynically as he added the result of that desperate maneuver: the idiot wizard came out screaming mad... he was holding his mutilated arm, the bone had been blown off with a blow, muscle and all; it was hanging by a few pebbles... he collapsed when he reached the plaza.

”Did they find the remains of the shepherd? “Asked Drake.

”No... it was the thing's dinner... when we arrived, the chimera began its slaughter... it's a pity, it could have been avoided. A few days before our invasion, I met with the shepherd to make some deal, but you know how those... fanatics... are.... “he says fanatics with a derogatory connotation”. The chimera turned that place into their home. I sent some soldiers to the place and they never came back; that thing comes out to eat at night. It destroys and kills everything it sees indiscriminately; its strength and speed is unbeatable. We can't use our heavy artillery when it goes hunting, it's too fast in open terrain. We can't plant bombs or seal the place, as one of my scouts on his communicator notified me that there was gold hidden in the place; our material is scarce, we must reserve it in case a Templar incursion arrives.

”I'll take care of the contract... but first. “Drake pats his stomach, letting out a nervous laugh as he gives the next request”: I'd like you to tell me of a place where I can get something to eat. I've been on the road for several hours, not finding even a hint of civilization before I get here, and I'm out of food.

”All right, leave your things in a tent of your choice and meet me in two hours at the entrance to the crypt. If you fulfill the contract, I will give you your money and we will forgive what happened in the tavern. “Adds the commander”, the tavern keeper and of the few present who could testify, said that the mercenaries started it, although most of the witnesses incite that we kill you anyway because of your nature. But we are not like the Templars, so don't waste the opportunity I'm giving you.

”I appreciate it. “Drake says”. I won't let you down.

Ilustración de Kio Artworks y Robin sempai