Chaotic Craftsman Worships The Cube

“Again!” Ather shouted out at the people surrounding him, paying no mind to those he’d already knocked down as he started to fight more, hardening and strengthening his body with his earth augmentation while swinging his spear, all to work out his burning frustration and rage.

That was all he could do after his last failed murder attempt, his mortal father and the church as a whole having sent him away under the guise of training, even if he was well aware they simply didn’t want him around to cause problems for a while when the wounds of that monster’s visit were still so fresh, with none of them satisfied in the end. He’d failed and the apostle still drew breath.

No matter how much he trained and grew, it did nothing for the memories of his defeat against a disgusting nobody. The feeling of his humiliating loss still clung to him like a poison, eating away at his mind with every day he needed to suffer the indignity of sharing the world with his hated enemy.

Even without a scar to show it after all of the healers had worked on him, he still felt that cut that had dug through his flesh and the ache of the mysterious weapon that coward had blasted him with, a pain he knew would never fade until he finally got his revenge.

If I get my revenge.

He growled as the thought crossed his mind and the spear clenched in his hands strained under the newfound pressure. Both times the statue had fallen he’d failed to end things, instead suffering only more indignation to bring back what he saw as the natural order, not just from the hands of the apostle, but his woman as well.

He’d given that very woman an opportunity to actually matter and that was how she repaid his kindness? By helping the sworn enemy of his father’s church attack him? It was beyond outrageous and marked her as just another target for revenge. All he needed was the how of it all.

“Ather, please,” A voice said meekly, pulling the demigod from his thoughts to focus back on those he was fighting, or what was left of his training partners. All of them were laying broken and bleeding on the ground, not one good enough to pass the time with as he shook his head in disgust and left without another word to practice his spearmanship by himself, with a target for all of his blows existing as firmly in his mind as the day they’d had their duel.

That night he went to sleep, angry and alone as he’d been forced to so often recently. He had no lovers in the city he’d been banished to and even his summoned companion Dres had stayed behind to enjoy what few of the failing comforts their ever poorer church could offer.

Just the thought of it sent another bout of rage ripping through him. Because of the mistake of his mortal father, Felth, everyone had to tighten their belts, even him, all to give more and more money to appease their enemy. How could the thought leave him anything but angry? The very notion kept him from getting the rest his body craved, made worse by the sudden shaking of the floor beneath him, but after another hour he was finally able to drift off, opening his eyes to his father’s realm.

It was a place he’d been to only a few times before, but each time stood out enough to imprint the environment in his mind. The strange space, reminiscent of what he might see when going through the gate, was filled with representations of his people’s lost histories.

Representations and recreations of ancient wars long forgotten by modern folk, along with great weapons that were wielded and leaders or champions his father had favoured that had turned the tides of battles, all on display for the few that were fortunate enough to be brought up there to see.

In the middle of it all was his father, examining one of the displays and not saying anything as Ather broke into a deep bow, showing his respect and silently waiting to be acknowledged, not daring to speak first as the minutes wore by.

“Ather,” Eneth eventually said, still not sparing a glance. “It’s time for you to work and raise your standing.”

“Of course, father,” He said, still in a bow. “What would you have me do?”

“Some fool has gone and opened a gate to hell and put the world on a path to destruction,” His father told him, going briefly into the details of exactly what happened before going on. “While you may not have a useful magic for this situation, you’ll be expected to protect the light and death mages who do. Show the world the strength of the church of Eneth and do not disappoint me.”

“Not to worry father, none will question our strength when they witness my power. I will make you proud.”

“See that you do,” Eneth told him, seeming as though their conversation was done until he said one final thing. “Ah, and so none can complain that I didn’t at least tell you, the apostle of Myriad will also be there attempting to deal with this. Should you encounter him, make sure you behave in a way becoming of the son of a war god.”

“That’s all I ever do.”

His father nodded with those final words before Ather found himself back in his bed, rushing up and off through the gate to meet with the space mage who would be helping so many get to the distant spot across the globe, all while his father’s words echoed in his head.

Behave in a way becoming of the son of a war god.

Neither needed to spell out what that meant, both knew easily. Ather was getting his chance. No son of any god should accept what happened to him. In the chaos of it all, he would find Ben and finally kill him, reclaiming his dignity and peace.

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