Warlock of War: My Ares System

The pain was excruciating as if every nerve and sinew in my body was being stretched and contorted. My screams pierced the unnatural stillness of the forest, reverberating through the luminescent mushroom grove like a mournful dirge. My limbs twisted and spasmed uncontrollably, my fingers clawing at the earth in a futile attempt to escape the torment.

Dark, malevolent magic surged through my veins like a torrent, infecting every aspect of my being. It was as though I had become a conduit for some ancient, unholy power. My senses were overwhelmed by the acrid taste of corruption, and my vision was clouded by an oppressive darkness.

Tears continuously flowed uncontrollably down my face, mixing with the sweat of agony. Incoherent words of torment escaped my lips as I struggled to make sense of the agonizing transformation. It was as though I were being torn apart from the inside, my very essence corrupted and contorted by the unnatural infusion of this malevolent force.

Amid the surreal, pulsating glow of the bioluminescent mushrooms, I realized the irreversible nature of the change that had overtaken me. The forest, once a place of wonder, now bore witness to my torment, its eerie illumination casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to mock my suffering. I was forever altered, marked by forces beyond my comprehension, and the dark magic now coursed through me like a relentless curse, a testament to the inexplicable and malevolent powers that had chosen me as their vessel.

[Your soul has been sacrificed] 

…

"Mom…? Mom?" 

In the heart of the grimy slums, amidst the foul stench and decaying refuse, a young boy stood alone on a desolate trash heap. His overgrown black hair hung untamed, cascading over his forehead and obscuring much of his face. Swirling, innocent black eyes, framed by dark, sunken circles, stared down at the lifeless form of his mother. It was a moment that marked a significant turning point in his young life, one that would forever shape the contours of his heart and soul.

His small, frail frame was barely a match for the harsh environment he found himself in. Dressed in tattered rags that clung to him like a second skin, he looked more like a street urchin than a child who had known the comfort of a loving home. The soles of his worn-out shoes were held together with twine, a testament to the poverty that had dogged their existence.

The surroundings were a brutal testament to the harshness of life in the slums. Mounds of garbage stretched as far as the eye could see, forming an eerie and oppressive landscape. Rats scurried through the debris, searching for any remnants of sustenance. Feral cats prowled nearby, their predatory eyes fixed on the boy as he stood in silent mourning. The air was thick with the acrid scent of decay and despair, a constant reminder of the hopelessness that pervaded this forsaken place.

Yet, the mother, even in the stillness of death, retained a haunting beauty that seemed to defy the harshness of her surroundings. Her features, though now pale and lifeless, bore the elegant traces of a woman who had known grace in the midst of adversity.

Her skin, despite the trials of a life spent in the unforgiving slums, had a porcelain-like quality, untouched by the ravages of time. It was as if the hardships she had endured had failed to tarnish the delicate canvas of her face. Upon closer inspection, the faint lines of her experiences could be seen, etching a map of her life's journey in the form of fine, barely perceptible wrinkles. Her skin bore a few small scars, battle wounds from the struggles she had faced, but they only added character to her visage.

Her cheeks once flushed with vitality, now held a serene pallor, lending an ethereal quality to her visage. The high, elegant cheekbones that had framed her face in life were still striking in death, casting delicate shadows in the fading light of day. The soft curve of her jawline, now motionless, retained its graceful symmetry, a testament to the innate beauty that had graced her existence.

Her hair, like her son's, was a cascade of black, but unlike his unruly tangles, her locks lay in gentle waves around her head. Strands of ebony framed her peaceful face, their lustrous sheen seemingly undiminished by the struggles she had faced in her short life. Her hair bore a few stray leaves and specks of dirt, remnants of the trash heap on which she had been discarded, but they did little to diminish the elegance of her final repose.

Her eyes, once mirrors of warmth and tenderness, remained closed, but the memory of their depth and soulfulness lingered. They had held the wisdom of someone who had seen the world's cruelty and yet had continued to love fiercely, especially her son. The long, dark eyelashes that had once framed those eyes were still evident, adding a delicate touch to her beauty, even in death.

Her lips, slightly parted in a final, silent breath, bore the trace of a faint smile as if she had found solace in the end. It was a smile that spoke of resilience, of a mother's enduring love, and of a spirit that had refused to be crushed by the unforgiving circumstances of her existence. The delicate curve of her lips seemed to capture a moment of serenity in the midst of her tumultuous life.

As the boy gazed down at his mother's lifeless body, his emotions were slow to surface. At first, his expression remained stoic, as if he couldn't quite comprehend the gravity of the situation. He had grown up in these unforgiving slums, where death was a constant companion, but this was different. This was his mother, the one person who had shown him love and warmth in a world that had little of either to offer. He recalled the gentle lullabies she used to sing, the way she would smile even when there was so little to smile about.

But then, as the reality of her absence set in, the floodgates of grief began to crack open. His innocent black eyes filled with tears, and his trembling lips quivered as he struggled to contain the overwhelming sadness that washed over him. His mother's lifeless face, once filled with laughter and tenderness, was now a mask of quiet suffering. Her hands, calloused from a life of hardship, lay cold and motionless at her sides.

Tears trickled down his dirt-streaked cheeks, leaving trails of clean skin amidst the layers of grime. He knelt beside his mother's corpse, his small hand reaching out to touch her lifeless form as if hoping that this nightmare would somehow turn into a dream. But the cold reality of her death, in this forsaken place, left him with a profound sense of loss and abandonment that no child should ever have to endure. His sobs echoed through the desolation, a mournful symphony of sorrow.

The slums, with their dilapidated shanties and desperate souls, bore witness to this heartbreaking scene. In the distance, the distant hum of city life continued, indifferent to the tragedy unfolding in its shadows. The boy, now orphaned and alone, had been thrust into a world where survival meant scraping for every scrap of sustenance, where danger lurked around every corner, and where the innocence in his black eyes had been forever marred by the cruelty of circumstance.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the trash heap, the boy remained by his mother's side, a lone figure in a world that had turned its back on him. The night was settling in, bringing with it the bitter chill of despair, and the boy knew that he would have to summon a strength he never knew he possessed to navigate the treacherous path that lay ahead. In the slums, where hope was a rare commodity, he would strive to find a glimmer of light amidst the darkness, honoring his mother's memory and the love she had given him, even in the bleakest of circumstances. HE WAS GOING TO PROVE THIS WORLD WRONG-

Suddenly, as if emerging from the very darkness that surrounded him, a shadowy figure materialized. It was a tall, imposing presence, and the boy could barely catch a fleeting glimpse of a face obscured by darkness. Panic coursed through his veins, and he instinctively recoiled, a mixture of fear and confusion overwhelming his already fragile emotions.

In a swift and calculated move, the figure reached out and snatched the boy up, his small frame no match for the strength of the unknown assailant. The boy's heart raced as he struggled in vain against the powerful grip that held him captive. He tried to scream, but fear had stolen his voice.

The world around him suddenly blurred into a disorienting whirlwind as he was whisked away from the only familiar presence he had left in the world. The boy's struggles gradually grew weaker. He felt an odd sensation washing over him, a dizziness that dulled his senses. Unbeknownst to him, the shadowy figure had administered a sedative, a chemical meant to render him unconscious. His eyelids grew heavy, and his frantic thoughts gave way to a deep, dreamless slumber. But just before he went under, he caught a glimpse of this asshole… 

"D-Dad?"