By: M Monroe Casey
Part One
Marche’s relentless brown eyes eyed up the painting in front of them. Gazing at “The Painting Creeper’s Tower” once more, it seems like fate brought him in front of it yet again. Alone in the art gallery, he smirked at what was coming next. It was his chance to finally prove it. Each second staring at it brought back every painful memory though from after he committed all those mistakes in the upcoming revolution, but it also brought a sense of relief too. A relief that only comes from one facing what they fear head on and that’s exactly what he planned to do.
From its dark blue, brown and purple streaks and finely designed additions of black and gray, the somber reminder of it brought back even more darker memories. Moments from when he failed both himself and someone he loved. But it wasn’t just that, it felt like he failed everyone he loved, the regret of which tore him up for years and decades to come. With a deep breath, he then took six steps towards the painting and entered its magical borders.
Leaving behind the middle hot summer months of 1981 back in Pyroclastia, he stepped into a world on the edge of the Windowsill’s gaze. Not quite outside of it but not quite somewhere that time or space has reached yet either. Stepping on, he was marching silently and alone across the dark purple and cracked rocks that surrounded the dark stone silver tower ahead.
Using the portal magic only once since his acquiring of Freezecry, it hasn’t taken its toll yet but that wouldn’t last forever. It’s not like he had unlimited chances to change everything. These things were out of his control and even a bender of the space-time continuum still had to follow someone’s rules.
In this case, the laws of a force stronger than him or anyone else that will ever be. A mysterious force known only throughout the Cosmos as “the bridge builder” or “potential energy.” Scientific classification name still pending.
But not being the one who can truly wield this force for his own use, he must live by the rules put on him. For there were only a certain number of jumps he was awarded so he had to make them count, all five of them. Anything else would be too much for his Olden form. Ripping him apart and spreading his literal existence across every planet. A punishment for those who pushed too far but as he got closer to the front door of the painting’s namesake, he knew this all. But honestly, it didn’t even matter, because he didn’t need more than five jumps for what he had planned. Then with this all in mind and a powerful kick, he crashed the front door of the tower in. Tearing it off his hinges as he stepped in.
Without Augustin or Hagro to slow him down this time, he climbed up the lone staircase in the small and thin structure. Gray stone matched all around him in the classically themed and classically depressing home of a classically lonely soul. The Painting Creeper. Seen by most as an “evil monster,” those who really knew his role didn’t think so. Merely a “harbinger of souls of sorts,” The Painting Creeper would leave lanterns on people’s doors then knock on their door.
With this centuries of work, a poem too came about, spoken at seances and haunted houses alike:
Tick, tick, tock…
Goes the Painting Creeper’s Clock.
Tick, tick, tock…
Listen for the knocks.
Tick, tick, tock…
You can try to scream and shout.
Tick, tick, tock…
Just don’t let the knocks run out.
After those knocks did in fact run out, their soul would be claimed and they would be saved from a terrible fate that was going to befall them. That’s the part that most didn’t know.
He wasn’t claiming souls as a dark and sinister force.
It was to protect the innocent beings from the impending darkness around them. Saving them from the brutal pain that could have possibly befallen them. Paint that they didn’t deserve.
It’s a work that Marche didn’t ultimately disagree with but this loveable little tinkerer had something he needed so that’s why he was next up. Something that he NEEDED for his master plan. So, he WAS going to get it. Even if he had to throw a few hits to do so. These thoughts and more ran through his mind though as he brought himself all the way to the top of the staircase. Then, he abruptly stopped. Raising his left hand up, he completed the next action then with a smirk.
Knock.
Part Two
Knocking on his door this time, the Painting Creeper immediately halted the finishing touches on a new small and stocky white paper lantern to look at the door. Long and thin arms were accompanied by long and thin legs. With a torso to match too. It was truly a body that resembled a dead and decrepit tree in the middle of the desert, almost like a pre-tumbleweed. Small red eyes resided in the middle. Eyes strained from a nearly countless amount of years devoted to his craft.
A cracky and shriek voice resounded in the emptiness, “whoooo is there?”
Knock. Knock.
“Whooooo is it?”
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Standing up from his stool at the workshop table, he halted almost immediately as through the cracks in his own thinly designed door, he could see the midnight shaded black armor with a clamp, “nooooo…”
(Hello, PC).
“I knooooow you… The Silent Tadala… why are yoooooou here?”
(I need something from you).
“Nooooo… nooooot yooooou… anyooooone but yoooooou…”
(Aren’t you going to let me in?)
The conversation continued through the thin door that the host knew only the maintaining social cues and laws was holding up.
“Hooooow did yooooou get intooooo my painting?”
(Don’t worry about it but seeing as you won’t let me in…)
Rip.
Tearing off the door and stepping in regardless, Marche walked in as the Painting Creeper retreated into his workshop, preparing for the worst. As a person who was literally responsible for thousands of lanterns throughout this tower, Marche Tadala wasn’t exactly a favorite name here.
All the poor souls that the Painting Creeper was able to save from a fate at his old hands but now, it seems it wasn’t enough. The Painting Creeper anxiously looked around at his hard work being threatened as Marche’s boots sounded off in the dimly lit candlelight of his small but modest chambers. But it was all too late. His bloodlust has reached here too…
“I beg yooooou, dooooo noooooot destrooooy the lanterns… yoooou can have whatever yooooou want, just leave them in peace…”
(Destroy the lanterns? Why?)
“Yooooou are Marche Tadala… the greatest destroooooyer knooooown toooooo life. The Ooooone Man Army… I knooooow why yoooooou are here…”
(That’s not me anymore).
“Anymoooooore?”
He nodded.
“Wait… sooooo, yoooooou are…?”
He nodded.
“But… noooooo… that is impoooossible. Yoooooou are lying toooo me… Yooooou just want toooo hurt them and even if yoooooou are soooooome sooooort of time traveler herooooo nooooow, yoooou will just undooooo all my woooork. They will just goooooo back toooo harm’s way and ooooone of yoooooou ooooother Tadala’s will hurt them then… Get ooooooout!”
(I just need something from you).
“NOOOOO! GET OOOOOUT! THESE ARE THE SOOOOOULS THAT I SAVED. I PROOOOOOTECTED THEM ALL AND YOOOOOU CAN NOOOOOT HURT THEM, YOOOOOU MONSTER!”
Fed up with it, the chain on the clamp swung out and smacked him across this thin and scraggly face.
(I told you. I’m not here for that. Give me the armor. Now).
“The armoooor? Nooooo… yoooooou can noooooot have that either. It is noooooot even yoooooours to wear… I was making it fooooor oooooour Prince Hagroooooo…”
(I know. Give me it).
Stepping between him and the infamous magical black armor of 1982’s Lord Jadix, The Painting Creeper attempted to intimidate an unstoppable soul.
(Give me the armor).
“Noooooo…”
(Fine, you judgmental fool).
Swinging his clamp from the left, he knocked him out of the way and then stepped up to grab it without too much effort expended.
Laying on the ground, unable to do anything to physically stop the force that entered his tower that night, the Painting Creeper offered one last comment to him as he was proceeding to exit it all, back to the real world outside.
“I doooo noooooot knooooow what yooooou are planning but yoooooou knooooow… yooooou can nooooot doooooo everything yooooourself…”
Stopping at the doorframe with a smirk, he signed back before disappearing down the staircase, his treasure safely sitting in his clamp.
(Oh, can’t I?)
Walking out of the tower without any more needless destruction, he crossed the dark purple rocks once more to the edge of the small pocket dimension. Emerging to the real world art gallery back in Pyroclastia City’s richest neighborhood, he packed it into a bag he prepared before promptly leaving the closed gallery’s back loading dock. All before the precise unlocking of the front doors at 8:00 AM.
With the “treasure stolen from the dragon in the tower,” it was time for the fearless knight to go slay a demon now.
A thought that made his fists itching for a fight to really and truly test their might and mettle.
It was finally time to prove it once and for all.
Prove just who the strongest of the two really was.
Part Three
Hagro Tadala proceeded down the southeastern hallway of the Royal Palace. Alone in the evening. The clean white stone walls didn’t fit his inner resentment to all of life.
Walking at a brisk and powerful pace in the dimly lit candlelight, his brown eyes and brown hair were hidden in the near darkness around him. A brooding mood that fits exactly how he feels now. Long black robes were worn too as he was slowly embracing the anger and malice inside.
Nevermind the fact that he didn’t give a lot of those people a true second chance, they let him down so it was still their fault he hurt inside. He was the best and they didn’t treat him like that. It couldn’t possibly be his fault. It was ALL their fault. It had to be. They weren’t special like him. Nobody was.
Stuck in his own ego, he couldn’t see past the decision of their late father and mother to leave the throne to the oldest, Udo, even despite the fact that he was the one with the “Smile of Fate.” It went Udo, Hagro, Marche and Bnonoa in that order for age. It seemed fair normally but he was the different one. He was the special one. He was the one who should never fear defeat as long as he had this mysterious power in his favor. This smile was his and his alone.
It was an ancient birthright chosen to one soul at a time and it chose him. He could truly conquer everything with it. He could spread the reach and power of the Tadala Empire across the Cosmos, even challenge the High Goddess herself. Maybe even the others too. Quite possibly even the Star, if he dared to dream of it, once she was found of course.
Continuing in his pace throughout the “1666’s 1981,” Monica and CJ scribbled their notes and chuckled to each other at his inner monologue. Knowing just what happened in the Old Past when he had those exact thoughts. When he challenged CJ a few decades later and was absolutely crushed. A fight that CJ remembers all too fondly.
Unknown to the “future” though, the pompous Hagro nearly reached the end of the hallway before he turned a corner towards his bedroom chambers. Wrapping up his conclusion with how he should show them all now with the power of brukev in his veins, a growing army of otherworldly non-descript magical beasts, the super sword DarkFlame and…
“My new armor… Ummm wait… Who are you?”
Stopping immediately in his progression, there was another being there. Wearing armor that he had never been before, his younger brother stood across from him. Just the two of them.
(Hello Hagro).
“Ummm… how do you know my name? Wait… why do you have my armor?”
(Test).
“What?”
Then for an answer instead of signing back, Marche released the clamp and heaved the one-of-a-kind and priceless magical armor like it was a dead fish at his brother.
“AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”
Remembering this from the first time it was animated at an extremely dramatic and unnecessary ceremony with a whole string orchestra, Marche then watched as the DNA coded boots, greaves, chestplate and more fused onto his form with ease. Knowing he couldn’t go too early in 1981 that the armor wasn’t ready but not too late that it was already on his body for too long to establish roots, this day was the precise moment he chose. The Painting Creeper could maybe know who he was but Hagro was so self-absorbed there was no way he would ever remember seeing this armor before then. It was literally the perfect time to strike at a central piece of the Lord Jadix ensemble.
To strike down the armor and to check off another item on the list.
That being he could show that foolish Tower-ridden-tinkerer that he made a mistake in ever suggesting this ridiculous armor could stand anywhere next to him. Sure, this was his selfish reason but there were less selfish reasons too.
As the holes and gaps sealed, the sentient metallic body was coming to life now. Created from a very unique type of “Invoked Soul,” The Painting Creeper specifically chose this type of animation due to the symbiotic nature of it. It would live inside the armor and protect the wearer from all attacks, reducing them each down the strength of a single punch.
It was also this armor that would later absorb every last ounce of power he acquired in his ascension. Like a massive battery, it would perfectly accent his ascension too.
Adding in his incredible offensive power later with the brukev and DarkFlame then Hagro, or later known as Lord Jadix, became truly a force to be reckoned with. But if he ever would be defeated, the mysterious force powering the armor would return to its far off dimension, unable to be invoked again where it could live out its days in peace there. His compounded power would be released as well. A literal complete win for everyone in the “PC’s beady little red eyes.”
With a tiny bit of steam escaping from the left side underneath the armpit, almost like its first breathes, Marche then acted. Swinging in his clamp from the left, he targeted exactly where it was let out, cracking a little bit of it as it was finishing sealing and setting. With a bigger burst of air being released with audible noise this time, he charged and then ripped the armor off of Hagro in one heaving motion as the man inside only watched on, helpless inside of the living creation, still completely lost in all that was happening.
Pushing the freed again Hagro out of the way to the left wall of the hall with his left hand, Marche then stood face to face with the living armor. Hagro slid on his butt all the way to the wall then sat with eyes wide open now. Watching on to what was coming next. Two extremely powerful forces stood off now. One ruled by passion and one without. Devoid of personality, it really only had one goal, survival. Looking to test just that, Marche smirked as he swung in his clamp from the right to start the fight.
With a smack, the black armor barely flinched with its nulling effects on full application now before it charged at him back. No eyes to stare into through the helm as it got closer and closer.
Part Four
Delivering a punch straight to the center of the face, they each exchanged blows while the bystander in the corner commented all along. Punch after punch, another line of his commentary resounded throughout the small hallway turned into a hallowed battleground.
“Our Dark King Shata… he was right… The Black Armored Being would come…”
Marche brought a left hook to the left side of the helm.
“… he would come for us all…”
The armor smacked him across the right side of his helmet.
“For them, for time, for himself… that is what he said but what did that mean… who is them?”
Metallic knuckles struck the armor’s right side next.
“Them… them… wait, did he mean me? Why me?”
More knuckles hit more metal on the left side this time.
“Maybe… he is jealous of my greatness. Of my power… yeah… that has to be it. But if he was, he would not save me too. He would have just destroyed the armor with me in it… he can not be out for me and the time part… that means he is not from our time…”
Watching Hagro slowly piece it together, Monica and CJ held hands on Mt. Couch and just watched now, their notes fully done for the “day.”
Marche and the armor were beginning to bring the fight to the edge of the hallway. Towards the terrace and the whole world that lay below. Following them from a safe distance, Hagro continued on.
“And himself… hmmm… so, them being us from the Tadala blood line, time being this time now and himself being… someone with a lot of… a lot of… grief. From the future with a bad eye for their past. Wait…
Their fight led by their fists brought them both to the terrace now, outside in the dreary and overcast summer evening. Their mountainside fortress sat above it on the western edge of the city. Close by to the richness and wealth of that side of the city. Far away from the “undesirables” and the “others.” Just the way that their misguided legacy liked it. Closer to the real “tastemakers” of it all.
It was another legacy that the future Marche looked to change as well.
Just one step, and one punch, at a time.
“No way… I know who that is… I can not believe I did not even recognize him…”
Pausing for a second and realizing just how badly he felt right then, Hagro’s remorse hit a stronger cord in his gut when he realized how far this “little revolution” pushed his younger brother. Hagro was the one who pushed him to give into his anger. Pushed him to become a “machine of destruction” and he incentivized him to train so hard to do so. Convinced him that Udo truly was the greatest enemy they always had. He truly was an instrumental part of the “monster that he became.”
“Marche…”
Hearing his name being uttered by the shocked and flabbergasted bystander, Marche looked over and nodded at Hagro. An actual smile under his helmet this time that somehow, Hagro could feel too. Their brotherly bond gave them that privilege and right. A bond stronger than any magic or brukev. The greatest power they will ever share. Brothers.
Knowing he couldn’t change everything that put Hagro on this path in one fight, he decided a while ago to continue the “Lord Jadix prevention” later. He just had to keep the tamer side of the fight near him so Hagro could solve it all on his own. Now that was over, it was time for the real fight to begin. No more holding back. No more mercy. No more armor.
Delivering a left hit to the gut of the armor then a right uppercut to the jaw of the logic defying creation, he sent it falling over the ledge to the city streets below as he climbed up to pursue. Leaping down without hesitation, he chased after his opponent with his one goal still sitting forefront on it all.
Above in a tower on the left side, the youngest of the collection sat. Watching on through purple and judgemental eyes. Long black robes covering his body and a hood up over his boney face. A single raspy sounding question resounded from his tower bedroom window.
“Marche… what did you do now?”
Part Five
As Hagro watched on from the terrace above and Bnonoa watched on from even higher up above, Marche proceeded to deliver the hits in quick succession to his opponent. Fighting on the empty streets of Pyroclastia City, the gray and window-filled structures provided the backdrop as their fist fight raged on. The civilians each watched on in anticipation too and from their safe distances throughout, all were witnessing it for themselves.
A punch from Marche.
The armor reciprocated.
A kick from Marche.
The armor returned it.
With every hit from Marche dealing the same damage and output, it wasn’t a big surprise that he was slowly losing this battle of attrition. A punch to his ribs hurt a lot more than one to his muscular back. But his opponent wasn’t quite in the same situation.
Even a left foot pivoted then right foot delivered spinning kick to the chest brought the same results to the other black armored adversary. No matter the hit. It could be a literal planet coming down from the heavens above but it would have the same outcome. There were only a few known spells that could splice through it but those were a part of ancient and dead magical hierarchy that seemed a whole lightyear away from Marche’s very limited magical capabilities. So, the only solution was to keep on wailing on it as hard as he could. Over and over again.
He didn’t care how long it took.
He didn’t care if it couldn’t be broken.
He had only one sense of hope in this fight.
Keep on fighting.
Keep on hitting.
Keep on punching.
Regardless of its magic or its rules…
Make it break.
Because he had too.
Crossing from west to east, they moved around the streets until they finally reached the precise point that Marche planned all along. A swiftly brought hit delivered every few steps to one or both of the two, each one with that intent, guiding them to his exact point. The eastern city limits and the entrance to Old Pyroclastia. Far away from the two bystanders from earlier and even farther from his greatest enemy on this day. An enemy who was returning from a mission to the north to his home in the Royal Palace.
Conveniently showing Hagro who he was, getting the scornful eyes of Bnonoa and avoiding the other two.
Old Pyroclastia could allow him to do all of that.
It was an area of the city that was founded as their origins by Quiet Timmy of the earthly explorers, it was later then populated as the city then eventually left it behind for the literally greener lands down the hill. Deciding that their grand historical legacy was important though, the Tadala family kept the land as an homage. To remember where they came from and to be preserved by the Pyroclastian Historical Society.
It was the perfectly isolated place for Marche to bury a part of his past forever. Amidst its ancient red and orange rocks, similar paintings that included splashes of blue and their light gray mud huts. Much similar to the one he was forced to live out his recent days in. A point that was beginning to hit home for him even more as he traded similar hits back and forth to the armor’s face.
It WAS a sad and lonely hut, forgotten forever.
His moderately selfish reason for doing all of this.
But it didn’t have to stay that way. He wouldn’t let it.
It was a fate that he was looking to forever change and as they briefly stood off from each other once more, they then continued on the beatdown without hesitation.
Two nearly unstoppable forces continue on to do battle.
Part Six
Their fist fight brought them to his point but Marche wasn’t slowing down. He didn’t need the cyclical effects of the brukev in his body to do it. He didn’t even need his rage fueling him either. He was going to win and complete this fight from one thing and one thing alone. His sheer and undefeatable willpower. Nothing else mattered right now. He had to win and he had to do it faster.
He only had a few more minutes before the others caught up too and it didn’t matter as much if Hagro or Bnonoa saw him in his moment but the other two couldn’t.
He already burned more time in the “cross city guidance” than he originally allotted for. He had to make it work.
Every moment planning and every moment waiting.
Every calculation was done so the improv can come later.
This part today was the most pivotal in terms of time and as he swung his clamp in from the left this time, he saw it as the large accessory struck its target.
He did have the advantage and it was there on his left wrist all along.
The long black chain and the equally black hand clamp.
Like a lion tamer he heard about back in the Earth legends of old, he kept his distance in the former main street and swung the chain back and forth. Immediately as it made contact with the target, he swung it back from a different direction with a similar velocity.
Smack.
He swung to the right.
Smack.
To the left now.
Smack.
The brainless adversary couldn’t do anything now to react as he adapted his strategy. Nothing to do but get another hit from the right as it came in. Especially now that Marche was beginning to pick up speed even more.
Smack.
He attacked from the left side again. Seeing the armor showing visible signs of weakening now, Marche knew he was on the right path as he just let gravity and its momentum continue to bring the pain. Simply moving his left arm back and forth. A clampy hit after hit. Left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left and then right.
With the armor falling to its knees now, he planted his metallic left boot in the white dirt to gain more power, stopping the repetitive onslaught, only briefly. As his opponent began to slowly gather itself to stage a weak comeback, he returned the massive clamp to himself, doing a full spin on that planted left foot as he caught it. Then as the armor stood to its feet but not full upright yet, he brought in the final blow.
Using up all the momentum he gained from the lashing and spin, he catapulted the massive metallic clamp back and straight into the chest of it. Shattering it apart upon instant impact.
Greaves, helmet, chestplate and all fell to the ground as the invoked soul left for its home dimension, safe and sound. As predicted.
With a strong smirk and nothing more to say or prove, he drew upon the power of Freezecry once more as a silvery and fluid portal opened up in the now clean summer night air behind where his enemy once stood. The setting sun finished its goal too as the night has officially come to greet them all. But he wouldn’t be there to watch it tonight. Early 1982 was calling his name.
Power walking ahead, the crunching sound of the deanimated helmet under his boot sounded off in the silence around him as another portal then completely swallowed up his whole form.
Next stop, to destroy a demi-god.
The End
Castle Johnson Publishings 