The dungeon reeked of mildew with the faintest metallic note of blood still staining the walls. The faint rustle echoed through the silence, interrupted only by the distant drip of water. Every drop echoed, as if grains of sand were trickling through an hourglass, measuring out the long years of torturous suffering he endured.
Every day, he focused solely on mastering the deciphering of the twenty seals holding those phantasmal chains. Now, with his eyes closed and twitching beneath his lashes, and the pressure of the chains digging into his skin, he concentrated so hard that his forehead lit up, all the while yearning for the liberty to walk free once more.
'How satisfying it would be to see no trace of their world, all by my own hands,' Deming entertained, an evil smirk curling his lips, tasting the thought like honey. 'Their mutilated bodies shall be my masterpiece, and their painful screams, well, the sweetest melody to my ears... And all of that is within my grasp now.'
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Deming was pulled from his trance as heavy footsteps echoed off the stone walls, and the sound grew nearer as they hurried toward the dungeon. In the stillness, the low voices of men spoke far away in indistinguishable tones of urgency.
Many self-proclaimed 'gods' got together, preventing Feng Deming from escaping, all of them completely aware of his great power. The faerie general, known as 'the god of war,' yelled all the way through the dungeon, his voice grating as if metal were shredding against stone. "Cease, demon!"
Deming refused to open his eyes, not when he was this close to breaking the seal. 'Now, they shall witness the true meaning of what they call... a monster.' He sneered, the curve of his grin widening as he continued to decode the seals.
The faerie general looked to be in his mid-twenties. He had long, shiny silver hair with a slight wave and a gold chain headpiece that dangled a jewel resting against his forehead, matching the deep blue of his doe eyes.
The voice of the general began to rise in volume and intensity. "I said, stop!" A crackling pulse of energy formed a beam of light in his hand, vibrating with power.
And still, Deming refused to budge, not a moment of his attentions diverted by the alerts.
When he opened those eyes of his—like molten metal, telling stories of untold suffering and a promise of revenge—his long and dark lashes cast shadows across his cheeks with every slow blink. His golden eyes swept over the trembling soldiers. Each little shudder, each hasty flinch, only pleased him, as if he fed on the horror in their eyes.
Frustration and dread tinged the general's voice as he faced his troops. "Attack!"
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