Civil Conflict

Description: This was a flashback scene which describes a civil conflict which Ethan was in while serving another master. It was originally in the third chapter, but the beginning of the story had too many flashback scenes, and it didn't fit in the later half of the story, so I decided to cut it.

A century later there was a civil conflict in the town where I lived. My master back then, a pompous rich man named Beflamont who lived on a hill, sent me across town every morning to fetch him bread and milk. Every day he would point his chubby finger at the door and grunt like he couldn’t be bothered pronouncing the words. He didn’t have to. I knew the routine so well that he didn’t need to say anything, but even when the streets around us descended into a battlefield, that old man still sent me across town like he was too old and dusty to change his routine.

The world outside was chaos. Buildings were burning and people were running away screaming. The streets were full of rebels and demons who chanted “Down with Azazel” as they lit pictures of the king on fire. The other side of the river was full of royal soldiers who mercilessly launched magic attacks towards us. I desperately dodged flying projectiles and scorching beams of light as I dashed through the town hugging the groceries tightly to my chest. Because regardless of walking through a war zone, Beflamont would certainly punish me if I shattered his precious milk.

“Hey soul!” Called a blood red demon with two giant horns protruding from his skull. “Can you hold this for a moment?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead he grabbed my arm and forced me to hold the handle of his magical canon as it sent out a scorching beam of light across the river.

I stood there too terrified to let go as the large demon lit a cigarette and took a drag like he wasn’t in the middle of a battle. I was thinking of the best way to politely request him to take his canon back, when a stray magical attack passed by me and hit him through the chest. The demon’s body exploded right before my eyes and splattered me with blood. I let go of the weapon and tried to ignore the screams of the rebel I hit. The idea of harming someone left me sleepless for weeks, but he was going to die no matter what.

After that I nervously staggered the rest of the way back, and desperately tried to clean the blood off my master’s groceries before I presented him with the spotless goods. He merrily ate his bread and jam that morning like nothing was amiss.

The next day when I made my trip through the town everything was silent, and the streets were littered with the rebel’s bloody corpses. Turns out that the king of the Underworld is a master of dealing with unrest. I guess you’d have to be in order to rule over this place for seven hundred years.

Anyway, back to Master Alistair and his strange obsession with the window.

Go back to the main story!