I despise the art of perfection, because chaos isn't perfect. It was never meant to be.
Far beyond the bounds of familiarity, in the nethermost reaches of the Far South of Shawnforth, there lay an enigmatic expanse: the Thrasher Desert.
First discovered by Geologist Amon Brooke Thrasher five centuries ago, spanning half the land mass of the Ancient Zion empire, the desert harbored subterranean freshwaters, coursing beneath its scorched crust.
The Earth was rich in rare and resplendent minerals: Goz copper, Red steel, Gloydon, Irgon, Slaver, and the Preacher's Platinum.
In the present day, to the boreal edge of the desert stood a Zionite bastion. Under the blistering gaze of the noonday suns, Estrellos and ZuiZui, mirages shimmered like apparitions, and waves of heat parched the horizon. Though primarily subterranean, the strongholds were partly buried in the dunes.
Seventy-five degrees Malcey, muttered a voice. These cheap contractors can't get 'real' heat-proof stones.
Perched atop one of the towers dwelt a man grievously vexed by the unrelenting heat. His skin was the hue of sand, his white hair curled, his grey pupils swaying like the wind.
Bare-chested and clad only in shorts, he inspected a circular device—a thermometer, its slender needle trembling at the digit "70".
He slid open his drawer with practiced ease and carefully stored the thermometer. His gaze settled on a small, faded photograph tucked within — a fairly old woman's face, cloaked in an unfathomable beauty.
She looked human, with golden wheat hair, but an otherworldly blue, staring into the obscure.
As he marvelled at the photograph, a jarring shriek shredded the silence
He flinched, then moved swiftly, almost ritualistically, shutting the drawer with a snap. A whisper left his lips:
Oh yes, he muttered, almost as if remembering something he had long tried to forget. I nearly forgot.
He pivoted and headed to his desk. His hand reached not for a tool, but for a wand, nestled like a sleeping thing. Forged from pure Slaver, it resembled a miniature staff, its surface etched with faint, indecipherable runes that shimmered in the dim light. As his fingers closed around it, the air seemed to tighten.
He bolted through the doors, grabbing a deep brown overalls and hurriedly putting them on. He nearly slipped as he hit the hallway at full speed.
The corridor was alive with motion. People raced everywhere, rushing in every direction. Men and women shouted over one another, exchanging hurried questions and unfinished thoughts. Even a few kids, a rare sight in this sector, weaved through the chaos like pros, clearly used to the commotion.
What's the scale of this one? Someone shouted over the noise. I heard it's a big one!
The voice belonged to Worker 45, a tall man built like a broomstick. He had a slender figure, with snow white hair and light turquoise eyes. He wore the same outfit as everyone as, a deep green overall, which he decided to make dramatic with several stickers and color patterns.
Big enough, the man replied, barely slowing down. Let's just hope it's not another protocol-failure drill. I still haven't recovered from the previous one.
Recovered? Worker 45 scoffed. I don't know about you, but I can't wait to blind those beasts with my otherworldly light.
The man smiled. What kind of beast will it be? Elemental? Demonic? Apparition? I bet on Elemental!
Remember, you are meant to kill it, Worker 45 said. Do not study them as if they were a work of art.
Everything is a work of art, the man proclaimed. I'm a curious man. Just let me have my fun.
The two halted before a great ironclad gate, its surface etched with ancient sigils that pulsed faintly, as though stirred by their presence.
Worker 45 grinned. Splendid, so it's not a drill.
The gate responded — a smooth, metallic orb emerged from a hidden cavity, hovering like an insect. It was the size of a melon, its dull casing forged from moon-alloy, brittle yet bound by enchantment.
The orb's shell opened like petals, revealing a smaller core within — a single rose eye that glowed. It casted a spectral beam upon the two men, followed by a soft, deliberate chime.
Welcome, the orb intoned in a voice both feminine and forged, Worker Forty-Two, and…
It hesitated — the eye shifted, spun once, then locked again with focus.
…and welcome, The Showmaster.
In the Bastion, titles bore weight beyond names — they were legacies, told in fables and etched into myths, feared or revered.
Hello, Nella. Worker 45 and Showmaster chorused.
The gate hissed, then parted with a thunderous groan, sliding wide to reveal a vast chamber drenched in shadow. Far across the expanse, fifty Creters away, a behemoth stirred.
The beast was monstrous: plated in thick, earth-hued scales, it marched on fifteen powerful legs. Behind it whipped five serpentine tails, their tips crowned with onyx spikes sharp enough to cleave bone and stone alike. And then its face.
Five crimson eyes burned in the gloom, and its mouth twisted into a predator's grin, filled with jagged, saber-like teeth, as though some mad god had gifted it a smile.
Indeed, the Showmaster said, his knuckle being cracked, it's a big one.
A fine warmup, wouldn't you say? Worker 42 grinned, his voice light, but his stance battle-ready. Or are you planning to give the 'haven't yet recovered' excuse when you get your ass beaten?
The Showmaster answered with a smirk, tilting his head just so. I may be too fast for you to even see it.
Their eyes met with a jolt of rivalry, and they vanished from the stronghold's corridor.
To the beast's many eyes, a blur of searing light rushed towards it, and above, a gargantuan veil, like a tent, descended to seal the creature's doom.