94 | brothers; i challenge you

The black throne sat atop a pile of rubble, the sharp and jagged ends that seemed to be carved of sleek metal and death, both alluring and frightening to the passing eye.

Fog filled the ground, a humid and gloomy air weighing over the skies.

It had been over half a year, approaching a full 365 days since the beginning of the apocalypse. At the 6 month mark, a vast majority of humanity disappeared, crumbling on the spot into scattered words.

Society had been in a constant mourning state, and they hardly had time to grieve before being distracted by the games of murder and survival.

Some had learned the purpose of the Thrones that had appeared randomly across the world, and few of the true existence of Tellers. Many more learned the method in claiming the Thrones, and that it would grant any wish of any kind.

In a time of despair, that slight ray of hope became a deadly craving.

Humans, having already abandoned their morals and self, would do anything to steal the wish for their own.

That was why, when a masked figure wandered around the bottom of the rubble that refused anybody it didn't acknowledge, tilting their sharp chin to the throne with a quiet, unseen expression, many noticed the appearance of such an oddity.

From the shadows and the corners of the streets, from the shattered windows, they all watched for three days as the strange man stared at the Forsaken Throne.

A slender, and slim built man wearing a black leather jacket that was torn at the ends. Silver rings gleamed around his knuckles, and combat boots rested at his feet.

His face could not be seen.

On the third day, he staggered and thrust his hand into the air, making a grabbing motion. Several lamented, oh, another one gone mad, insane. Slender fingers curved, the sharp joints of every knuckle protruding as they yanked their hand back.

Instead of nothingness, a gleaming metal blade was drawn from the empty space.

The man raised his powerful arms into the air, one leg taking a step along the rubble, and slammed it into the ground. The sword vibrated with power, quivering with ability.

Once more, the man repeated the motions of pulling a sword out of the air, and thrusting it into the ground until it submerged a 1/4 of the way into the rubble.

Then he violently pulled out a third and held it in his precarious grip.

Three black swords, made of a sleek obsidian metal, coloured the same as the Forsaken Throne. A certain thought wandered into several of the watchers' complicated gaze.

Those who didn't know the methods of obtaining the Forsaken Throne deemed him crazy, but those who did slowly crept closer.

The man slowly turned around, without care for anything. Through the dark cuts of his mask where his eyes should be, a pair of white eyes gazed coldly at the barren space around. There was a dullness to them, and at the same time a sharpness.

A smile twisted up on the white mask, black streaking down the face. It was a happy clown; it was a crying clown.

"The third Ranking will occur in three days."

A simmering and low voice rang clear through the air, the voice of a young man, sharp and telling.

A woman stepped through the fog, appearing from thin air. A deep purple bunny mask donned her face, hair a wild dismay as it brushed her shoulders, and she twisted and spun.

Her mask was cut off at the nose, revealing a pair of curved violet lips, stretched out wildly in amusement.

She stretched her arms out and shouted wickedly, "Do you hear, you senile fools? Do you see, with those eyes polluted with death? For those with the tiniest bit of brain to figure out what that Throne is, and what these swords may be—do you realize?"

Her tone was taunting, carrying a natural provocation that stirred unrest in those watching. An eerie silence fell over the area.

Not a single person even dared to whisper.

The man, standing at the bottom of the rubble, took a step forth. Wisps of raven hair fell over the ghostly mask, a haunted look over the calmness of his stance. With every step, tendrils of shadows followed after him.

In order to lure out the last King and steal his sword, in order to claim the Forsaken Throne and put an end to everything, he would abandon himself.

Himself, and everything he believed in.

He raised his sword, and the bunny-masked woman cackled wildly.

"Bow down to the Clown King, oh cowardly fools!"

Honestly, Lucas didn't know what he was doing anymore, didn't know what purpose or ending he would achieve. What he did know was that the end of the End's Delusion was necessary to keep his brother alive.

His gaze shifted sideways, resting atop a tall building that remained standing even during the chaos. A black cloak billowed in the wind, and a pair of cerulean eyes gazed back.

He looked away, his voice a soft whisper that smoothly glided over all those listening. "If you don't want to claim the throne, to steal the swords from me, then leave. If you want to claim the Forsaken Throne,"

"If you want to fight,"

The shadows twisted at his feet, violently spreading out like jagged blades.

"Then die at my hands."

Silence followed the fog that twisted around the clown and the bunny's bodies, one staring calmly into the mist and the other grinning wickedly with anticipation. They weren't embarrassed by the lack of response or presence around them.

Wren laughed, feeling the heaviness of the stares around and strolled to the side, leaping up onto a large chunk of cement that had jutted from the ground, and lazily leaned back on it.

Lucas remained standing before the Forsaken Throne, resting his hand over the ominous black sword held in his grasp.

Time continued to tick, and Lucas didn't move.

Wren rolled over, spun around, sprawled directly across, and hopped up and down several times out of boredom. Then, through the mist, a lumbering figure approached. A middle-aged man with cropped hair and sloping, tired eyes.

He glanced at the pair and said, "Those are the swords needed to claim the Throne, right?"

"It looks like you aren't entirely brainless." laughed the bunny-masked woman, her hair bouncing with her obscure movements.

The man wasn't bothered, unsmiling. "Looks like it, yeah. I'm sorry, I don't know you and you don't know me," He raised his hand up, and metal spilled between the cracks of his fingers, enveloping his hand like a glove. "But I need that wish."

"Need?" wondered the clown quietly, staring at the other. "Or want?"

The man gritted his teeth, taking a step closer through the tossed and broken ruins on the ground. "Need. For me, it's definitely need. For you, it may be nothing."

"Is there somebody you want to save?"

"...what's it matter to you? Enough talking. I'll challenge you, Clown."

The masked man tilted his head, shadows curling at his feet, poised to engulf anybody who approached. "I'm standing here with my resolve. Are you prepared to put your life on the line for the sake of yours?"

There would be no mercy.

The space before the Forsaken Throne would become a bloodbath.

"What else? I'm not standing here thinking about killing you without knowing the consequences." scoffed the middle-aged man, curling his metal fist as a pendant dangled from his neck. His expression faltered, and his fingers gently brushed against the necklace. "Enough, whoever you are."

Lucas slowly raised his head, eyes calculating and cold.

He wondered who the man wanted desperately to save, if a picture was enclosed in that precious locket of a parent, a lover, a child.

The man rushed at him, and Lucas took a deep breath and raised the onyx sword.

———xxx———

How long had it been?

Once, he'd only been able to see the blinding white of emptiness, and now all he saw was the gruesome red of death. It seemed his world was destined for monochrome.

His emotions surged, chaotic and panicked and miserable, and he pushed the knob that controlled his thoughts to a minimum, forcefully burying all his feelings.

For a particularly powerful attacker, he used the Eye of Thoughts to read their every thought and action, their every desperation. Their hopelessness as they realized they were losing. Their misery to reality.

For every death, he lived it, playing back in his mind as he crumpled to the ground in agony, the pain of dying dozens of deaths that weren't his own.

Wren would leap from the stone she perched on, dangerously stalking around him, protecting from any attacks.

And then he would stand up, and the next enemy approached.

Stand up, fall down. Stand up, fall down. Kill, and then die, and live. Kill, and then die, and live.

He... who was he anymore?

And what was he fighting for?

Bodies scattered at his feet, several arms raised towards the Forsaken Throne, the hope of a wish they'd never have granted.

The Third Ranking came and went, as if it were nothing. Like the deaths, the scattering existence of many was nothing. And he supposed they really didn't mean much, the deaths of strangers he never knew.

It had been 30 days since the Clown King stood before the Forsaken Throne and dared any to approach. He seemed to be waiting for somebody, searching for something.

For a means to an end.

Tirelessly, the man continued to rise and fall, fighting battle after battle. The crimson of blood would sink into the deathly blade, absorbed in its reflection.

In a nearby building, a man with a similar face to the one hidden beneath a clown mask stood, fist clenched and shaking with anger. A beautiful young teenager shook her head, calculating eyes gazing sorrowfully at the scene.

Her voice was soft. "I may never know him as well as you once did. But I trust the one I chatted with. As long as your intention remains stopping him, I can't let you pass."

The man, donning a white doctor's jacket that reminded him that he was one who saved lives, not reaped, swallowed heavily. His gaze burned, barely daring to blink as he watched another clash of blades, the merciless gliding of a sword.

"You... I can't do anything. You don't understand."

"That's correct, I'm not his brother. I don't have any siblings."

An awkward but muscular teenager stepped between them, feeling a rise of tension in the air. "I-I'm not happy with this either, just watching! But... erm, let's not argue, okay?"

Adelaide, Julian and Kane had been watching Lucas' battles for three weeks.

After one week, where Lucas didn't return to the hospital, a certain older brother had been sent into a frenzy of panic. Adelaide had frowned in displeasure, having lost the precious author she'd only just found.

Knowing somebody online was vastly different from in real life. She couldn't understand it, but seeing a companion die in such a strange manner...

She closed her eyes, imagining Julian fading into memory, and felt a surge of anger rise in her chest. There was some pity in her gaze as she watched Lucas' explosive movements.

It had been Elias who led them to the Forsaken Throne, being the first to notice the abnormality. He brought them underneath the ledge of a building, far enough not to be noticed.

Then, after casting a deep look at the scene, he turned and disappeared into the fog. Adelaide really couldn't read his intentions or thoughts.

Elliot had dropped by, whistling in admiration before skipping back to the hospital with Elias' help of transportation, waving lightly. "There's nothing for me to do here, and I don't really feel excited about challenging somebody who'll likely kill me."

He decided to remain at the hospital to look after the brats—children that he'd become a little attached to. Children, pure and honest, couldn't condemn him.

Before he left, he lowered his eyes at Lucas' rapidly moving figure in the fog. To nobody in particular, he muttered,

"Won't you beat death again, ghost?"

It wasn't very amusing to watch somebody he'd been following around play with death. Kane jerked his head, hearing the quietly muttered words, and Elliot cheekily smiled as if he hadn't said anything.

A person who had that many people praying for him shouldn't die so easily.

That's what Elliot's sharp and playful gaze seemed to read.

Something changed in Kane's gaze as he watched the fading back of the spirited youth who enjoyed getting on his nerves. It was a broad back and a little lonely, thought the doctor quietly to himself.

He stepped away from the shadows where he stood watching as the fog parted around his body, making a path carved of decaying corpses.

Loosely, a sword grated against the ground. He picked it up from one of the fallen survivors, wedged between stone.

And how could he not see the twisted alarm in the pale whites of his brother's eyes? The fear and the horror that reflected Kane's approaching figure, clad in a white coat and stern eyebrows that had gentled upon seeing the other.

The black blade, held firmly in Lucas' hand like a second limb, loosened.

"Lucas." said Kane softly, shoulders slumping. "I can't agree with your methods. I've been told already that so long as I wish to stop you, I should stay back and watch quietly. Then I won't stop you—tell me, how can I aid you?"

Lucas hadn't expected such a response and flinched. The one person that could say anything, and affect him—that could only be Kane.

His voice was hoarse. "This is the best method I could think of."

"No, it's the safest, isn't it? The only means you can think of where the only sacrifice will be you, and strangers. It's selfish, and it's foolish. But I know you better than you think, Lucas. You're my important family."

"...they were right to tell you that you shouldn't try to stop me."

"I'm trying to help you. With whatever you need me for, whether it's my life or death." Kane took another step closer, through the fog, as he smiled.

At the end of the day, Lucas was always Lucas.

Lacking in social skills at times, or not caring about the bluntness of his words, and yet also reading and carefully calculating others, placing himself behind anybody else. And Kane knew it wasn't because Lucas hated himself that he chose sacrifice.

It was because the person he trusted the most was himself.

Kane raised his sword, unfamiliar in his hands that held slender blades, tools of precision that were designed to save, and not fight. He had to stop being scared, to stop hesitating. The doctor's fingers curled around it more tightly, determined.

He couldn't look shameful in front of his adorable little brother, right?

He sighed, a resigned and helpless sort of sigh, as if doting on a ridiculous little sibling, prepared to give a firm scolding. There was no hesitation in his gaze.

For so long, they'd stopped being siblings, that they no longer remembered how they used to behave. They couldn't be emotional, couldn't confide, or quietly cry side by side. Not yet.

Therefore, Kane decided to not treat Lucas as his younger brother. No, Lucas was something more important than that, more important than the world that he was trying to save.

Lucas was his world. The only family he had left.

A person that could absolutely not die.

He raised his gaze.

"I challenge you, Clown King," said Kane as Lucas' eyes widened behind his mask. "To the death if you wish, but it'll be my life that ends before I allow yours to."