NTR & Heartbreaks (Thorjen Last Verse) The Warg- Part 1

Thorjen's heavy eyelids lifted slowly, each blink a struggle against the weight of his own despair. He was enveloped in a sea of ethereal clouds, their beauty a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within him. For days, this cycle of waking and sleeping had been his only refuge, a temporary escape from the relentless pain and doubt clawing at his heart. Each awakening brought nothing but exhaustion and misery, leading him back into the arms of slumber, where he hoped against hope that the pain would eventually fade away.

"...Thorjen...A-re you ok?" The voice was faint, almost lost in the whistling of the ethereal winds - it came from the brooch fastened securely against his collar.

Thorjen pondered the question, his mind now a labyrinth of thoughts he had been too overwhelmed to navigate before. He wasn't broken, nor was he irrevocably lost in his despair. He was simply, undeniably, scared.

"I’m scared, Petra... I'm scared," he confessed, his voice barely a whisper.

"...I know Thorjen. A-and I want you to overcome this in your own time b-but..."

Thorjen felt a sense of urgency, a realization that time was a luxury he might not possess much longer. "I’m running out of time," he sighed, feeling an invisible **** binding him to this dreamlike realm. Pushing himself up, he rose unsteadily to his feet, his body protesting every movement.

"Th-thorjen...You don't have to-"

"It’s ok Petra, you’re right. This isn't reality; it's a deception. The fates are toying with me, seeking to devour my soul in my weakest moment...I...I have to keep moving forward-I know."

His hand trembled as he placed it over his heart, his gaze drifting towards the three mysterious doors that remained. 'Arya...N-ness.' His heart echoed their names, each syllable heavy with unspoken sorrow. He had a theory, a gut-wrenching hypothesis about these doors. They represented people he knew, and choosing one meant confronting a truth he wasn't sure he was ready to face.

With hesitant steps, he approached the ivory door adorned with the image of a blindfolded Elven lady. As he drew closer, the face of someone familiar materialized on the door, a revelation that left him breathless.

‘Thorjen's realization struck him like a wave of icy water: the figure behind the ivory door was his mother. The weight of this truth sent shivers down his spine, but he knew there was no turning back. With a trembling hand, he pushed the door open, stepping into a blinding light that seemed to breathe in golden hues, pulling him into an uncertain reality.

As the light faded, Thorjen found himself in a dark, stone cathedral, its tall walls lined with towering pillars. The vast space between him and the ominous altar at the far end was palpable with an eerie sense of dread. Despite every instinct screaming at him to flee, Thorjen **** himself to stand his ground.

"This is a dream... this isn’t real... stay sane—we can do this," he muttered to himself, trying to anchor his mind in the face of fear.

Before he could complete his thought, a ghoulish figure rose in the distance. A surge of purple fire twisted into existence, assembling shards of black iron into a daunting black knight. Thorjen's heart raced as he instinctively stepped back, his eyes darting around in panic. Spotting a weapons rack filled with dark, misshapen irons, his gaze fixated on a medium-sized sword.

He rushed towards the rack, seizing the coarse iron blade. Its weight was immense, but adrenaline coursed through his veins, empowering him to wield it. As he grasped the sword, a suffocating pressure descended upon him, emanating from the knight. Despite knowing the knight's superiority, Thorjen couldn't contain his roaring fury. He charged forward, sword raised, only to be cut down by a swift, violet arc.

"AUH!" Thorjen gasped, awakening on the cold, stone floor of the cathedral. Disoriented, he realized he was still within the same grim structure. "Wait... I’m still here?" Panic set in as he carefully surveyed his surroundings.

He found himself near the entrance, but as he approached the aisle where he had fallen, the familiar violet light sparked again, reconstructing the formidable knight. Thorjen's heart sank. "You've got to be kidding me."

The scene replayed, and he found himself pinned against a pillar, unarmed and petrified. The knight's giant blade descended, plunging him into darkness once more.

Rising again in the same cathedral, Thorjen felt the bitter sting of realization: he was trapped in a loop. "This damned fate stone—what does it want from me? Does it expect me to beat that knight? There's no way..."

He pondered alternate strategies. "Perhaps I could run past it?" But the hall's layout offered no escape. Then, an idea struck him. As the knight began to materialize for the third time, Thorjen sprinted past the forming flames, laughing triumphantly at his cunning. "How do you like that, fate! Kiss my—huh?" His triumph was cut short, a new revelation dawning upon him.

As the iron-clad knight emerged again, Thorjen felt the familiar surge of dread, yet something within him had shifted. With each resurrection, a fragment of his humanity seemed to slip away, leaving a void where fear once resided. He pondered his transformation, his mind drifting to days spent on the azure mountain, immersed in martial arts and artistic pursuits. "When did I start forgetting who I was?" he mused, his thoughts interrupted by the familiar sound of the knight's arrival.

"I almost thought you weren't going to come... wishful thinking, right? It's been what... 650 times?" Thorjen said with a hollow chuckle, watching the knight assemble its crude iron sword.

This time, Thorjen was armed with dual swords, a strategy born from countless deaths and rebirths. He exhaled deeply, his eyes locked on the knight. As the battle commenced, Thorjen moved with newfound agility, his movements a blend of precision and grace. He recalled the 'Standing Swallow' stance, channeling his energy into a fluid attack.

But the knight was ready, effortlessly parrying Thorjen's strikes. Unfazed, Thorjen continued his dance of ****, his swords glinting with a faint, translucent liquid - a manifestation of his Qi. He had finally broken through his inner barrier, channeling strength beyond his limits.

Thorjen's attacks became more daring, targeting the tiny gap in the knight's armor. He heard a guttural growl from the knight as his blade made contact, a small victory in the relentless battle. However, the knight's response was swift and brutal. Thorjen barely had time to brace himself before the knight's iron fist pierced his chest, lifting him off the ground and hurling him against a stone pillar.

As Thorjen's body crumbled, so did the pillar, his senses numbing as he teetered on the brink of ****'s door once again. In that moment, he realized the grim truth of his situation - this endless cycle of battle and rebirth was more than a physical trial; it was a test of his spirit, a challenge to rediscover and reclaim the essence of who he once was. With this revelation, Thorjen prepared to face the knight again, armed not just with weapons, but with a renewed sense of self.

"Ku..gyeuk! He...heh-haha...Finally..." Thorjen, mustering the remnants of his strength, clutched the ghoul's arm still impaling his chest. With his right hand, he pressed it against the center of the crude iron helmet. After 646 grueling deaths, he had finally seized the moment he had been waiting for.

"Chaos Ball..."

Darkness engulfed him.

******88

"..."

"Finally awake..."

Thorjen's eyes fluttered open, greeted by an unfamiliar voice echoing around him.

"Where...where am I?"

As his vision cleared, he began to grasp his surroundings. He was still in the cathedral, but something was distinctly different.

He immediately noticed the change; this was not the same hall as before. His eyes traced upwards to a towering stone throne, perched so high its occupant was barely visible.

A chilling cackle pierced the silence, sending shivers down Thorjen's spine. He squinted upwards and gasped at the sight on the throne - a mesmerizing grey-skinned woman with long platinum hair and blood-red eyes. The two red horns curving from her head were as striking as the thorn-marked leather she wore.

"Wh-who are you?" he asked, his voice punctuated with short breaths.

Another cackle echoed from the throne.

"My-my, impressive. A mere mortal harboring so many mysteries. You know, you never needed the fates, the guardians, or anyone's help. Your birthright was always... Golden!" The cathedral trembled as if awakened by a mighty ****. Thorjen watched, eyes wide with bewilderment and fear.

As the enigmatic woman descended towards him, floating effortlessly, every instinct in Thorjen screamed to remain still.

"A half-elf? Pretty, yet so weak. Yet, being slain by Migoro repeatedly seems to have wrought a change in you. Still far from what you truly need, though."

"What I will? W-wait, who are you? What's happening? Where am I?"

"Don't ask foolish questions, half-elf. You are where you've always been, trapped inside the fate stone. As for me, I am Rose, the last princess of Red Snow. Before you bombard me with more questions, understand this - you **** my hand. I have no desire to meddle with your kind, but a guardian trapped here serves no purpose. Therefore..."

She extended her delicate silver hand, and a whirlwind of blood coalesced into a pristine rose.

"The art you're cultivating is unorthodox and slow. You'll die before being of any use to us. The fates, cunning and powerful as they are, are living beings too, bound by certain laws."

"Which laws?" Thorjen inquired, his curiosity piqued despite the overwhelming situation.

"They can make mistakes. For instance, their first mistake was imprisoning me here." The revelation from Rose hinted at a deeper, more intricate web of events than Thorjen had ever imagined, opening a new chapter in his harrowing journey within the fate stone.

As Thorjen watched, a haunting display unfolded before him. Crimson vines emerged from Rose's back, writhing and twisting towards the rose in her hand. They seemed to merge with it, creating a chilling spectacle. The rose absorbed the vines, shimmering eerily as it did so, leaving Thorjen speechless and awestruck.

Once the transformation was complete, Rose's piercing carmine gaze returned to him. “Hmm- You’re still resisting it. That’s why you remain so weak,” she observed.

Thorjen bristled at her words. 'Why does she insist on calling me weak?' he wondered silently.

“You haven’t experienced enough..."

“Enough of what?” Thorjen asked, almost dreading the answer.

“Pain, anguish, betrayal. You defeated Migoro, or at least a fragment of him. As a reward, I'll aid your cultivation, but you must do something for me in return,” Rose said, her smile twisting cruelly as she watched Thorjen's discomfort.

“And the fates' second mistake... was allowing us to meet. I'm going to invest in the chaos within you. But don't be deceived – this is a transaction, an exchange. Before I grant you my gift, you must fulfill two tasks for me.”

Thorjen tensed, wary of what these tasks might entail. Then, Rose gestured gracefully, and a medium-sized mirror materialized out of thin air. Reflected in it was a stunningly beautiful young woman with pale, smooth skin, long raven hair, and feline-shaped eyes that held a distant coldness.

‘She's...beautiful,’ Thorjen thought, unable to look away.

“Who is she?” he asked, a note of eagerness in his voice.

“Her name is Demoria, the current Princess of Red Snow,” Rose revealed.

Thorjen felt an unfamiliar stirring in his heart, a strange connection to the girl in the mirror. Yet, alongside this intrigue, a subtle darkness stirred within him as well.

“The current Princess? But weren’t you the...”

“A long time ago, yes. When the demon King was of my people. Since then, our race has fallen from grace,” Rose explained, her tone tinged with a mix of nostalgia and bitterness.

Thorjen studied her – the pointed ears, the bleeding red eyes, and the aura of power she exuded – and realized the profound depth of the story she hinted at, one entwined with the fate of her race and the mysterious Demoria in the mirror.

Rose's revelation carried a weight that settled heavily in the air. "En! Vampires... look," she said, opening her mouth to reveal dangerously sharp fangs. Thorjen's muscles tensed at the sight.

"A brief history for you, boy. The demon king has manifested in nearly every race—Vampires, Beastkin, Humans, Dwarves, Orcs, and even Dragons."

Thorjen's mind raced as he absorbed this information, particularly the mention of Dragons. 'So, even Dragons have their king...,' he thought, realizing with a start that only one race remained untouched by this dark legacy.

"Ah, you've figured it out. The Elves have yet to birth a demon king," Rose chuckled, then shifted her focus back to the task at hand. "Now, about Demoria. I need you to seduce her, the vampire princess. Make her fall in love with you."

"W-wait, what? How am I supposed to do that?" Thorjen blurted out, baffled by the bizarre request.

"Fufufu, don't doubt yourself, pretty boy. Fate will align your paths, but you must win her heart," Rose insisted with a sly smile. "Secondly, there's someone else you need to take care of..."

The image of the beautiful woman in the mirror faded, replaced by a smoky haze and a new, distorted picture. As it cleared, another face appeared - a woman with two horns, long platinum hair, dark lipstick, and an alluring presence emphasized by her tight leather attire. Thorjen's gaze was fixated on the mirror when, to his shock, he recognized a few faces appearing alongside her.

"Wait! I know those three..." he exclaimed, a mix of surprise and recognition flashing across his face. The faces in the mirror, now clear and unmistakable, belonged to individuals from his past, stirring a tumult of emotions within him. Thorjen stood there, grappling with the unexpected twist in his already complex journey.

The mirror was showing what he could make out as some kind of lair, whilst the woman with horns was seated on a throne, she was watching the scene of three youths engaging in a very...steamy session of sex. The two youths who Thorjen recalled seeing the day he left the blue mountain, were both having sex with a petite girl with pink hair. Thorjen studied the scene for a short while suddenly he was sure he knew those three.

Thorjen's mind reeled as the faces in the mirror triggered a flood of memories. 'It can't be... Tristan, Oliver, and Lena. We were together in the carriage before the accident...' His thoughts raced back to the day their carriage plummeted from the raised path, a memory etched in his mind. He turned his gaze to Rose, silently pleading for answers.

"This is my sister," Rose declared, her tone laced with a mix of disdain and resolve. "You must end her reign of tyranny. I failed in this task, so now it falls to you."

"Kill her... but why?" Thorjen asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

"She's a blight upon this world, using her powers to manipulate and ensnare others in her depraved games," Rose explained with a cold fury.

The sight of his former companions, helplessly entangled in her web of control, ignited a somber resolve within Thorjen. Closing his eyes, he took a moment to gather his spirit. When he reopened them, a newfound determination shone through.

"F-fine, I'll do what you ask," he agreed, albeit with a heavy heart.

"Excellent! Succeed, and I promise you a power that will make the world tremble. You wish to defy the fates? Then follow my guidance, and I'll show you the path," Rose said, her voice echoing with a sinister amusement.

Before Thorjen could respond, a sudden noise caught his attention. He turned swiftly, only to see a glaring white light emanating from a newly opened door.

"Tsk! The fates have summoned you. Complete this stage, then fulfill my requests. Do this, and my gift shall flourish," Rose instructed, her eyes gleaming with anticipation.

Thorjen, now bound by a pact with Rose and faced with an ominous task set by the fates, stepped towards the door of light, his heart heavy yet resolute. He knew that the path ahead would be fraught with challenges and moral dilemmas, but he was determined to navigate through this labyrinth of fate and power.

*********

Above a splendidly constructed stone city, a flawless, pale dove soared gracefully. Encircling the city was a tranquil blue stream, complementing the towering structures of red stone that dotted the landscape. The clear blue sky heralded a day of sunshine, while the dove glided silently, its observant eyes surveying the world below. Spotting a perch on the windowsill of an open twin window, the dove descended, landing gently to peer inside.

Inside, Marco sat with his back to the window, feeling the cool yet warm breeze wafting through the room. Dressed casually in a loose shirt and trousers, he seemed lost in thought until a subtle presence caught his attention. Turning around, he noticed the drapes fluttering in the wind and the dove staring intently at him. His contemplation was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Come in,” he called.

The door opened with a creak, revealing a short figure clad in bright blue and white martial robes. The man entered carrying a large wooden stringed instrument on his back and a dark, smoky pipe resting between his lips. His silver hair and sparkling ruby red eyes added to his distinctive appearance.

Marco's expression soured at the sight of the visitor.

“What do you want?” he asked, barely masking his disdain.

“Arah! So cold, so cold. That’s no way to greet your partner, now is it?” the visitor chided with a playful tone.

“Partner? Ha! Don’t flatter yourself. If not for the convenience of your existence, I would’ve ended you by now. Remember that,” Marco retorted sharply.

“Hahaha, is that so? Ah, where’s your wife? Trouble in paradise already?” the visitor prodded, his tone teasing.

“She’s preparing for the wedding. And don’t try anything foolish. I’ve given you the Queen; my wife is off-limits. Best you remember that,” Marco warned, his voice firm and unyielding, indicating a complex web of alliances and tensions beneath the surface of their conversation.

“Come on, don’t be such a stick in the mud. You’re not supposed to care about those beneath you, especially these amateurs nowadays. But I can't blame you for being drawn to that sexy milf; she's definitely worth all the hassle. And boy, does she scream!"

"That's enough! And I never expected you to be a creep who spies on people. Maybe I should just kill you and save the world from your twisted desires."

"Hahaha, we all have our guilty pleasures, my friend. Next time you're spending hours with her, maybe consider making her wear a muzzle. That's what I would do. Anyway, I have some things to take care of. Just remember, the dream ends when we step outside of the city."

In response, Marco held up a golden object shaped like a finger, with purple liquid slowly dripping from its sharp tip.

As Marco sat in the quietude of his room, he revealed a cunning plan. “That’s why I have this," he said, holding up an enigmatic object. "It will ensure that our dream persists long after my wife and I depart from this place.”

The visitor, with a burst of laughter, replied, “Buahaha! Very well, you’re just as devious as I am. I wish you nothing but good fortune, Mr. Gold Rank Knight.”

With a cordial bow, the visitor made his exit, leaving Marco to his thoughts.

In the ensuing silence, another cool breeze meandered through the slackened drapes and open windows. Marco turned his head slightly, his gaze locking with the serene dove perched outside. “Be glad, beautiful bird, to witness my triumphs,” he murmured, a mischievous grin playing across his youthful features. With a flick of his fingers, he magically closed both the drapes and the windows.

The dove, once again airborne, glided effortlessly through the sky. Its pale wings carried it over the sprawling city, its keen eyes observing everything below. As the sun began to set, casting a golden hue over the city, the air was filled with an eerie stillness, broken only by the distant tolling of bells. Drawn to a towering building, the dove noticed a small gap in the misshapen tiles of the roof, slipping through it with ease.

Inside, the dove found itself perched atop a thick wooden beam, overlooking a vibrant assembly of guests. The room was awash with color, guests adorned in lavish frocks and gowns mingling beneath the high ceiling. A rich red rug lay beneath them, leading towards the altar where a regal, green-haired Elf stood, exuding an air of majesty. His eyes, however, betrayed a hint of annoyance at the ongoing chatter and the delay in commencing the ceremony. The scene was set for an event of significance, and the dove, from its hidden vantage point, was poised to witness the unfolding drama.

The tranquility of the scene was suddenly disrupted by energetic footsteps accompanied by a cheerful tune. A man with an extra spring in his step and a song in his heart approached Marco.

“Didn’t I tell you not to bother me?” Marco said with a hint of irritation.

“Whoa—I come in peace, hahaha," the man chuckled. "I've just learned of some troubling news and thought I should share it with my partner.”

“Partner? Heh! Remember, once we leave this city, if I ever cross paths with you again, your life is mine,” Marco warned, his tone serious.

The visitor waved off the threat with a casual air. “Ah, of course, of course. The mighty Gold Rank Knight must face the world's terrors, I get it... But you might want to listen to what I have to say.”

Marco sighed, resigned. “Go on.”

“The Lucien Kingdom is in danger. The birds have been whispering, and they speak of a looming calamity, one that might require the full might of the Queen's armies.”

“A calamity? What kind, and how do you know this?”

“I told you, the birds talk,” he said, gesturing towards the air. At that moment, Marco’s gaze shifted upwards, catching sight of the same dove he had seen earlier. A cold glint passed through his eyes as he silently studied it.

“And the calamity... It's a beast horde sweeping through the east. More concerning, though, is the presence of a Platinum-ranked beast at its heart. It has awakened.”

Marco’s expression shifted to one of disbelief. “Impossible...”

“Hahaha, thought I'd warn you. If you have anyone near the Lucien Kingdom, best tell them to evacuate. Anyway, I’ll be off... Oh, look, the stunning bride has arrived. Fufufu, I must admit, Ser Marco, I do envy your taste.”

“Just shut up and sit down!” Marco snapped.

The cathedral was filled with the resonant sound of tolling bells, ushering in a hushed silence among the seated guests. Two figures clad in thin silks, each bearing a horned instrument, appeared on either side of the towering doors. They blew their horns, weaving a soft, enchanting melody into the air. The doors began to open slowly, allowing the outdoor light to flood in, heralding the arrival of the bride and signaling the start of a momentous ceremony.