Lucius had seen many wretched things in his life, from the Thralls of Bone hidden beneath the Paris catacombs to the tormented Jiangshi of China; but the man, if one could even call him that, before the gentleman now was of an entirely different league.

  His fetid, rank body oozed with years of black grimy liquid, and pockets of flesh could be seen sagging from the rotted remains of what once was his corpse. The disturbing fellow hadn’t been properly entombed. It looked as if they had just thrown his body into a crude wooden casket and forgotten him there, hoping that his name would never again need to see the light of day, and so he emerged into the world in tatters, stuck between a state that was neither life nor death.

  He was a shambling rancid mess. His every troubled breath released a noxious gas, as if his lungs were perpetually submerged in bile. Yet even so Lucius felt a chill. Even before this creature one tap away from crumbling, he felt an instinctual caution, a warning not to approach at all costs.

  For this thing, though weakened, was still Pepin: the Greatest Evil of All.

  >[WARNING! WARNING! RISING DANGER LEVEL!]<

  The unthinkable has come to pass. Pepin, the Ghoul of a Million Murders and the Herald That Which Cries the End, has been resurrected by the Heart of Fear. This monster is responsible for tragedies far too many to count, his strength forever engrained in history and the tortured memories of the masses. Francia thought him dead. They believed themselves free after decades of his reign of terror… and yet, that very man stands before you now. If you do not slay him, then it will mean the end of everything. As a result, the main quest has been updated.

  Success: 5000 Cosmic Coins, + 10 Status Points, a Skill Rank-Up Card, an Armor Enhancement Card, a random B-rank skill from the World of Charlemagne, a random B-rank treasure, maxed out reputation with the Empire of Francia, and the opening of this world’s final dungeon: the Mountain of the Demon King.

  Failure: Complete obliteration of the World of Charlemagne.

  “Oooh…” the former emperor rasped. “How curious the shifts of fate. Was it a demon who awakened me? Once the son of God, now the heir of the wicked.”

  A beating, malformed heart laid squarely in his chest, each thump granting this abomination the life to move, to hunger, to plague the nation once more with his indulgent desires. Pepin croaked out a laugh and caressed his new core. It was hideous, yet he cared not for such things. What mattered now was the rumbling of his stomach. He needed to satiate it, to feed.

  “Ah, the years have withered mine flesh. I am hungry.”

  With a trembling step, Pepin lurched out of the tomb and basked in the chilling air of the sepulchre. His hideous figure seemed to corrupt all near him. Even the very air was not spared, transforming into a wispy grey smoke that trailed behind him.

  “Where are my servants? Where are the horns of celebration, exulting my return? Francia, your emperor demands to be served.”

  Pepin’s bloodshot eye rolled around in his skull, twisting and pulling erratically as he scanned the surroundings. When his gaze fell upon the cowering figure of Ganelon, his molding face contorted into an unnatural smile.

  “Ganelon.”

  The High Tribunal flinched and buried his head into his hands. If he did not look at the thing, perhaps it wouldn’t see him. If he didn’t acknowledge Pepin’s existence, then this nightmare would surely end, right?

  “Ganelon, my loyal Ganelon…”

  All he had to do was close his eyes. Don’t look at him. Don’t think about him. Then, it will all be okay.

  Except, this was no dream. No matter how hard he tried to deny reality, the truth was much more sickening.

  Before the man who once tormented both his waking days and troubled nights, the source of all suffering and the very object of his revenge, Ganelon could only now whimper out of fear.

  “Yes, this is how it should be.”

  Pepin slowly shuffled over to the High Tribunal. He did so purposely, delighting in the tension—the anticipation. He saw how the elderly man shrunk before him; and he shuddered in pleasure, for it was fear that he cherished. It was fear that he drank, more precious than any material treasures.

  Eventually, Pepin drew close, and he towered over the man, before placing a mocking hand on his shoulder.

  “Already kneeling? You never cease to entertain me, Ganelon. My loyal aide, Ganelon… how fitting my first sight in this world reborn would be you.”

  The High Tribunal didn’t speak; or rather, he couldn’t. Muffled sobs leaked from his trembling throat, and he sucked in his breath, too terrified to form a single word.

  Pepin leaned down and whispered into the man’s ear. “Ah… this is why I keep you, Ganelon. Is there any other in this world more pathetic, more spineless, than you? Such a miserable man. Yet you always knew how to slobber and beg. You trot meekly after my stride, no matter how I beat you so. Ganelon, o’ timid, craven Ganelon—you will always be my slave, whether it be in life or death.”

  A myriad of emotions flashed through Ganelon’s tortured expression. He felt horror, anger, embarrassment and grief; but most overpowering of them all was shame. He felt ashamed that, even when so close to Pepin’s neck, he couldn’t bring himself to raise his blade.

  “Hm…? What is this, I see?”

  Pepin reached over and forcibly seized the Joyeuse. Ganelon tried to resist, but it was so weak that the former emperor didn’t even notice.

  “Mine holy sword, engorged with the power of my son. Amusing. Did you slaughter him in my absence, Ganelon? No, you do not have the courage. That would mean Charlemagne sealed it willingly…”

  Pepin croaked out a hoarse laugh, before returning the blade and placing it in the High Tribunal’s hands. “Take it, then. A reward for pleasing me.”

  The Joyeuse had always attempted to get away from Ganelon, refusing him at every turn, but now the holy sword almost seemed thankful to be in his grasp. Anything was better than being wielded by its former master - by the corpse who blasphemed, against the law of God, back to the realm of the living.

  “Well?” Pepin said, baring his neck and provoking him. “Will you not use it? It is simple. Raise the edge, and slice. Prove to me, Ganelon: Prove that you are yet a man.”

  But despite his provocations, the High Tribunal remained still, paralyzed by the fear coursing in his veins.

  Pepin roared out in glee—how wonderful, how satisfying! He relished playing with this pitiful little mutt, how it rolled over and gave up, obedient, whilst its owner belittled it to their heart’s content.

  “Even after these long years, you are ever the same, my Ganelon. But that is how it should be. Thank me, drool over mine boots as you always have. That is your sole purpose, the reason you are alive.”

  Ganelon couldn’t muster a response. Perhaps deep in his heart, he knew his liege’s words to be true… or at least, that was what he fooled himself into thinking. The seed Lucius had worked so hard to water now found its leaves retreating back - back to the abyss from where it had sprouted.

  Yet, he was not worried. With adversity came an even stronger root. Once the troubles had come to pass, the High Tribunal’s blooming would be even more brilliant, more beautiful.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Until then, Lucius would continue waiting; but where were his manners? It wouldn’t do for a gentleman not to introduce himself.

  “Good evening, my good fellow!” he said, bowing to the putrid corpse. “My name is Lucius Rose, a pleasure to finally meet the man I’ve heard so much about.”

  Pepin snapped his head around, puzzled, and a bit curious, by Lucius’s presence. It seemed the former emperor didn’t realize he was there.

  “A jester?” he uttered. “No, not that. Your appearance… there exists no nation in this continent with people of your ilk.”

  “Hoho, I am one of a kind, dear sir.”

  Pepin did not reply for some time. He merely stayed still, examining the gentleman as if he were an exotic animal; and without the slightest hint of warning, he lunged forth and tried to strangle him.

  Lucius quickly waltzed out of danger, before wagging his finger, taunting. “Now, now. That was quite rude. Why don’t we engage in a lovely conversation before we come to blows, hm? Settle down, have a nice cup of tea. You seem like the type who would enjoy a hot brew of Angel’s Trumpet.”

  Lucius wasn’t exaggerating. According to his monocle’s skill, the former emperor really did prefer deadly toxic teas.

  Pepin stared at Lucius, and then back to his own hand. He deliberated pursuing the gentleman further before eventually deciding otherwise.

  “You are not a man,” he said plainly.

  “What else would I be?”

  “My kindred.”

  The fellow did not use the same sneering tone as with Ganelon. He made no attempt to intimidate, to provoke, nor to show any emotion except a mild interest. The man basked in fear; he wanted nothing else than for all the world to sate his insatiable appetite. And yet, here Lucius was, someone he could not sense even a sliver of apprehension from. It confused him. It intrigued him. Perhaps amongst everyone in this land, he saw the gentleman as truly equal.

  “You are like me,” Pepin rasped. “Yet not, yet different. But the urge inside is the same, the desire to feed, to indulge, to satisfy our innate pleasures. Who are you, mine foe and kin in depravity?”

  Lucius looked around, before pointing at himself questioningly. “Me? Well, I certainly don’t consider myself depraved, but I suppose you are correct in that I am a man who enjoys the fun and excitement of life. You could say that I am… a traveler from far away.”

  “Traveler. Foreigner. If I tear apart your flesh, will the blood be the same color as mine?”

  “I cannot say. You are welcome to try.”

  Pepin needed no other excuse and immediately descended on him, his speed greater than any of the Peers—nay, even the Emir—and he brought his gnarled nails swiping down, nearly ripping Lucius’s stylish attire. Fortunately, the gentleman avoided him with a spin and a twirl, dancing in-between the ghoulish fellow’s attacks without a care.

  “Hrm, slippery,” Pepin said. “Where is your lust for blood? Why do you not resist?”

  Lucius shrugged. “Now why would I do that? Your fight isn’t meant to be with me, your Holiness. Do you not desire a grander stage?”

  The former emperor stood still and thoughtfully rubbed his bony neck. “I do as I please. If I want to kill you, then it shall be so.”

  “Why stop now, then?”

  Pepin paused, pondering his question, before turning away with a bored groan. “Do trees wail when torn from root? Does water plead for mercy when forcibly drunk? No, there is no joy to be had in lifeless creations. You, who art more concept than man, will utter not a sound even if I should butcher you here.”

  “Astutely gleaned, my debaucherous friend!”

  The gentleman wouldn’t allow such an outcome anyways, but it was rather humorous to watch the former emperor entertain the thought.

  Speaking of which, the man uttered a groan and clutched his stomach as a deep, rumbling growl echoed in yearning. “Hrm… oh… this will not do. I require the blood of a wench.”

  Pepin’s limbs creaked and cracked. He shuffled forward, approaching Ganelon, before forcibly grabbing his throat and lifting him up. The High Tribunal gasped like a frightened child and attempted to escape, but even as a corpse the former emperor’s strength was not to be underestimated.

  With a grunt, Pepin smashed Ganelon’s head on the ground, leaving a bloody gash to trickle down the man’s cheek. Pepin cared not. He grabbed his victim’s leg and then casually staggered off, pulling him like a big, meaty sack that groaned and whimpered, helpless to act as he was dragged across dirt and stone.

  “Come, Ganelon. Let us be off,” Pepin said with a hoarse laugh. “You have failed once, in not bringing me a fresh harlot. But I am a forgiving man. I will look past your inadequacy, and together we shall return to the castle. You will atone by preparing me a grand feast. Round up the virgins of the city; mark them with lash and whip, so that their fear will marinate oh so sweet. I am ravenous, Ganelon. You will not disappoint your emperor, will you?”

  The High Tribunal didn’t reply. He was too busy struggling to stay alive.

  “Mm, yes. I will bathe in the blood of a hundred and devour the innocence of a hundred more. Then, when I am fully sated, I shall visit my feeble son. I must punish Charlemagne.”

  Ganelon’s cloudy eyes suddenly cleared. Only one name was mentioned, yet the rage, the sheer fury, Lucius had seen in him before gradually began to return.

  “... What?” he said, still hanging upside down.

  Pepin didn’t spare him a glance, still fixated on leaving the sepulchre. “It is a parent’s duty to educate their child, no? He has erred in his ways, forsaken his divine-given right when he is to become the future ruler. I care not if he did so by choice or unwillingly; an emperor should never have their possessions stolen. So, I will flay his flesh, bleed out his veins. When he teeters on the brink of death, I shall pull him back and repeat this cycle once again. I will do so until he truly understands that we are different from the godless rabble. We are born to rule. His inaction is a weakness that must be purged.”

  The former emperor continued with his gleeful rant, his body shivering from pleasure at the thought of maiming his own flesh and blood. And while he did so, something interesting happened—something unexpected.

  Ganelon gripped desperately onto the holy sword, and he swung. The blade’s edge nicked Pepin’s pallid skin, releasing a filthy stream of puss to ooze out, and the former emperor let go out of surprise. He did not expect this, not one bit. The man he thought the greatest coward of all had, for once in all his years of servitude, fought back.

  “...Hm?” Pepin croaked, jabbing his finger at his wound. “I do not recall raising a mutt who bites its master.”

  Ganelon crawled away, mind still reeling from his previous traumatic blow. And yet even so he persevered, hauling himself upright and leaning on the Joyeuse for balance. He let out a deep, pained breath; his eyes were shadowed beneath his messy nest of hair.

  Ganelon’s lips curled into a snarl, and the seed he once buried started to sprout defiantly once again.

  “Don’t you dare call him that, you monster,” the man spat through frothing hate. “That name is not his, nor will it ever be. He deserves much better than to live under a constant reminder of his immoral blood. He is not you. He is kind, thoughtful, a boy still full of hope. And that empathy you so revile is what shall forever make him beyond your grasp.”

  Pepin tilted his head, confused, unable to comprehend just what gave this little man the courage to resist despite his fear.

  “Nonsense flows through your lips like slobber, incoherent all the same. Kindness? Hope? Empathy? I do not know these words.”

  Ganelon hung his head back and laughed, struggling to control himself as every stretch of his body trembled in pure, spiteful amusement. “Of course you wouldn’t know. All your life, you’ve lived like a beast in rut, uncaring about all else except yourself. And what shames me more than my cowardice is that I hurt that poor, blameless child out of fear that he would one day become exactly like you. But I was wrong. He is this land’s future, its chance at recovering from the terror you wrought. I will not allow you to lay your hands on him, Pepin. Never—not so long that my body still draws strength!”

  A tornado erupted around the High Tribunal and coated his body in the same armor of tempest from before. The man was in no condition to invoke such powerful squalls; yet, he willingly opened his arms and let the wind consume him. He burned through his lifespan, fueling the wick that was his life knowing full well that it would inevitably melt.

  The shadow of death hung high above him. He was not afraid, for the wish he thought lost would finally come true this day.

  The day he might put an end to his long nightmare, personally.

  “Lucius,” Ganelon said, raising the Joyeuse. “You can do whatever you want of me afterward. Kill me, throw me in the gaol… I care not. All I ask is a single favor.”

  The gentleman chuckled and, with a light step, moved to Ganelon’s side. “Say no more, my friend. Let your conviction run wild like the howling gale.”

  The two men prepared themselves for one, final last stand. Pepin cast his gaze upon them, both amused and irritated by their rebellion. He was the emperor; the world existed only to satisfy his cravings. So why was the spotlight not on he, but they?

  That irritation was ever so slight. Yet for a man like the him, unused to being denied, such meagre annoyances were enough to ruin his mood. That could never be tolerated.

  “A shame, Ganelon. It is truly a shame,” Pepin rasped. “You always were my favorite.”

  The former emperor had once terrorized the entire world; he brought vast nations under heel, all because he was simply bored. But the dregs of the past should remain as such. This age had no place for a bygone phantom, one still obsessed with a glory that will never be again.

  For the sake of Francia’s future, Pepin must be slain.

  The Esteemed Gentlepeople of the , to whom I am forever grateful.

  [The Distinguishedly Dandy Gentlemen Hall of Fame]