The levels of Cruciatus' lair get progressively darker and more vile the lower into the mountain one goes. The screaming gets louder, the scent of blood thicker, the rattle of chains more common.
There are thousands of gods in Cruciatus' employ, many guards.
Of the thousands of servants and prisoners living in the mountain, not one of them is human, at least not completely. There are beings of every race and species in this world, from faeries to sorcerers. The only ones missing are sirens and seraphs.
Feng rips through the gods like they're butter and he's a hot knife. When they throw their abilities at him, Feng laughs as those same abilities affect the men who threw them, bouncing off of Feng's revitalized Reaction Field.
Nothing gets through it--not fists, not blades, not the powers of these pathetic little godlings. Everything they try to hit Feng with is turned back on them by the power of Feng's breetan and Spark.
The ones who don't kill themselves by trying to kill him die by his hands and his fire. He rips out throats, pulls out their steaming intestines and uses them like garrotes, shoves their own severed limbs into their mouths. He shreds them with his fingers, tears heads from shoulders, filets them like fish.
The ones he doesn't bother to tend to personally he burns with his fire--some slowly, others not. The scent of scorched flesh and burning hair drifts through smoke and ash and the metallic taste of blood.
Feng is covered in blood. Bits of flesh and gore cling to him like a cloak, and even his Echo jacket--used to this sort of coating--doesn't remove the substances. Feng revels in it, his grin only growing more sadistic the deeper into the lair he goes.
A choice few--some of the guards he recognizes, the officers--he obliterates with his Gift. A single touch and they are destroyed so utterly that nothing remains, their faces contorting and twisting in absolute agony for the few seconds they live.
It's no longer the prisoners and servants who are screaming and running in fear.
It's the gods.
And Feng laughs.
He leaves those who aren't divinites alone, unless they attack him. He has to kill or knock out several servants who appear to have been brainwashed or who are actually loyal to Cruciatus. Most of them are terrified, cowering away from him. A few are curious, but wisely keep their distance.
Anyone in chains is set free the moment Feng passes by. One part of his mind--a part he isn't even focusing on--is delegated to taking note of those shackles and removing them with little more than a thought or a glance, turning them to dust, unlocking them, or just making them vanish completely.
If Feng was a healer, he would heal their wounds as well, but he isn't. He would have to use an Inkflare, and he doesn't have the time for that at the moment. He's too busy going on a killing spree and enjoying it immensely.
No matter how many gods attack him at once, Feng cuts them down. Even when they try to pile atop him, even when a few of moderate intelligence collapse one of the levels on top of him, Feng keeps moving downward. They can't touch him.
Even all their abilities combined aren't enough.
Feng may be considered a minor deity in the Court of Death, but he's no mere godling. To call Feng a 'god' is an insult.
Feng is much, much more than just a god.
He takes his time moving through each level, searching out each and every single person who serves Cruciatus. A glance tells him whether they're loyal or not, whether they're worthy of life or worthy of death.
It seems Elliot was the only person here too new and too young to have been corrupted.
Feng spares no one who isn't in chains.
Only once every single level has been purged, only once the mountain is silent save for the moans of the dying and the whimpers of terrified, confused prisoners--some of whom are smart enough to have begun searching for the exit now that their chains are gone--only then does Feng go to Cruciatus.
The God of Pain is on level seven, just above the dungeon. Feng sensed him there with two other heartbeats the moment he entered the lair, but he only goes there now, when there is no chance that anyone will get between him and the man he's going to torture in all the best ways he knows.
Feng pushes the door of the cell open slowly, taking in the scene. Two seraphs--one of the sky dwellers is rare enough, but Cruciatus has captured two, it seems--are chained to the ceiling in the middle of the cell, both on their knees. The one on the left is completely slumped over and unconscious, one arm nearly cut entirely off. It still hangs only thanks to the stretching flesh around the severed muscle, the single tendon still in place.
The other seraph, though, is wide awake. His wings are pure white despite the bloodstains and the holes in them, splayed out to either side and held down by iron stakes. The wounds on his body are angry and infected, rotting as if they've been left there for more than a few centuries. He looks more like a demon than a seraph, one eye missing, his teeth gapped, his body recognizable only in undefined shape. He's covered in bloody, messy wounds that disfigure him to a point that ought to be irreparable.
His remaining eye, a bright purplish-blue, is alight with unholy amusement, and laughter trips off his tongue--the mocking, highly amused laughter of a man who has nothing to lose and has stopped caring about his own life.
The kind of laughter that falls from Feng's mouth when he truly laughs. The only kind of laugh that left Feng's soul in the first thousand years of his life. The seraph's silver hair is shimmering despite the blood dripping from the strands, despite the fact that he's obviously been in here for a very, very long time.
It isn't often that Feng feels anything like admiration or respect.
So he revels in the feeling like he revels in the bloodstains as he steps into the room and kicks the door closed.
Cruciatus--a tangle of red hair, eyes completely gray and pupiless, staring viciously at the world--has been plucking feathers from the seraph's already shredded wings with a slightly frustrated expression. He turns when Feng slams the door, his eyes taking in Feng's appearance.
A second later the power in Feng's body vanishes, snuffed out like a candle flame.
There are weights on his wrists.
Feng looks down at the new set of shiny Caneo Crystal shackles and sighs.
"You're the little rat who escaped, aren't you?" Cruciatus demands, his words dark and malicious and slightly mocking, despite his obvious frustration with the seraph.
The seraph laughs. "Ooh, big scary god. Can't even keep his prisoners trapped."
Feng tosses a lazy, wicked grin at the seraph. "I like you," he says, nodding once as Cruciatus sends a visible wave of what is most likely pain in its purest form at the chained male. He laughs again, winking at Feng--or trying to. Since he attempts to wink with the eye that's been carved out, it ends up not working.
"Oops, wrong eye," he says cheerfully, then winks with the other.
Feng's grin widens. "Been down here awhile, huh?"
"Time has actually passed? I thought I was getting a massage... but he's not very good at it... I've barely felt anything. I wasted all that money for nothing." The seraph pouts.
Another clone. Though, this guy is a lot older than Feng. So Feng is his clone, and Xander is a clone of both of them.
Excellent.
This will be fun.
"Can't find a good masseuse," Feng agrees, sighing mournfully. "I tested out several of the idiots in this place and didn't get a thing for my trouble."
"We might be looking in the wrong place," the bleeding, twisted--but nowhere near broken--seraph agrees. "Any thoughts on our next location? I was thinking the underworld, but Alistair is a softie. He handed me off to this guy, promising I would enjoy this more. I've been severely disappointed."
Feng recalls reading that the seraphs are feared by the Gods. There seems to be a rumor that the sky dwellers are going to take over the Pantheons. Apparently Alistair and Cruciatus decided to get information from these two--and have failed pathetically.
If they really are trying to take over, it's yet another thing this seraph has in common with Feng. It's interesting, if strange. Feng is used to being the most sadistic person in any room, the smartest guy in any crowd, the only person who can always tell what's really going on in any given situation.
Now there are two people--a little kid who hasn't yet tested his mettle, and a seraph who's been down here in Cruciatus' clutches for thousands of years, if the older scars and the rot on his battered body are any indication--who might be able to match him.
The only question is whether the seraph died to get into Alistar's clutches, or if he was captured--and if he was captured, how it happened.
"The old softie had a breakout recently," Feng says thoughtfully. "He said that particular soul makes this idiot," a derisive gesture at Cruciatus, "look like an angel. He might be able to help us."
The seraph bursts out laughing. "Oh, that idiot?" Sounds like he already met that soul... must have been Cruciatus who busted him out. It makes sense. Feng wonders if he accidentally already killed Alistair's lost soul... "He's already made his rounds. Gave me a bit of a tweak there in my side, but wasn't quite capable of working out the kink. It's a shame."
Feng shakes his head sadly, ignoring--the same way the seraph is--Cruciatus as he sends waves of pain at both of them. The waves rattle through Feng, but they're easy to ignore. He's felt worse.
He's dealt worse.
Pathetic little god.
"Sad," Feng says, tsking. "Maybe we should work on each other." He winks at the seraph suggestively.
"Aww, you love me already do you? I didn't even have to try this time." The seraph blows Feng a kiss.
Feng blows one back. "Of course. Us sexy bastards have to stick together after all."
The seraph flips his hair--the little bit he can--sending blood and gore spewing everywhere. He looks very far from sexy, but the sight is impressive enough to be gorgeous. "I'm beautiful," he agrees.
Cruciatus is talking, but Feng only listens with a margin of his attention. None of the words are worth his notice.
"That you are," Feng agrees with a wolfish grin. "Such a pretty girl. Want to beautify my arm?"
The seraph flutters his lashes--one of them anyway. The other eyelid flops gruesomely. "Oh darling, I thought you'd never ask," he says in a high pitched voice.
"We should probably get out of here then," Feng says with a smirk. Cruciatus has pinned Feng to the wall and has taken a blade to him. It's amusing. Feng barely feels the pain from the God's hands, let alone the blade channeling the power.
"But my massage..." the seraph protests with a pout and a mock sniffle.
"Don't worry, I'll give you a better one," Feng promises with a smirk. Cruciatus is slicing off Feng's fingers as if he thinks it will do any good.
"Aww, you are too kind," the seraph says. "What's your name, kid?" A real grin spreads across the ravaged mouth, in stark contrast to the designed expressions he's been wearing. It's about time.
"Nalfeng roe Vinen," Feng says, grinning back. "And you?"
"Joshua Ai'en Lelicros."
Feng smirks again. "Leli, got it."
Joshua winks again. "Pleasure, Nal."
Oh, they're going to get along great. This actually reminds Feng of something--a pair of old bastards who drink too much Deri and sleep with too many women.
Den and Eilon are going to get a kick out of this.
If Eilon is still alive.
Cruciatus sticks his knife in Feng's mouth, looking furious. "Stop. Talking!" He slices off Feng's tongue.
Feng pouts.
"But how are we supposed to sing you to sleep? Precious baby," Joshua says, then starts singing a very, very painfully off-key lullaby.
The male cannot sing. It's physically painful to listen to him, far worse than anything Cruciatus could do. Feng gives Joshua a long-suffering look.
Cruciatus whirls on the seraph, and Feng takes the opportunity to remove Yevi2 from the pocket of his Echo jacket--which is already restoring his wounds. He moves his tongue around, spitting out some blood, then steps away from the wall with a casual smirk in place.
"Right then. Time to get this over with," he says, unsheathing the blades.
They whir in his grip, Yevi already singing at the opportunity to test her new purpose. Cruciatus whirls back to Feng, his expression outraged.
Feng's grin is slow as honey and more deadly than any creature he's ever met.