A wisp of displeasure oozed from Pepin’s rotted face. Just what were these lowly things doing, to arrogantly refuse their lord’s command? It was not just Ganelon who had changed in his absence.

  “Look how the masses degenerate,” the man said, shaking his head. “In such few years, you have already forgotten the source of all your wealth. Yet just as I giveth, I can so easily take away.”

  He raised his arm and waved out to the capital and all its gilded splendor. The streets were empty now, but the buildings remained; the monuments, the crystals, the resplendent marble that shone like a beacon of all that was prosperous—Francia’s wealth was all because of him.

  And now, his very own subjects would dare stand against him. He could not understand. He did not wish to. The solution to this folly was simple - yes, so very simple. He would do as he had always done and remove that which displeased him from his sight.

  “Roland,” he uttered with his goading tongue. “My loyal sword, my champion against the foul infidels. This is your last chance. Take your blade, and cut off Ganelon’s legs. Cut off his arms, his tongue, his spirit of rebellion. Remove it all and show the people the fate that awaits those conceited with dreams of grandeur.”

  Roland trembled in place, his breaths long, unsteady, and haggard. He had not forgotten the face of his tormentor. Back in Arabia, he had pledged to fight for good despite the sins he wrought, and yet what stood before him now was the very source of his madness: the one who terrified him into committing a massacre.

  That fear had long been engraved in him, down to his very bones. Every vile word the former emperor spoke reminded him of the past he could never change.

  But the Roland of back then, and the Roland of now, was different. No longer would he allow Pepin’s ghost to hang over his heart. This thing was just a memory, a blasphemous revenant risen into an age that had already moved on, that had begun to heal from the wounds he left on the land; and it would continue to do so regardless of what came crawling back.

  As a faithful paladin of Francia, his people, and his oath to the pursuit of righteousness, it was Roland’s duty to put his former liege to rest.

  “No,” the Peers’ leader boldly proclaimed. “You are the emperor no longer, Pepin. The one I serve is more gentle, more deserving of the throne than you will ever be; and so I shall fulfill my pact to protect him. My heart and soul are his blade to sever that which is evil, and that evil is now you. Begone, and return to the rivers of oblivion.”

  One by one, the other Peers walked forth and gathered at his side. They and Ganelon both were already exhausted by their previous battles. But here, there was no hesitation, no pause in what they must do.

  Francia had been corrupted by Pepin’s shadow for far too long. And even when he had perished, the people were given no closure, no chance to escape the dirty legacy he left behind. This was their opportunity to be rid of it all. With their former liege’s second death, the nation would finally be freed of its curse.

  “To me, my fellows!” Roland shouted, raising his weapon. “The scourge before us is nothing more than a demon. In the name of the holy order, I command you forward!”

  The Peers charged at Pepin, their eyes wild with holy fervor. Even the players were swept up in the mood and ran ahead to join them.

  “C’mere, bomb dude!” Mili shouted, concentrating her lightning into an orb. “You got another one of those particle scrambler thingies?”

  Mister Crowley grinned and reached into his bag. “Long ahead of you, Mili. There’s no wind to stop us here.”

  The dynamic duo, with the help of other players, prepared the same weapon used to cripple the Lips back in Arabia. Roland glanced at them and nodded, ordering the others to linger a fair distance away. Pepin had yet to move. He remained standing there, unconcerned, as if he thought them unworthy of lifting a finger.

  “Hand it over!” Miss Enapay attached the pulsing explosive to her spear and then threw with all the strength she could muster.

  After a loud shriek, it crashed into Pepin’s chest and ignited in an electric surge that dissolved the ground below into white ash. The sound thundered all throughout the city. Yet, when the dust cleared, the players stared horrified.

  For the corpse-like man in their sight was unharmed, without even a scratch.

  “Welp,” Mili said. “I think we’re screwed.”

  It would appear he had good reason to be confident. The former emperor regarded the players with an intrigued look, pointing with a raise of his crooked finger and letting out a garbled croak.

  “Curious. Do you belong to the same kind as that masked creature?” Pepin said. “No, I recognize the stench of insignificance: so frail, so fearful, just like mine slaves called Frankishmen. Still, the harlots do seem of vibrant blood. They shall do well to satisfy me.”

  With a large, hulking step, Pepin advanced. His stride wavered not once; he marched ahead with a mighty confidence befitting a true, unyielding ruler. There was nothing holy about him. He reeked of filth and depravity. And yet, there was a regalness in his movements. None present could deny that the one before them was once the emperor of all.

  The Peers moved to block his path. They swung their weapons despite the fatigue nested in their chests, and they roared a collective cry, risking life and limb to deliver even a single wound to their foe ever advancing. Roland, Angelica, Bradamante and even Ganelon—they slashed at Pepin’s limbs and reinforced themselves with the healing prayers of Archbishop Turpin. It was the first time Lucius witnessed the old fellow in battle, but unlike the Archbishop’s gentle demeanor of old, his gaze now was one of utter fury.

  “Were you not satisfied with defiling the Lord’s sanctity?” Turpin bellowed, raising his staff and enveloping his fellows in warm light. “Such misery you’ve brought to this land, only to return in blasphemous form after committing the vilest sin of all. Death should have taken you, Pepin! It should have brought you to our God’s embrace, and yet you would deny Their mercy and claw back to the living as this abomination. Have you not a care for the Mother’s salvation?”

  The former emperor paid him no heed. So sparse was the care in his heart that Pepin barely took notice of the Archbishop’s presence.

  All the man cared about was what drew his attention, his entertainment. And right now that target was the players. He repelled the Peers’ assault with little more than a lazy wave and sought after them, closer, even closer, until the others were caught in the shadow of his hungry gaze.

  “Yes, the woman with spear. How rebellious her eyes are.” Pepin reached out to Miss Enapay with a raise of his hand. “The most delectable wenches are those who still yet believe they can resist.”

  The spearwoman tried to retreat, attacking Pepin with her skills and hastily-made traps. Her complexion began to pale. A gnawing terror steadily encroached into her heart, for she knew that her end was approaching. She couldn’t escape the former emperor no matter how desperately she tried.

  It was as if Pepin were not a man, but an inevitability - a bottomless pit that would swallow her whole.

  “Get back, miss!”

  Marco rammed into Pepin with a tackle of his steeled shoulder. The old mobster would have bulldozed through any other with the size of his frame, but to the one before him now, he couldn’t make him budge one inch. Pepin stood firmly. His lips curled in amusement.

  “Oh? This one is similar to that runt, Ogier.” Pepin seized Marco by the throat and, slowly, basking in every one of the mobster’s pained grunts, raised him up. “How loyal to deliver yourself unto me. But no, your blood shall not be the first.”

  Marco could only watch on helplessly as Pepin reached back and delivered a bone-crunching fist to his chest. The old mobster was sent flying straight back, crashing through the city’s buildings, through the brick and stone, until an entire block collapsed atop of him and buried his body far out of sight.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Soon, the others began to meet similar fates. Mister Crowley scrounged up all the bombs he could, only to be snatched up and pounded against the pavement like a whimpering toy. Lady Bradamante sat lifelessly, her skull bashed and rendering her no better than a lifeless ragdoll, as Angelica’s crumpled body and shield laid not far away.

  Even Sir Roland, despite his heated resistance, had his stomach impaled with his own blade. A deep red pooled onto his steps below, yet not a spell came to heal him, for Archbishop Turpin had long exhausted his own strength keeping the others alive. The Peers’ leader could hardly walk. He tripped over his legs and collapsed, while Pepin marched indifferently ahead.

  It was a complete massacre. Lucius didn’t think he could even call this a battle, for it was too devastating, too one-sided to be considered such. Yet despite all they suffered, not a single person had died.

  It was not Pepin’s mercy nor his carelessness that allowed them to still breathe. No, he needed them alive, for in death they would not scream. In death, he would no longer hear their tortured cries, taste their agony, their distress, or see their expressions frozen in the impulse he lusted after most.

  The pale face of fear.

  “Has it been five years?” the man uttered, kicking Roland away. “Five years, and yet not a single one of thine order has improved. Even the masked creature succeeded in carving this withered flesh, whereas the Peers I chose could manage no such feat. You embarrass me. You shame me with your insolence.”

  In the end, the only Peer left standing was Ganelon, but what could he do now? Even with the Joyeuse in his hands, he no longer had the capability to resist. His eyes glazed over and his throat sputtered in raspy pants. He was forced to behold it all, the cruel subjugation of their last hope at victory, the ease and simplicity by which the former emperor dominated them to the very last knight. The fury they once held was thoroughly crushed under heel.

  Eventually, Miss Enapay could run no longer, and she fell to her knees as Pepin walked up, leaned down, and bid her a depraved smile.

  “Do you feel it?” he croaked. “Do you feel your heart thumping? Yes, this is how it should be, the moment when one’s pride is submerged, drenched, never to be seen again. The look of true fear.”

  Pepin grabbed Miss Enapay’s face and then lifted her above his head. Her once stoic facade had crumbled, leaving only a sobbing, tear-ridden mess. She could sense it. It whispered in her ear, the fate she could not escape.

  Pepin grabbed at her arm, and then he tore it out, splattering her blood all across his face.

  Miss Enapay screamed. She screamed and wailed, choked on her spit as she desperately reached out toward her severed limb, unable to believe her eyes. Pain flooded her every nerve; she convulsed erratically, her bone fully exposed in all its spurting mess. Pepin did not rip it out cleanly. He made sure that she could feel the strands of flesh, bit by bit, splitting apart, torturing her with the joy of a child and their new toy.

  Mili, Harper, and Miss Rhodes covered their mouths, their eyes wide. And gradually, fear eroded at their sanity as well. It spread like a plague and overwhelmed them until they were too afraid to even move.

  “Ah, how sweet this despair is. It has been too long, far too long.”

  Pepin tossed Miss Enapay away and then basked under the rising dawn, blood dripping down his lips. He stood there and dabbed his fingers in the oozing red, smearing it all over his chest, his neck, his entire body until not a surface was left unpainted in the blessed liquid.

  He relished it. He worshiped it. And as the blood seeped into his rotted skin, a deep hunger wriggled inside him, growing even more ravenous. His face devolved, deranged, in a maddened surge of pleasure, and he shivered, and he grasped at himself, and he laughed out toward the starry heavens as an uncontrollable glee lifted his demonic heart.

  This was Pepin’s true appearance, without any else to hold him back. The Greatest Evil of All had not an obstacle left to stand in his way.

  Except for one.

  “Oh dear. Do try to stay still, Miss Enapay. I can’t help you otherwise.”

  The former emperor stopped, and he turned around. Before his eyes, Lucius was doing his very best to stop Miss Enapay from bleeding out. He tightly wrapped the stub that once was her arm and put her to sleep with a swift chop to the neck. At least this way, she wouldn’t be conscious of pain.

  “You.”

  Pepin extended his arms, waiting for the gentleman’s reaction. “Will you still not join mine forces, o’ masked creature? Bow, and I shall forgive your prior treachery.”

  Lucius didn’t need to consider that proposal for even a second. “Hm, but I don’t think this little skirmish is quite finished just yet, my debaucherous friend. Aren’t you missing someone?”

  Lucius pointed to the castle, where soon a horde that made up the paladins’ holy order came marching out. It was in the chaos of Pepin’s mad rampage that the gentleman ordered Sir Astolfo to seek aid from the other knights, and so it was that the boy in golden chariot came flying back alongside some much needed reinforcements. It wouldn’t do to stir up panic amongst them, so Lucius bid that Astolfo make no mention of Pepin’s revival.

  It was simply a demon, an Evil that needed to be eliminated.

  “How humorous that the army you once commanded would now come to turn against you,” Lucius taunted with a chuckle. “Your ghastly appearance certainly won’t be of help. What shall you do now, your Holiness?”

  The old fellow stared at him with a curious expression. Was it anger? No. Annoyance, perhaps? Not that as well.

  It was confusion, as if he did not understand what difference the army’s arrival would make.

  “Why should I cower before the fangs of mutts?” he questioned. “It matters not whether they be one or a million, for all will be crushed beneath my boot. Allow me to demonstrate.”

  Pepin slowly raised his leg. He turned toward the approaching paladin forces and let out a dark guffaw.

  Then, he stomped. And the world came crashing down.

  The roads upheaved, and the buildings flipped over. There was no longer any distinction from what was up or what was below, for everything, the entire district, the capital, and even the fields beyond, were flung skyward in a sudden quake that swallowed all in sight.

  It was beyond comprehension, the sheer magnitude wrought by only one man. It was as if a natural disaster had swept through the land. No one could react to it, nor could they prepare. It came as it pleased regardless of the lives caught within.

  In the time it took for Lucius to blink, the paladins were all wiped out, leaving only bewildered shouts and pained cries to flood the delirious air.

  The only location spared from Pepin’s destruction was the castle. It stood over the ruined remains of the city as it always did, glowing opulently with its walls and base of shining marble. An emperor needed a throne befitting his majesty, after all. The city could be rebuilt, the people could be repopulated, but the throne remained. The holy seat was all that mattered.

  The last, remaining players still conscious had been swept away by the city’s upheaval. Lucius avoided the worst of it, of course, but Sir Astolfo had been taken out by a rogue shard and crashed alongside his chariot back to fragmented ground.

  Lucius and Ganelon were all that was left. The only reason the High Tribunal escaped was because Pepin had snatched him up, carrying him like a sack over his shoulders.

  “Will you submit, or perish?” Pepin uttered.

  Well now, this was quite the conundrum. Lucius pondered to himself for a moment, tapping his chin and making a big show of deliberating over the matter, before responding, “It would seem I have no other choice. It is a pleasure to be in your service, your Holiness.”

  The man let free a delighted laugh and walked over to the gentleman, before lifting him up and placing him over his other shoulder. “Good, you are not a fool. I shall make use of your conniving nature later. For now, we shall return to the castle, and I will take my place on the throne once more.”

  With that, Pepin crouched down and made great hulking leaps across the rubble of what once was the capital. Sir Ganelon protested all the while and cursed with what force his breath could muster, for it was the only act of resistance he could still yet do, the only way he could distract himself from the party’s utter defeat.

  “Damn it all, Lucius! I knew you were a coward!” he accused. “You despicable whoreson—”

  The man was met with Pepin’s fist before he could spew further. From then on, their jaunt through the city was quiet, and they eventually landed down right before the entrance to the castle. Pepin walked inside and wordlessly navigated the halls. Some paladins and priests who remained inside tried to attack him, but they were all beaten down, some crushed into the walls while others were flung directly into the ceiling.

  It was when they neared the throne room, however, that Pepin suddenly snapped his head around and gazed off in a peculiar direction. He sensed something — nay, someone. He felt a familiar presence hiding beyond the gilded marble columns.

  “Ooh…” Pepin muttered, and Ganelon grew afraid. For he knew what lay beyond his sight. “It is there he hides.”

  “No, no!” the man pleaded, begging for his captor to stop. “Your Holiness, the throne room is right there. Why don’t we head inside? I’m sure whatever matters need your attention can be handled later—”

  “Quiet.”

  Pepin began walking toward the far-away presence. Ganelon cried and yelled, promised the man full obedience if he would just turn around, look the other direction, but no matter how desperately he implored Pepin continued his advance. Not once had he allowed another to change his mind and it would continue to remain that way even now.

  “Please, anyone! Help us!” Ganelon screamed. “I beg of you, just one person… just one.”

  Finally, the fateful moment had arrived. Pepin approached a small door and kicked it open, revealing the face of a familiar boy.

  The first friend Lucius had made upon his arrival in this world.

  “... Father?”

  There, cowering in the corner of the room, was Karolus.

  “There you are.” Pepin tossed Lucius and Ganelon aside, and he walked up to the boy. He towered over him with the same darkened shadow that engulfed all of Francia.

  “At last, I have found you. Charlemagne, my son.”

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

  [The Distinguishedly Dandy Gentlemen Hall of Fame]