Jubal end

Amidst the desert crowding wherein only the sky and sand provided company, a cluster of armored warriors numbering in the millions stood in front of an ebbing and flowing vortex of a magnificent purple color; draped in the uniforms of truth and justice, they surrounded the entrance with the best amongst themselves, in preventing their enemy from entering into their realm and wreak havoc. Such was the resolve of the enemies of Jubal, hoping to pounce and annihilate Jubal if need be. Many held in their hands whatever they could find - stones for their slingshots, war-hammers, pikes, maces, with shields being common for all - while their champions were armed with the finest of weapons that the realm could conjure, and with which they were prepared in preventing Jubal from entering into their realm. They waited and waited, knowing that it would only be a moment before the first of Jubal’s armored machines will strike and pave the way for Jubal to break through.

Amongst them was one being who could have been mistaken for Ma’e; nevertheless, he was from the tribe of Rofrukøt, and he spoke aloud to the warriors in a booming voice, “Steady hand, and a clear mind, my brothers. It is only a matter of time before the jaws of death open and let loose the dogs of chaos.”

“Aye, brother Yukhulgan; that be true!” the warriors voiced in unison.

The vortex still ebbed and flowed but nothing came out for quite some time. Then, a clanging and smashing sound resonated from the inside of the vortex. The warriors gathered around the vortex, the radius of the circle becoming more contracted. They joined their shields onto the hollow slots on the back of their armor, and allowing the power of the shields to conjoin them together. Some recited prayers of bravery and hope to their gods, only to be awoken to the realization that their time had come and there was no time for prayer or help - it was only a matter of time before they would be led towards their respective makers.

The first of the machines came out, accompanied by many more. All were armored crimson, their faces virtually non-existent because of the absence of marks to indicate any facial features; they were equipped with pikes with axe ends; their armor resonated with an electric spark that spurred out to their bodies after frequent intervals; and they kept walking towards the circle of warriors without fail, continuing to push deeper into it. But the warriors did not lose hope and held them back.

The battle escalated; the desert was baptized in blood and oil, and the vortex continued to pour fuel for the fiery resistance, who were beckoned on by their de-facto leader Yukhulgan. Yukhulgan fought bravely, his white beard now reaped with oil stains and his fine clothing now enveloped in blood of his fellow brethren and of his enemy in a horrible mold. But with his sword held on, he kept the machines at bay.

Noticing some of the machines making their way towards some of his brethren, he stopped the flankers with a necromantic spell; a conjuration which gave off a presentation of purple sparks and grayish flames shot on the front-most of the machines, he executed the flankers who were drizzled in a shock, and exploded into pieces, which the resistors took and used as improvised shields. Some turned out to be more effective than others, being able to eject lightning sparks onto the machines.

Running towards the vortex, he took out an elixir and, whispering a concoction of arcane words, he tossed it onto the vortex, shouting “Victorious Reap” and an envelope of a magnificent shade capsulated the object - upon entering the vortex - gave way to a powerful explosion.

The impact of the explosion was powerful - the desert sand flowed out to as far as the eye could see, the outreach of such power the wave resulting thoroughly removed all vision. The machines and the warriors alike both were pushed away. The sand flow followed closely with an equivocal push of rays that destroyed everything it touched. Yukhulgan felt as if in any moment he would be martyred and die a noble death fighting a tyrant.

He felt the power of the rays, but he did not find them unbearable at all; nor could his body or mind fathom the effect of the sand dunes sweep past him or through him, even though he acutely understood the effect of the grains enshrouding his mouth; he could still see the sunlight, even after the thorough clouding in darkness of the world around him, its perplexity being a mere fragment of the acuteness that he felt when he underwent the parting that could only be considered, at best, a glorious feeling and, at worst, a saddening demise of the last wheel of resistance against Jubal himself.

Alas, the dunes perished; the clouds broken; the sky was clear with its sun shining brightly, glaring down upon its inhabitants with tremendous hostility; while around Yukhulgan there was only a sparring emptiness that left no ground untouched in its acuteness. His warriors were dead, the machines were also broken and lifeless, the vortex was gone, but there were no traces of Jubal’s presence near the vicinity of Yukhulgan. He considered his own body and mind, finding that he was miraculously in control over his own self, having completely overwhelmed the effect of the rage that had been poured out on his line and himself. He was curious over how he managed to overwhelm such a torrent of persecution. He already knew the answer. He said aloud; “Is this another of your tricks, Jubal?”

Jubal looked at him from the distance, but did not speak. He simply stared at him for a prolonged duration.

“What are you planning now, Jubal? Are you intending on killing me? Enslaving me as you did my clan brother and his father as well as the brave warriors who held back your torrent of chaos?”

Jubal still did not speak. He simply walked past Yukhulgan politely, with no sense of anger or dread over his actions - merely strong contemplation.

Yukhulgan stood and waited for Jubal, concentrating all his efforts in the hopes of dealing the final blow upon Jubal and finishing the strongman altogether. But he did not speak, instead observing Jubal carefully.

Jubal still did not reply, merely looking at the sky and, closing his eyes, breathing the air.

Yukhulgan stood silent and observed him still, hoping to find a weakness, however discreet it might be.

Jubal asked, “Is there a price for taking one’s life?”

This took Yukhulgan aback. Partly because Jubal did not respond in any aggressive manner, nor did the Eye of Terror glow with its characteristic dread that was iconic of Jubal’s power. He answered, coldly but calculatedly, “There is none, only forgiveness in this world and chances of repentance in the next.”

“Is such repentance allowed to everyone?”

 “Only to those who are worthy of it, or have proven themselves to be significant for it.”

“Can such forgiveness be earned?”

Yukhulgan stared at Jubal and asked him, “What price are you willing to pay to earn what is beyond your reach, Jubal?”

Jubal responded abruptly, “An audience with the gods, if need be; with all my victims and enemies as witnesses against me.”

Yukhulgan still stared at Jubal calculatedly. He did not trust Jubal - he could not feel any sense of dishonesty in what he said, though. There was clear conviction in the response from Jubal, whose Eye of Terror turned from a fiery orange into a mystic blue, with a hazy cloud overshadowing the prominent portions.

Jubal walked away from Yukhulgan, but kept a short distance between his back and Yukhulgan. He looked at the desert before him and asked, “Would an audience be granted if I traversed these lands?”

“These lands are holy; you cannot pass here?”

“What must I do to surpass and be worthy of this ordeal?”

“It is not allowed for you, Jubal; you are guilty of crimes far greater than can be counted.”

“Of those records that have been made, are there any of significance?”

“All are equal in their form and manner, but numerous in their quantity.”

“Are not the sins of man the very same?”

“The sins of man can be cleansed by atonement, Jubal; you are impure beyond repair.”

“All material can be repaired...”

“Till such time that it does not proceed beyond its meager formations and its unjustified malformations; only so long as it does not break from its respective conformity; and up till the extent that it does not become corrupt itself, if not the above conditions.”

Jubal laughed at his plight and looked at the sky, smirking. “So I am irreversible. I am an existence that is beyond the means of cleansing. Is that what you are telling me, warrior?”

Yukhulgan knowing that this was where he would be tested for what he was, responded with calculated slowness “I have only told you what I have been taught by my elders, Jubal.”

Jubal nodded and considered the desert and his self. Yukhulgan was surprised that Jubal did not respond the way he usually did - with fiery rage and a boastful temperament - and wondered what had happened during his fight with Ma’e. He stepped towards Jubal and asked, “Has it come to be, that Jubal, the Jubal no less, is fearful of something?”

Jubal looked at Yukhulgan and responded, “I am no more human than the grains of sand we stand on, warrior. I am as liable to taste death, as your brethren did by my hands, or by my machines.”

“Are you not the lord of death, Jubal?”

“Even a lord must step down.”

“It is not as if the very nature of your death leads towards such a repercussion, Jubal.”

“Merely the inevitable point which I have reached now. I should not proceed beyond it, but it is too late to bother reversing the aftershock.” Jubal stated, laughing.

Yukhulgan nodded and looked at Jubal. The Eye of Terror beheld no terror, only debris of guilt which could not be overwhelmed. He looked at Jubal and, rather, asked him directly, “Do you not want to make a last stand, Jubal? Have a final confrontation, knowing that the outcome will be dealt fairly? Are you sure you do not want to raise your hands towards one more warrior, after reaching this far?”

Jubal looked at Yukhulgan and shook his head, and looked at him with a sad face. Yukhulgan considered Jubal and smiled - There was a reason he was so deeply despised by his fellow folk, and one of them was what he was doing now.

“You seek to die by my hand and be resurrected, only to die once more and be resurrected; only to die once more and be resurrected; thus resurrecting beyond death, through to immortality.”

Jubal laughed a voracious laugh, and held onto his lungs from the pain that poured out from the aftershocks of his laughter. Yukhulgan shook his head in disappointment, and with a single stroke, took his knife out. He raised it skywards, and looking at the sun through the shade of the blade, spoke aloud, “This is for my clan.” And with this, he struck his weapon.

Jubal still kept laughing, but there was a hint of dread in his voice. His laughter kept on consuming him, the aching of the muscles did not cease. It continued and continued till such time that his voice died abruptly and he now lay in front of a bleeding Yukhulgan, dead. The Eye of Terror faded away from the sands slowly, its particles spreading away through the mist which passed by Yukhulgan. He smiled, knowing that the battle had been won.

Yukhulgan looked at the blood pouring out from the knife blade that he had inserted through himself - the only person whom could lead Jubal towards his victory had overwhelmed him in a manner that could only befall true heroes. It was merely a matter of faith in his efforts which resulted in this success - by killing himself, he had essentially robbed Jubal of his only attempt in returning to his realm, the vortex being destroyed and with it, his entire asset towards domination. By killing himself, he had overwhelmed Jubal - and with this satisfaction, he slowly closed his eyes. His last thoughts were of a brave warrior staring into the eyes of a tyrant who had been the burdensome reason for his loss, and for his rise through the harshest of obstacles into achieving what he had strived for - the will to fight.

Yukhulgan could not, however, see the outcome of that warrior’s efforts; the light faded away into faint darkness and, with it, his death, resonated by the last breath he took, as he embraced his demise.