Tears fell from the shackles of the young man as he looked up to the so-called “sages.” Fury ignited in his heart as he was flooded with muscle memories of a battle never fought. “No more Samsara cycles. I have my memory, my hatred, their promises…” Like a war-torn soldier, he readied himself. “This time don’t bother praying, I am here to kill your god.” -- Anon Guest
Once in a great while, perhaps every century or so, someone thinks that war would be perfect if they could just make the soldiers who fought it perfect. That is the sole idea behind The Enlisted Man. That goal is impossible, given all the critera. But that never stops someone thinking they're special enough to make it work this time.
The perfect soldier must be able to fight in all circumstances with all weapons. They must be able to survive things that would incapacitate normal mortals. They must have a lot of intimidating muscle, which require energy, yet be able to survive for a week on a single cricket and the dew that gathers in their hair. They must, especially, be smart enough to interpret the spirit of their commander's orders, but dumb enough to follow their letter when necessary. As well as being able to telepathically interpret which is needed and when.
It's no great shock that every single Enlisted Man has turned against their creators.
This time, the most special people in the world who think they can do better than the last lot are engaged in a ritual they just created. One to entreat the very god of war to imbue their chosen with the spirits of the ultimate soldiers. All so that the child on the altar would be the one to defeat their enemy.
They should have been a bit more specific.
And they shouldn't have done it in the catacombs underneath the temple to their local god, Valgyti.
They really should not have chosen a child to put on the altar.
The souls of millions of victims of war screamed with the boy as they and millions of wronged soldiers entered a body too small to hold them. Sodpu was the one to provide the miracle that strengthened the boy's muscles and bones.
A perfect soldier shattered the shackles that kept a child in his place. A perfect warrior rose from the altar, looming over the allegedly wise folk in robes that had made him. "You worship Valgyti the Devourer, and you have made me what I am to slay your enemy."
"Yes. We have arms and armour of every size. Take that which suits your purpose best," said the leader of the chanting devotees.
They really should have asked a few more questions.
Their super soldier strode into the reliquaries to gird himself with Valgyti's armour and weapons, then up into the main temple to call down their god of feasts.
The god who demanded a majority of the food, especially from those who could barely get what they needed to survive. Though Valgyti insisted on devouring the harvests from the enemies outside their walls before they feasted on the reapings of their worshippers.
When Valgyti appeared on their high throne, the voices of millions wronged by war, spoke through the mouth of the super soldier.
"Tyr has sent me to balance your scales," they said. "You have been weighed and found wanting. Fight for your life, or die as one condemned."
[Photo by Saubhagya gandharv on Unsplash]
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