Prospect For Reincarnation: From Common Fodder To Calamity

Mustering every bit of strength that he could wring from his quickly weakening body, Incarnate ^8001 forced himself to backpedal down the way he had come and tumble down the rise he had just scaled.

He fell down, eating a mouthful of sand in the process, and thudded onto the somewhat soft sand floor.

He took deep breaths as his hearts thundered in his chest, only relaxing after a full two minutes had passed.

'What manner... of heretic object is that?!' he wondered while laying his hand over his chest and feeling the vibrations from his flesh. 'Were those people worshipping it?'

The Incarnate's skin tingled dreadfully.

He had never really been religious in his past life, though not because he didn't have the desire to a pious soul. He often blamed time and the environment he was forced to live in. His conscription into the army, which led him to brave endless trials between the borders of life and death for twenty years, encouraged a more pragmatic thought process.

What he just felt though, inspired a superior, yet dark appreciation for this new magical world than before.

Could this be what those religious folk from his world felt when 'communing' with their gods?

The Incarnate couldn't imagine the statue he had seen was anything but a representation of something divine.

He slowly stood up.

His blood was racing.

'Multiple hearts...' he thought, but this, for now, was trivial. 'Is... is there anything past that statue? Is it the right direction for me to go? I imagine so. But I can't possibly use this way, right? What if I go around?'

That seemed like a better plan.

Somehow, staying here became even more eerie for the Incarnate. He had to move, but he still had to consider which direction had promise. Perhaps if he travelled in a wide arch around the statue, he wouldn't feel as he did just now - that immense sense of threat.

'Let's try that...' he thought, his face turning to an even lighter shade of red. (This was the Hollow Demonling's version of turning pale.)

He took steps to the left, behind the mound of sand which he fallen off from.

Perhaps left was the best way.

First, he would get a good view, and then...

Wait.

A thought struck the Incarnate.

What was he doing?

'Didn't that voice say how I handle this situation... determines how I'm rewarded?' he thought, and his hearts thrummed fiercely.

That was right.

He wasn't human anymore and he was in a world where the common sense he knew didn't apply.

Besides, wasn't this a trial for him to successfully reincarnate as the Hateful Demon Tyrant.

Would such a being react as a human would, and avoid the unknown at all costs?

Would such a being manifest his fear even before godlike entities?

Well, that defeated the glory of the name 'Tyrant' while besmirching the race or moniker of 'Demon.'

The inbred instinct of a mortal contended against this ideology, but Incarnate ^8001 found that his body seemed to agree.

Perhaps his hearts were beating not because of fear... but because of excitement, and his mind was the one giving the illusion that his flesh was afraid.

The Incarnate wore a determined face.

'Unless I want to be seen as a pitiful worm again, and carry that nameless self into the afterlife...' he thought, ignoring any resistance in his mind, and took a step – much to his own surprise – towards the treacherous scene he had just fled from.

Scaling the mound of sand wasn't as casual of an endeavor this time around. Incarnate ^8001 gulped without end, thinking about how best to handle this, now that he had foolishly chosen what the weaker bit of himself was calling suicide.

He went on anyway.

The odd voice from the Isolated Foyer of New Beginnings had said that some of the trials here were easy, while some were nearly impossible to conquer. Surely, none of them could be bested by abstinence, right?

'Looking at that statue is what made me feel weak last time. I... I imagine that perhaps if I don't look...' the Incarnate shook as his mind conjured a spectacular vision of failure. 'No! It has to work. If it doesn't... I was resolved to die meaninglessly anyway.'

The top of the mound quickly came into view, and the Incarnate, unlike last time, kept his head down.

He waited a few moments while taking in the cool air... and felt nothing wrong with his body.

Elation sprang through his hearts.

'Yes!' he thought, but a crippling fear quickly arrested his joy, as the fact that the statue of the fat man was still there, remained.

'Alright, alright. Slowly, let's just walk past this ditch and then past the statue.'

Taking his time, the Incarnate first confirmed that the sand was firm enough for him to stand before beginning his slow trek to freedom. The conical pit didn't exist for nothing after all and ignoring his footing would be as foolish as leaping into the pit.

His life in the army had taught him a thing or two about being wary of the ground, which could be just as potent of an enemy as any skilled warrior on the battlefield.

Slowly, the Incarnate walked around, unconsciously stealing glances at the crowd of the perished within the depression.

After a while, without anything bad happening to him, he felt a little free to speculate.

What had happened to these people?

It truly seemed as though they had been worshipping the statue, but maybe there was another explanation for what he saw, after all, even now, he felt his skin shiver just by being close to these remains.

'If they truly perished while praying to whatever that object is, then maybe there is no difference of an end to what some religious people in my past life faced.'

The Incarnate had slaughtered two hordes of fierce cultists in his time as a soldier, but neither, even with their beckoning of the powers they claimed to sacrifice the lives of innocents to, were delivered from his and comrades' blades. The Incarnate had slaughtered them as easily as the common folk he slew hours before his death.

Evidently, this was different, but still.

The Incarnate noticed a particular skeleton close to the mouth of the pit. It had on a tattered blue robe that suggested that the one who had worn it had astounding wealth or at least some semblance of an important position.

The peculiar thing about it was that this skeleton had in its hand – and with a tight grip – an old quill pen. In the other hand, even more curiously, which was just below the quill, there was nothing to be seen.

Did a wealthy noble decide to write his last words before he perished?

'Typical,' the Incarnate thought indifferently.

His emotions quickly changed, however, when he saw once again, among the remains below, a few skeletons garbled in rusted golden armor and extravagant capes that featured faded rims of crimson.

They were soldiers.

Some wore something less impressive, but still indicative of their occupation.

A part of the Incarnate ^8001 pinched.

He couldn't help but feel as though he was looking at fellow comrades who had died, much like him, for nothing.

'What did you die for?' the Incarnate found himself asking in his thoughts with a pitying gaze.

"Why do you pity them, little bold soul?"