Content Warning: Graphic depictions of violence, torture

Given Khyses’ profession, there is no need to keep track of time. But old habits die hard, and older men should die harder. 

The person of interest today is an Emperor. A nationwide festival lasts for a month in honor of his three hundredth birthday and thirtieth year of reign. Under the noontime sun, the streets are bustling with activity as garlands, lanterns, and brilliant flora dot the exteriors of establishments. The aroma of food permeates everywhere. 

His subordinates also informed him that he might be here this time. 

“There’s more,” a subordinate had said gravely. “A decade has passed, the Emperor’s children have long grown, yet none of them have been dubbed as the Crown Highness. I have gathered intel that in kingdoms such as this, it is common in the royal family to appoint the eldest born as heir.

“This subordinate thinks…that the Emperor plans to keep his place in the throne for as long as possible.”

Anger licks his bones upon hearing that, but as the phantom smile suddenly appears in his thoughts, Khyses calms down. 

“A stall here sells spring rolls,” he murmurs to himself, trudging the route towards the palace. “I think you’ll like them.”

When Khyses reaches the outermost gates, there are two guards who flank the entrance. They give him a once-over and conclude that his spiritless outfit warrants jail time. 

A guard eventually breaks the silence with a salute. “This servant presumes you are here upon the invitation of His Majesty. May the Don procure an invitation for checking.”

“I don’t have one.”

“...Guests of His Majesty require his personal token to enter.”

Khyses pats the guard’s shoulder fleetingly and watches him fall to his knees unconscious. His hand shoots out again in a whirlwind before the other guard can react. He aims for the chest, and the man crumples to the ground as he retracts his hand. He takes this as his cue to get in. 

“Relax,” he whispers again to himself. Or specifically, to the voice in his mind. When he gets worried, his voice notches an octave higher. Khyses scoffs fondly as the shrill voice warns him not to overdo it. 

But since he is not here, Khyses can entertain the thought of nicking this Emperor’s skin inch by inch like a potato, right?

“You know we’re similar: I must be in prolonged, direct contact with a mortal if I want to drain their life force down to the bone,” he explains patiently as he strolls toward the towering imperial court. “One tap knocks them out for at most, an hour. 

“Wait for me. I’ve come to get you back.”

Does he say it to the Emperor or to him? Either way, it is a reunion. 

Because Khyses wants to draw out this retribution as carefully as he can, he quells the urge to kick the grand, embellished doors open. He pushes them forward gently instead. Little by little, the gap reveals a banquet hall draped in blinding light.

At the head of the long feast sits the Emperor, whose once relaxed face pulls taut at the sight of the unfamiliar figure. The lively atmosphere quiets down as all eyes stare at him.

Meanwhile, Khyses’ heart wrenches into itself all vice-like, as he stares at the man who sits at the right of the Emperor. When those eyes finally stare back at him, his lungs are alternately filled with a cool breeze and acid rain, hands itching to grip someone’s neck or someone else’s hands.

This is Thediones. 

“Who allowed you in?” the Emperor presses with a raised voice. 

“This humble one comes from faraway lands, Your Majesty.” Khyses’ steps gradually get more insistent as he walks closer to the king. “Your life makes the heavens envious. This one had to pay his respects on their behalf.”

His footsteps are soon marked with dark, dripping ink. Khyses smiles wider as cold, malicious energy envelopes his figure, laughing maniacally when the guests flee in terror. 

Meanwhile, the Emperor is pulling on Thediones’ arm desperately, but the man remains seated, reticent. He watches with dark amusement as Khyses swoops for the Emperor’s neck with a clawed hand. 

Khyses hisses, “As part of your local customs, a month-long festival is held to honor Your Majesty’s wit and life. But that ends today.” He squeezes the Emperor’s neck harder and draws out an audible choke from the old man. Crow’s feet carefully become prominent near his eyes. The healthy layer of skin is continuously sucked out, soon making way for discolored and chapped flesh. 

As the Emperor is reduced into a frail, sickly bag of bones, Thediones slams a barehanded blow against his kneecaps. The joints crunch thickly, mixing with the piercing screams of the old man. 

Khyses curls his claws and wrenches out stringy meat from his throat. Bloody juice sprays out gently.

He glances at Thediones. “Slap him back to life.”

Thediones barks out a laugh as he strikes a hand to the Emperor’s face. The mandible cracks from the impact as blood pours out of his misaligned mouth.  Khyses sneers and rips his jaw wide apart, baring gums littered with broken teeth. 

As night falls and lanterns adorn the evening streets, intertwining divine energies of light and darkness engulf a bloody banquet hall. The floor is littered with torn-out entrails, chipped fingernails, and chunks of flesh. Khyses fiddles indifferently with a dirty pair of eyeballs. Beside him, Thediones flicks drops of his ichor at the sliced visage of the Emperor, whose chest moves weakly upon contact with the godly blood. 

“Your Majesty.” Khyses’ gravelly voice echoes around the walls. “You are charged for imprisoning the God of Life for over 30 years, and making him your personal pet to extend your lifespan.”

He chuckles. “Sacrilegious desire truly enables a human to push their limits, until they don’t know their place. But no worries, this God of Death shall guide you to your supposed destination. Happy birthday, Your Majesty.”

Khyses does not wait for a reply and throws the Emperor’s mauled body aside with a bony clack. 

“Get out of that tacky costume,” Thediones deadpans.

“Ingrate.” Khyses glares at him before dark smoke envelopes his entire figure. The gloomy energy surrounding him has slowly subsided. He goes from an indescribable sleep paralysis demon to a good-looking man donning simple clothes. The striking point, Thediones watches, is when he fishes out a gold-rimmed, black fan from a sleeve.

“Let’s go.” Khyses fans himself gently.

“Where?”

Khyses’ eyes glitter with affection. “Spring rolls are perfect for this festival.” Then a lopsided smile. “Death anniversary, rather.”

They walk out of the cherry-splashed halls cackling.