Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions

[🎶 Something Real – Post Malone.]

THE RAIN PELTED THE DIRTY streets as he came up by a cobbled square dazzled in a million shining neon signs. Cold and fresh, bouncing off feldstone pavement, the pattering shone like crystals. Still, the downpour couldn't distract the mist vapors of the new vapor industries or piss stench of lowly living quarters of the undercity.

People hurried under droopy umbrellas, eyes hid and uncaring for the next soul ahead. The glow of blitz lights bathed the arena in fusion light; it was wonderful what the inoculation of [mecha] energy into the mana-populated, magic-using citizenry of Titans Landing had done for the city.

The ton were calling it the machine revolution.

He passed by a cute couple strolling in the other direction. Their shared umbrella lifted, surprising him with a bow. "Lord Israfel." The woman offered first. Rafel was taken aback. He hadn't expected anyone to recognize him down here. The undercity, apart from breeding the most criminal lot of the Capital, they were also the worse lassez-faire when it came to matters of politics—or who the fuck was sitting the Fae throne.

"Thank you, Ser. You saved the world." The husband pressed forward to grab his hand and shake it vehemently. Rafel could only hold on. His jaw shifted. 'Just what I need? Freaking fans!' He wanted to yell he had done it for entirely selfish reasons. Rafel looked between the couple; their white was like poured cream. Oriental. Shiny. With little eyes. "I wouldn't say the world, you know." he said.

"Pfft." The woman scoffed, grinning, and he could tell she struggled not to jump on him for a hug.

The couple started away and he followed them up with his eyes. They were whispering and looking up at the brick walls of long, spired buildings. It was then Rafel's eyes drifted to the stone of pubs and gambling pools which tormented artists of the undercity had made their canvas.

The splash of crazed wall-art depicted a 3D larger-than-life mural of a deific man in Spartan battle gear carrying the figurative [Prometheus Torch].

"Mhmm." Rafel turned his head to sturdy it more.

It was him.

The deified soldier.

Red, luxurious hair. Yellow, illustrious eyes. Strong, hardened chin. Sturdy, war-bled physique. As the wall-art, other images of him hung from balconies and lofts as posters, banners, embroidery, fucking toys in carts. He even spotted a hologram of himself in battle splendor through the display window of a fitting house. The tailor had sure added her own sizeable girth for his crotch.

"Wow!" He stared up at the magnificence. He was more a hero in the undercity than anywhere else in the Empire. His guess was that these people had been secretly needing a symbol, an anti-hero, a fucking well bloody villain... anyone, to lead the surge against the tyranny of devils. And unknowingly, he had filled this spot phenomenally.

"Damn. I look good." Rafel entertained a chaffed smile. If Cora were here, she'd smack him over the top. It's hard not to be narcissistic when you're a vision idol. When he looked down again, the couple were gone.

The whole world of the undercity was lit like a stage in the Ball Season. 'Shit,' Rafel surmised. That too was coming up soon. He briefly wondered if Ravenna would ask him to it. As Empress now, no man had right to ask her to the soiree. That was Eldorian law. Even if he'd been married to his Little Raven, she would still have to be the one to pose the question. Some Empress down the history text had cemented this rule—right after her sworn Lord consort was caught in the gardens, fingering their prize hibiscus.

In other words, this law translated as 'men aren't worth shit.'

If only that Empress had known it would only serve to favour; who wanted to go down on their knees these days for every single party or proposal?

In fact, just thinking of Queen Ravenna de Vríes on her knees, begging for 'something' brought a large smile to Rafel's face.

"OH! I CAN'T WAIT FOR BALL NIGHT!" The teenage perv in him jumped around inside his head, frothing at the mouth and imagining Ravenna's lips close to his belt. "Hmm. Yes!"

A flash from a pub's sconce hit his eyes, drawing him back.

Titans Landing now was a perfect mix of medieval and futuristic: black towers with huge grandfather clocks, but also [shuttle wagons] floating in park under the storied levels. Gentlemen in hats—and owning spectacles that read the weather. Drivers on the ground, but also in the sky; chauffeurs of the [Zeppelin] hot air balloons. The Continent's Capital, a rollercoaster steampunk.

Who'd have thought?

In the undercity, people are less tame with their use of [Mecha] over mana. While those of elevated status, [dignitas], and noble birth still prefer the rumble of olden carriages—keeping their [shuttle wagons] parked in fields as fancy—those of the undercity proudly hop and levitate around in them, racing on [cosmoboards], streaming past in cheeky laughter. And you'd think the Council put laws on the use of [Mecha force].

Since he got here, Rafel had seen more than ten people walk by with either cyborg arms or glinting machine orbs for eyes.

The invasion of the South into the city had opened it to the artificial grass of [Cosmo]. Those born into families of no magic or [Divine] bloodlines could now gain [Influence] as Mechas. These days, if you wanted real, goat-killing witches, you'd be better off in the Lords District. All the undercity had were gypsy sluts that could read palms and shoot small charges from [Sparkolite] attached to their wrists.

Tensions were already brewing: plenty Nobility turned up their noses at those deemed – 'abominable inhumans with glowing skin and steel spines.'

Rafel dropped his eyes from the rather racy sign of a Rhobine tavern. It was a showgirl in starlight. The spots of her nipples and sex had X's to how the spots you definitely should expect to see, should you walk in there.

And Rafel would've done exactly that.

But the vision of the whores weren't as welcoming as the tavern's neon stripper. They were lasses in frayed cotton and garters, trying their luck at roleplay—and being sexy.

"No fucking way. I ain't getting no undercity Chlamydia." Rafel shifted his eyes. He instantly heard loud bass thrum off from a colossal dome in the distance. A [shuttle wagon] hovered over the bridge overhead, its sleek jaguar-line ensemble shimmering black silver in the rain. Rafel listened to the pounding bass hit again. It made the little puddles of rain on the flat vibrate darkly. He stared into the hovering red and green and blue lights jamming up from the dome's glass roof, spearing the rain and grey morning. When the dum-dum and crowd roar hit the third time, he concluded:

"Jackpot!"

Many whores made a pass at him as he jogged the way up to the dome. Some of them not even real, but [VR] harlots, hottest bods on the planets. Rafel began to run. The particular luminous [light fairy] just might've made him change his mind about the dome. It was walkable distance, but he leaped with a burst of [Umbrage].

He landed in a vortex of shadows among a couple of dearborns. The carriages jumped slightly off the ground as his landing. He walked into the dome.n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

"Holy fuck." Rafel's leopard eyes rounded as he emerged down a gallery. The place was packed, and spilling. He'd tipped the bouncers heavily every which way. The dome reminded him of Hel's Colosseum—only with more lights and flaming stage.

It wasn't sands down there.

But a ring.

As for the bloodlust and carnage from the crowd, Hel was well matched on earth.

Rafel moved seamlessly over the crowd. Literally. He floated above their heads in a cloud of [dark dust]. A very impressive Influence from [S Rank]; he was still getting used to it. As he walked, his footsteps left silhouetted prints in the air that, like ash, scattered in some epic way. At the forefront of about thirteen hundred yelling people, he stopped walking. Rafel dropped right down in front of a cage fight.

All around him, people were screaming violently. One man came up to his face. "Who the fuck are you, Ginger? I'm standing here!"

"Sleep." Rafel said simply.

Instantly, the man crumpled in on himself.

[Ding! Gladorium use successful!]

[Host has gained +70 Influence.]

Rafel was glad Peitho was with him. "Even if I don't get a tight pussy to sink into this cold, rainy morn, I'll always have her. I bet she must be horny from watching me pound Cora—"

[I can hear you, you know.]

"Ouh!" Rafel felt like someone had punched him in the guts.

[You're right, Lord host. I am in heat. I wish you don't find a suitable slut here.]

Peitho came back. Rafel thought: Am I ready to fuck my system. But her words and voice... too darned sexy. Luckily, people were too focused on the ongoing blood spectacle to notice the aloof, virile redhead as the great Ptolemaic hero from all the graffiti. BOOM! The shaven kickboxer crashed hard into the cage. He met with the rings so hard the skin of his back came off. "YAH!" The crowd roared up to the glass sky of the dome.

The shaven man's opponent: a hulk with [vee six] injections shooting out his mammoth shoulders fell upon his advesary with mighty fists. Continue your journey at empire

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

This was a recurring sound Rafel heard.

He was much displeased with this fight: it was over too soon.

Plus... no titties.

"Wish it were a girls fight, huh?"

A voice came to him. Rafel blinked to spot the person to whom it belonged: the woman was indeed very attractive, but she had no sweetness to her. She was all edge and tats. Her entire left arm was [Legendary Class] Adamantium metal. The steel sparkled in the ring lighting. She grabbed to the cages as more blows descended, from the cosmo-enhanced hulk beating the shaven man to a literal pulp.

Blood spots hit the cage and the woman's face. She did not turn her eyes from him.

All around them, people gyrated like a flood, hard going at thunder for violence. Neither of them cared. In the silhouette of the flashing dome and close-contact bloodsport, Rafel felt this hot, Mecha woman's words wash over him again. This time, right into his dick.

"Wish it were a girls fight, huh?"

Once more, all he could find to say was,

"Jackpot."

[To be Continued]