The stench of burning brimstone and fresh terror hung thick in the air. Krodhas, the colossal God of War, now Kavi’s newest minion, stood bellowing over a trio of petrified supply clerks. The object of contention: a lukewarm bowl of 'nutri-paste' that Kavi hadn’t even touched yet. “This slop is an insult to my Lord’s glorious palate!” Krodhas roared, his voice rattling the brittle rib-bones of the Bastion. He punctuated his complaint by slamming a gauntleted fist onto a nearby crates of dried rations, splintering it into kindling. “His magnificent efforts defending this wretched hovel deserve only the finest, most fiery sustenance! I shall flay you all and use your sinews to stitch him a cloak of warmth!” The supply clerks, gaunt and weary veterans of a thousand skirmishes, huddled behind their counter, their faces bone-white. One of them, a woman with a faded scar tracing her cheek, whimpered, clutching a rusty ladle like a talisman. “Easy there, big guy,” Kavi drawled, sauntering over with a practiced swagger that belied the throbbing agony in his shoulder. He plucked a piece of dried fruit from the broken crate and popped it into his mouth. “You’re scaring the locals. And honestly, this nutri-paste tastes better cold. Cuts through the gritty texture.” Krodhas instantly spun, his massive axe, ‘Skull-Cleaver,’ glinting menacingly. His single, glowing eye swiveled to Kavi, then back to the cowering supply staff, the raw fury in his stance deflating into an almost puppy-like confusion. “But… Lord Kavi, your glorious energy demands a hot meal! My previous masters always insisted on… ” Krodhas trailed off, his voice a confused rumble. He looked genuinely distressed, as if he’d committed a grave culinary sin. Kavi clapped him on the thigh, the metallic clang echoing through the hall. “Past masters, eh? Well, consider me an acquired taste, Krodhas. And my taste is for less gratuitous flaying. These folks are doing their best.” He winked at the clerks, who still looked ready to bolt. “Besides,” Kavi continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “if you start beheading everyone who gives me cold food, we’ll run out of chefs. Then who’s going to make our… delightful nutri-paste? Think strategically, my friend.” Krodhas pondered this, a low growl escaping his throat. “A valid point, Lord. A strategic oversight on my part. My apologies. My loyalty sometimes eclipses my tactical finesse.” He bowed his massive head, then glared at the storekeepers again. “But next time, the paste will be… lukewarm, at least. Or there *will* be consequences.” Kavi just shook his head, a faint, genuine smile touching his lips. It was utterly absurd. A towering God of War, reduced to arguing about food temperature and taking tactical advice on not butchering kitchen staff. He’d half expected a loyalty test, not a lesson in customer service. He felt a phantom ache in his chest, a memory of a time when the world wasn’t a grotesque comedy. He pushed it down, turning back to the pantry counter. “See? Perfectly reasonable. Now, about that shoulder wound…” Nirupa, who had been silently observing the entire bizarre exchange, stepped forward. Her dark eyes, usually sharp and challenging, now held a glint of something softer, almost pitying. “Don’t pretend you didn’t like it,” she said, her voice a low murmur that only Kavi could hear. “Having your own personal war god, ready to commit atrocities for a warm meal. It suits your chaotic sense of humor.” Before Kavi could retort, she took his arm, her touch surprisingly gentle, and tugged him away from the stunned crew and Krodhas, who was now meticulously polishing his axe-head with a tattered cloth he’d somehow procured. “Let’s get that wound cleaned before you bleed all over the Bastion’s most prized dirt.” They found a quiet alcove near the Barracks, away from the immediate chaos. Nirupa produced a small, utilitarian first-aid kit, her movements precise as she began to carefully peel away the blood-soaked fabric of Kavi’s tunic. The wound, a deep gash across his deltoid, was a jagged mess, still oozing sluggishly. “You really threw yourself in front of that strike, didn’t you?” she murmured, her voice uncharacteristically soft, devoid of its usual barbs. “For me.” Kavi winced as she dabbed at the wound with a searing antiseptic. “Don’t get sentimental, Nirupa. It was a tactical maneuver. You’re far too valuable to lose. Who’d keep me honest if you were… indisposed?” He attempted a weak grin, but it felt thin, brittle. She looked up, her gaze piercing through his usual defenses. “Don’t you dare deflect, Kavi. Not now.” Her fingers brushed against his skin, sending a strange warmth through him. “I found something.” Kavi stiffened. “Found what?” he asked, trying to sound casual, but his breath caught in his throat. Nirupa pulled a small, leather-bound notebook from a pouch at her hip. It was well-worn, its pages stained with what looked like dried blood and ash. Kavi’s heart plummeted. His secret. “This. I found it tucked beneath a loose floorboard in your room, while I was… searching for the Soul-Tether.” She paused, her eyes scanning his face. “It’s filled with poetry. Beautiful, heartbreaking poetry. About fading light, endless loops, and the drag of living a borrowed life.” Kavi’s sardonic mask shattered, crumbling to dust. He felt exposed, raw. The words in that book were the true Kavi, the one he buried beneath layers of jokes and bravado. They were the laments of a ghost, a copy, a placeholder. “Those aren’t… they’re just scribbles,” he mumbled, trying to snatch the notebook, but she held it away, her grip firm. “‘I am the echo of a song unsung, the shadow of a hero unstrung. A puppet dancing on a dead man’s string, waiting for the final, hollow sting.’ Is that a scribbled grocery list, Kavi?” Her voice was quiet, but it vibrated with an intensity that stripped him bare. “Who are you, really? And why do you talk about being a copy, a ghost?” He slumped back against the cold stone, the pain in his shoulder momentarily forgotten. “It’s complicated, Nirupa. More complicated than ‘demons want to eat us all.’ I… I don’t know who I am. I just know I’m not *him*.” The confession felt like ripping off a scab, agonizing but necessary. “The original Kavi… he was supposed to be the hero. The one who sealed the Rift. But he left me here. A hollow echo. And I keep seeing… things. Visions of you, dying.” His voice cracked on the last word. Her breath caught, a flicker of comprehension smoothing her furrowed brow. She reached out, her fingers gently touching his cheek. The contact sent heat prickling across his skin, a fragile bridge between them. “Kavi…” Before she could say anything more, a deafening crash echoed through the alcove. The heavy, reinforced door to the Barracks exploded inward, ripped from its hinges, sending splinters flying. Krodhas stood in the gaping doorway, his armor gleaming, his single eye alight with unholy glee. He held something aloft in one massive gauntlet. It was a freshly severed demon head, dripping black ichor onto the polished steel of his pauldron. Its eyes were still wide, frozen in a rictus of terror. “My Lord!” Krodhas bellowed, completely oblivious to the tender moment he’d just obliterated. “The head spoke! It cried out, even as I removed it! It says… it says your past self is waiting at the Rift’s Core!”

Boot Polish and Bloodlust