Ouroboros

Chapter 1: His name is

A dark alleyway, barely lit by the ambient neon lights of the city, a small silhouette of a female passes through it. Her breathing, frantic, her adrenaline, rising, her fear, is smelt by her pursuer, nay pursuers. She runs and runs until she reaches a dead end. Frantically, she searches for a means of escape, but naught is found. She turns and faces them. Goblins, pests that dwell in the sewer of the city. They only emerge in the cover of the night, with one sole purpose, to breed.

Goblins are sterile, or rather they don't reproduce the same through normal means. There are no female goblins, no male. They reproduce by kidnapping fertile females and inseminating them with their seed. The surrogate mother will then give birth to 10 to 15 goblins in as little as 3 weeks. Survivors, if they live through the traumatic experience, are never the same. They become a shell of their former selves, forever broken. With the evolution in technology, goblins evolved as well. Why would they hide in far distant caves and lairs, when humans have built massive underground dungeons right where they live, and their females, oh human females, are the most suitable for breeding.

The woman was backed against the wall. They smelled her fear and relished in it. They danced mockingly, as if she was a prey caught in a mouse trap. In response to her fear, her panic began to attack. In a desperate attempt to flee, she threw the nearby garbage at the goblins and tried to make a break for it. However, it was all for naught. They caught and restrained her on the ground, one of them even licked her cheek. She shuddered in disgust and fear. Just then, she noticed, someone was watching her.

A man, dressed in a navy blue hooded, belted trench coat, sitting at the top of the building. He got up and stepped off, gracefully, from a distance he resembled a bird of prey as he fell. He unsheathed one of the two swords on his left hip and upholstered his revolver on the right. Before the goblins could cut into the woman, he launched his sword, impaling the one holding her legs through its head. A runic mark on its handle glowed, and he appeared before the sword. He took aim with his revolver and blew off the heads of the remaining three holding the woman down. Their gore is splattered all over her, the walls, and their companions. He removed his sword that was lodged into the first one he killed, and stepped in front of her. "Get up," he commanded as he stood in front of her, "Get up and stay as close as you can to the wall, and don't move." She followed his order, and tried to make herself small next to the wall. Her savior, she knew him, no it would be more accurate to say she knew of him.

In a world where monsters, demons, and abominations run amok, there came a profession to handle these creatures. They called them, Death Bringers or hunters, for the stench of the numerous lairs, innards, blood, that became synonymous with a completed hunt, smelled as though death had arrived. It could've also been because the mortality rate of this profession was an astonishing 95%. If a party of 5 had left to clear out a lair, it was always presumed they would not return.

The woman knew that this man was a Death Bringer; however, he was no ordinary hunter. The rumors of a man with black hair darker than the night sky, wearing a belted hooded trench coat, black cargo pants, black leather boots, was widespread. He had killed, not it would be too kind to say killed, slaughtered numerous beasts, from giant lizards to dragons to demons. Any mission he would embark on, there was always a bloodbath left behind. Yet, that was not the reason he was notorious. Although his brutality is matched by a few, it was his physical attributes that set him apart. For the most part, he seemed like a well built male, some would even say he's handsome, but he was cursed. His right hand bore the mark of the Fell Dragon, black dragon head that looked as though it would consume whatever it was pointed at, and black flames that wrapped around his wrist. Lastly, his most distinct feature, although his right eye was a peaceful hazel green, his left eye had a completely black sclera and a bright purple iris. This iris held no ordinary shape, it was in the shape of a purple dragon eating its own tail, the ouroboros. They called him Ragnarok, the end of the world.

The woman's eyes widened as she recognized him as that legendary hunter. The goblins repulsed themselves from him. They felt a stifling aura of death around him; this was not a man they could kill. In their feeble attempt to flee, the man moved quicker than sound and sliced one of their faces in half. As its nose, eyes, and dome slipped to the floor, the remaining five goblins screeched in fear. They frantically tried to scale the walls, but to no avail. The man threw his sword at one, stapling it into the wall. With his revolver, he blew a hole into another, two down. He quickly seized the body of the one he shot. Holding its ankle, he used its as a flail to crush another as he pounced to it, three down. The handle on his sword glowed once more, and he warped to it. He removed his sword from the wall and threw it once more at another goblin. The sword missed the impalement, but it succeeded in slicing upon the belly of the goblin. While its innards were spilling out of it, it screamed in immense pain, but the man cut the scream short by grabbing the goblins face and warping once more into the air by throwing his sword. With more strength than before, he hurls it towards the earth. Its body scrunched upon impact and the bloody SQUISH is heard throughout the alley. The last goblin, frozen in fear, decides to attack the female. It screamed in an attempt to stave off its fear and lunged at her. The woman flinched in response, but before the goblin's feet even left the ground, it was sliced in half vertically. Behind it, was him, the one they call Ragnarok.

The woman's legs gave out and she dropped to her knees. Rain began to pour, and slightly washed off all the blood and gore that was splattered on her. The man walked over to help her stand. "The police are on their way," he spoke softly. The red and blue lights of the authorities lightened up the alley way along with their deafening siren. "Th..thank you," she whispered shakingly. The police arrived and noticed the blood bath. One of them remarked, "Holy hell," he exclaimed, "Ragnarok does not fuck around."

"Some would say he goes too far," another chimed in.

"Fuck yeah he does look at this," he flashed his flashlight around, "I've never seen so much goblin guts. Does he enjoy mauling them like this?"

"I don't know, but it's sick," another cop came in, holding back her vomit.

The woman stared at the man as he handed her over to the police, perplexed. His eyes, yes his left eye was scary to look at, but beyond that they showed something else. They reflected loneliness. How could such a dangerous looking man look so pitiful? It was as if they told another story, as if he was doing this to right his wrong for being born. A senior officer arrived and took her into his squad car. He nodded at the man and thanked him. The man didn't acknowledge the gratitude, he simply turned around and warped away. The woman grabbed the senior's coat and asked, "Do you know him?"

"Who, me?" he smiled softly, "yeah, Sol and I go way back."

"Sol? I thought his name was Ragnarok"

"No," he chuckled, "Sol is his real name. It means sun."

"Sol...what's his full name? I want to thank him."

"Hehe, good luck with that, but sure, he sure as hell needs some company anyways." The senior officer entered his car, "His name is Solaris Bane Stjärna."

The woman stared outside the window and into the moon. She murmured to herself, "The sun killing star."