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Philip was perfectly fine and ready to rid himself of the treacherous grimwalker on the day when those heretics had invaded his mind. Inconvenient, sure, but ultimately inconsequential. It was favorable in some ways, actually—one less variable to worry about when preparing for the Day of Unity’s arrival.
But unfortunately, the creature managed to flee alongside the human girl, Luz. An unimaginably frustrating turn of events. Instances in which a grimwalker had successfully escaped his disposal were few and far between. But although some ran, they could never hide for long.
Recapturing this one was rather easy. After all, considering the human girl was with him at the time of their escape, Philip had a keen idea as to his whereabouts. The surrounding perimeter of the Owl Lady’s house was the first place troops were sent to look, and the runaway grimwalker was seized and brought back into his creator’s custody before noon the next day.
The miserable little thing’s struggle was incessant once the paralyzation spell wore off. He bit a few scouts to the point of drawing blood, headbutting, kicks to the groin, and using any and all underhanded tactics at his disposal in a futile attempt to free himself. He had to be put to sleep to protect those around him. Once he awoke, he continued to fight, even though he had long lost, crying like a baby and trying to barter for his right to live. How hypocritical… The boy had been completely willing to give his life for his beloved Emperor up until mere hours ago. How was this any different?
Philip shouldn’t kid himself. He knows exactly what’s different. This particular grimwalker has some things that set him apart from his predecessors…
Almost all of them had struggled, of course, with very few exceptions. Every now and again, a grimwalker, once faced with the reality of his imminent doom, would simply bare his neck for his Emperor and die without causing a scene. Those were always Philip’s favorites. No theatrics or begging, just accepting their fates and perishing when asked like any good soldier ought to.
When disposing of those failed attempts, Philip occasionally, against his better judgment, would find himself wondering if they could have been saved… This, of course, is utter nonsense. There is nothing to save within those wicked creatures—no soul, no human heart, only a shell that looks like a man. In the beginning, he often had to remind himself of this. It comes to him much more naturally now.
This one was similar in some ways. Just like Philip had planned from the beginning, eagerness to please, reverence, and many other positive qualities were present in what could be perceived as the thing’s ‘personality.’ But he was also stubborn. Loud, a rambler. A nosey brat who doesn’t know when to give up. Rebellious.
The rebelliousness—It’s something Philip had observed before. The Eclipse Lake incident was not one-of-a-kind… But he had seen it especially clearly whilst those two miscreants were cowardly fleeing from his mindscape. The grimwalker turned to pitifully look him in the eye, holding onto the hand of Luz, the human.
That little spark of rebellion in his eyes… The defiance. The mockery— it filled him with rage. It made him want nothing more than to clutch that spark with his own two hands and crush it, smother it, stamp it out with all of the strength he could muster, and watch it wither away. The memory it conjures is far too familiar, sickeningly so—that unforgettable sight of a golden-haired ally absconding hand-in-hand with the enemy.
It’s unacceptable.
Although, he supposes he should have seen it coming. Teenagers of this century are known for having phases of insurgency, but Philip thought that he had raised the creature better than that… Obviously, he had been mistaken. This one shared not only his face but his predisposition to sin as well.
The other thing that set this grimwalker apart were his… relations. As a direct result of his rebelliousness, the grimwalker had gone out and made connections. Relationships. Friends.
No longer was Philip his only companion in this cruel dimension. He became invested in the wellbeing of outsiders. Sinners, making him question what’s right and wrong; making him question his faith.
That simply would not do.
So, yes. Philip had made up his mind. This one was done for. Grimwalker #72, ‘Hunter,’ would be promptly discarded.
And that was the plan. His creation was brought before him, at the time still under the spell keeping him asleep. He hadn’t even planned on waking the creature or hearing his final words, just wanting to get it done. Finish the job, and move on.
Philip was ready to do it. He was going to throw the grimwalker over the bridge in the titan’s skull, sending him to lie with the other failures.
But, taking one last look at the thing, breathing in his features for the final time—
The way that one unruly lock of hair falls in front of his youthful face… That soft, peaceful expression he holds while in a dreamless sleep. If one were to ignore the inhuman ears and the gap in his teeth, in moments like this, with his eyes closed, he looks exactly like…
—Philip couldn’t help but feel nostalgic. He did something he rarely did; he hesitated.
He hated to admit it, but there were things he would miss about this one. He had worked so hard to instill all of those positive traits in him… Raised him from thirteen or so years ago up until now, painstakingly molding him exactly to his desired specifications. Teaching him how to properly use a fork and knife, how to chew with his mouth closed… Philip cannot help but look back on a few of those memories with a distant fondness. A longing.
And ‘Hunter’ was always so grateful for his Emperor’s care. The grimwalker would devoutly smile at him, and Philip would smile back at the sight of Caleb’s face looking up at him from below.
It’s such a shame… He truly had thought this one would last longer than usual. So much time invested, so many resources devoted—It can’t all be for nothing, can it? No… Not this one, he reasoned. Not with that face. It had to mean something.
He wanted to hold on just a little longer, to once again see that familiar face smiling up at him in reverence… He really did look so much like him. There’s just something so incredibly exhilarating about having such power, such utter control over this little puppet, this spitting image of his dear brother. It’s not every day one creates a grimwalker with such impeccable resemblance to its ortet. Philip doesn’t want to give this one up quite yet.
Isn’t there anything he could do to set his little grimwalker straight? A spell? An enchanted artifact? A way to take that wayward spark in his eye and snuff it out, leaving only the good behind. Something that would bring everything back into harmony, the way it used to be. The way it should be…
Was it really too late?
…
Philip does not consider himself weak-willed, no. He is a strong man, and he will do anything it takes to achieve his goals, yes, but—he is, after all, only human.
It’s okay to indulge oneself every once in a while.
Maybe it’s worth trying something new.
—
Philip had once read a peculiar book. Years ago, maybe decades ago. The passage of time evades him. It was a piece of human literature. Quite the unassuming object, though remarkably well-preserved. The secrets it hid inside, however, were not to be taken lightly. The book in question detailed a revolutionary medical treatment. A cure-all for any perversion of mental fortitude. Manic businessmen, melancholic housewives, and disobedient children alike can have their grievances done away with only a flick of the wrist. Madmen, once deemed unfixable, were able to be pacified and sent home to live without the hysteria they once held.
Fascinating as it was, Philip had no immediate use for the book. He kept it on a shelf in the grimwalker nursery, where he hid many of humanity’s artifacts he had come across during his mission on these wretched Isles. Kitchenware, weapons, furniture, artwork, and anything decidedly human he would keep safe in the depths of his hidden workshop. It helps to stave off the homesickness.
While mulling over what to do with his troublesome grimwalker, Philip found himself reaching for the book once again. A brilliant idea was taking shape in his mind’s eye.
Modern and innovative, the procedure was described as incredibly easy. One only needs a large pointed metal probe and a sturdy mallet to drive the instrument above and behind the eye into the skull. It takes less than ten minutes, and patients are able to be discharged within days. Philip concluded that there seemed to be no better fit to cure the unruly grimwalker of his dissent than ‘lobotomy.’
He did have his doubts, however. Being of human origin, there was no saying what this procedure would do to a witch, let alone a grimwalker. There was a significant chance it would do nothing at all and an equal probability that it would make the creature’s defects more pronounced… But no matter the result, Philip wanted to see what would happen. He was already planning on discarding the boy, so if things don’t go how he wishes, he will simply rid himself of the creature and be on his way.
But if it were to produce the intended effects, well…
Philip grinned at the prospect.
—
It took immediately.
Philip knew that it had when Hunter’s pleading had died out. He paid attention very closely, very carefully, and as the metallic instrument was lodged behind his grimwalker’s eye, that spark—that little defiant flame he despised so dearly—he could see it fading, dimming more with each movement of the makeshift orbitoclast and every strike of the mallet. What a remarkable therapy. A true testament to man’s inventiveness. To be able to watch that flame die in real-time—It was almost like magic.
Sorcery, that of which Philip had become so accustomed to over the past four hundred years. But this, Philip noted, was better. This invention was free of corrupt and blasphemous origins. Instead, it came into this world by the hands of man, guided by God Himself.
The fact that such a simple and straightforward procedure would affect a soulless, godless creature from this hellscape was undeniable proof of humanity’s resilience. Proof that the power of God, though His name has never once been uttered by the scum of this land, prevails. Proof that Philip is on the right path.
This ‘Doctor Freeman’ character… Once Philip returns home, he will surely have to find this man and shake his hand. He’ll personally thank him for his contributions to humanity as Witch Hunter General. If a soul-saving procedure such as this had existed back when—… Back when he and Caleb were boys, then…
Maybe he could have nipped his dear brother’s corruption in the bud.
But that time is long gone.
It was now quiet; it was calm. No more struggling or screaming. The little grimwalker had become compliant. Docile. Philip felt a strong sense of accomplishment as he helped his creation sit up. The boy’s glassy eyes wandered around the room, and it was clear he was no longer scared of his surroundings or his Emperor. He even seemed unaware of the events that had just occurred. The stark contrast to the begging and crying from mere minutes earlier was almost comedic.
Philip held up Hunter’s head by the chin, the cool metal of his gauntlets meeting bloody, tear-stained skin. The air was completely tranquil. Peaceful.
Perfection.
Well, no. Not perfection. Of course, there were still numerous things wrong with the creature.
His pointed, inhuman ears. His eyes appearing an even darker shade of crimson from the blood. Teeth crooked in the wrong places. Stature too short, voice too shrill…
No, this hadn’t saved him. That was impossible.
But it had made things quite a lot more exciting, hadn’t it?
‘Yes, this will do,’ Philip thought to himself, meeting his grimwalker’s glazed-over, unfocused eyes.
‘This will do quite nicely.’