Buried beneath the water, Ora lay at the bottom of the lake.

Above him, the fractured sunlight floating on the surface. Each sun ray became a blob of molten gold, refracted into a shimmering rainbow.

His labored heartbeat banged against his ribs as he held his breath. Even that, and the sloshing echoing in his ears, couldn't block out a singular observation.

Today marked the milestone of him spending half his years in captivity.

The oppressive weight of this undeniable fact threatened to crush him.

He flipped. With a powerful kick, he propelled himself up and swam to the rocky shore. His fingertips and toes gripped the rough vertical wall of limestone as he climbed up the cliff.

Each steady, deep inhalation fed his starving lungs. Droplets cascaded down his broad back and thighs. His muscles contracted as he heaved himself onto the top of the five hundred feet tall outcrop.

The swim and climb had washed away some of the melancholy.

As he sat on the steep overhang, his narrowed gaze swept over the breathtaking view. The lush tapestry of sloping greens and golds, dotted with wildflowers, was a riot of colors. Their sweet nectar attracted doves of butterflies, bumblebees, and dragonflies. Punch-drunk, they flitted in flocks, enjoying the brief summer of their short lifespan. Winter would arrive soon enough. But for now, autumn, an unwanted visitor, crept in. Ora shuddered as the cool wind caressed his scars. His species wasn't fond of the cold, but he had adapted.

"Do you remember the island, Nāga? They call it Kodo," Ora asked as he didn't, not anymore.

'No, but I miss the heat and humidity... and the ocean no chill could touch,' his beast replied.

In the distance, the waterfall tumbled into a valley, forming a tarn. Dense vegetation, framed by a circle of towering mountains, became unassailable curtain walls. The peaks cast a sinister shadow on the woodlands, not different from the corruption that tainted his soul.

Two curved outcrops formed an arch with a jagged ridge jutting out. By passing under this structure, christened Hellridge, convicted criminals entered Tartarus.

There were no warnings, but if there were one, it'd state: Abandon hope all ye who enter here, never shall you leave.

In a cruel irony, these beautiful lands, rich in prey, provided an idyllic home for creatures like him. Despite its picturesque beauty, this was a prison where the passage of time was rendered meaningless. This landscape, an ever-evolving canvas, depicted the same scene. Only the hues and shades morphed when fickle seasons tormented them with their drastic mood swings.

But Ora hadn't ever been healthier, but he wouldn't say he was happier. He had not forgotten what that specific emotion entailed. But he'd also come to admire the cunning illusion of freedom these surroundings mimicked. Fortunately for him, freedom was a fleeting dream that faded in the waking moments.

Yet, against his will, he'd begun associating the smell of pine and earthy mulch saturating the air with his home.

Nāga sibilated to reject that blasphemous idea. His beast, a Sheesha, said little nowadays. But there was not much to say. In the netherworld, waiting was the name of the game.

Ora wrung the moisture out of his long hair and beard before he lay down. He tilted his face to soak up the warm overhead sun until the band on his wrist beeped.

With a huff, he stood up, rocked on his toes, and stretched. Ignoring the beeps, he strolled into the woods.

Filtering through the canopy, the dappling shadows danced on the moss-covered floor. The play of light and darkness bolstered his flagging spirits.

Nature had designed these primeval hinterlands to waylay those who ventured in. The wilderness lured them into the heart of the darkness, where light withered away. Chirping birds and trilling insects avoided it. The dense groves closed in, their branches intertwined, weaving a living cage. There was no escaping the mesmerizing allure of these forests, even as their eerie silence shrouded them all in despair.

He paused to caress the coarse bark of the elder oak. Some were so wide, he couldn't wrap his arms around their thick, garnered thunks. Sometimes he heard the secrets these ancient sentinels, each a sentient entity, whispered. They often asked why he'd want to reject their loving embrace when they shared their bounty with him.

Ora scratched the pelt on his wide chest. "I am no lotus eater. You won't sway me," he grumbled. "Nor am I Dante, though you the selva oscura," he mumbled.

'You are not Dante. You are Ora, and you are losing it. Why else would you talk to trees?' Nāga replied in all seriousness.

Ora laughed. Analogies tripped up his reptilian alter ego. Nāga's grasp remained limited to the literal.

'Now that you can read, you speak and think gibberish,' his worried Sheesha grumbled.

These dank thickets were a refuge from the brutality of the so-called civilization. And they allowed him to revert to his instinctive savagery. But the author of Inferno lost himself in the tenebrosity, in every sense of the word. Ora wasn't. This was a pit stop.

'A long one, no?' Nāga hissed.

The digital watch chirped again. "Alpha Varanus? Come in. This is Hector. It's urgent," a voice squawked on the radio.

Resenting the disturbance, Ora rotated his heavy shoulders. He'd earned this break from his duties.

If he hadn't surrendered, the United Shifters Council of the Americas wouldn't have caught him. Sure, they deemed him a psychopath, but their judicature failed them. They had no proof against him. No witnesses. Only his confession. But their court-appointed defender had it thrown out on grounds of mental incapacity.

So, he lived and chose the lesser of the evils—keeping demons like him in check. He had succeeded in the impossible task the USCA prescribed for certain privileges. Now they'd changed strategies and wished to work him to the bone. He complied and led them to believe they'd tamed him. After all, they were captives, surveilled by eyes in the skies.

'Satellites. Science is evil magic,' Nāga hissed, shuddering.

Ora's efforts had paid off; freed of the painful silver collar, he could shift. For a decade, they kept his beast bound. His defiance prevented him from succumbing to insanity during that testing period. Why? He wasn't driven by the pipe of reclaiming his autonomy, but by something greater than himself. United, Nāga and he were better, stronger, and still resolved to see their dire objective fulfilled.

"Alpha Varanus! Please respond!" the panicked yip rang out through the radio.

Ora often fantasized about silencing Hector. But the fussy Wolverine excelled at managing their spare bursary. And he procured bare necessities in spite of their shoestring budget.

Also, Varanus wasn't his moniker, but of his species. Ora stroked the mark on his pectoral, an X-shaped brand.

He had no identity and no bank. For all intents and purposes, he no longer existed. Reborn in the arms of death and disease, raised in gore, his insatiable bloodlust defined him. The ultimate outcast, marked for execution, he stayed alive by becoming a dastardly Nephilim–a fallen one.

In the Americas, they'd named him Chaos, and his kills superseded all known feral monsters. They should've put him down, but that wasn't the first occasion he cheated certain death. His legend evoked terror amongst versipelles. And his merciless slaughter was a message, and he would resend it as often as needed.

He'd murdered seventy-six shapeshifters and two hundred humans. His actions also maimed twenty-seven.

Despite the death toll he racked up to reach an individual, he'd failed to fulfill his oath. Yet to get his hands around that particular throat, claw that heart out, eat it, and drink the blood, he'd studied his enemy. And for an opportunity to do the deed. Chaffing against the wait for that eventuality was an exercise in futility.

"One more life. The universe owes me one more life," he growled.

Someday, somehow, he would settle the vendetta someone else had started.

To stay sane during the maddening suspension of his campaign, he'd learned English. And he read. They didn't lack books discarded in the trash. He grasped the subjectivity of morality. And he rested the absolutism of laws, but he had no qualms about his actions. Or his body count.

'What if he's won?' An aggrieved Nāga thrashed within the cage of Ora's form. 'What if he dies before we reach him?'

"Not a possibility. Kismet assigned us to deliver his demise. Patience, Nāga."

Though stuck in a stalemate, Ora was at peace. Neither he nor his nemesis accepted they'd reached an impasse. He'd made his move and now anticipated his adversary's counter.

He grunted as he picked up the massive double ax, lifted it, and brought it down on a fallen tree. His biceps bulged as he yanked the edge out. He repeated those motions until he split the trunk. With his bare hands, he ripped them into manageable chunks.

He savored the sweat beading his naked skin. His burly thew spasmed and the blisters on his palms bled. Yet he pursued the mindless task, imagining he was hacking his foe to pieces.

The judge, jury, and executioner, he'd pronounced Oppenheimer's sentence. Anyone who stood between him and his target was fair game. After that, he'd welcome whatever the fates stored for him. After all, that violent delight would meet a violent end.

"An eye for an eye!" Ora swore yet again. His vengeance was biblical, rather, Old Testament. Nothing could make him change his mind about the righteousness of his purpose.

So, he hacked away. Wood became bone; the bark, flesh. The sap flowed like ichor.

Manasa blessed Ora with immortality until he killed the God of the New World.

There were far more monstrous creatures that Shifters... and ancient beliefs these lands knew nothing of.

A weapon seeking vengeance on behalf those time forgot, he would not rest until he fulfilled his oath to the spirits of his ancestors and the Olden Gods.

Ah well, I realised the first chapter ought to be of the titular character. So here it is!

Translations:

Nāga: a snake.

Sheshanag/Shesha: a serpentine primordial being of creation in Hinduism.

Sheesha: decedents of Shesha, the dragon snake, as humans call them komodo dragons.

Varanus Shifters: Apex predators of nearly extinct reptilian family Varanidae, endemic to the Indonesian island of Kodo.

Manasa: Ancient/ pagan God of Snakes from Asia.

Versipelles: Scientific name for shapeshifters.