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"Trophy, do you promise to devote your life to our cause and to never betray us?"
"I do."
The words stung, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Trophy Zakharov, future cult leader. Is this really what he wanted? It was too late now to change his mind anyways, he thought. Lost in his own fantasies, he didn't notice they had pricked his finger and crowned him as leader. The faint cheering of his name, his father looking proud. Maybe, just maybe, this would be a good thing.
Or so he thought.
It wasn't really any use to think about his upbringing now anyways; he was king now. Over a large course of time, he became the most successful and wealthy king ever! Who would've thought? As Trophy swung his golden cup around, he peered down at the poor folk below him, scoffing.
"What is it, hm?"
He sneered, his dark gaze piercing the soul of the object, who shyly backed away and murmured his wants. Not like it mattered what he said anyways. Like the others, he was given a large amount of gold and sent away. At least Trophy was doing some good? Yeah, he was.
But that was in the past. Now he would sit in a pile of his own rot, chained to bounds that gripped at the ground. Sometimes he wondered if someone saw one of this fake scrolls. He wondered if someone would find 2 people as directed and bring them to his resting area to free him. Since the Four Guardians locked him up and rid him of his powers, maybe some idiot would find that magic spear and stab him in the heart, restoring his chaos. But what would he know? It's been 6000 years. No body is finding him anytime soon.
Nobody.