Ascendants Of Ancients Sovereign Part 1

Ascendants of Ancients Sovereign.

Phillip Jones.

PROLOGUE.

THE FLAMES ENGULFING AN eternal prison encompa.s.sed a vast area that stretched beyond the horizon. The sh.o.r.eline of the lake, caked with brimstone and ash, cracked beneath streams of lava as they added yet another layer to its banks. The sky, filled with crimson anger, offered no comfort, and the clouds expressed their fury as the angel flew beneath them.

This was the h.e.l.l he had chosen to enter. Every being as far as his eyes could see had been condemned. They had failed in life-but he had not. He had asked to be sent here. He had even begged for the right, and he was willing to sacrifice everything for the privilege of enduring the sounds of gnas.h.i.+ng teeth, cries of regret, moans of anguish and wails of despair.

Beneath the angel's feet, the lake boiled as rancid waves rolled toward the sh.o.r.e-waves that had been created by the tears of the d.a.m.ned-those who had chosen the wrong path. As he hovered above its surface, the smell of tormented flesh punished his nostrils, and the arms of the doomed were extended toward him in hope. They desperately wanted to be pulled free of their misery, but the pain of these dejected souls was not the reason he had come. He was here for only one-one he believed did not deserve an existence so vile.

Lightning arced across the blood-red sky and struck the top of the angel's wings. The pain consumed his countenance as he turned to address his brethren who were rapidly approaching. "He's angry with us, brothers!" he shouted, ensuring he could be heard over the sounds of the suffering. "Once we enter, we join the condemned!" He pointed down at the faces of the d.a.m.ned as both of his brothers stopped to hover beside him. "To find the door, we must first share in their suffering."

The second angel cringed at the thought. "I'm with you, brother. But are you sure you want to do this? Are you sure the door will be there?"

"Of course, he is!" the third angel responded as he crossed his powerful arms. "That much was promised to us!"

The lead angel reached out and placed a hand on each of his brothers' shoulders. Their golden armor reflected the ominous glow of the liquid bastille beneath them as they rose to a height that would allow for more intimate conversation, yet they still had to speak amidst intermittent thunder and bolts of lightning. "If you're going to change your minds, you must do it now. But if you stay, your sacrifice won't be forgotten."

The second angel frowned. "You waste your breath." He waited for a clap of thunder to subside and then continued. "I've never turned my back on you, and I won't start now."

"Nor will I!" the third angel concurred.

The brothers embraced, and then the third angel questioned, "I don't understand your mind! Do you really believe she's worth the torment we're about to endure? She betrayed you!"

The lead angel's eyes squinted as a bolt of lightning pa.s.sed between them. He spoke once the rumbling stopped. "Her trespa.s.ses weren't her fault!"

"I don't believe that," the second angel argued as he shook his head. "She made her choice, and it wasn't you!"

"But my heart won't let me abandon her," the lead angel countered. "What would you have me do?"

The third angel uncrossed his arms and then reached out to grasp his brother's bracers. "If we're to suffer, I won't save only her! I'll want subjects to rule since I'll no longer be restricted by his laws."

"Agreed," the second angel a.s.serted. "We should save them all. They'll serve us eagerly once they've been spared."

The lead angel nodded despite his distaste for their proposal. "Very well then ... everyone it is. The moment has come." He spread his scorched wings to their fullest extent, and with a mighty thrust, he ascended higher into the fractured sky. "Follow me, brothers!" he shouted.

When the trio was high enough to see the vastness of the misery that stretched even beyond the lake, they shared only a glance before they folded their wings and descended. They punched through the clouds as they rocketed toward the impetuous sea and impaled its surface.

Tidal waves, hundreds of feet tall and filled with the cries of the flailing, erupted in every direction as the angels plummeted into the bowels of the inferno. Instantly, they were engulfed by translucent forms and figures of every shape and size. Some were apparitions of what they once were while others were clearly visible down to the hair, fur, scars and blemishes that covered their bodies during their mortal lives.

As the angels swam deeper into the abyss, souls scattered in every direction. It was as if they were afraid of experiencing greater pain because of the angels' intrusion. But no matter how many beings fled, a far greater number gave chase. They fought, scratched, tugged and pulled at one another just for the right to touch one of them. For the d.a.m.ned, touching an angel was a reminder-a fleeting sensation and taste of everything good they had lost.

The brothers pushed through the ma.s.sing souls, hurling the opposition aside as they continued their grisly dive. With no end in sight, a new presence emerged, one that absorbed light and had no discernible shape. Trapped at the center of this black ma.s.s, the object of the lead angel's affection lay dormant. She had succ.u.mbed to her fate, and the pain consuming her being was evident as the angels approached.

Sensing their presence, the woman opened her eyes. Her gaze fell upon the love she had rejected, and a resurgence of hope appeared on her face. "You've come for me! Is it really you?"

CHAPTER 1.

Soul to Soul.

Fellow soul, I truly hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the G.o.ds insisted that I be the vessel of truth. I've been forced to come right out and say it. We are dead-tragedies of a celestial uprising that destroyed a cosmos. We can no longer call Earth, Dukas, Redbone, Langormar, or whatever world you were from, our homes. But the revelation of this carnage was not meant to be the beginning of my tale.

Allow me, your spirited storyteller, to take you back to a period more than 14,000 seasons ago, to a series of Peaks that were lived just before the Great Destruction of Everything Known. Forgive me, for I must start my story on an inferior planet that was once known as Earth.

Your friend and fellow soul inside the Book of Immortality, Phillip E. Jones.

The Hometown of Sam Goodrich.

Los Angeles, California.

DR. SAM GOODRICH PUT the cold stethoscope on the boy's chest and asked his patient to take two deep breaths. The child jumped. Once Sam determined the youngster was in good general health, and his flu-like symptoms could be treated with simple over-the-counter medications, he wrote out his recommendations and handed them to the boy's mother.

"Mrs. Taylor, thanks for bringing Patrick in to see me. These should do the trick. He'll be fine in a few days." Forcing a smile, Sam dredged up a few other words of encouragement and then shook the woman's hand before he left the room.

Walking across the hall, his smile faded. He shook his head and whispered under his breath, "Great ... another inconvenience. I just can't do this anymore. I have to win tonight." He opened the door leading to his next patient, forced another smile and entered. "Mr. Borgs, how are you today?"

Sam was muscular, with chiseled abs, which many women found to be their personal definition of perfection. At five-foot nine, 190 pounds, he was in amazing shape, and his cardio was exemplary.

Sam was not what many would consider a normal doctor. Despite being adored by his patients, Sam had a bit of a dark side. He loved to fight, and today was Sam's big day-the first day of his professional fighting career.

For the last six and a half years, Sam trained tirelessly in the world of Mixed Martial Arts Combat. When he started in the sport, now his pa.s.sion, his good friend, John, also a professional fighter and trainer, had used Sam as a life-sized punching bag. The doctor grew accustomed to being turned into a human pretzel, learning his body could be bent in ways that he never imagined. And being the friend that he was, John took great pleasure in delivering the abuse.

Nine years Sam's elder, John had been one of the few people who understood Sam when the decision was made to put the 16 year old boy into the sport. Because John valued Sam, the boy evolved into a machine inside the cage while he savagely absorbed his mentor's experience.

Sam was a different breed of fighter. He had a reputation for greatness outside the cage. He was known across the globe for his superior intelligence. He graduated high school at the age of 10, earned his Bachelor's in Science at 13 and his medical degree just before turning 16. In short, Sam was a walking book of knowledge. His unparalleled ability to retain data amazed his professors and the world-but Sam often failed to show his brilliance.

Trying to fit in, Sam would intentionally hold back. He did not like the idea of being the freak, the brain, or the geek the other kids did not want around. He tried to hide his genius, studying only what was necessary to appease his father, but his best efforts to blend were often ruined by his desire to take charge, creating the opposite effect.

Despite Sam's attempts to please his overbearing father, the medical community had other plans. They turned their backs on the minor, saying a 16-year-old was too immature to perform any type of patient care, let alone surgery. Sam was considered unemployable-simply too young to handle real world responsibilities until the age of 18.

The court supported this a.s.sessment after a number of private interviews, ruling that Sam had to be of legal age before becoming a surgeon. To Sam's father, the medical world was prejudiced-an evil empire bound and determined to hold him and his son back.

The court's ruling turned out to be the right call. Although a genius, Sam was over-confident, hot-tempered, quick to react, and lacked common sense at times. On the day of the ruling, the 16-year-old proved their point. He stormed out of the courtroom, screaming, "I hate all of you! You're fools! You'll need me one of these days, and I won't be there for any of you!" He slapped the heavy wooden doors as he exited.

Though embarra.s.sed, Sam's father fought the ruling, appealing the decision to a higher court. With this appeal came another rejection, which thrust an even deeper jab into Sam's pride.

Unable to control his hostility, Sam's anger got the best of him. After being caught for public intoxication and vandalism, Sam was arrested.

To save the family further embarra.s.sment after the press swarmed the police station, Sam's father requested a private meeting with the judge. They determined Sam needed guidance from someone who could remain objective about the boy's growing hostility. A counselor was brought in to stay with the family, a.s.sess Sam's inability to maintain control, and then determine a course of action.

"This is for your own good, Sam," was all Howard Goodrich said as he escorted his son into the counselor's office.

The professional a.s.sessment suggested that all Sam needed was a physical outlet to release his suppressed emotions. After many conversations, a decision was made. Sam would take up Mixed Martial Arts as a way to channel his negative energy. The plan worked. In fact, it more than worked. Sam discovered another gift. He could fight-and fight well. Because of this discovery, a genuine smile returned to his face.

Not only did Sam learn he was an excellent fighter, he also learned he was an adrenaline junkie. He felt the brutal sport was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He no longer had to look for happiness. Along with healing people as the doctor his father had forced him to become, he would silence his hatred for the medical profession by beating people up-unknowingly scarring his soul in the process and feeding a demon that lurked within the darkest shadows of his mind.

Despite pleading with his father to give up medicine, Sam's medical career developed. He hated the decision his father made to open a practice. Nevertheless, family money was to be obeyed, and on the day of Sam's 19 birthday, the red ribbon was cut.

"Sam, John Marks with the Times. How does it feel to be famous and the head of a 12-story facility? Does it feel overwhelming to be a doctor at your age?"

Sam held up his hands to silence the crowd and then responded. "Okay, okay. First of all, nothing overwhelms me. But let me put today in perspective for you. What my father wants, is what my father gets. I'm not the head of anything, and you're misguided if you believe otherwise." Sam walked to the front of the stage and pointed at his father. "This is his dream, not mine."

Sam's open hostility forced his father to be flexible. Howard had to allow Sam to abandon his plan for Sam to become a trauma surgeon-a position Howard Goodrich revered-one that would have been a better career choice considering Sam's need to take charge.

Despite Howard's disgust for Sam's barbaric decision to find fame in the cages of MMA, Sam's life became a balancing act between the family business, patients and his love-fighting.

Now, fellow soul ... not that it matters, since everything would eventually cease to exist because of The Great Destruction of Everything Known ... but Sam's genius was a gold mine, despite the turmoil with his father. Thanks to Sam's worldwide reputation, the family practice was an immediate success. Just as Howard had foreseen, other eager, high-achieving doctors applied for employment because of the publicity they would receive on the coattails of Sam's notoriety.

The family practice employed 533 doctors, nurses, and therapists of different medical backgrounds. Sam's parents, business-minded people with administrative experience, handled the day-to-day operations while Sam offered no additional help above a minimal effort. Instead, he pursued his pa.s.sion.

Tonight, Sam hoped his first professional fight in Las Vegas would be the beginning of his rise to stardom and the end of his medical career. As he left his office on the 12th floor, a plain looking, dark-haired secretary named Melissa tossed Sam the keys to a new convertible Mustang and winked. "Go get 'em, Champ. Your dad's jet is fueled and waiting. Oh, and thanks for the big screen. My husband invited some friends over to watch you fight. It's going to be weird to see you on Pay-Per-View. My girlfriend, Cindy, can't wait for you to take your s.h.i.+rt off. Her boyfriend's jealous."

Sam grinned. "Okay, okay. Let me think. Tell Cindy when I look into the camera, I'll flex my pecs. Make sure her stud knows I did it just for her."

Melissa giggled. "Her boyfriend is gonna c.r.a.p himself. I can't wait to see his expression."

Sam slapped the top of the counter Melissa was sitting behind. "Record it for me, will you? I've got to go. See you Monday."

"Good luck!" As she watched him leave, she exhaled, "I so want that."

Emotions flooded Sam as he arrived at the MGM Grand. The press and the fans of the barbaric sport swarmed his dad's stretch limo. He had not fought professionally yet, but he was already on the cover of ESPN The Magazine. He had to laugh at the headline: The Smartest Athlete in the World Dumb Enough to Enter the Cages of MMA Tossing the magazine to the seat, all he could do was hope to give a good show and live up to the hype. He would hate to be the first cage fighter on the cover with a losing record. He smirked at the thought and stepped out of the limo.

The surging crowd pressed in as he walked toward the arena entrance. He laughed inside, thinking, These people are fanatical. They won't be so interested if I lose.

Women were shouting marriage proposals, which startled him. One woman lifted her s.h.i.+rt. "Sam Goodrich, marry me, and I'll take care of you, baby!"

Like most red-blooded males, Sam surveyed the woman's figure. He took the time to admire her long, shapely legs, and curvy hips. They were perfect. As his eyes moved upward, the coolness of the night only added to her beauty. Everything was exquisite, until his eyes focused on her teeth. They were the ant.i.thesis of her silky, brown, flowing hair. Her wretched smile exposed twisted gaps he could drive a bus through. Forcing a pleasant nod, Sam rushed inside.

The woman called after him. "Wait! Come back!"

A barrage of flas.h.i.+ng lights greeted Sam as he stepped through the door. Almost blinded by their intensity, he somehow managed to work his way through the mob.

"Sam! Sam Goodrich!" a woman wearing a dark-blue, Dior, business suit and a large smile hollered. Her hair was pinned up, exposing a slender neck, and she was waiting next to the hallway which Sam had to enter to get to his dressing room. "Sam Goodrich, Martha Haige, ESPN. Will you take a moment to allow the fans to get to know you?"

Putting on his best smile, Sam responded, "Sure thing, Ms. Haige. What do the fans want to know?"

With cameras flas.h.i.+ng and live video streaming throughout the Pay-Per-View world, Martha changed her tone. Her smile vanished and was replaced with a more serious expression. "You seem to be a bit of a mystery. I think the fans would like to know why a doctor would choose to fight. Why would a genius elect to be a part of the brutality? Can you help us understand what drives you to break your Hippocratic Oath?"

Sam searched for a response to Martha's inquiry, but he was left speechless. The depth of her probing made him realize he could not answer because he did not understand the conflict within his own heart.

After an embarra.s.sing moment of silence, Sam responded. "You'll have to excuse me, Martha, I've got a fight to win." He pushed past and hurried to the locker room, thinking, Ravenous woman! You'll just have to wait until the show is over before I give you an answer.

The locker room door closed, shutting out the noise and providing a welcomed quiet. As Sam changed, one of his trainers readied the tape for his hands. He looked up. "Jerome, give me a minute, will you? Can you believe the audacity of that woman?"

Jerome gave an understanding nod, the light glinting off the gold ring in his ear. "You okay, man?"

"I wish John was here. I need him."

"You don't need John. You know he's got to take care of the fam first. Besides, I got your back. We've got this under control!" Jerome patted Sam on the shoulder.

"Okay, okay. Just give me a minute."

"Sure thing, bro, but you need to warm up, so think fast, alright?"

Sam watched as Jerome left the room. Martha Haige's question continued to weigh on his mind. Why don't I know this? Why can't I answer her questions? Dang it, John, I need you.

Despite Sam's agitation, he knew John's daughter needed her father more than he did. Little Fannie was in stable but serious condition after a hit-and-run while she crossed the school crosswalk with her bike. Sam would not have come to the fight, but John had insisted. During his flight, he said another prayer for Fannie's well-being. She was simply too young to end up paralyzed for life.

Sam's opponent was tough, a man from Brazil who held a Mixed Martial Arts record of 18 wins, 3 losses, with 17 wins coming by way of knock out. This Muay Thai specialist was a nightmare to face for his first professional fight, and everyone was betting on the Brazilian to hand Sam his first trip to the mat, knocked out cold. A member of the press had joked, "The good doctor will be able to st.i.tch himself up to save on medical bills."

After warming up, the time came to enter the cage, but Sam's stomach had other ideas. He stepped into the hallway outside the locker room, grabbed the nearest trash can and vomited.

Disgusted by his weakness, Sam used the wall to push himself up. He wiped off his mouth and then leaned against Jerome's shoulder.

The trainer pushed back. "Man up, yo! You got this, dawg. Use that genius head of yours, and get it out of the clouds. Focus! What the h.e.l.l's wrong with you?"

Sam knew Jerome was right. It was time to own the situation and think things through. He needed to take charge of his body and control his emotions.

As they made their way to the cage, Sam was sure his puddle of puke would become the cover story for the sports writers, no matter if he won or lost. Gaining further composure, he continued to walk down the corridor into the arena, enjoying the idea of the press twisting his loss of control into a global laugh.

When the cage door closed, Sam stared at his Brazilian opponent and nodded. He felt nothing, neither fear nor excitement. He stood still, evaluating the weak points on the man's body, systematically calculating how he was going to take advantage of each area to attain victory. It was as if a switch had turned on inside his mind. He knew his body was prepared from his perfect 12a0 amateur record. With confidence in this fact, the rest of the sport was mental-the easiest and yet the hardest part of the sport for Sam. The good doctor was ready to go to war.

The referee stood at the center of the cage and pumped his fist. "Let's get it on!" he shouted.

The two men met at the center of the octagon. They touched gloves and circled one another to size each other up. The Brazilian threw a few jabs that Sam brushed off with no real damage before countering with a powerful, slapping kick to the Brazilian's right, inner thigh. The loud smack energized the crowd.

Again the Brazilian attacked, this time lunging forward with his knee, only to pull back and strike with a well-placed, right fist. Sam arched his back in an effort to soften the impact to his face, but his reaction was too slow. He stumbled backward and fell against the chain links of the cage.

The Brazilian followed, aggressively attacking and searching for the next opening. Knees, punches and elbows rained down, but somehow, Sam managed to push the Brazilian away to create the distance he needed to regain his composure.

Sam shook out the cobwebs. d.a.m.n, this guy is good! he thought.

The two men moved in, locked up, and grabbed hold of each other's necks in a Muay Thai clinch. The Brazilian tightened his grasp, pulled Sam close, and now the doctor's stomach and ribs found a new meaning for the word pain. His body screamed from the lightning-fast impact of the crus.h.i.+ng knees, and before he knew it, another series of alternating knees followed, one finding the bridge of his nose.

Dazed, everything seemed like one big blur. Punches were now coming from all angles. Sam could feel the control of his muscles fading, but he had been trained to fight back. With a last effort lunge, he swung and somehow managed to find the chin of the Brazilian.