Frigid cold is contrasted by the beaming sun.
That great orb’s light pierces through the canopy, illuminating the leaves like golden fire. Its blaze sets upon my back as I stretch my arm across my shoulder, twisting my body. Warming.
Waiting.
I can hear them now; the footfalls of marching death. Their army is vast. Each soldier must have been trained from birth. Each plagued driven mad by the souls of foreign creatures in their bodies, compelled by the orders of the witch.
Each man of theirs is a monster.
Unfortunately for them, over the past ten years, all I did was kill monsters.
What’s 8,000 more?
“You ready kid?” Saegor asks. He’s gloved up and hard-eyed, only asking this as a formality really. I nod regardless.
Saegor acknowledges that much before mounting a wooden panther spirit that Zyla summoned. The cat looks at me with some measure of boredom before sprinting off, cutting across the forest. They’ll move to the right flank and set up their attack.
A hand slaps my back: Kiren’s. He’ll stay hidden in the brush—attend to his specific duty while we battle. I’m almost glad for it: he’ll be out of the fight at least.
“Good luck,” he says.
I nod. Then, as he moves to leave, my hand snakes out to his wrist. I want to tell him—want him to know about Saegor. But… all I end up saying is, “you too.” Kiren nods before off into the dark of the forest. With a sigh, I step forth, taking that cobbled path out into the clearing. The ground rumbles next to me as a fin peaks up, rolling against the dirt.
“Just us then, huh?” I ask.
Umbrahorn swims halfway out of the ground, just enough for his mouth to taste the fresh morning air. He’s serious for once, which I’m glad for.
“Just us.”
“Well then, Umbrahorn,” I begin as we step into the clearing. “Let’s become the anvil.”
…
Souta:
Our banners flap in the wind—the great carp spirit emblazoned on them such that when the flag cracks in the air, it truly looks like the carp is swimming.
We, on the other hand, are standstill. Waiting. The soldiers file in spear lines at the front—projectile rangers at the back. The whales yawn above us, making huge circles in the sky.
I sit upon the top of my palanquin, feet dangling over it, sword on my lap, secondary blades in my hilt, eyes set on the briars. Masaru stands beneath me, overseeing the entirety of his army with the keen gaze of a commander.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
And the witch? She stands next to him, whispering in his ear, pointing now to the treeline.
And in the distance, as the final hillock dips away into the black forest, we see a lone figure distinguish himself in the golden gleam of sun. He walks forward in the typical blacks of Catolican uniforms. His hair looks wild and manic—much like the rest of him.
A silver flash glints from his belt, blinding me for a moment. I cover my eyes and produce a spyglass from my robes to get a better look at him.
His face is… intense. He has narrow, tired, red eyes—sharp brows. A strong and lean form that is built for war.
And when he stares up, it is as if he looks directly into the spyglass—directly at me. The hate behind his gaze startles me.
There’s a big difference between hearing about it versus witnessing it, I suppose.
“They sent him out alone?” I ask. Masaru doesn’t answer, the wind merely brushing against his hair. For a moment, my uncle just stares down at the former slave.
Then, he nods to Thraevirula.
“Send them all. I won’t waste my men on him.”
“Of course my dearest.”
She raises her hand. There’s a moment where she pauses and I wonder if it's hesitation. But then, a creeping smile comes to her mouth—as if she just remembered a pleasant memory.
“Hunt.”
And thus, all the roiling mass of plagued in front of our army, is finally unleashed.
All one thousand of those insect-legged, frog-thighed, crab-clawed, talon-laden, teeth-munching, mandible-chittering, eye-glossing, worm-rotting, maggot-infested dead men, women, children, villagers and people—all one thousand of our buffering force—now charge down the hill in a stampeding horde of dark hunger.
Their sound is like thunder.
“So it begins,” I mutter.
…
Raiten:
A while ago, after my fight with Baroth, in the first dream I had of the witch, she showed me a rotting horde of plagued spread across the land. I witnessed how she surveyed her army of infected atop the Elk’s body, like a grand general of death.
Well, one part of the dream has come to pass.
For this is that ultimate horde.
They clamber over each other, limbs thumping, eyes crazing, mouths craving—all for one, all for me.
Umbrahorn pops his head out from the ground next to me and gazes upon their masses.
“Holy hells Raiten,” he mutters. “We’re going to die.”
“No Umbrahorn. We can’t afford to die today.”
“You’re making jokes at a time like this—”
“Its not a joke.”
He looks at me and narrows those coal-black eyes. Then, the shark spirit starts laughing. The first of the plagued sprint closer, endeavoring the final dip and savaging their way towards us.
“Fine then Raiten. You get the 500 on the left and I get the right?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Sounds like a Great Spirit plan to me.”
With that, Umbrahorn dips into the ground fully, fin tucking into the dirt. He’s a real predator now.
As am I.
Because I take one of the three remaining red-gemmed amulets from my sack, hold it up to the glint of the sun, and crush it.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply of the angel dust, letting the essence infuse with my body, my core, my soul.
It feels different now—now that I understand Aether a little bit. Hopefully, that can help me extend my time; so long as I’m able to reduce my lightning waste and use the Aether to help shape my constructs.
Well, only one way to find out.
I open my eyes.
And charge.
[Cultivation] [Progression] [Fantasy] [Action] [Anti-Hero]
Synopsis (Click to Expand)
Two paths define the world: The Arcane and the Auric. Damon walks a third: The mind.
But a unique power is not a gift. It is a curse.
“Pain is the chisel. Will is the hammer. Mind is the stone.”