Daughter of Death - A Necromantic LitRPG

Pain.

No. Not so much pain. Finality. Marché recalled a rumour, though from whom, exactly, he couldn’t quite recall, that once agony begins to wear itself thin, and the sweet comfort of a night’s rest settles into the mind - that is the moment in which one is facing their own death. He wished it so, for the sake of everyone approaching their demise, and found himself grateful that it turned out to be true. He felt nothing.

“Marché!” A voice, little more than a whisper, drummed against what remained of his eardrums, “Marché…”

He could not see Roland’s expression. That, too, was something to be thankful for. His body was in such a state that it would inspire a reaction of pure repulsion from anyone, and Roland was no exception to that rule. His limbs were mangled, torn, lacerated; his flesh perforated by shards of bone, organs glutted on diseased blood, face mangled beyond recognition. The ginger hairs dancing on his scalp were the only indication that the corpse he would soon become was still Marché Hopper.

“Ugh…” Even so, he was able to speak, “Roland…”

He was propped up by the neck, every inch of him soaking with blood. Surrounding him were bodies not quite so lucky - or not quite so unlucky, depending on one’s interpretation. They were the Elves who had made it their mission to stop the duo from regrouping with Lieze, brittle bodies snapped into pieces by the explosive force of the Stalker.

“Marché!” Roland hovered over him, “What were you thinking!? Why did you do that!?”

He already knew the answer, but thought it appropriate to ask anyway. Marché would have called it cruel, if it wasn’t so flattering to hear that someone like himself was worth worrying over.

“Hm…” Marché closed his eyes, but opened them just as quickly, realising the danger of embracing his urge to drift away, “...How long have we known each other, Roland?”

“What?” He blinked, lowering his head, “I… I don’t know. Three months, perhaps? Four? Or maybe less? Time seems to have lost all meaning recently…”

“Three months…” Marché repeated, “How strange… we’ve been allies for so little time, and yet… it feels like I’m saying goodbye to an old comrade.”

“Don’t give me that shit!” Roland barked, “There’s bound to be a spare potion between us all! I’ll track down Lieze, or… or Lüngen! I’ll come back to help!”

The wilting tone of his voice spoke of just how uncertain he was of his own words. He was brilliantly defiant. Marché could find some semblance of peace in the struggling dependability of his ally. He smiled - not happily or contentedly, but amusingly. It was a finer moment, Marché thought, than he deserved.

“My friend…” He said, “Farewell.”

“Marché!” Roland shot a hand forward to keep his eyelids from falling, but it was far too late, “Marché!”

There was no response. He did not expect one, but his heart demanded it. Even at the eve of the world’s end, when his leader threatened to sunder the universe until nought but dust remained; even as his own life was no doubt approaching its ultimate end, Roland despaired at the death of another. There was a time when he may have called such a reaction pointless or reductive, but the truth of the matter couldn’t be misunderstood: losing a comrade was painful on a layer deeper than ideology or dogma could ever hope to pierce.

“You damn fool…” Laying the young man down, Roland dragged the back of his hand over his nose and clenched his fists, “There was a part of me that wanted all of us to witness this victory. Now you’re going to leave the burden on my shoulders? You’re a troublesome man even in death, Marché Hopper…”

-But it wasn’t over for him, he thought. There was still a mountain to climb. And the peak; that glorious conclusion dangled in front of his face for decades, was only inches away. The thralls surrounded him, still awaiting their orders. Elsewhere, another battle was being fought.

“...We need to push on.” He nodded, “Towards Lieze… towards the final page of this cruel tale! Get a move on, all of you! Without those Elves after us, we can still ambush the Head Shaman!”

There was no conceivable method of closing the gap between them without alerting Kesset. Lieze understood this fact well, but she had no intention of revealing herself. Through the fog, she could just about glimpse the blindfolded Shaman, his staff, and the magic decanter responsible for his miracles.

“As expected of a sorcerer, he doesn’t have much HP…” She thought, “I’ll end this quickly.”

Staff of Thraldom’s MP - 979 / 3,417

A [Blood Spike] was soon forming above her head, aimed towards the decanter. Gifted with greater hearing than Lieze could ever know, Kesset turned his head when she stepped out from the alleyway, expression resolute despite his isolation from the rest of the Elves.

“Lieze Sokalar…”

His staff went out towards the javelin of blood when Lieze sent it careening through the fog. Just before it could make contact, the mana-infused ichor was transmuted to plain, harmless water, growing colourless and translucent from the tip backwards. Kesset held an arm up to protect his face from being sprayed and took a few steps back.

Lieze stole a glance at his statistics.

Kes’axumagnulet-En’budla’Akzhem-Yaan’mus’Kes’axucenarek’s MP - 3,200 / 3,509

“He’s losing MP. His focus must be depleted.” She thought.

“I believed we would never meet face-to-face, cursed one.” Kesset’s voice was stilted and lacking in confidence, as if struggling to communicate, “...Forgive me. This is my first time speaking to a human. I hope my pronunciation is understandable.”

“I’m not interested in having a conversation, if only because I’ve made a bad habit of indulging my enemies in the past.” Lieze shook her head, “You know why I’m here, so I won’t waste your time. Lay down your life in the name of my ambition, and your people may yet be spared. I have no interest in slaughtering those who have nothing to do with my goal.”

“-But your goal is to destroy, no? To steer this world towards its conclusion - to eradicate life in all of its forms. The forest has revealed this truth to me.” Kesset touched his staff to the ground, “You wish to oppose the Gods. But to infringe upon the natural beauty of life in the name of an oblivious enlightenment - this is not the way. Certainly, there is suffering in this world. Tragedies beyond our understanding. Tales of woe weaved by chance and fate, uncontrollable and destructive. But one’s condition cannot be wholly fortunate or ominous, and neither can we strive to eliminate one or the other. That is the way of the world.”

“Gods above! Not this shit again!”

Drayya stomped up to Lieze’s side, her face twisted in exasperation.

“It’s a simple thing to claim that we have to ‘take the good with the bad’ when you’ve lived a fulfilling life!” She extended both arms, “-But not all of us were so fortunate! Who’s responsible for tragedies orchestrated from our very births? What is ‘beauty’ when someone has been raised like a Golem, forced into a role they never asked for? This is ‘justice’ as declared by the cosmos! And you refuse to do anything about that!? To take a stand against suffering!?”

“Drayya…” Lieze muttered.

“You speak the truth.” Kesset replied, “There is indeed injustice in this world. But your omnicidal answer to that injustice infringes upon the freedom of those who have tasted beauty. How guilty are those whose lives are blessed with fortune, that they must suffer in the name of a world without meaning - without sensation, love, or consciousness? Is it not evil to condemn them as you would the Gods?”

Lieze took a step forward, “This is the answer the world has settled on. War is the equaliser of our beliefs - unforgivable as it may be. We rely on this method for lack of a better answer. Though we may hope for the immaculate pacifism that would see us propelled, arms linked, towards a brighter future, we know better than to embrace it. This dance of death and blood, of suffering and loss, is all we have ever known - all we understand. So if you know of the ‘way’ that fulfils the dreams of all who walk this plane, then reveal it to me now.”

Silence.

Kesset lowered his head, “I cannot.”

“And yet still, you struggle. For the sake of the illustrious ‘beauty’ sought by all living creatures.” She paused, “That is the noble way. To keep hold of our humanity, we can hope to strive for nothing less. I am the only one who can bear the burden of this task without losing my mind. However imperfect, however evil… this is the path I was created to walk. I cannot escape from this fate.”

“I see…” The Head Shaman mulled over her words, “Is this tale tragic, or inspiring? Whatever the answer, I feel as though something within me has been satisfied.”

Lifting his staff, he pointed the dull crystal towards Lieze, “-But I cannot allow you to succeed. I worked tirelessly to carve a path of virtue through this chaotic land. My people deserve their peace. I will not abandon them within the unfeeling embrace of oblivion.”

“Be at peace with your convictions, then.” Lieze readied her own staff, “I’ve yet to tire from this budding life of mine, but that will not infringe upon my dream. This, too, is a form of suffering - albeit one I can finally call my own.”

Staff of Thraldom’s MP - 682 / 3,417

By the time she could begin channelling another [Blood Spike], Kesset had already dragged his decanter through the air, sending a spray of water towards them. She knew better than to stray too close, placing some distance between herself and the resulting puddle. With a flick of his staff, the water sparked, then ignited, obscuring his silhouette behind a veil of roaring fire.

Lieze held an arm up to protect her eyes, “Bastard… he’s trying to run away!”

“Don’t worry.” Drayya chimed, “He won’t get very far.”

The shadow which obediently stalked her every movement, Lieze noticed, was gone. The brilliance of the Void Beast struck her at all once. The Head Shaman was blindfolded, and thanks to the beast’s penchant for stealth, he had almost certainly failed to identify it or notice its movements during their conversation.

As soon as he began to sprint back to the safety of his army, Kesset’s ankles were caught by an obstruction undulant and flush against the ground. Something akin to a tiny blade - little more than a scalpel - sliced into the tendons of his ankle and sent him careening towards the harsh obsidian street.

The Void Beast took on its natural form as a felid, sabre-toothed predator and pounced to clamp its jaws around the helpless Shaman’s throat. But just as quickly, it found itself assailed by a splitting, immaterial force. Its body, composed of living shadows, was no stranger to metamorphosis, but Kesset’s transmutation nonetheless twisted its form into something far less dangerous. Its jaw crumbled, reduced to bubbling tar, and its claws were subsumed into the softness of its paws.

Lieze and Drayya hugged the nearby wall to slip past the wall of fire, expecting to see their enemy being torn to shreds. But the Void Beast was instead trapped in a sort of stasis while Kesset dragged himself away from the creature, sprinkling water across the streets as he went.

Lieze stepped forward to finish him, but her attention was caught by the warsong of a thousand steps underfoot. She gazed into the smog as the feverish charge of the Elven army cut straight towards them.