Scourge of Chaos: Savage Healer

Sunday hadn’t paid much attention to his human companion's portion of the fight, putting full trust in the man’s evident confidence with the sword. It had been hard to hear anything during the battle but he had expected a ghoul or two to get through Vyn. The monsters were much less capable of taking a limb off than their larger swamp counterparts so there hadn’t been much worry in that regard.

Looking at it now, there was only a circle of death around Vyn, and while he was sweaty, panting, and an overall mess, his clothes were in a much better state than Sunday. No blood or viscera marred his simple shirt, nor the leather jacket worn over it. The small rotting bodies surrounding him were almost exclusively cut at the head, stabbed in the brains, or fully split into two. There were no moving half-torsos or snarling heads trying to take a final bite.

Damn. “Damn.”

“What?” Vyn turned still wiping his mouth. His face was a mixture of paleness and redness, and Sunday noticed some shaking. What part is the alcohol and what part is the fighting? Is he a highly functional murderous alcoholic?

“You destroyed those things,” Sunday said, surveying the damage.

“Thanks...?”

“I mean it. Very impressive. I didn’t see much as I was busy doing my part…” Sunday gestured toward the mess around. Throwing that stab stick around like a beer bottle looking for a head to smash it into. “Imagine if you were sober.”

“Oh no, I—,” Vyn burped, “I fight monsters better after a drink or three. Helps with the nerves. I didn’t mention it earlier ‘cause people don’t take kindly to that.”

“I see. Do you drive better after a drink too?”

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing. You good to go on?”

Vyn grimaced, “Didn’t we do enough? I’m not undead you know.”

“The day’s just starting! We need to at least make sure there are no more little fuckers and find their burrow or lair or whatever it was called. Ghouls have great intuition yet they attacked us.” Good enough to sniff extradimensional hounds. “There’s a reason for that. The problem has grown and if it had been only a few days, it has grown fast...”

“You’re set on doing this properly, aren’t you? Vyn asked with resignation.

“Of course! It’s a paid job and what is a man but his work ethic? We’re the heroes sent to save the innocent and be a shield against the darkness.” My name will live for eternity. I won’t mind a boost to killing ghouls. It reminds me of my time in the misty city… it's comforting. And who knows, there might be spells at the root of this disturbance.

The book had alluded to that in passing, however, it focused mostly on the ghoul part and not the spell part. Still, there was hope.

Phantasmal Fall was great and all, but Sunday wasn’t feeling it despite its usefulness early on. It was somewhat underwhelming compared to what he knew spells could do. Perhaps it would be great for masters of the sword like Vyn, who could make use of the smallest opening.

Sunday wasn’t like that. He was sure his slaps would eventually land and he had the Smash Ball for everything else. The moths were too essence expensive and slow, but they were powerful, so a defensive or control-focused spell was just what he needed. Maybe something like what Elora has, so I can zoom around without a care.

If this venture proved worthless though, there was always the black market date. He couldn’t wait, and not only because he found the girl fascinating and rich. I hope I can increase my slots by then.

“Ah, fuck me,” Vyn groaned next to him.

Sunday reacted instantly. Another group of ghouls was creeping toward them without hiding. Their tiny eyes were jumping between the hacked corpses of their brethren and the two responsible for the mess. It seemed the scene of butchery was attracting them, rather than making them think twice.

If those were like the ones in the swamp, we’d be minced meat in no time. This is like fighting toddlers who happen to have claws. At least I get an answer to the old age question.

“Are you enjoying this?” Vyn asked with astonishment as Sunday chuckled.

“Just thought of something funny,” he replied. “How many toddlers do you think you can beat in a fight?”

The second wave of ghouls assaulted them before Vyn could comprehend the question. Sunday met the things with a wide grin, waving his sword indiscriminately, while Vyn took a deep breath – an unwise act considering the smell – and smoothly started his dance of death again.

The more Sunday killed, the more confused he became. They were desperately throwing themselves at him and Vyn as if their lives depended on it. Was there nothing else to eat around? Had things gotten so bad in the few days no villagers had left the village? Was it the influence of a Divine? No, that was ridiculous.

They should be smarter than this. He had to admit that there was a special kind of thrill in killing hordes of grotesque rotting monsters no matter how weak they were. All that he was lacking was a particular soundtrack and a chainsaw.

Sunday used Jishu’s sword without grace or skill, letting the blade do the work. There was no need to aim as the ghouls made no attempts to dodge. It was like cutting apart air. His clothes suffered the most from all the flying ghoul parts. Only a few of the tiny monsters did any damage, leaving burning scratches through his clothes, but nothing serious. The Smash Ball was there to take care of those his sword couldn't reach in time, but he used it sparingly to conserve essence.

Just as the wave thinned and Sunday stepped to the side to get his foot out of a mushy torso, the inevitable happened. For a moment he thought another mage had cast their spell and a quick sense of panic set it.

It was not a step, a tangle, or even a lapse of attention or a faulty boot. It was as if the world wanted him to fall. His mind spun before his body followed. Sunday’s heart fell into his stomach and he felt gravity take hold of him. It looked to be a normal misstep. The odd part was that it had come from the foot that had been firmly planted on the ground.

Sunday fell hard to the side in a shower of black organs, rotting flesh, and blood, and the surviving ghouls took the chance as they leaped as one with renewed vigor. A bisected torso dragged itself and bit Sunday’s ankle in futility, unable to penetrate the thick leather of his boot, while the rest were clamoring to take the first bite of flesh.

Vyn exclaimed something but his voice was lost in the screeching cacophony of excited little monsters that rushed toward their late breakfast. Sunday felt the rage explode along with the sensation of teeth piercing his dead skin. I’ll fucking—

Two moths manifested in the air in a flash of white light and started circling low, and the excitement quickly turned into screams of pain as the spell’s presence alone burned the ghouls and made their flesh boil. A smell of acidic burning flesh filled the forest.

Vyn was next to Sunday in a flash, both gagging and watching the moths with a fascination bordering on worship as they left a trail of dim white light in their passing.

“What are those?” the human asked quietly as he gathered himself. The surviving ghouls had scrambled away, running but still throwing hungry glances over their shoulders.

“Bugs,” Sunday hissed as he removed his hand for something mushy.

Did I slip? Back in the corpse city, I thought it was because of the new body. Back in the swamp too. It was not Chaotic Step since I wasn’t flung across space like a doll by a mad child. What the fuck is happening with me? Just as I was happily mincing those things… Is it a mental issue? Perhaps it was something subconscious left since his death? Trauma?

There was a small possibility it was Phantasmal Fall’s fault, but… the spell hadn’t been with him during his shitty corpse days. Could it have reacted to his thoughts of replacing it or read his memories and recreated the feeling of his death? Impossible.

And yet… the fall had been unnatural.

The two of them used some of the healing wine while Sunday ignored all of Vyn’s questions about the moths. He had regained some essence by dismissing the spell, but his reserve had still taken a hit. I need to figure this out.

They used some time to gather whatever ghoul ears they could salvage in an unlucky bag. Vyn was adamant about bringing back proof just in case of assholes and Sunday quickly agreed. They had counted about forty left ears – or whatever remained of left ears – before deciding that was enough rummaging through ghoulish remains.

Vyn seemed to have quickly sobered up after drinking some of the moth-infused wine. According to him that lowered his combat capabilities by a few degrees. However, he was put on the lookout while Sunday took some time to examine his soul space.

It didn’t take much to visualize it and see the spells lingering there. The Smash Ball was oddly calm – it still shot around but its movements contained less intensity than before. What was even more worrying was that its appearance had changed, turning a bit more jagged and worn. Sunday was sure it was smaller than before. The thought of losing it was worrying, but if it was a consumable or needed an art Sunday didn’t have, then there was not much he could do.

Phantasmal Fall rested where it had always been doing its little dance near the roots of the large tree seemingly holding up Sunday’s soul space. It was a mighty pillar with its branches spread like they held the sky and its roots dug beneath the earth creating a solid foundation. He wondered what it would’ve all looked like without the Yew Tree’s Blessing. Perhaps a lot bleaker.

Gently reaching out for the spell just like he had done with Repel Dirt and Lampyria, Sunday decided to experiment. Removing the two spells had been a simple affair, but it had hurt them a bit. Phantasmal Fall was not like them though. It had no physical form as it was just a mote of purple light.

He mentally pulled at it, expecting the spell to appear in his hand just like the previous time he had taken a spell out.

Instead, he screamed.

Pain the likes of which he hadn’t felt before washed over his very being and made him double over on the ground. His ears rang and he felt Vyn’s touch, but he couldn’t hear the man’s words nor see the world around him. Sunday was sure he was dying. Darkness slowly crept and he felt the touch of something disgusting, something so foreign it made his soul shiver uncontrollably. He vividly envisioned the darkness from back in the city.

The agony was hundreds of times worse than the one from the soul damage from before. Then a soothing feeling washed over him and the tree in his soul-space came into view, spreading its strange branches and taking on some of the pressure. His essence churned and he felt the darkness retreat slowly as the pain became a dull ache.

Phantasmal Fall was gone from its position but he felt its presence. Where was it? What the hell is going on?

Sunday sat back on the grass uncaring that they were probably surrounded by starving monsters who wouldn’t miss a chance like that. The golden page unfurled before him without a care. If Vyn saw it, he didn’t react.

Spells 3/3

Phantasmal Fall (Bonded)

Omen of Duality

Smash Ball

Bonded…? That hadn’t been there before. Why hadn’t it been there before? He hadn’t changed anything, and he hadn’t advanced since leaving the swamp.

“Status,” he whispered.

Race: Origin Corpse

Rank: One, 1st step

Soul Forging Technique: Ishiren’s Black Breath

Status:

Hunted – a hunter knows of your existence. They have decided you are prey worth chasing throughout the realms. Listen closely for howls when the sun goes down, as his hounds scour the night for you. Run, little prey, for they are coming… Beware the shadows.

Missing – Someone else has begun looking for you. They may not know who you are, or what you look like, but eventually, your paths will cross. Take a chance, or keep running?

Displaced Soul – In foolish action born from ignorance you have attempted to forcibly separate a bonded spell from your soul. You have suffered heavy damage to your soul, but your essence somehow remains unaffected.

A spell bonded to my soul? I haven’t bonded anything to my soul. This bullshit will be the end of me. Sunday cursed and stood up. The pain was there and it was not centered in one place. Rather it was like a dull full-body headache that transcended flesh and bone and reached even further down. He briefly considered using whatever casts he had left of the moths to deal with the problem.

“I fucked up,” Sunday said as Vyn’s eyes passed over him before the man returned to scouring the surroundings.

“No doubt about it. Is it bad?”

“Kind of.”

“Mage stuff? I know you guys tend to weird out at the worst of times.”

“Yeah… mage stuff.” I’m so stupid. Who but my dumbass would experiment while in the middle of a ghoul-infested forest?

“Do we need to go…?” Vyn asked.

“I think retreating to the village might be for the best. There’s another hour or so until noon so let's go on for a bit longer, find the lair, then we’ll head back.” I’ll just bomb it with moths.

Sunday’s thoughts become more and more chaotic. All sorts of scary theories were running rampant in his head. Can spells act on their own? Are they living things? If a mage is someone offering their soul space as a home and forming symbiotic relationships with spells, then there’s a high possibility for things to go wrong. What if there are spells that are not alright with it? What if they act like parasites instead, trying to exert control?

He had been taking in any spell he ran into without considering for the briefest of moments that such action might have consequences he couldn’t bear. Whatever it was the Yew Tree’s Blessing gave him, hopefully, it was enough to handle such problems.

The other option was to seek help in the Arcanum. Couldn’t they have given him a booklet with the basics at the very least? He was a new mage, just stepping into the world of spells, and he had been left to do whatever. Maybe it’s different for those who decide to form a closer relationship with the institution. Bastards.

He shook his head. No. This is my fault. I need to do better.