Scourge of Chaos: Savage Healer

“What was that?” Elora asked, staring at the carnage before them. She had stood unblinking and unreactive for the whole of it. Sunday had to admit that his own surprise wasn’t much less than hers.

The Vision of the Berserk Moon had turned his heal moths into insectoid terminators that stole essence. It was an insignificant amount but… what if he killed stronger enemies? More enemies? Would he eventually be a rabid moth spawning perpetuum mobile? Maybe in a couple of ranks, I’ll be able to control hundreds of those moths and just conquer the goddamn world. I bet those petty gods will like that.

“Uh, I tested a new spell. It went… better than expected.”

Elora turned to him slowly as if to accentuate the dramatic effect. There was astonishment, irritation, and… perhaps a hint of jealousy on her face. “And you want to go buy spells from the black market? I’ve never seen anything like what you just did. For a moment there I thought I was a goner too with how those things were behaving!”

You and me both, girl. I’m glad I didn’t get eaten alive by my own spell. I wonder if it will work with Phantasmal Fall… I don’t see it.

Sunday shrugged. “Dangers of the line of work we’ve chosen. Come on, you can go crazy on the next ones we find. This whole combo stuff makes for quite the expenditure and I don’t want to run dry in the middle of a forest.” I wonder if any cultists will use the opportunity to try and take a bite out of me.

He felt a tad safer with Elora than with Vyn, although the man certainly carried his own weight. However, Elora’s spells and style were perfect for suicidal bastards coming their way. Plus, Sunday had decided that a mage like her in his camp was a great addition. It had to be a slow process though, since unlike those from the Empty Manor, she was someone with standing and focus.

“Did you have that spell when we sparred?” the girl asked. Was that also fear in her voice?

“No.”

“Then… did you somehow make the Arcanum give you this spell? How did you do it? I’ve been trying for weeks! I don’t have much to contribute other than money and I already bought my awakening and soul-forge arts from them. Even that cost my mom a few favors.”

I should meet your mom. “I still haven’t given the Arcanum anything, although I plan on checking what spells they have to offer once we go back. I have something brewing.”

She sighed, “Their offer will probably not impress you, considering your current kit. The Arcanum keeps its good spells close and gives them only to those trusted enough to use them. At any time, all those clerks or scribes, or whatever you see, can go and trade their mundane spells for combat ones, so don’t let them sweet talk you about how valuable you are as a combat mage. Everyone can be a combat mage.”

That surprised him. He hadn’t heard anything like that from Zihei. Did that mean that the restrictions on what type of spells one could use weren’t as strict or perhaps the Arcanum had spells capable of doing damage of all types? Was Zihei playing him for a fool again? Damn, picking a fight with Elora is turning out to be one of the smartest things I’ve done.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

“Don’t avoid my question. How did you get a new spell so soon after arriving in the city?” Elora pressed.

“An unexplainable cosmic force threw me in front of a carriage, which somehow ended in a loveless but passionate saga with an undead barkeep, who turned out to be the disciple of a millennia-old monster that needs my expertise in kicking ass.” It’s the honest-to-God truth.

“Fine, don’t tell me. I thought we were better friends than this,” Elora grumbled and took a careful step forward. It was impossible to avoid the melted ghoul remains but she did her best. Sunday didn’t. He was not bothered by stepping into some guts anymore.

Friends? Everyone’s moving so fast here. “We’ve barely met, but I appreciate your honesty and help.”

“But you won’t tell me where you got your new spell?” Elora tried again.

“I already told you. An ancient monster gave it to me.”

“Ugh, fine.”

The two carefully passed through the battlefield and went deeper into the forest in search of more ghouls. It took them only another hour to find the next set of mounds. It was still the tiny wild ghouls and Sunday felt relief since he had expected swamp ghouls or something creepy like last time. They didn’t act weird at all, rushing them like simple undead monsters were supposed to do.

It was Elora’s turn to bathe the world in blood like it was the most normal thing to do. She didn’t seem to use her Deaden Nerves, as she had called it, rather relying on her explosive movements and two somewhat short blades Sunday had missed while checking her out.

The girl was a machine of death. Her movements were graceful and silent. Sunday only had to wave his sword a few times to kill off stragglers. The temptation to try Phantasmal Fall with Vision of the Berserk Moon was there, but something told him the initial reaction of the latter had been due to sensing the essence-draining effects of the first, rather than excitement. Phantasmal Fall was more of a conceptual thing, a feeling, a disruption of the vestibular apparatus or something. If such a spell went berserk then there would only be a lot of puking. Or maybe brain damage.

The nest was smaller than the first, with only about twenty or thirty of the creatures, so they ended up clearing them soon. Both of them were covered in ghoul guts, but Sunday accepted it as part of the job and Elora didn’t seem to mind either. They were like a couple of magical vermin exterminators. It was even less glorious than the first time, but he accepted it as a necessity.

It took them three more hours to scout the lands. Sunday had no trouble running constantly, while Elora used her spell she assured him needed very little essence to boost her movements to keep up. It was a handy one, especially for a human.

Finally, after making sure there were no more mounds, the two retreated back to the manor. Elora tried prodding some more of where he had acquired his new spell, and Sunday always spoke of the ancient monsters, exaggerating his reply further and further each time until she gave up. Then she switched on bragging what a big bonus she would get them, which Sunday liked to hear.

There was no one to greet them at the back of the manor as they neared it. There were also no gardeners, no servants, and no master of the house to be rude while veiling it as being ‘one of the people’.

“Is this normal?” Sunday asked. It most certainly wasn’t, but having one's doubts confirmed by one’s companions was a sure way to ensure that no weird delusions were going on.

“I don’t think so, no.”

Then, as if ordered with same-moment delivery, a wave of nausea hit Sunday, making him both cringe and roll his eyes. This was getting ridiculous. Whoever it was that was monitoring him really loved picking his return trips as the best time to do their Divine shenanigans. There was a loss of dramatism when the same thing kept repeating. Were the Divine simply lacking in creativity, or was it the fault of the one setting it all up? He doubted it was a god directly putting the pieces in play.

“Motherfucker,” Sunday cursed.

“Hey! Language!” Elora scolded making him turn sharply and look at her as if she was insane. Was nothing sacred anymore? I’m pretty sure I’ve heard her curse… haven’t I? Goddamn it, it’s so difficult to catch people in hypocrisy when you just don’t care.

“Just out of curiosity, how cool are you with fighting a bunch of believers?” Sunday asked. He had enough essence to level the place to the ground, metaphorically speaking, but depending on what sort of horror popped up things could get messy.

Elora paled, showing genuine terror for the first time since he had known her. “No,” she said.

“What do you mean ‘no’? It’s what we’re about to do.”

“How do you know? Does it have something to do with what happened after healing Suile? Has… has a Divine touched Blumwin?” Elora was very nervous, even more so than the time with the flower lady. That much was certain.

How should I know what the Divines touch? “I’m sure it will be fine. Let’s go.”

He moved forward with his sword drawn. A hint of relief washed over him as he heard Elora stick close behind. The girl was a force.

The fear of the Divine was deeply ingrained in everyone with a brain, and Sunday briefly wondered how the faith still spread.

There were obviously desperate people – those who thought there was no other choice. But the simple villagers, or the flower lady he had met hadn’t struck him as such. Was it actual brainwashing by a true believer? One like Vela, or the laughing horror perhaps?

They passed through the wide open doors and stepped into a silent and unnaturally gloomy entrance hall. The walls, the furniture, the carpets – all of it screamed riches beyond Sunday’s wildest dreams. There was no sign of Hurind Yunvies or the servants. The manor was a large one though, and they had mentioned a mage living in some sort of a room.

Hopefully, it was not him that had fallen to the Divine. Even Mera had spoked with a hint of worry about magi who fell to the corruption of the mad gods.

“What now?” Elora whispered from his side. She was almost hugging his arm and her breath tickled his ear.

“How should I know?” Sunday shot back. “Hello, Mr. Yunyun?” he yelled.

“What are you doing?!”

“Checking if anyone’s home. Say, do you know where that guy keeps his money?” It was a half-serious question. The thought of getting some more of those shiny platinum pieces if everyone was dead passed through his mind, bringing forth only the briefest pangs of shame along. If everyone was dead, then it would be partly Sunday’s fault for coming to this place.

Elora grabbed his arm and shoved him to the side just as something hit the carpet where he had been standing. There was a man on the stairwell before them. A haggard, thin human that looked like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. His eyes were glazed over and his smile hid the madness Sunday could now easily recognize.

He was not one of the mansion’s staff. Certainly not.

A few others followed behind. Each was holding a simple weapon probably taken from the mansion. A few sported wounds that should’ve ended a normal human, bleeding all over the carpet, and one of the undead even had his head split open. It didn’t seem to deter them at all though.

There had been fighting then. Fuck.

“Innocents die…”

“Because of you!”

“Foolish slayer.”

“Weak slayer.

“Beg!”

“Kneel and embrace faith.”

The voices started chanting. It seemed like they were not begging him for death anymore. Was it perhaps a psychological tactic to get him to kill them? The laughing horror had been born after he had ‘killed’ the woman without meaning to. His actions had just sped up the process. If his contribution was necessary for the creation of a monster… that would suck.

“Try to disable them if you can. I can… exorcise them,” Sunday said, struggling to find a better word.

Elora didn’t seem like she heard him. Her hands were balled in fists. She hadn’t reached for her blades but he could almost feel the essence churning in the girl. She was terrified, but she also seemed very, very angry.

Sunday’s essence remained dormant. There were quite a few enemies around, and doing things like last time was many times preferable to unleashing his bloodthirsty moths.

Will I be able to do another slapping show? He didn’t know what had prompted it, but part of his ability to even do it had been because his opponents had begged for death and hadn’t fought back. It was easy to slap around a bunch of suicidal maniacs who kept coming.

These didn’t look suicidal.

“Die,” one said.

Sunday frowned as the man charged down the stairs and toward him with a raised sword. There was no technique, no tricks. Was it perhaps another plot to get him to kill?

Elora moved before he could and in a swift movement and a strike brought the man to the ground. Sunday saw his eyes keep darting once she stepped back to her previous position. His limbs flailed and he screamed, but her hit had disabled his ability to move.

Sunday followed by stepping over the man’s useless body, bending over, and landing a resounding slap on his face. No foulness left him, so he tried again, harder. The man lost consciousness but whatever it was that had driven him insane also went away.

The crowd around remained unmoving, smiling with their crazed smiles.

“Was that necessary?” Elora asked from the side. “He was no danger.”

“I’m helping him.” Sunday retorted.

“By slapping him? Like you did that woman?”

“Yes.”

“We need to have a long talk after this.”

Sunday grunted in response and surveyed the rest of the growing crowd. He was not looking forward to Elora’s idea of a talk.

“That chubby guy mentioned a mage. Do you have any idea where he might be?” Sunday asked.

“On top of the manor. They build a room similar to the practice rooms of the Arcanum for him there. My mom said it was super expensive, but Uncle Hurind values Sotu very much. He’s his nephew.”

Ah, to be born into a rich family… Well, I guess it’s not all sunshine and rainbows.

“Slayer,” a woman growled from the bottom of the stairs. She was better dressed than the man, and her body language was familiar. With a swift motion too fast for a normal human she stabbed her own heart, making Elora scream in surprise.

Two more followed while the rest rushed them blindly.

Sunday bared his teeth. It seemed like there was little place for mercy.