Scourge of Chaos: Savage Healer

Sunday felt like a piece on a gaming board. Only he didn’t know the rules, his purpose, or who was playing.

Whoever is doing this is either trying to probe me, play with my head, or force me down a certain path. The danger is increasing along with my strength as if I’m meant to experience these things. It makes no sense why they didn’t just go all out the first time they had the opportunity to do so. If I’m sent to kill the Divine, then removing me should be a given, right?

“Take care of the normal ones, I got the monstrosities,” Sunday said. A resounding slap landed on the first person that came near him. The man’s head snapped from the force and he fell hard on the carpeted floor, spouting some blood. Sunday was surprised at the strength of his hand. It had grown yet again, and he was sure it was due to the Fable’s Strength.

Elora didn’t respond and he shook her harshly until she reacted to his touch. “Elora!” He understood that the sight of people carving out and eating their own hearts was quite shocking even to those born in this world. She reached for her blades as if by instinct, then gave up and balled her fists instead.

“R-Right. Sorry. I got your back.”

“Don’t worry. Those monsters are dangerous up close, but they’re slow. They need time to grow into their strength. Be wary if one starts laughing. It really messes with the head and might…” Get us killed if more than one does it, “…disorient us. Just put the rest out of commission until I can slap the faith out of them.”

The girl took a few deep breaths and then moved like a typhoon without warning. She was quick and took a single touch to make the regular cultist crumple on the floor. There were quite a few of them and more seemed to be pouring out of all the rooms and entrances. Where were the servants? The master of the manor? The mage?

Sunday stepped forward. He had enough essence to do what he had done before, especially if he used the Vision of the Berserk Moon. However, his moths were difficult to control and there was a potential danger of them just ripping through the brainwashed people.

Riya had shown him that they were able to be saved. He was capable of it. The question was… was he that sort of the hero or the other kind? The one that left a trail of destruction in his wake.

Some of the brainwashed newcomers rushed toward him, and he used a little bit of Phantasmal Fall to make them stumble. He targeted it, afraid to use it as an area of effect since it could affect Elora and land her into a world of trouble. Everyone held onto some sort of weapon, so it was not like they were just throwing themselves at the two of them.

It was all quite futile though. With the growth of his soul space, his body was becoming stronger. It was not only his Fable’s Strength reinforcing it. A regular human like Vyn had no way of catching up no matter how much dedication he gave to his training. Perhaps a rank three mage could easily dominate a group of people with strength alone… which meant that even those with the most harmless spells were very dangerous.

Sunday dodged and even punched a few, deciding that there was no time to slap them around and save them. He missed the Smash Ball, but hopefully, Mera would succeed in finding what it needed.

The laughing horrors were climbing out of the corpses that had previously carved out and eaten their hearts, smiling all the while. Three of the monsters were an issue, but they were slow to form, and none of the previous oppressive sensations was present now. He had the power to stop them from making it into the world.

The Vision of the Berserk Moon appeared behind him like an omen of slaughter. It rippled as six moths came out, draining his essence and leaving enough for barely two more casts. Tripling the number of moths, he summoned was worth the potential loss of control.

Three white and three black ones, tinted with a red circled around him, waiting to be unleashed. It was quite a mesmerizing sight and as he sensed their rampaging essence, he felt powerful. I hope this will work.

They paired off – life and death joining hands together to create what he assumed was some sort of a representation of the soul, or its destruction in this case. Soul was the bridge between the two apparently, since death was not quite the end.

However, unlike the previous times when he had used the Omen of Duality in this way to heal his soul or to destroy the laughing horror, the moths reacted strangely.

Wops.

A burst of red washed over the room and the six became three moments later. They were larger, redder, meaner, uncontrollable, and quite terrifying to look at. Their aura was one of rampage and bloodthirst. One large gray crystal-like eye stood on top of their heads. The wingspan was enough to mistake them for a bird.

Sunday felt his soul shudder. He was certain now that using the Vision of the Berserk Moon when healing was a very bad move. It was not a danger to his life that he felt, but there would be consequences.

The moths moved on their own with even greater speed than before. They reached the laughing horrors that were just tossing away the skins of those they had consumed to be born. A bout of desperate laughter suddenly spread through the room, making Sunday scream and clutch at his ears. It was weaker than the previous time perhaps because the transformation was not done, but three of them made for quite the effect nonetheless.

He looked up to see his moths reach the monsters who swung at them with bony scythe-like limbs. The attacks passed harmlessly through the spell’s manifestation as if they were attacking something intangible. Then the moths reached them.

The laughter paused and turned into monstrous screams, and Sunday watched in utter astonishment as the moths seemed to… nibble at the horrific spine and flesh monsters. It was like a bizarre dream caused by taking too many hallucinogens.

It took seconds for the spells to eat their way into the spikey skulls and bore deeper into the bodies. He briefly saw them through the holes where the heart was. The moths broke apart there in gray mist tinted with corrosive red. Then the bone and flesh shone briefly and broke apart like porcelain, crumbling to the ground in a mess of intestines, blood vessels, and bone. The moths were gone too, to Sunday’s disappointment.

However, he still felt the manifestation of the Berserk Moon pulse behind him, larger than ever, and he felt it absorb something. It was a different type of essence – turbulent, unclean, and disgusting. Far removed from the essence of the world. It made him want to vomit but it still reinforced his own reserves more than the slaughter of the tens of ghouls had by a few times.

Power of forgotten lands has found life in your soul. Power that is a source of madness and power that demands consumption. Be wary, young wretch, for slaying the monsters born of Divine Will may lead to you becoming a monster as well. And perhaps, that is what you will have to do regardless…

The disembodied narrator spoke again and Sunday looked around by instinct to see if Elora had heard it. She seemed to be breathing heavily, all the cultists down on the ground around her. There was not even one standing, but a few minor wounds covered her body despite the thick leather armor she was wearing.

She didn’t seem to have heard the voice, but the laughter had certainly done a number on her. Her eyes were bloodshot and her blonde hair was a disheveled mess.

Sunday felt a bout of nausea strike him again and he cringed. There were more to deal with.

Then he sensed his growth. Three laughing horrors had died like they were nothing to his boosted spells, and whatever it was he took from the monsters of the Divine, it was a lot this time. His soul space expanded like a balloon as if he had spent weeks practicing the Black Breath. With it, came some more of the foul essence the moon had absorbed for him. He felt the dissatisfaction of his spells but the yew tree seemed to rejoice instead.

Something shifted and Sunday’s eyes widened. The golden page unfurled before him in but a moment without him prompting it to.

Race: Origin Corpse

Rank: One, 3rd 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 – They are coming closer. The touch of a Divine upon the city has given away your position and the stronger the fallen’s hatred burns for you, the faster you will be found by all those who seek you out. It is a matter of time.

Third step… One more and I’ll rank up. He felt that he was quite close. It was something he desired, but also something he dreaded. However, his new crazed moths reassured him of the encounter with the hound. Perhaps Mera could help… relying on her too much was dangerous.

There were a lot of other changes too. He felt Elora stir behind him and quickly read them through, making sure to remember each word. He knew by now others couldn’t see the golden page, but it was not the place to mull over such things.

His ‘Missing’ status had a completely new description. Whoever it was that was coming for him, was getting closer. It was not written as something bad so he hoped it wasn’t. More allies of Mera’s caliber was always a good thing. However, there was probably a reason Chaotic Step had done what it had done.

The letters shifted again without his input, showing him a new page, one he hadn’t seen before.

Quest:

Find the Prophet of Joy and slay him, before the connection to the Divine grows and the city of Blumwin is lost to the world. Kill all of the horrors and believers on your way, and save as many of those whose minds had been unwittingly corrupted. Rewards await you.

A Quest? Just like in stories or games. This was a bit too much, but Sunday couldn’t help but admit that a part of him was thankful for the direction. Too many things were happening without rhyme and reason, and while he was trying to gain some semblance of control the world had other plans. Even if some of the surprises were pleasant – like Mera and her support – not being in control was too much for one in his position. It felt like everyone knew what he was or could be better than him.

Things were slowly changing, and now… he had more of a stimulus to kick some Divine ass. The promise of a reward made him stand up with a renewed desire for violence. Considering what he was, and how strong he was, another reward was possibly something impossible to find in the world.

“Are you alright?” he turned to Elora and walked over to hold her by the elbow. She looked dead tired and shook her head.

“I’m almost tapped out. My spells are cheap, but this… this was a lot of people. I’ve never seen anything like it,” the girl quietly said.

“There are more.”

Elora’s eyes grew wide and for a moment Sunday thought she was about to cry, but all the girl did was take a breath, nod her head, and pull out the blades strapped to her waist. He assumed those were daggers or at least something like double-edged knives. He hadn’t paid much attention to the blades before.

“We need to help Uncle Hurind,” she said.

Sunday nodded and stepped past her.

“We will. I have enough essence left in case more appear.” Sunday bent over and slapped one of the paralyzed women. The foul breath left her easily, without him putting much force. He looked at his hand, then tried again. Just a touch of the palm didn’t seem to do it, but there was something to the action that was pleasing.

Elora watched him without speaking for a while. “How can you have any essence left? I saw what you did to those… monsters. You didn’t give them a chance.”

Sunday shrugged and used his other hand to slap an undead man. It was quite funny that the medical attention and aftercare he was giving were literal swaps to the face. Not that he was in a mood to laugh. His soul space was constantly churning and he forced himself to breathe, exhaling something very reminiscent of the foulness he was exorcising from the paralyzed cultists.

The Yew Tree is cleansing my essence. Good. Great even. One less thing to worry about. If the Berserk Moon absorbed whatever essence it found then there could be a lot of issues stemming from that in time. That was perhaps part of the reason no one else had wanted to use it. He didn’t really believe the spell cared about the well-being of its users.

It took him a few minutes to pass through everyone and by the end, the essence in the air was heavy, like thick oil. Elora’s breathing had grown harder and he directed her up the stairs.

They climbed two whole floors, guided by Sunday’s sense of revulsion. They passed by a few corpses belonging to the staff of the mansion. The loss of innocent life made some guilt rear its ugly head, but Sunday pushed it down like the menace it was. There was no time for that. It took them a while to find the source of his feelings.

Three well-armed people with strange symbols painted on their foreheads, and a monster that looked like a laughing horror. However, it was not a newborn one. This one was a few times thicker and larger than those Sunday had seen, and it made him scrunch his face up in disgust.

There was a shimmering green light on the other end of the hallway, right past a broken-down double door. A very thin young man sat cross-legged behind it. He was covered in sweat and his eyes were closed. Behind him were a few guards and the master of the manor, huddled up in the corner of the stone room.

“Is that the one we were waiting for?” One of the men asked.

“Yes. Take him, kill the girl. How long on the barrier?” Another answered.

“Few minutes. This mage is quite useless, but his barrier is strong. He sent for help, but he will grow tired before anyone manages to come.”

“Good. We can’t disappoint the Voice.”

Voice? Sunday cracked his neck. The monster was quite terrifying, but humans were familiar territory. The blood moon was hungry, and so were his moths.