BleedingTears
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Arcanist - Chapter 29
🕑 Added 2025-03-09 12:35:56 +0000 UTCBurning flames, and the scorching heat. Down in his back. Hot against his face. Bright, blooming light of the Lightmaster in his veins couldn’t stop him from feeling it as tongues of it lashed at the Necromancer’s horde. Leaving the Skeletons rotless and senseless in the din. Forcing the giant beasts back and back again.
In the thick of it was that same man. Young and godless, accompanied by that crazy woman who Marcus couldn’t help but stare at. She didn’t even look him in the eye back in that lane. But that, he could understand. What he couldn’t quite wrap his head around was that who in the Lord’s name was that man.
A Priest wasn’t supposed to know how to set the whole cave ablaze.
Marcus felt his chest with his left hand. Dented hard from the middle, bits of it scratching against his gauntleted fingers, then down his waist where the straps of his chest piece were bound clumsily to keep the plates of his legs fixed.
It almost seemed like that beast hadn’t dismembered his waist clean from his body. Yet, the pain was still there, a ghostly thing lingering in the back of his mind, the sight of blood gushing out from the bowels of his gut, the stench of his own life seeping slowly away… All fresh and there, but that man fixed him back. Stitched his legs right into his waist like he was patching a surface wound. Painfully professional and calm. Had him get back to the chaos when Marcus tried to thank him.
How?
A Skeleton Soldier came at him with the tip of its rusted spear held straight. Two men broke out from his back and lunged in, Ethan parrying the spear with the side of his axe and Parrek carving the foul beast’s skull with one smooth cleave of his sword. They both turned worryingly to face him.
Marcus blinked at them.
Parrek wasn’t having any of it. “We should gather the men around you. Gather them fast. They’re making us look bad over there. Look! The Undead bastards are about to reach the Necromancer!”
“It’s that Mage,” Ethan said, black eyes beyond the visor narrowing at the burning storm. “Why is he running out in the front and what is that spell? The air’s burning. I can feel it in my face.”
“Might be one of Altar’s men,” Parrek grunted. “Those bastards don’t like losing.”
“They wouldn’t send one of their own to death.” Ethan shook his head. “That man… I don’t know what he is, but—“
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Marcus said, voice heavy. His aides turned at him, looking equally disturbed. “I should’ve been dead. Should’ve died there when that Oarfang cut me through. Should’ve been buried with honors in my chest, with my heart’s ready for the Eternal War.”
“That Mage did that?” Ethan lowered his gaze.
“Months of constant care and grace of the Lord. That’s what it would’ve taken a Priest to attach those legs back,” Marcus said. “He did it under one minute.”
“That’s…” Parrek swallowed.
“Say it,” Marcus forced him.
“Impossible,” Ethan finished for him. “The battle craze can get to a man’s head, Marcus. The lust and the thrill can flush your brain with confusion. I don’t think your legs—“
“You were right there with me!” Marcus jabbed a hand at them both, furious for being doubted. Lies never get you to anywhere. But truth can be sometimes tricky.
“We were in the brawl with that undead, holding the lines,” Ethan said, shuffling uncomfortably on the heel of his left leg.
“Where’s Barlan? He’s the one who carried my legs back,” Marcus said, casting a gaze over the chaos before shaking his head. It wasn’t important. He knew what he’d seen and dared not to doubt it anymore. Mage and Priest both. There was only one explanation.
Baht’s cult. But a cult Master here in Melton? That doesn’t make any sense.
Then again, Baht’s healers were famous for their rather crooked way of doing things. Helping people for no particular reason. Demanding only smiles and pats on the back as payment. Always in pursuit of the so-called Nine Core Dungeons of the world, seeking something dark that existed only in legends by masquerading as helpful wanderers.
You don’t get to learn the Inferno by becoming one of Bath’s fools.
They had their magic in that cult, but Inferno wasn’t something you could get by simply belonging to a hidden cult. It demanded strict education and a genius so deep that only a few people in a Guild of thousands ever get to learn it. Even some of the famous Magi--
Marcus shook the thought off. That time was long past, now. He wasn’t the failed disciple who couldn’t learn how to wield the source of the world, cast away by the ones who he deemed important, left all alone in a city of monsters anymore. No. He was a changed man. For better and worse. Becoming a Wing of the Duality Guild, respected and lauded by his men, taken under the Lightmaster’s ever-sprawling grace was no simple feat.
Lord, give me strength.
He sucked in a deep breath, and let the [Sword’s Grace] bless his weapon. He clenched the handle of the sword with two hands, marching onward, men flooding to his sides, the skeletons reeling back at their sight.
The pure light of the sword fell hard over them like the Last Son himself came to claim their broken souls. He cleaved them apart and sent them crumbling down, took in the sight of their misery, trying not to look at the undead side.
But he couldn't help it. The storm was there over the chaos, stretching ever closer to the Necromancer, moving in ways that made him think his eyes were betraying him.
You couldn’t control a spell like an arm or a leg. It wasn’t a weapon. A solid steel upon which you could impress your will. The spell formula was just a trigger and once the magic came alive, it became a thing of its own. A mindless lump of energy that knew no master.
Unless you’re an—
Nonsense. Melton had no Archmages, and the ones in the other countries who’d claimed that mantle wouldn’t come here to deal with a stubborn Necromancer. A Queststone of this magnitude wasn’t enough to catch their eye. There were other horrors in the wide circle of the world, nightmares worse than a man-turned-lich trying to play a twisted little game.
Get strong, and stronger still, and make them bow before you.
Focus. Right. There were hundreds of men out there in the wild, men stronger than him, different in ways he couldn’t comprehend. Best he stuck with the Lightmaster’s plan. Best reap the Necromancer’s horde and reach Level 100. They might never get another Queststone like this.
But then, he did owe his life to that strange Mage, and a debt left unpaid was against the Lord’s code.
……..
Celme came jabbing down at the Oarfang, felt her fingers crunch against the solid bone, pushed her weight down and pushed the beast back, the [Battle Fury] raging in her mind. It was chaos around the cave, her vision streaked with lines of pure crimson, but chaos was where a Berserker felt right at home.
She jumped down and threw herself to the side, watched the Oarfang’s sword come cleaving across the stretch. It crushed into the ground and ruptured it wide, the flames of the storm coiling around the weapon in no time. Celme was on her feet, and then she was running round the beast that was busy trying to get its sword back, but Nomad was there, and he wasn’t about to let it.
Through the storm, into the wave that opened up before her, air reeking of rot and a great deal of burnt bones. This wasn’t one of those average measly Fireballs. No, this one was one sprawling storm and there on the back stood its master.
Valens had his lips curled tight, hands stretched out as he guided the edges of the storm. How was he doing it? Treating the storm as this living thing, and commanding it as though a Master to a slave. And it did listen. That was the oddity. How could you make mana listen to your thoughts? How could you heal something so broken with a wave of lifemana?
She always thought magic was an alternative for the weak-willed men, a well in which people who lacked the resolve to face the horrors of the Broken Lands could find some relief. They got their fancy groups and long-bearded scholars who couldn’t keep babbling about this mystery or that. As if this world worked on their so-called principles. As if the Damned would ever stop to hear a word from their endless wisdom.
Safety of the closed walls. A sort of naive belief built upon the shoulders of the ones who held the lines. All cuddled back in their warm cities and waiting, talking, acting as though people weren’t dying in the wilds.
Then there were the Adventurers. Celme felt sick to her stomach at the thought of their unbridled indifference. Experiencing the world. Living the best of their lives. Catching this monster or that just for the sport of it.
This world is sick.
And that was why she gave an oath to the Lightmaster that she’d help in cleansing the filth.
Back on the Oarfang’s side, fingers clenched tight and the beast’s rotten bones right in her sight. She leapt and hooked a finger into its skull, swung herself round and brought her other fist whistling into its rough scalp. Felt something shift under her fingers.
The beast hissed in that same painless cry as the other ungodly creatures, tried to raise the sword to Celme’s head, stumbled when Nomad hacked at its legs. Down it looked and there it saw the storm of fire, melting the toe bones of its feet.
Celme smiled, the metal of blood in her mouth. She jabbed the Oarfang’s skull once, twice, and thrice, finally opening a hole big enough for her to reach deep. She plunged a hand into that patch, jerked it hard and tore the greater part of the beast’s head with teeth clenched.
The Oarfang crumbled over its own rib cage.
‘Ding’ You have managed to defeat [Skeleton Oarfang - lvl 115]! For killing a creature above your own level, you are granted bonus experience.
You have leveled up! 5 Stat Points granted!
You have reached Level 100!
For reaching Level 100, you have been granted your First Trial - The Trial of the Berserker I!
For reaching Level 100, you have been granted the Zodros’s (Minor) Blessing!
Divine light poured into her veins, making them thicker, boiling her blood until waves of smoke wafted off her skin. She could see them in the bright light of the storm, coiling round her nose. She could feel something was stirring deep underneath her heart.
Her eyes were glued on the notification that told her she got the First Trial. She’d been waiting for this too long. She--
Child. I shall face the Necromancer now. The Lich will aid me. Take the other Wing and join me. Something is not right about this cave. Something is limiting our strength. I can feel it in the air. I need every able man for the battle.
Celme snapped her head back at the human lines, and saw the Lightmaster gave her a strict nod. When she gazed deeply toward the Necromancer who was still perched over that large rock, she scowled.
Give me strength.
She clenched her fists and searched the chaos, found Marcus there staring at her with narrowed eyes. She motioned for him to get closer while taking her surroundings in sight. They were close. So close that she could feel the Necromancer’s filthy magic.
Pain crawled around her skin. Her heart tightened, the Inferno flames wavering around her. Something was pressing over them, hard, as if the air had gained a steely quality about it. It tried to steal the breath away from her lungs and leave her wheezing there. It tried to—
A soft tap on her back. Life poured into her heart and right through her lungs, lending her breath back. The slight sting under her feet and her bruised fingers slowly became as good as new. She sucked in a deep breath, and felt her arms. There was no pain anymore.
“It's him,” Valens said as he stepped beside her, that hand still on her back, eyes peering up at the Necromancer with fascination. “I wonder if he’s like those skeletons himself. Perhaps I can take a peek at his core. If I can cut the source line, I don’t think his horde can support itself. But, in that case, would the System reward me for the whole horde, or just him alone?”
Celme’s skin prickled when she saw the glint in the eyes of the healer. [Battle Fury] might’ve kept her mind leashed and allowed to focus on killing the foes, but still she could feel the loss of life around her.
But this man… He looked like he was enjoying this. He was staring at the Necromancer as if the master of the horde, that hideous creature was something to be studied and taken lessons from.
“You can’t deal with him by yourself,” Celme said when she gathered herself. Steps sounded toward the back and a look over her shoulder showed her that Marcus and his company were here, waiting behind the veil of the burning storm. “Lightmaster and the Undead Lich will move. Don’t try anything stupid, Valens.”
“You’ve just sounded like my Master.” Valens blinked at her, then shook his head. “But I found, much to my amazement, that doing stupid things can sometimes be fun. I think I’ll do that in this world. I like it quite much.”
“You…”
“Back. Back. Back!” Nomad’s voice pulled her mind awake, and then she was staring at a pair of pupilless eyes, all black and lusterless, with that gnarled bony staff raised high in the air. Black light bursted off from its tip and the wind picked up from behind.
"Stay close to me,” Valens said, a smile playing on his lips. “Looks like he’s trying a new trick.”
…..
