BleedingTears
patreon
Arcanist - Chapter 12
🕑 Added 2025-03-09 11:28:21 +0000 UTCGrey walls, cold wind on his back, and Valens kept tailing Nomad, chest aching still. Their steps squelched in the puddle coating over the mossy ground. The sounds bounced back and back again. Nothing, it seemed, lived here deep in the ground. Nothing but bones and the poor moss, that is.
Nomad wasn’t certainly helping with that. Valens watched him gazing absently at the pommel of his sword. Questions there, questions here, and questions still. He was rather sick with them lately, but curious too. A delicate balance. Nothing quite as fascinating for a Magus.
“I could use some time after all of that,” Valens said, feeling the burn of his dwindled mana pool in his chest. “Set a fire perhaps? Some warmth would be nice.”
“Some warmth?” Nomad rasped with his gravelly voice, turning and giving him a glance that didn’t quite look right. “Folks tend to use fire for more grander things up there. For grave things. Their’s a sick way of punishing people. Some bloody deed, if you’d asked me.”
“I would, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Memories,” Nomad grunted and turned round, waving a hand at an invisible fly before his face. “What good they do, anyway? I have a couple of them. Some make me sick. Others remind me of times long past. I reckon you could do without them. Cast them away and you’re born anew. That’s a way to look at it.”
“You get them still, no?” Valens argued. “Everything’s a memory. There’s no escaping them to my knowledge.”
“That’s what I’m saying. Shackles and dead weight in your brain. That’s what they seem to be. Mines are a little rusty, a bit twisted, but you’re not supposed to remember the times of old. Back when you’re still alive, I mean. Makes it a whole bloody complicated.”
“You can remember?” Valens asked. He wasn’t sure about how the memories of an undead worked, but then, he wasn’t sure how they could still walk and talk, at all. Another mystery there.
Noted.
“Bits and pieces,” Nomad muttered, looking at his sword. “There’s a reason why they burn good men in the world above. Eternal rest, they call it. Every bit of your body returns to Mother Nature's embrace. Others, they bury deep in the ground. Not the Priests, though. Those bastards think they’re too good for that.”
Valens eyed Nomad, then glanced back the way they came. “That’s why we buried them? I thought—“
“It was too late for that.” Nomad shook his head. “I’d given them a soldier’s death, and that’s plenty enough mercy for that lot. It’s the cycle, though, that angers me so. Don’t tell people about this. An undead’s talking about death like it's some sort of mystery, that’s not common around here or in the Underworld. Not common at all.”
“How does it work?” Valens asked. “I mean the rousing. You’ve mentioned a Necromancer does the deed with those skeletons. What about the Undead?”
Nomad gave him a side-eyed glance, followed by a tired sigh. For a moment Valens thought he would wave him off, but surprisingly he turned and tapped a finger to the left side of his chestpiece. A deep, thrumming set of frequencies bloomed in Valens’s mind.
“It’s a matter of choice, really,” Nomad said solemnly. “A choice you’d make right when you feel death creeps closer, or a written will can do the job if you’re smitten with a profession that carries a good deal of risk. They bury you with your heart in place so that the Forgemasters can use that to craft a Heartstone.”
“But you don’t remember anything? Or you shouldn’t… Why, though? No offence, but that doesn’t strike me as a good second chance. It comes with a whole different set of problems.”
“It does, but Eternal War demands a certain sacrifice from us all. Or who would keep the demons shackled in the arse hole of the world?” Nomad cracked a smile at his own words. “Nasty bastards, those bunch. I don’t reckon the world above has the stomach to handle them.”
Valens tried hard, but a sigh parted his lips. He could hardly feel surprised anymore. “That’s a little too much fighting, don’t you think? I come from a place of false peace and shady plots. Scarcely you’d see people having a go at each other in the open fields, not unless you need some money to be about, that is.”
Nomad was silent for a moment, then tilted his head. “People do worse things for money. Not the demons, though, that’s not how Tainted Father does his business. He’s not after some good coin, alright. No, what he seeks are other things, dark things. That’s why he creeps on you when you least expect it, finds you right when you’re at your worst.”
“Interesting,” Valens muttered, then shook his head at Nomad. “So that’s what you do when you’re not around? Fight with the demons, eh?”
Whatever that really means.
“More or less,” Nomad nodded. “We don’t actually care about your world here. That’s your responsibility. If it's a matter of Necromancy, though, that changes things. Then it becomes a matter of pride. Can’t let some twisted fool spoil the reputation of the dead and play with men who laid to their rest with the promise of eternal glory like toys. The others? I don’t care for them. Criminals… deserve that.”
“You’ve mentioned a deal with Melton's King, though. Some coin and silver was promised, if I’m not mistaken?”
“Oh, those are always helpful,” Nomad grinned. “The Legion needs resources just like anyone in this world.”
Valens nodded, mind fuzzy with all this new information.
So there’s a difference between skeletons too. The soldiers Nomad faced… They should’ve been roused as Undead to fight in this Eternal War, but instead this Necromancer resurrected them against their will.
It was a lot to take, Valens had to admit. He was still new to magic being everywhere in the world. Back in the Empire, even the sight of a single animated corpse would’ve sent the Inquisition in a craze, one that likely would have resulted in Magi paying the ultimate price.
Here, it seemed it was an everyday occurrence. A mere choice in a life lived amid chaos. Want to fight? Good, then keep at it even after you die. That was oddly liberating and dreadful at the same time. Valens didn’t know how he felt about it.
……
They had decided to take a little break even though Nomad grumbled about something along the lines of time being crucial, since Valens didn’t want to continue through the cave with barely mana left in his source. A good two hours was what he needed, and some time to check on the new stats he’d gained in that battle.
The notion that not only could he boost the amount of mana in his source by giving a bunch of points into some magical stat, but also strengthen the might of his spells as well, intrigued him.
It was a drug, one that he wouldn’t mind getting more.
Name: Valens Kosthal
Age: 22
Race: Human (Ancient)
Class: Arcane Healer (Ancient)
Level: 25
Experience: 77%
…
Free Points: 60
Twelve new levels from dealing with a bunch of animated corpses, and he was close to gaining one more by the amount of experience he had. That seemed like a progress well earned, so he eyed the Intelligence and Wisdom pair once more, not bothering to focus on his other stats.
Intelligence - 70
Wisdom - 30
Valens tapped a finger over his chin as he regarded his status. A part of him wished to pour everything he had into Intelligence to boost his mana pool. More of it seemed a better choice if they would keep dealing with crowds of skeletons. But that, in return, would cost him some precious time in between the clashes as his renewal rate wouldn’t be able to keep up with the sudden increase.
I suppose getting the maximum rate is a must.
Right. There was no telling if he could get a breather after every encounter.
He distributed his stats.
Intelligence - 107
Wisdom - 53
Mana roared from within his chest cavity, pouring through his ribcage into the mana pool like the waves of a gurgling river. The resulting splash shook Valens as he managed a Lifeward around the source to follow the process. He was disappointed, as once again, other than the sudden appearance of mana he couldn’t pry into what went beyond the surface.
Something was different at work there. He was sure of it.
“Off with that stupid grin on your face, already,” Nomad grunted from beside him, bony legs stretched out and the sword laid over them. That Heartstone thrumming still. “Nothing like the feeling of new stats, eh?”
“Did you get one?” Valens grinned. “By the density of your bones I can tell you’re favoring the Endurance and Strength pair more than the other stats. Some Vitality in the mix, surely, as that crack is fixing itself strangely quick.” He pointed at his bare legs.
“Difference in experience. I was made to understand one fact when I’d been roused. Dealing with beasts is easy so long as you keep your head over the shoulders. It helps with the heat of the Underworld as well.” Nomad winced slightly. “But you can’t be too sure in the Broken Lands. This place is nothing like the Depths. There, you know your demons, you expect them to shriek into your face and come clawing with senseless fury. But here… There are too many horrors that don’t play by the rules.”
“The Broken Lands,” Valens started, picking the dirt in his fingers with the tip of his nails. “I’m still not entirely sure what I’m supposed to get from… any of this. You’ve told me I’ve crashed into this Rift, but what exactly is a Rift?”
“Eh.” Nomad shrugged. “Come to think of it, if you can’t even remember the existence of the system then you must be missing quite a few things. A Rift is a tear in the air, a way for the dwellers of the Broken Lands to spill into the Haven’s Reach. The so-called paradise of humans where there’s at least some semblance of peace.”
“That’s a grand name,” Valens muttered.
“Reckon simple has never been enough for your kind,” Nomad snorted as he drew a circle on the ground of the cave with an armored finger. He pointed at it. “That’s the place,” he said, before he went on to divide it into multiple smaller circles with long stretches of lines between them. “Some seas in the mix, a body of water here and there, but you get the gist of it. You have four little continents.”
“Sure.” Valens scowled.
“Then you have the Broken Lands,” Nomad said, managing a giant circle that encompassed everything inside of it. The small circle that represented the Haven’s Reach was choked all around by what Valens assumed were enormous seas, which separated it from the Broken Lands. “That’s where the Damned live.”
A short silence settled between them as Valens regarded the clumsy drawing. If this was indeed the case… He shook his head. This was too strange.
After getting a more clear understanding of the System, he thought that people of this world had an endless potential to become more than mere humans. If even he could sense the power brimming in his chest with a few levels, then what could a man beyond Level 100 accomplish? What a Level 200 couldn’t do with a flick of their hands?
Nomad was one simple example that he had the chance to witness in action. He’d just dealt with dozens of skeletons, and came out alive with but a few cracks.
“We don’t care much about why the Damned is so obsessed with the Haven’s Reach,” Nomad continued, voice grave as the dark of the cave. “Our job is to handle the bastards under this world, not the above. That’s your kind’s problem. But far as I know, there’s something in the Haven’s Reach that they want, and for some reason they can’t cross the Endless Seas on foot.”
“So they open Rifts, is that it?” Valens asked. “Tears in space. Warping through these gates to reach what is unreachable otherwise. And how are they doing it, exactly?”
“Beats me,” Nomad muttered. “But I reckon it’s something about the system. The Trials force humans to tread upon the Broken Lands, so the same must be true for them.”
“You mean these creatures have the System too?” Valens trembled.
“Of course they do,” Nomad looked him in the eye. “I’ve told you the System is just that, the way of this world.”
….
