He found it wrapped around what he could vaguely remember to be a gas station. Slight movements easily caused the walls and windows to crack and creak, but the wyrm only had eyes for Kreig. Kreig, in turn, only had eyes for the wyrm.

Fighting. Again. After all this time. He’d gotten a month or so of rest, and now he was back at it again.

It felt wrong. He didn’t want to be there and he didn’t want to save anyone. At the moment, he just wanted to go back to his cell, back to playing cards and painting and that easy life that he’d longed for. When he was first summoned, this wouldn’t have been the sort of life he’d longed for, but at the moment, he couldn’t imagine anything better than warm food and a roof over his head.

Neither of which he had at this moment. All he had were two weaklings at his side and a strangely acting wyrm in front of him. If he wasn’t curious about what was wrong with the wyrm, if Gerald wasn’t there, he might not have cared enough to so much as raise a finger.

But that wasn’t the case. He took a step towards the wyrm. He wouldn’t kill it quickly and he wouldn’t kill it mercifully. It had things to tell him, after all.

Its eyes were locked onto him. They were dazzling, swirling pools of stars. Then, its mouth opened wide. It had many small teeth angled towards the throat, made for pulling in prey rather than injecting venom, but Kreig knew very well that it was not about to lunge at them. Several holes, barely visible to the untrained eye, flexed inside its throat, opening up as the wyrm coiled.

Kreig took a deep breath. He wasn’t relaxing anymore. No more taking it easy, no more casual chit-chat. Emotion drained from his mind like happy warm sludge. He raised his arms and fell into a posture. The world melted away, the dawn sky replaced with a muddy red, the pavement and concrete buildings crumbling to reveal mud and ash and too many bodies to count. He had no weapons, he had no armour, but he didn’t need them.

The wyrm gave an immense hiss as its body convulsed and a stream of black, acidic goo shot out of its mouth, aimed as precisely as a master archer right at Kreig. In turn, he took a broad-legged stance and crossed his arms in front of himself.

Protect (X)

The concentrated stream of corrosive liquid splattered in an arch around Kreig, not even touching his skin once. Everything went slowly. When the acid hit the area around Kreig, it proved its strength, quickly melting everything it touched into a fizzy black mess. Was he hallucinating, or could he faintly hear voices, distantly behind him? No, he couldn’t hear it. He couldn’t hear anything at all, except for the sound of battle and the stream letting up. As the wyrm let up for a mere second, Kreig bolted for it.

In terms of his own personal merits, Kreig was not a fast man. His power lay in his many skills, his physical strength, and his endurance. Speed and intelligence were not becoming of him, but compared to a regular human…

He moved too fast to see.

The world seemed to bend under his momentous will, and in a mere moment, he stood before the wyrm, his bare hands clenching each side of its enormous head. Then, as easily as a knife slips in a pumpkin, he thrust both hands into the snout of the beast, through the thick scales and the skin and the bone. It tried to jerk away, tried to leave, but he wouldn’t let it. He shoved both hands into this dry, empty hole he created, and with a mighty jerk, he cracked it open, revealing all the wyrm’s secrets to the world.

It had no blood. It had no flesh, either. Both of these important things were replaced fully by white wire-like roots, crawling and nesting around its bones like the mycorrhiza of a fungus. As Kreig cracked open the Wyrm’s skull, he found a somewhat similar but equally alarming situation. The light-green squishy brain was still there, but large parts had either been gouged out, absorbed by the white roots or simply shrunk. If Kreig touched the shrunk parts, he found that they had gone hard. White roots spread over and inside it like a spider-web, snaking into the furrows and the gyri. The brain was overrun with white roots.

And Kreig had no idea what it meant. Just that it wasn’t a good thing.

...No, that wasn’t entirely true. He had seen something similar in someone much closer than he’d like. In himself.

Aetherial Knife (III)

Kreig held out his hand and was rewarded with a semi-translucent but clearly strong knife. He balanced it in his hand for a second before turning the blade to the back of his arm and giving a swipe. For the first time in over 30 years, he was harmed more than skin-deep.

A red gash was opened up, blood pooling out of the wound as it should. But inside the wound, a bit harder to see but still clearly visible, white roots could be seen, snaking around his bones and webbing across his muscles. Like an extra system of veins, the white roots that his holy order was named after. The white roots that granted him strength.

The white roots that seemed to have completely overtaken the wyrm, in body and soul. Something here was very wrong.

With the flex of Kreig’s hand, the Aetherial Knife was crushed, breaking into what seemed like glass shards. Although Kreig was a man of curiosity, at the moment, he found no issues with completely destroying the body, beginning with crushing the skull and brain with a single stomp. Then, while the distant and mumbling voices seemed to come closer, he burnt the body using Purge of the Holy. In a matter of seconds, the body and the white roots infesting it had transformed into white snow.

And he was still in wonderland. Blood and mud and red skies. His enemy was dead, but he remained.

Breathing. In and out. In and out. The red skies swirled above, but their speed was slowing, turning lighter in colour, disappearing, slowly, slowly…

-When a hand suddenly touched his shoulder and he instinctively attacked it.

There was nothing behind him, nothing for his fist to connect to. Just more mud and blood. His chest heaved. Up and down. In and out. Where the hell was he? Why was he alone? He shouldn’t be alone. Not on the battlefield. He had to fight something, anything. And now. Fight fight fight. He had to fight. Otherwise, he died. Otherwise, every single person that had died so that he could live would have died in vain. Otherwise, he was a fraud.

His breathing grew quick. The mud beneath his feet swirled in time with the deep red skies. Clouds and dust and a mist of death. All around him, everywhere, all that existed in that place, all that could exist, were enemies. Enemies, and fights, and-,

“Kreig?”

He was small. Young. Dirty blonde hair and a childishness that should never have been placed on the battlefield. “Gerald.”

He stood there, alone, up to his ankles in mud and corpses. Eyes light and confused and - couldn’t he see everything that was going on? Why was he here? He shouldn’t be on the battlefield. Allies shouldn’t stand before Kreig. If they did, they wouldn’t stand for long. Wrong place. “Go away.” Although Kreig’s voice was hoarse, although his every breath seemed to choke on the heavy air around him, he spoke. For Gerald’s sake.

“Huh? Why should-, I’m sorry, you don’t seem fine. Has the battle been long? Have you-,”

“LEAVE!” Kreig bellowed, taking heavy steps towards his only friend. Had to get him out of there. Gerald couldn’t be there. What if an army attacked? What if people invaded? What if-,

And all of a sudden, Gerald wasn’t dressed in his overall and his vaguely hopeful expression, he was wearing light armour. Light armour and the red cloth of the empire and his eyes were so big and not like a child’s. “K-, Kreig…”

Kreig stumbled back. The Empire? Here? Now? Attacking him with a mere single soldier? Hah! They must be assured of their victory! Very well, if they so ask for it, if they beg him to show his power, then - in the name of the White Pope! By God, he will! This soldier will-,

Something touched him.

Kreig looked down and found a boy, barely of age, wrapped around his midsection. Gerald looked up. Their eyes met.

The mania was banished, the red skies expelled, the mud and blood was gone. Replaced with asphalt and blue skies and a deep, all-consuming sense of dread and shame.

“You okay, Kreig?” Gerald asked, disconnecting himself.

Kreig nodded, but he didn’t feel okay. Not at all.

Not in the least.