Chapter 32

Pouring Skies

The reason why the man who wrote the diary was abandoned and never contacted was likely because his plight coincided with his home's plight, Sylas suspected. The invasion by the people who eventually founded the Ethernia Kingdom might have occurred right about the same time the man had to uphold his duties of defending whatever he was supposed to be defending.

There was a story there, Sylas was certain, and though there were some discrepancies and inconsistencies, it was nothing that couldn’t be remedied. And all of it, somehow, had something to do with the Ghoulish invasions. It wasn’t a stretch to say that the man was defending from the Ghouls—in fact, it was really a logical extension. The question was, however… where was the ‘portal’? Or the ‘gate’ that the Ghouls came through?

Sylas looked around and there was nothing nearby that indicated it could be used as some form of a portal for an army. While the others mulled over the diary and the man’s undying love for some random woman, Sylas was more concerned with how he would go about obtaining actual records from before the founding of the Kingdom. By now, he was beyond certain that a sprawling civilization—possibly even an Empire-level one—existed on the peninsula long before Valen’s forefathers showed up.

Though it was in decay, as most Empires inevitably end up being due to the sheer number of self-interests, that didn’t mean its history was erased. They knew about the Ghouls, which was why they sent someone to keep an eye out on it. As it was just one man, it likely meant that the portal or whatever was inactive at the time and that it is possible that the conflict itself somehow shook it awake. No, wait, is it possible that Valen’s ancestors knew of a way to use Ghouls? Could it be that’s how they won?

Sylas’ heart kept beating rapidly, even accelerating. If his conjecture was true, then it was even more likely that someone from the royal family had something to do with the invasions as they were the only ones who could possibly know how to control the Ghouls. It was all just a thought still, however, and one he didn’t dare say out loud lest his head be, yet again, lopped off.

By now, it was certain that the expedition was in no way a mistake; he’d learned from it about the world almost as much as he did from Valen. It wasn’t that the Prince was shy with sharing, but that Sylas couldn’t completely trust the records he was referring to. History was mostly written by the victors, and those who’ve lost were usually the villains—if they were even written about in the scripts.

There was a minute but abrupt change, one that only Ryne and Sylas seemed to notice; Ryne was she was incredibly attuned to natural changes, and Sylas because he just happened to be absentmindedly staring at the sky when he saw it flash. It was the briefest flash, akin to that of a passing storm, but it was also quite peculiar as it rolled through the clouded skies like a wave.

Soon after, there was another, and then another. By then, everyone else had also noticed the strange phenomenon, but nobody seemed to know what it meant. It indicated a likely storm—that much even Sylas could infer—but not what kind of a storm and how strong it would be. Even the mildest one, however, meant that the group would likely get soaked as whether they hid inside the rotting house or their makeshift tent meant they’d be getting wet.

The group huddled closer together, observing the increasingly flashing skies. By now, Sylas had realized it was no storm—those lights weren't of the lightning, not to mention the fact that they weren't accompanied by the booming thunder. It was… something else. They were like the animated, repeatedly flashing aurora lights dyed in dulled azure, their frequency increasing with every passing second. A bad feeling surged within Sylas' heart as he continued to stare directly at the sky, waiting, observing.

BOOM!

It was a singular noise that came out of nowhere, without warning. It shook the world above and below and all those who stood on top of it. Sylas screamed out in pain as he felt his ears blow out immediately, the sheer winds caused by the ‘explosion’ knocking him down. His mind felt scrambled and he found it impossible to string enough letters together to form a word in his mind. He could only think in concepts and the only concept he could think of at the moment was pain. He was in so much pain he wanted to die.

He fell to his knees, still clutching the sides of his head, barely managing to open up his profusely bleeding eyes. Unsurprisingly, everyone else was lying on the ground as well. In fact, all of them were unmoving. Dead. They were dead. Tenner, Tebek, Ryne, everyone except for him was dead. How was he alive? Why? He was certain. Perhaps he’d died so often and so violently that his body and mind naturally got some shock-absorbent properties where it was easier for him to survive the unsurvivable. He didn’t want that, however. He wished he’d died with the rest of them; at the very least, they didn’t have to experience the agony he was experiencing.

Boom, boom, boom, boom…

The ‘explosions’ grew softer and duller—or, which was likelier, Sylas’ ears simply lost their ability to hear properly. In fact, Sylas wasn’t even certain whether he was hearing the booms or just imagining them. They were like the drums, for a change. They weren’t discordant—if anything, they were rhythmic. They were like a war song played before a battle to raise the army’s adrenaline and make dying for a purposeless cause seem like a good death.

Still clutching his head, he managed to somehow heave it up and point toward the sky. Time froze at that moment, letters in his mind vanishing as they were about to form a word. His entire body began shaking violently. Eyes and ears and nostrils and even lips continued to bleed, seemingly draining him dry. He was pale, weak, on the fringe, but alive still. He was alive to witness something that froze whatever blood remained within him—he saw them, falling from the skies. Like droplets of rain, they fell in a concord. Hundreds. Thousands. Tens of thousands. They were falling. Ghouls. Things that weren't Ghouls. Ghoul-like things.

It was a sight beyond sights, horror beyond horrors, imagine he wished to erase permanently. In that singular moment he'd seen more death than all his loops combined, and then a hundredfold after. Tens of thousands turned into hundreds of thousands and soon the skies were drenched in a locust-like swarm of dead and dying and decayed. A number beyond count swarmed the world, and they fell.

You have died.

Save point ‘New Friends’ has been initialized.

Sylas woke up in his room, just after Cyrs left. His mind was still reeling. It was impossible to recover. He wasn't certain he would ever recover. The pain was gone, but the agony wasn't. It was still there, bleeding through his veins, seeping into his heart, corrupting his soul. What he saw… nobody would believe him. No, he didn't believe it himself. How was that even possible? It was one thing for the dead to fall out of the sky—if he took enough hard drugs, he might have even bought it—but in those numbers?

“No,” he mumbled, his lips shaking. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no…”

An army of the dead, that’s what that was. No, not an army. Armies. Dozens of them. Enough to level this Kingdom and all other Kingdoms beyond recognition. Swordsmen, Mages, Blademasters, all those experts who could shift the world with their words… they were irrelevant. Pointless. They’d die. They’d all die. He would die. And die again. And again. And again. He’d be stuck in a loop with no end. He couldn’t go forward; he couldn’t go backward. He’d be condemned to the eternity of dying and yet living. His personal hell.

“It’s impossible,” he uttered. It should be impossible. After all, in nearly seven hundred years, the worst invasion ever recorded barely had twenty-thousand Ghouls. And it was just Ghouls. Though the records indicated the existence of other ‘Unspoken’, that ilk never invaded—‘hanging out’ at the fringes, rarely seen.

That rain… it felt more like a depository, as though the heavens were replenishing the number of enemies in the world. Not just for the tiny peninsula—but the world itself.

“Yes, that’s it,” he tried to convince himself. “That’s it. That has to be it. F-f-f-fuck… I… I have to go back, don’t I?” he realized the conundrum, tears gathering in his eyes at the thought. “Fucking fuck. I can’t go back. No, I have to go back. Confirm it. Stay in the forest. Time it. Avoid that boom that killed us. See what happens after. I have to. Shit, I can’t just leave that out there. If they’re truly coming for us… we gotta fuckin’ run. F-f-f-uckin’ hell, what’d I get my ass into?”

Sylas immediately went to the kitchen and brought back a whole basket of wine—four bottles in total. Their alcohol contents were surprisingly low, but he was hellbent on drinking himself to death. If he could force alcohol to slightly dull that memory, he would. Every time he closed his eyes, after all, he’d see it—the swarmed skies. The bleeding skies. The pouring skies. The rain of the dead consuming the entire world in its unfeeling wake.