Chapter 88

Sword Meant to Cut, Heart Meant to Bleed

Sylas remained in place rather than turning around and running away. It was pointless to run, after all. He'd have to reset the loop anyhow. Besides, he was curious--curious of the kinds of the dead that lived within the city.

He felt expectant rather than afraid. Eighty years of fighting the dead and wrestling with death... numbed him to many emotions, fear chief among them. At least fear of the things that had begun to make sense to him.

Withdrawing the sword from the scabbard, he waited for a few more seconds before the first few shadows eclipsed the light and emerged from the walls of the city. They weren't Ghouls, unsurprisingly, as they moved with the agility of a fox rather than a rotting corpse. All the same, Sylas was unable to discern just what kind of the dead they were--all of them, fifteen or so, were hooded and cloaked in black from head to toe, hoisting a pair of daggers each.

The only thing about them that he could distinctly see were their eyes--and they all sported the exact replicas, slanted, harrowingly azure eyes that appeared faintly aglow, tendrils of smoke whizzing out from their corners. They circled him quickly, though didn’t attack immediately--just like he was inspecting them, they were inspecting him.

“... a living?” a voice murmured. “Are you lost, little boy?”

“Lost?” Sylas glanced toward the direction of the voice. “You could say that. Would you kindly gentlemen show me the path, then?”

“Kill it,” a voice spoke from the void, causing Sylas to look further into the city, identifying the source through the trace of magic. Fifteen heads nodded in unison, slithering slightly forward and prepping the daggers. Sylas remained seemingly indifferent, his gaze glued to distance. He already knew the dead had hierarchy--even culture. But seeing it... was still mind-shattering. Rather than the ‘dead’, they simply appeared to be a different kind of culture of humans.

The shadows lurched forward, their daggers tinted in dark, ashen gray. The first one came streaming toward his neck immediately, causing Sylas to finally re-focus. Bending back, he dodged the swipe as he pushed his sword forward, feeling the beat of the undying heart. Seemingly with no effort invested, he managed to pierce the attacker’s heart in one motion, skewering the figure before lifting his leg and kicking it in the abdomen and toward another approaching assailant.

Spinning, he ducked and swiped at another attacker’s feet, kicking him off-balance before grasping the blade with both his hands and stabbing forward, once again piercing through the heart. Without resting, he kicked the ground beneath and dodged an attack from behind, causing him to vault around the figure he’d just stabbed, using it as a shield as he pushed forward, diving a dual frontal attack, using the figure to shield himself from one end while parrying the strike of the other with his sword effortlessly before stabbing forward cleanly through the heart.

“Stop,” the voice murmured yet again and all the attacking figures retreated immediately. There was no shock or fear or any emotion, really, within their gazes. Sylas exhaled, looking toward the distance once more, the source of murmur. “A Child incarnate visits us. It is an honor.”

“... this place has changed,” Sylas mumbled, deciding to play along.

“Oh? You’ve been here before?”

“Many lifetimes ago,” Sylas said. “Far fewer buildings, back then. You did wonders with the place.”

“Yes, we did our best,” the voice seemed to crackle in amusement for a moment before continuing. “It has been some time since we last met a Human fearless of our form. Child or not.”

“... death has a way of numbing the senses, I’ve learned,” Sylas chuckled. “But... I suppose you lot know that the best.”

“Indeed. Death is... beautiful. As such, I must wonder, though--what brings a man of the living among the land of the dead?”

“...” Sylas remained silent for a moment, gears of his mind spinning. He saw an opportunity laid bare in front of him--but it was a delicate balance, he knew. “What? You are allowed to come knocking the walls of my home down and I’m not even allowed to see who breeds the cretin who butchered my people?”

“Fair enough,” the voice chuckled as Sylas frowned--right in front of him, the void itself parted, like an eye opening, and through came a figure glazed in black. However, unlike others, he--no, she--wasn’t hooded or cloaked, her face laid bare to the ghastly sight of the world. And yet... she hardly looked dead. Though pale-faced and distinctly lacking the dim hue of a human eye, instead sporting a milky-white, glowing one, her features were distinctly human--she had full cheekbones and full lips and sharp jaw and a pair of eyebrows that framed her eyes hauntingly and beautifully. “What? Surprised?” she posed a question, her lips curling up in a smile.

"..." it was then that Sylas noticed a brooch taped to her shoulder pad, a flower of sorts--though wilting and dying--the same one that she had tattooed on her forehead, ink as black as night. "A bit," he exhaled, shaking his head. "But, you're still the second strangest sight I've seen today."

“Ah, that hurt, little human,” she walked forward until she was some five-six feet away from him, her hands clasped behind her back. She was tall, Sylas realized--six-five at least, by his estimates, as she handily towered over him. “So, you are one of the few lambs that managed to fight off my children?”

“Fight off? That’s one way of putting it, I suppose. Children... is an apt word,” Sylas mumbled, looking beyond her. “Does the world know?”

“No.”

“... I never thought I’d meet my end in a place like this,” Sylas sighed. “Well, I suppose, over the course of time... all endings are inevitable.”

“You nary meet a human fearless of death,” she said, walking up to him and bending her head forward slightly until their eyes meet on an even level. “Perchance, little one, are you interested in joining us? This life... seems more suited for someone of your ilk.”

“... ‘fraid not,” Sylas smiled. “Your heart,” he added, pounding his fist against the center of her chest, to a complete lack of reaction on her part. “Is silent. But mine... is a raging storm. Forget dead... I’m barely fit for a living. Alas, I fancied some hope I could strike a deal for you to leave us alone, but it seems unlikely,” he added, looking beyond her and toward the throne in the sky. “I’m sure, in due time, you’ll become one of my many headaches. Do what you must, now.”

“What? Not even going to put a fight?” she quizzed with a smile.

“What for?” he scoffed. “Your magic is already tightly wound ‘round my tender heart.”

“... such a shame,” she sighed. “You’d make a fine General. Alas...”

“Alas...”

You have died.

Save point ‘Death’ has been initialized.

“AAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!”

Sylas sat in front of the crackling flames, occasionally sipping wine, wrenched deep in thought. A city... potentially even a Kingdom of the dead lay somewhere, slumbering, waiting. What inspired him, however, was the knowledge that this place wasn't the only one that held. The inspiration, however, was quaint--compared to what army they seemed to have, just a band of Ghouls seemed more like a scouting force than something worthy of being called an 'army'.

Sighing, he took yet another sip before putting down the gourd, losing himself in the roaring fire. That woman, dead or alive, or something else entirely, was... strong. In fact, Sylas wasn’t even certain exactly how strong she was--the closest comparison he had were the Shadows from early on, but as he’d never seen her fight, he couldn’t be certain.

At the very least, she was much, much, much stronger than someone of Derrek’s level. Her control of magic... was beautiful. The only reason Sylas even realized what she was doing was due to his sensitivity to hearts--his own included. Until then, however, he was entirely unaware of how or where she managed to do it.

More headaches kept piling up, but it didn’t matter. No matter how many of them came, he’d have to deal with them all. As for the crow and the doe... he chose to ignore them. They didn’t express any feeling toward him, negative or otherwise, and seemed entirely removed from the concept of his reality. The city of the dead, on the other hand, was something he’d have to keep an eye out on.

His conjecture, at the moment at least, was that the city either existed far, far, far away or in an entirely different dimension, not unlike the crow and the doe. The fact that the woman mentioned other places being attacked calmed Sylas somewhat as it meant they weren't the solitary focus.

“Still, having a fucking hell that close to home... not good," he sighed, tossing himself back on the sofa. "We'll have to sprint south as soon as the winter passes," he concluded. "All of us. I can send Derrek ahead to feel things out... but I have to stay back with them. Either warn the King or find a way to usurp him. Right. Usurp a tier-four mage. Someone who could slice me up like cheddar. Haaah..."

Unlike before, he didn’t let himself get overwhelmed. Though many things and ideas and knows loomed over his head, he kept them all at bay, not letting any one in particular take over him completely. He’d have to start knocking some of them away soon, however--starting with confirming that the hooded man was, indeed, dead. Though he did care for the knowledge the man held, he perhaps cared even more for the book that burned.

“After, I can go over there once more. I can use them to practice my swordsmanship,” he mumbled. “And try and squeeze some information from the woman along the way. One by one. Just... one by one.”