Chapter 122

The Dead May Die

“It’s here,” Sylas came to a halt and warned, pointing at the invisible membrane between the snowed-on trees. Agnes paused next to him, her eyes veering toward the direction and alighting.

“It’s fascinating,” she mumbled.

“You can see it?”

“Hmm, ‘see it’ is... not quite the right way to describe it,” she said. “For example, each time I was about to come across a dangerous animal somewhere in the woods... I had a feeling, and the world shifted colors--”

“Ah, I get it. Gods are telling you to fuck off outta here.”

“Something like that, yes,” she nodded. “Considering how stern the feeling is... whatever’s beyond is quite dangerous, huh?” she looked at him.

“Hmm, ‘quite dangerous’ is... not quite the right way to describe it,” he grinned as she rolled her eyes. “For example, the last time I came here, I got my ass handed to me rather quickly after meeting a big-ass knight in armor. It will be different this time, though,” he licked his lips suddenly, a glimmer of expectation shimmering in his gaze. “If you’d like, you can stay out here. But I ain’t leaving that place alive.”

“I’ll come,” she shrugged. “May as well bear witness to something no other human alive had. Well, except you, I suppose.”

“You mean me or the dead?”

“... both?” she shoved him gently and smiled as she pressed forward, her bare feet leaving steaming imprints in the snow.

Sylas shook his head and followed, with both quickly breaking past the invisible barrier and into a completely different world. Sylas immediately realized there were some changes--namely, there were far more spires, more buildings, and... well, more things in general. The city appeared much larger, though still draped in dark and gloomy shadows, cast wholly of oily, black stone akin to chiseled obsidian.

On the other hand, Agnes stammered and stuttered and nearly fell back. Rather, she would have had Sylas not extended his arm and held her. Her lips gaped in shock, eyes quivering at the sight.

“It’s a bit bigger than I remember,” he said.

“That... that’s what you get from this?!!” she exclaimed. “I know you said it’s a city... but... it’s a city.”

“Well... uh, no, yeah, what I said. What the hell do you mean?”

“I figured you were overblowing it to make yourself seem cooler.”

“... the more honest you are, the more I realize just how little you think of me, actually.”

“I think of you plenty,” she said. “But also know you’re like a playful jester, never a word of truth from the clown’s lips.”

“Well, we’ll chat some other time,” he said, stepping forward and taking a deep breath before drawing out the sword. “They might attack you. I’ll try to defend you, but I ain’t making any promises.”

“Ah, my hero~~”

“Scratch that, I’ll gleefully cheer ‘em on while they disembowel you.”

“Tsk. Can’t take a joke.”

“Where are you going?” Sylas abruptly extended his left arm and grasped at the ‘void’; a mere moment later, Agnes watched as a silhouette formed within a frame before morphing into a cloaked figure. Just then, Sylas pressed his fingers tightly and snapped the figure’s neck in a singular motion. This almost shocked her as much as watching the city of the dead. Snapping someone’s neck, even under the best of circumstances, was insanely difficult. And yet, he did it with his fingers.

With a single motion of his arm, he tossed the body forward and let it roll on the ashen ground, kicking up gray particles.

“Don’t be little cunts,” he spoke into the wind. “She’s just our audience.”

Before his words parted his lips, Sylas ducked and snapped his sword arm forward, thrusting the blade and, once again, seemingly materializing a figure from nothing, killing it in one hit. And thus it began.

Agnes watched curiously for a few seconds before being entirely entranced. She was already very familiar with the fact that Sylas was fast--so fast, in fact, it was impossible for her to actually follow his actions, just their aftermaths. And yet, somehow, he’d gotten even faster than the last time she saw him fight. Rather than a blur, it looked as though he was simply moving his arm through space, snapping from one point to another and ‘appearing’ the blade inside the attacking figures.

Dozens came and dozens fell, just as quickly. Some tried to go ‘round him and attack her but none got the chance. In fact, it seemed as though the forty feet around her was the marked ‘forbidden zone’. Most bodies were laid out just outside that mark, cloaked in black, though ashen still.

After some time, she noticed that there were no more phantom figures appearing. At the same time, she realized that Sylas' countenance had changed. Until now, though focused, he was relaxed and simply unencumbered by the whole ordeal. And yet, now, everything--from his expression to the stance of his body--seemed to stiffen. She soon found out why--coming from the black-dyed and misted streets that she was not allowed to peer through, a behemoth in spiked, obsidian-black armor came thudding.

The thing carried with it a massive weapon, too massive for any human to wield in fact, and seemed more a giant than a man. Just the mere appearance had her heart caught in her throat. She wanted to spin around and run as fast as her legs would carry her yet, at the same time, she was rooted to the moment, to the place, to the idea.

Just then, a heftily broad back appeared in her view, blocking the giant, ugly thing. Comparatively, Sylas looked almost ‘naked’--his armor composed of a singular piece of mail covering his chest, a strange, single-horned helmet, and skirt-like leggings that were embroidered pieces of famous ‘lucas scales’, a fairly resilient plant native to the north.

He looked a savage more than a warrior, while the behemoth looked a proper knight, someone armed steadfastly, incomparable. And yet, that tiny, rugged, even ugly-looking figure seemed far taller in her eyes. He didn’t flinch at the earthquake-like footsteps like her, didn’t seem frightened or fazed. If anything, he seemed excited.

She didn’t have to wait long for the calm to disappear; rather than waiting like the last time, Sylas elected to rush forward. Though his body wasn’t as quick as his blade, it was still beyond any human’s limit. It wasn’t just the raw speed, but the way he unshapely bent his body and how quickly he was able to change directions.

Reaching within the ten feet of the ‘beast’, the latter swung its gigantic weapon toward Sylas. And rather than simply shifting to the side slightly or trying to block or parry, he rooted his feet for a moment and immediately snapped his body wholly left. What would take everyone else in the world, she suspected, a full, proper stop and change in directions, he executed in a single motion. Though she heard some bones creak, none snapped.

She, also, quickly realized why he chose to do that over everything else--the strike of the giant caused a massive chasm to erupt in the ground, not to mention the sheer outburst of wind on all ends rooted stones from the ground and sent them flying. One, in fact, shot toward her like an arrow but melted before reaching her, as though a thousand hands worked in concert to prevent it from touching her.

In the meantime, Sylas flanked the beast and started attacking. Not unlike his armor, Sylas' bladed wasn't anything special--it was an ordinary, steel-crafted, and tempered blade. Though immensely effective against people and normal armors, it lost most of its usefulness against what looked to be even stronger than the tempered plate, not to mention that the bladed wasn't even the length of the beast's forearm.

All the same, Sylas continued the dance, stabbing with unmatched ferocity, ducking and dodging left and right. The winds kicked up the ash and blurred her sight, though she still fetched it all clearly--he was a tiny mote amidst the flaunting darkness... and he was winning. She felt it. She felt the darkness flinching. The steady strikes that never wavered suddenly became hurried. Panicked. Sloppy. From attacking unhesitatingly, it began using its weapon to block instead. To try and parry. But it didn’t realize something that even she did--it had already lost.

Its sole advantage was that it was big and strong and its armor. It could never match Sylas’ speed or natural skill. And thus, in the moment of panic, Sylas found the opening and stabbed with one of those strikes that stirred every drop of blood in Agnes’ heart almost to the point of believing she could become a swordsman like him. The strike shuffled the wind and shuffled space around it and bore through the thick, ebony-dyed armor and did the unfathomable--it exploded the figure from within the armor.

Though the plate remained standing, from within its gaps blood and gore and chunks of flesh and organs began spewing like a horrid, horrific, nightmare-inducing fountain. Like a macabre decoration that the very dead he was killing would be worshiping. At the sight, Agnes looked away and closed her eyes. It was horrible, the shower of blood. The storm of gore. And it was cold. There was not a scream of pain. Not even a tiny yelp. There was silence and the thuds of the chunks belting against the ground.

She opened her eyes a few moments later and looked forward--there it still stood, the armor. It was now like a golem, a decorative statue that went... eerily well with the background. It truly looked like it had always belonged there--the silent, inanimate guardian of the obsidian city behind it. Before she could ponder over whether she admired it or abhorred it, she realized Sylas had returned to her, draped in blood from head to toe.

“We’re fucked, beautiful,” he said with a grin, taking a flagon of wine from next to her feet and drinking a few mouthfuls. “Looks like I’ve pissed someone really strong off. What say you? Piss ‘em off further or run?”

“... piss ‘em off,” she grinned and took the flagon from him, taking a few sips herself, as though trying to swallow the fire of courage to ignite her soul. “And go win once again.”

“Well, shit,” he chuckled, turning around and facing the city once again. “I can’t lose now. Wouldn’t that be embarrassingly lame?”

“It really would. So, you better win. I just might reward you... with a kiss~~”

“... aaah, why did all my motivation suddenly deflate like a corpse that someone poked with a needle?”

“Hey!!! My kiss is a godly prize, you know?!!”

“Well, kiss or no kiss,” he said. “We’re both about to be deeply fucked. I hope you aren’t heartly hanging onto your ‘dying the most painful way’ virginity. Stand behind me and hold a dagger. If she starts torturing me, stab me in the back of the neck,” he pointed at his nape. “And then, with all your strength, shiv it left or right.”

“You... you’re asking me to kill you?”

"Kill me? No, no, more like... reborn me. Yeah, let's go with that. I'm serious, Agnes," he warned her sternly. "I'd much rather you kill me and live with your demons than become a puppet of torture for some maniac for decades to come. Alright?"

“A-alright! I will!” she nodded, grasping at the handle of a dagger and swearing inwardly up and down she’d do it even if she had to cry for months after. Or days. Or perhaps hours. Surprisingly, the thought of killing him as to air out her grievances against him... didn’t seem that bad after some examination.