The door swung open, slamming into the wall of the small church which Aren stumbled his way into, as he coughed up a mouthful of blood and then groaned.

The adventurer that was already in the church turned around, startled by the noise, and stared at Aren. He wore a dark-green cape around his shoulders, with a displayed sigil of a silver river under a black moon. The symbol referred to the river Styx, and the word stygian was associated with all things dark and dismal came from the name of that river.

Outside, Aren could hear shouts like ‘Clear!’ and ‘He’s not here!’.

The adventurer opened his mouth. “He is he—”

His shout drowned out in rolling thunder that boomed within the halls of the church and blew out the mosaic windows, scattering colored glass out onto the courtyard outside. The glass shattering was just as loud as the [Flash] that Aren used to close the distance and drive the bloodforged blade through the adventurer’s neck. The adventurer only had a bow, therefore Aren correctly assumed that he would have little to no close-combat ability.

The two toppled to the ground, the archer’s quiver full of arrows spilling onto the ground, and Aren nearly lost possession of his weapon because of the clumsy way he had attacked the adventurer. It was just a formality at that point, but Aren stabbed the adventurer through the heart — twice, just to be sure — and then stumbled towards the altar.

Aren came to a halt, planting his hand onto the bloodstained altar as he groaned in pain. Ytra really did a number on him. She chose the worst time to level a curse on him. Perhaps that was exactly what she wanted.

Just that tiny bit of physical activity exhausted Aren. The wound was not only making it difficult to fight competently, but it also made him tire faster. The pain was approaching the territory of being unbearable. He could not see the wound, but it felt as if it was still decaying from that ash.

Suddenly, a hole was blown through the wall on the left, and a black-haloed, spear-like projectile plowed through his chest, obliterating his heart and lungs.

[ You have been fatally wounded. ]

___

Aren planted his hand onto the altar and gasped for breath, as blood stained the marble and onyx surface. His eyes were wide. He could still feel the phantom pain in his chest where his organs had just been obliterated.

Leaving the bloodforged sword on the altar, he patted his leather armor and stared at it. No hole. He was still in one piece.

Premonition.

His brain connected the dots and a sense of calm overcame him. The magical sequence completed in his buffer, as he became aware of the white line that traced back the trajectory of the shot that will kill him if he didn’t do something.

Four of the discarded arrows lifted off the ground under the direction of [Magnetism] and aligned themselves to the invisible electrical field. The wood cracked, the moisture trapped within turning to vapor, as the steel arrowhead began to glow from the heat generated as the entire arrow accelerated to the speeds expected of a bullet — and then some. But only the arrowheads survived the shock of this acceleration, albeit not without deforming considerably, as they launched through the wall in the same spot where in his premonition Aren saw the projectile pierce through.

Four of these fantasy bullets blasted through the wall, taking out large chunks of stone bricks. Each one of them followed the trajectory with minor deviations. Aren was mentally aware that the trajectory line was pointing at a nearby building — a nobleman’s house perhaps.

The “bullets” blasted four holes into the building — mostly aimed at the two windows that had a clear view of this side of the church and then exploded with a catastrophic lightning [Discharge] that illuminated the room inside and set the furniture and curtains on fire. The shingles were blown off the roof and a large chunk of the wall collapsed onto the streets below.

[ Injury inflicted. Severity: Fatal. Critical organs destroyed. ]

Aren wasn’t sure if that meant that the [Lightning Driver] killed his adversary, or if it was the [Discharge] that did it. He also did not get any skill improvements either. Perhaps because he did not see a death line?

Still, he chuckled darkly to himself. The idea that he could “see” the future was so foreign and ludicrous that it both made him think that he went insane, and, strangely, it pleased him. It was like waking from a dream that was so absurd, one could do nothing but chuckle — in a desperate, but intrigued way.

Aren only had the premonition once before, and he was trying his best to convince himself that it was because of the morphine. But this time, Aren was neither asleep nor in an altered mind-state. He was awake and hopefully lucid. It was real.

Aren suddenly coughed, wheezed, and gasped for air. Lightning still flickered across the wound in his back, as it did every time he used lightning. It was the counter-shock he received, and while it was generally harmless or countered by his weapon, if he had wounds it would generally cauterize them. But this time, he only felt the pain, but the wound did not improve.

“Camille,” he whispered, as he took his sword and began heading towards the stairs leading into the bell tower.

“Yes, Code?” the voice came from his shadow.

“Can you guard the stairs?” Aren asked, but it wasn’t so much a question as it was a polite command.

There was a considerable delay between the question and Camille’s answer, as if she was thinking it over. Aren had made it to the stairs, and although he couldn’t move with ease, he was still moving fairly quickly.

“As you wish,” Camille replied and the beautiful, surreal form of the blonde vampire or demoness stepped out of his shadow. It was and always has been a strange display to see her come out of his shadow. First, the blood-mist rose, and then forming within it, Camille’s shape stepped out at such an orientation that made it seem, from Aren’s perspective, as if the floor was a wall that Camille stood next to, before her form became distinct from his shadow and the ground and she was, in fact, standing next to him.

Without a word, the blonde, blood-red-eyed creature went to stand before the stairs, unarmed and seemingly unthreatening.

“Camille,” Aren said, as he came to a stop on the stairs. “If something should happ—”

“Nothing will happen, Code,” she replied, her tone cold and suggesting great and profound unwillingness to even discuss the idea. “I won’t allow you to die.”

Aren frowned. He saw his own death, moments prior. His heart was still beating so fast from the idea of how close he came to losing everything. Camille did nothing to stop it.

“Don’t let anyone through,” Aren said, after a moment, and continued climbing the stairs. It was difficult, but he was making progress. He barely made it up some twenty stairs before he considered taking a break. Sweat gathered on his brow, and the unhealing wound on his back was hurting more than it did before.

Aren tried to distract himself with thoughts about the premonition. There were two possible explanations, and for all he knew, both of them could be true. The future Camille saw — as an AGMI — was what effectively happened. Aren neutralized the threat and was never in any real danger. But perhaps his premonition could not see the actions of AGMI. For example, why did he not have a premonition about Artemis firing on him?

As he made it to the top of the bell tower, Aren sat down and leans against the wall hiding him from the streets below. He sighed, which almost prompted another coughing fit.

He was warned that being a Calamity would be a rough experience — hunted and hated by everyone. And although some of the Gods have treated him well, he was not that surprised that he managed to do something to make one very mad at him — not that his choice of words regarding the incident helped.

He just couldn’t help but think that if he had utilized his blessings better, that he could’ve had a much better time. But then again, it was that much more likely that someone could’ve figured out that he was a Calamity, and then truly, the whole world would have been after him.

Ytra’s curse was nasty, but Aren felt that it could’ve been far worse. Perhaps the Goddess wanted Aren to repent and beg for forgiveness. Despite how he acted towards Stygian, Aren was not so proud that he would not bend the knee and ask for forgiveness. Stygian and Ytra were two problems of an entirely different kind. Stygian was a way into the Forbidden Abyss, and Ytra was — who was Ytra anyway? Aren could neither use her nor benefit in any way from interacting with her.

If anything, Ytra did him a favor by taking away the one thing Aren feared the most — his ability to die. If there was something he could do about the pain that reduced his combat ability, it would almost be a blessing, not a curse.

It’s not like Aren wanted to ruin nature. He didn’t even know he had done something like that, and besides, he was fighting for his life. It seemed too unfair that he should be punished. Ytra didn’t even give him a warning. Unless…

Aren narrowed his eyes as he pondered something. Could it be that Ytra was the Patron Goddess of the Stygian Alliance?

Aren focused on the information about the Stygian clan that he received from his devouring ability.

[ Alliance: Stygian. Patron: Ytra, Dark Reflection of Nature. Members: 472. ]

Aren gnashed his teeth in frustration and furrowed his eyebrows. So, that was why she cursed him. It suddenly became clear to him that even begging for forgiveness would likely not remove the curse.

Slowly, Aren climbed to his feet, holding the wall for support, and then looked at the streets below. With his buffer open, he could see most of the merchant district from a bird’s point of view. It was like a mental, virtual map. He was also aware of two important members in this location, and from the footsteps and shouts he heard earlier, he could somewhat guess where the search parties looking for him were. At this point, they were likely gathering to storm the church, after all the noise and light he made just minutes before.

For once, he did not feel confident about his plan. Simply surviving was not enough. If he ran away, or barely achieved a triumph, they would come back in greater numbers and high morale, eager to avenge their fallen companions. Whatever was in Rakab now was likely just a greeting party, so to speak. He had to win so convincingly that any thought of invading Rakab would seem like a terrible idea.

Ytra’s curse however made this a very difficult thing to achieve. Even at his best, he didn’t know if he could achieve such a complete, and overwhelming victory. These weren’t newbies with one or two years worth of advantage over him. These were veterans that were familiar with group-fighting tactics and difficult scenarios.

Aren took a deep breath and dispelled any doubts from his mind.

Then he slashed through the chain that kept the massive bell suspended in the tower, and it crashed to the ground with such a loud sound that it made the earlier explosion of sound within the church sound like a weak firecracker. The long length of chain fell to the ground, each link as large as Aren’s entire hand.

It was not the bell Aren was after, but the chain itself.

[ The eyes of the Pantheon are upon you. Will you triumph or will you fall? Will you prove yourself worthy or will your ambitions crumble here? ]

Aren looked towards the sky, which had now progressed well into the darkness of night, with only a faint trace of twilight still on the horizon, and saw the familiar warm glow of Divine presence there. A ray of bright light fell onto the bell tower, bathing Aren in golden light. Were it not for the fact that his position was already well-known to his adversary, he might’ve cursed such divine attention.