Chapter 73: Golden Wrath

"Mercy in a different form."​

Your allies, your friends, your companions in arms— embraced by the Goddess of Mercy and ready to sacrifice everything they have to escape— you step out together.

The world turns sideways. You're falling, being pulled, torn from the edges of reality—

You are standing. You are standing— clutching onto your cane and shield— with Ray at your side. Your mastiff is terrified, ears down, tail back.

The abyss is behind and around you on every side but ahead. Ahead, there is a labyrinth is on fire. The expanse before you is no longer utterly dark. There is flame and the screaming of hundreds of imps. Their whispers have turned into the promise of death, of destruction— and they fade from your sight in an instant.

The archdemon— your ally— thrusts his hands forth with such intensity that there is a surge, a seed, an explosion of color, and fog that obscures the world from your sight.

There is a dark blue streak of a woman. Possession. The will to serve a demon.

There are screams in the flame at the edge of the world.

You step out into them.

Music

Color, confetti, and celebration of the archdemon's fight to claim his throne echoes through smoke and flame. Cacophonies of lethal explosions riot through the air. Ray is terrified.

Leaning hard on your friend's support, the bones, the gold and the ebony, you hold your shield aloft. "You may know Us."

Your voice intermingles with that of divinity, but your boy keeps close by your side as you stride forward. You command him firmly to heel, to stay, and to slowly follow your procession.

An expanse of metal reaches up into a city above. Crawling over the underbelly of Ostedholm are more demons than you've ever seen, and the very walls of the caverns have come alive. Hundreds of imps are screeching, screaming, and whip their attention to the holy man that has dared to enter their domain.

"We welcome your compassion! We welcome your Mercy—! RAY, BEHIND ME!"

You've never leaned so hard into Her embrace. What feels like a hurricane of arrows, daggers and blood streaks towards you.

The utter void of a shield you hold before you erupts with divinity and compassion.

Dozens of arrows streak past you.

In a swirl of night and day, you reach forward.

A hundred more projectiles are absorbed completely into the matte surface before you. It sucks in the light. It takes in the abuse.

The blow is so intense that you have to lean into it with every ounce of your battered and utterly neglected frame.

The Goddess holds you, keeps you steady, and pushes you to feel. To hold. Relief is in sight.

With a prayer to the Goddess and constant command to your ally beside you, you stride forward with so much conviction that you almost don't hear the screams. There are bursts of smoke and flame, but a coursing growth surges throughout the passages before you.

Yech has so much to give to your foes. The first demon that reaches out to strike you with full force— an imp wielding a sword, that leapt through the air mere feet away— is met by roots dug up from the ground. They wind their way into the demon's body.

Its cries reach a fever pitch.

The monster is torn apart in a shower of Mercy.

Vines wrap in and around the passage of your procession. They are laced with blood from dozens of unseen foes. Flecks of gore whip through the air as dozens of imps before you are torn limb from limb.

Through it all, there is smoke, and fire, a drip, and a blur.

Poison.

A cut.

A tear.

Suffocation.

Relief.

She is an ally.

She is a gift.

You walk with a prayer, a hope, and a mission. You carve your way together through the swarm in light, in death, and in silence.

The archdemon drops a blast of smoke and flowers around you. You are obscured. There are so many screams, yet he rushes to your side. Yech's back is to you. He is dripping with wine— slick with anticipation— slick with death.

In the corners of your vision, a corpse falls. Ofelia's arms are covered with blood. Her face is paler than her victims. Her eyes are filled with gold as they look to you— widening beyond measure— before she disappears once more from sight.

A hand goes to your shoulder with a yell that could shatter bones. Yech pushes you aside and throws up a wall of solid vines and decay. You stagger— barely able to keep your footing— as no fewer than five imps collide with the surface.

Your charge is kept behind you.

There are waves of enemies behind you— and across countless passages...

Within the bowels of the city of lights...

In every cavern ahead...

And deeper into the labyrinth still...

You hear more.

The archdemon permits you to put yourself before your friends. Fully embracing the Goddess, you stagger forth. Wave after wave of knives, daggers, and death collide. Again and again, they crash against your frame, and grant you everything that you seek.

Yech's voice is ragged. He doesn't need to keep you standing. He doesn't even sound exhausted. This is his party. "There's too many! There's too fucking many— we're not making enough time— I need a distraction! Give me a minute and I'll show you something real fucking special!"

Your procession comes to a halt. You hold your ground. "Before Us lies blasphemers, demons, and sin—"

There's a whisper, a shift, and a tug at the edges of space. A shrouded, enchanted, and small form bends and shifts through the viscera. She is an outburst of death in the color around you all. She instantly gets it.

Ofelia's form twists through the distance ahead. She carves a path into the tide of demons, backed by smoke, by flame, and by your protection.

The archdemon behind you begins an incantation that is devastating in its intensity.

Networks of imps are entangled in their mutual destruction.

For each one torn to pieces, another wave of enemies rush towards you all.

A cloak is thrown aside. As it billows about her shoulders, the rogue slinks through Yech's works. Beyond his vines, through his gifts, her lethal intent strikes with such precision that your prayer grinds to a halt.

Your friend throws out a gift from a demon. In a rush of heat and of toxin, a blast of color and decay tears into the hold on your shield. The explosion nearly knocks you backwards. The archdemon behind you obsessively finishes his incantation while you lean as hard as you can into force of the blow, and cry out with a hope and a prayer, "MY RESTRAINT IS MY WEAKNESS! COME UNTO ME! MY COMPASSION! REJOICE, UNTO THE FATHER'S RIGHTEOUSNESS!"

You raise your eyes over your shield, distilling your joy, your love, and all of your blessing.

The only cure is death.

Music

Heat and gold bleeds into the demons rushing before you. You lower your shield. Extending your arms, you stand of your own volition, open your palms— and let your Mercy embrace them.

They melt.

Yellow gold pools out from the soil. They flood into the soil. Scalding hot and liquid devastation destroys every weapon in sight. It floods from the dagger of the halfling before you.

Taken off-guard, staggering backwards, her breath is ragged. A scream pools forth from Ofelia's lips as the blinding heat and light of the Goddess utterly eclipses any and all forms before your open palms.

Your open heart.

She will live.

They will know Mercy.

"Kindle my paradise, that I may best serve You."

The light of the Relic against your chest is blinding, searing, and takes over the wave of enemies behind you.

Your ally— the woman ahead— steps backwards with her hands over her eyes. Burns catch on the edges of her cloak. Horror keeps her steps backwards.

The demon at your back matches your utterances in turn. In a crash of green and gold, flowers burst forth in a wave that sweeps up the torrents of demons at your back. A veritable ocean of growth takes over the walls, the demons, your sight, your restraint, and your soul.

The spell eclipses everything in the passage to the rear, on every side, and leaves only the way ahead. The poisonous blossoms are produced in such an abundance that nothing can eclipse them. Your enemies are buried and suffocated— but more are still coming.

Yech grabs you, screaming, "RUN!"

You can't run. It's that simple. You're barely able to walk without assistance. Clutching at the symbol of divinity around your neck, you're practically being dragged by the archdemon ahead of you as the blossom of chaos at your feet threatens to overtake you. Your dog at your heels urges you forward, to not trip or die.

You will not abandon your alliances. You will not lose everything you've ever worked for.

You rip the chain from your neck, clutch the Relic in hand, and thrust forth the embrace of compassion.

An alliance is broken.

Your friends at your sides are dripping with blood, with wine, with fear, and with Mercy. Gold smears underfoot. The corpses of demons fade from sight as a blinded halfling struggles to grab hold of you, screaming for dear life as she's ripped away from the Goddess. Torn from Your works, she has only your vessel to hold onto— to drag you away from carnage and into certain death.

The pain lancing every step you take sends your vision swimming. Your lungs feel uprooted— burning as they are with the weeks of torment, of starvation, and neglect.

Holding onto everything you've worked for— everything you hold dear— you need not speak. You need not pray. You pour yourself— heart and soul— into the item in your hands.

A garden of compassion overtakes you all.

In a flash of light, a halo, a surge of warmth, and the embrace of a Goddess, you hold onto your friends.

You feel their pain.

You give them everything you have.

Music

There is a moan, a gasp, and a prayer from the heathen before you. She rips away from your grasp. Gold pools from Ofelia's eyes. They mend.

She looks upon you with divinity, with light, and with so much horror that she cannot scream.

A sorcerer of unbridled power is dripping, dripping, dripping with wine. His skeletal hand clutches onto the front of your robes, unafraid of Your might. He pulls you away from the gold, and finds his voice. His absence of composure. You cannot understand what he's screaming over the cacophony of death on your heels, in the liquid gold, and in the tides of melted demons.

He points to the way ahead. Dragging you both, he's begging you to keep moving.

You are in so much pain. Not even Mercy can hold back the tide. Every imp that attempts to escape Yech's incantation is overtaken by a field of devastation.

You can't understand it. Something is wrong with the space. You shouldn't be traveling so quickly through these caverns. This voyage took you a solid day without rest.

You can't rest.

Where are the flowers?

There's a sharp turn, and a sudden break in logic. Cutting through the labyrinth, you're whisked across a path unknown. A sorcerer— manipulating his domain— culls and casts aside dozens of demons more. They threaten to overtake you, pressing your defense. Pushing. Blood-thirsty. Screaming.

There is a break in the labyrinth ahead.

There are stairs. There are so many stone steps without rails, without a guard or any form of protection. They sprawl up into the underbelly of the city of lights. A faint glow permeates the base of their stone, an army of demons, and all of their chaos.

There is flame.

Across your memory and in all of your time with the Goddess, you know you once fell here to your knees. On the brink of death, you reached out to your companions. To their Spirit.

You had descended for hours in the embrace of the Goddess. Mercy nearly ruined your mind.

Hundreds of demons pour from the stairs, and flood into the battlements below. There are so many that they cannot all fit on the steps. Black specks fall from a great height, and plummet into flame.

They have the high ground.

They see you all coming.

They see Your light.