Chapter 170

Salvation in Death

Sylas crossed the border between the worlds—a well-illuminated canyon separating a dead forest spanning the horizon and the city made of black obsidian and infernal chains. It had been a while, Sylas recalled, since he last was here. A few years, at least, if not more. It was becoming all but impossible to keep the track of time. If Asha didn’t occasionally give him a rundown, he’d have likely already lost even the general count.

The city did look familiar, for he had seen it before. The tall, looming towers, the chains etching into the sky, the spires, the oily appearance of it all—it was the city of the dead, and the dead knew that the living had come. He took but a few steps forward before he was greeted by the invisible assault. Easily repelling it, he stopped and waited—waited for the Knight to appear, the very same one that used to give him so much trouble. Now? It took but one, effortless slice of the blade to decapitate the being and engulf it in the fires of permanent decay. With that, the silence came—and he could soon feel the energy encroaching.

It reflected the chains holding the skies, as though the energy was trying to tie him down and bind him. It was likely what happened the last time he was here, too, but he hadn’t felt it. Not in the slightest. However, the energy was incapable of tying him down—it melted at the touch, without him doing anything. Further attempts were made by the invisible commander, though to no avail—he stood still in place, topless and barefoot, a singular blade in his right hand pointing downward.

From within the shadows came a figure—a torrid figure, a womanly figure draped in the ghastly gases of death. She was a bit different from what he recalled, though his memory was admittedly murky. Tall and lean and draped in a rather revealing dress, she seemed more human than before, though still sporting deathly pale skin and lips as blue as a cornflower. Her silvery eyes inspected him from head to toe, a torrent of confusion and uncertainty dancing within them.

“Who are you?” she spoke in a ghostly, choral voice, a tactic used often to scare and terrify, he learned. Though he hardly cared. He’d heard many distorted voices in his life, so much so that they sounded comical to him.

“We met once, in another lifetime,” Sylas replied. “Back then, you wove lies to my face and sent me off with some wine. Fancy wine, but all the same. But it never stops, I’ve learned. Every time she asks, you deliver the dead unto my home.”

“Oh. You must be from the castle,” the woman said, forming a seductive smile. “Your anger is misplaced, I am afraid. We—”

"There is no anger," Sylas interrupted crudely and shook his head. "Only tiredness. You see, I often have to leave the castle, and venture elsewhere. But, more often than not, if I ever do return, all I find is a castle covered in fire and death. And, well, I'm tired."

“As I said, you should look elsewhere. We are merely—”

“You’re not listening,” Sylas interrupted again, causing the woman’s smile to stiffen. “I. Don’t. Care. I am here to make sure the dead… never come into the land of living again.”

“… that is a bold statement, human filth,” the woman, seemingly losing her patience, cursed angrily. “And a stupid one to boot. You come here alone, boldly declaring something like that—are you tired of living?!!”

“Yes,” Sylas nodded. “Though, I’m afraid, you can hardly help with the ordeal. Your King,” Sylas looked up toward the distance, where the chains coalesced. “I wonder… what would happen if I shoved a sword through his heart?”

“…” anger blurred out in the shape of a massive attack—ice shaped like a blade coalesced into a forty-feet long blur above the woman that immediately descended toward him. Sylas merely looked up indifferently—before the ice could even touch him… it melted into the pool of black water. “WHAT?!!” the woman exclaimed in shock.

“Ah, so tired,” Sylas said, rising his sword and pointing it toward her.

The woman took a step back, energy around her surging into the frosted flakes, fog dispersing as to hide her. It didn't matter. The signature of her energy was so distinct Sylas could find her even if she buried herself in Artic, twenty feet under. He rammed forward through the flakes that cut and scratched his skin, causing him to bleed. However, all wounds healed immediately. In fact, before the whole cut was made, its initial point would already be healed. It was a sight to behold—but the woman couldn't as she realized, in as much shock as she ever felt in her life, that she would die if she lingered.

Sylas engaged in the pursuit as the woman rode the waves formed of ice, occasionally tossing back the bolts of black and white ice, trying to slow him down. Sylas, though, ignored them, seemingly single-minded in his actions.

Rounding several corners, he realized that she was running in a zig-zag pattern of sorts, likely realizing that she had no means of out-sprinting him. She was right—though he was still catching up to her, even he had to slow down on corners and turns. It wasn’t worth breaking his bones and tendons just yet. In fact, he maintained around 60% of his maximum speed as he wanted her to lead him to the heart of everything.

Every so often, he’d see a shade of red eyes emerge in the tinted windows, watching him. Here and there, he could feel the gazes pierce from above as well as below. It was a strange sensation, as he almost felt like an animal in a circus, watched by everyone.

Some four-five minutes later, she finally stopped and the fog dispersed. There was a grin on her face, wide and boastful, as her already tall self seemed incomparably small beneath the behemoth that was the gate. It was at least a hundred feet tall, silver-cast unlike most other things in the dreadful city, and was standing ajar. Framed within the black, obsidian walls that went on to form a pentagonal shape, forks erecting even taller towers, it looked to be the city’s central citadel.

From beyond the gates, he could feel the exhausts of energy—large, torrential, even dangerous. She led him to the heart of her home and stood perched at the front as the shadows began emerging from the ajar gate, shaping into figures one by one. Some stood by her side, some turned to flank him, and some yet shaped themselves in the rear, occupying the nearby low and high rises. He was soon surrounded on all sides by all manner of armored and armed figures.

“All humans are truly, deeply moronic,” the woman spoke. “Blind to the most obvious things.”

“Are all the dead as cowardly and meek as you? If so, this should be rather easy,” Sylas fired back with a faint grin.

“Sharp tongue never wins battles, you horrid thing,” she said. “You have made a grave mistake coming here.”

"Have I?" Sylas mumbled, looking up. What gave him the greatest sensation of danger was the child seated on top of the citadel, its centermost tower, looking down at him. It was a girl, he reckoned, aged somewhere in her early teens. It was all very reminiscent of when he first discovered the village and the boy who greeted them. "Must be a fetish at this point," he shuddered. "Disguising themselves as kids."

He could feel the energy slowly building up, all centralizing toward him. His eyes, though, remained glued to the girl and, in turn, she remained silent and still, observing him back. He couldn't be certain, but she gave him a similar feeling to the other Shadows. Perhaps she was not exactly the same, but his gut was telling him that she has roots in those times. She would likely remain perched up there, watching and observing his limits. Though he was confident in the battle of attrition more than anything, even he would struggle to kill so many dead and then fight a Shadow, to top it off. It was not a favorable position to be in, but it was irrelevant.

He had forgotten what fear and trepidation felt like. How the body responded to anxiety, uncertainty, and unwillingness. He was but a machine simply experiencing everything and compiling results. At least, that's how he'd begun to feel recently. As for how true it was, he couldn't know. Not yet, anyway.

Seeing that the girl remained still, he figured he may as well show off a bit. He didn’t know the depths of the city of the dead—but these… these weren’t it. These were the shallow waters, he knew, and he was merely stepping into the first few feet of the ocean. If he wanted to realize what lurked in its depths, he’d have to wade his way through it all.

Sylas was more than confident in being able to achieve exactly that; for him, it wasn't a matter of certainty, but a matter of time. There was nothing here, so far, that could kill him, not unless he let them hack him for ten minutes straight. As such, he could subscribe to the base recklessness of fighting—abandoning defenses in lieu of a continuous, unrelenting offense. He preferred it that way, anyway. Much more fun to go in headfirst than to dance on the fringe, uncertain and afraid.