Chapter 46

Wil threw the final bone, stripped clean and gleaming white in the darkness, onto the ground. It hit with a surprisingly heavy sound, sending a puff of dirt curling outwards. The skeleton was remarkably human, once it was laid bare, with the notable exception of the skull, where red runes and symbols had been etched into the bone. Even now, they glowed softly with the little remaining mana that Wil had been unable to devour.

His mind was clearer than it had been in quite awhile, the red haze retreated, the chorus of voices quieted to a whisper, leaving him the ability to think.

Consuming Mammon hadn’t severed his connection to Moloch, to their pact, instead it had subsumed it, replacing it with an unfamiliar feeling. He was freer than before, but strangely shackled. He could think, feel, and decide for himself whether to follow the commands of his inner voices, or ignore them.

But one thing that hadn’t changed was the hunger. If anything, it had grown even stronger, a gnawing void inside him, desperate to be filled, to devour the power of others and take it into his own.

Wil drew in a deep breath, the scent of ash and woodsmoke heavy in the air. Releasing the breath, he watched as it formed a white mist, the temperature having dropped while he was in the throes of his feast.

The shattered black moon overhead called to him, matching the voice of the infection within. It wanted him to travel there, to open the portal wide and greet the Outsider that waited. The black tar ran thickly through his veins, flowing with equal strength as the draconic essence.

Wil ignored the call, looking back to the darkness. Something lingered from Mammon’s arrival, the smell of sulphur and fire. Another voice spoke from within, urging him to take Mammon’s vacated throne, to rule as an Archdevil.

For that was what he was now, partially. Wil knew it, the same as he knew his own soul, his heart or his hands. Knowledge came with the power, he was an Archdevil, ruling over an aspect of Sin, just as Moloch and Mammon had before him.

The hunger was part of it, beginning as a single taint from his pact with Moloch, growing until he was now stronger than the exiled Archdevil.

Wil ignored the voice, pushing the thought of Sulphur and burning hells from his mind. The Archdevil was simply a part of him now, similar to all the others, with no more hold over his body or fate than anyone else.

Wil breathed in again, waiting for the turbulent emotions to settle, for the last traces of rage and hatred to leave. As he did so, he looked over his body. The initial changes his consumption of the Elder Dragon had made were drastic, leaving him inhuman, a bizarre mixture of Devil and Dragon.

But after devouring Mammon, his body’s balance had been pushed further to that of a Archdevil. His features were nearly human looking once more, his body slim and pale, lean but with hard packed muscles. The blackness was gone, as were the dragon scales, his skin had instead become nearly as protective, capable of resisting the sharpest of blades.

Wil’s hair remained white at the roots, slowly fading to black at the tips. His devilish heritage could be seen in his teeth, gleaming white, but in a double row, combined with a pair of longer canines.

With a wave of his hand, Wil conjured a pair of robes, white and flowing, made of fine silk. His magic came to him effortlessly, the mana within him strong, but separated into three distinct colours. Black represented the Elder Dragon and the Infection of the Outsider. Crimson was the influence of Moloch and what he had absorbed from Mammon. Finally, Golden mana was all his, the original.

Pointing at the darkness in front of him, he formed a gate. He needed to return to Brookmoor, if only temporarily, to ensure the others were alright. But first, he had something to take care of.

The portal reeked of smoke and death, fire, and brimstone. Breathing it, Wil basked in the smell for a moment, before stepping through, the portal closing behind him.

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Moloch the Exiled sat on a throne of bones, surveying the burning landscape of his new ‘home’. It was once a verdant and green land, filled with a peaceful people who worshipped a god of harmony and light. Disgusting.

Since his exile, his power to invade worlds had been severely limited, his horde of disloyal fiends slinking back to the other Archdevils, leaving him alone. His only recourse had been to subtly influence weak minded fools into accepting his Pact, exchanging pieces of his own essence to enhance their abilities, all with the goal of summoning his true body to their world.

The one he currently resided in had been a labour of centuries, all culminating in a delicious feast of violence and murder, the weak-willed mortals crushed under his heel. He had taken personal satisfaction in watching their precious gardens burn, the abhorrent leafy green trees had been an affront to his sensibilities.

Moloch breathed in the smell of smoke and sulphur, remembering how their god and knelt before him, begging for mercy, while lines of tears left their tracks in the deities’ ash covered cheeks. Delectable.

He laughed, hurling the skull he had been using as a winecup, his voice echoing off the bones of the fallen. His few remaining followers had gathered them into a mountain, a gleaming white edifice dedicated to his triumph. With luck, he would soon have a new realm to invade, if his corruption of the foolish human succeeded as intended.

He was interrupted from his revelry by the feeling of a portal opening, a hole in reality. Through it, he could feel a presence, familiar, but one he had not expected to have the opportunity to face again.

“Mammon…” Moloch growled, his power gathered around him like a flaming cloak. The Archdevil stood, his 9-foot tall, red skinned figure crushing the bones beneath his feet to dust. Like a hunter regarding its prey, Moloch focused on the direction of the intruder, preparing to rain fire on it.

“Come forward, Brother! I had not thought you had the guts to face me, Betrayer!” Moloch roared, and flames shot skyward, reacting to his anger. The air burned, the white bones of the mountain surrounding him charred to black. His throne, made from the remnants of this world’s god, disintegrated under the intense heat.

“He doesn’t. Your brother is dead.” A voice called back. In a flash of light, a figure dressed in fine, white robes appeared, his feet lightly pressing against bones, barely disturbing them. White haired and handsome, it took Moloch a long moment before he recognized the person standing before him.

“Brookmoor…what has happened?” The archdevil asked, his confusion so great that it drove the joy of his brother’s death from his mind. If this was truly Wil Brookmoor, what had he done?

Moloch could not feel the Pact between them, and the mana the white robed figure was exuding felt familiar, similar enough to his brother’s that he had mistaken him for Mammon, but with foreign elements.

“I did as you wanted. You brother is dead.” Wil repeated, his face expressionless. Inside, the hunger called, craving the vitality and mana of the creature before it. Wil silenced the voice, his control over his desires growing, allowing him to put aside his hunger for a greater need.

“That shouldn’t be possible. Ridiculous. You are a weak little mortal, how could you defeat Mammon?” Moloch scoffed, frowning at the thought. Mammon may have been a scheming coward, but he was powerful enough to stop a human. Combined with his brother’s connection to the Outsider, and his control of the Elder Dragon, there was no chance of Wil’s success.

“You granted me the power to overcome my foes, Moloch, and, in return, I granted you your greatest desire. I thought you would be happier.” Wil said, his tone monotone and lacking emotion. Moloch leaned forward, sniffing the air like a dog and frowning at the scent.

“You smell like my brother, mortal. What have you done?”

“I am what you pushed me to be, Moloch. Our Pact drove me to insanity, something I have no doubt that you knew would happen. I was replaced with a mindless beast, one driven by a single, insatiable desire.” Wil said, walking towards the Archdevil.

With each step, mana swirled aggressively around his body, billowing his white robes. Crimson, black and gold, the distinct colours surrounded him, the pressure of which pressed down on Moloch.

The Archdevil took a step involuntary step backwards, his rage temporarily replaced by the primal fear of the prey.

“What did you do, Brookmoor. Our pact was intended to loosen the mortal ties that bind you, giving you an edge against that dragon. It couldn’t have done…this.” Moloch explained, gesturing to the man in front of him.

“I consumed them. An Elder Dragon, an Archdevil, a fragment of a god. Each brought me closer to clarity, the madness that you brought upon me receding as I fed. But I’m not finished, Moloch. I want something else, something only you can give me. If you don’t, you’ll be joining your brother.” Wil said, his voice still calm, his eyes glowing bright red. The void within him trembled, the hunger growing.

“What is it you want, Brookmoor?” Moloch asked.

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Wil left the ruined world, a token clutched tightly in his hand. In the center, a single drop of Moloch’s blood glistened in the light. It smelled of sulphur and death, a unique scent that Wil associated with the Archdevil.

His deal complete, he reopened the portal, returning to his world. Behind him, Moloch rested on his throne of bones, his limbs still trembling from their encounter.