Chapter 16

Angels II (Zygote)

Malacoda watched the chaos unfold from his perch atop Pod Starim, the rooftop offering him a front-row seat to the nightmarish show below. Wrapped in his cloak like a cozy blanket, he rubbed his eye groggily, feeling a sneeze tickling his nose. He sniffled and muttered to himself, “Why did they leave me sleeping under that table? Are they out there having fun without me?” His gaze swept across the tumultuous streets, but he saw no familiar faces. He remembered tucking himself away under the table, and he swore he told Libicocco to wake him if anything interesting happened. “And this is definitely interesting!”

A beam from the hooved Angel tore through a building on the far side of town, the clock tower collapsing in a spectacular explosion of stone and dust. Malacoda’s eyes widened in surprise. Two Angels? Really? Definitely, DEFINITELY interesting! The thrill of battle simmered in his blood, a grin spreading across his face. “Only a matter of time before Sarto shows up to clean this mess,” he mused. “Might as well have some fun before she does.”

With that thought, his mind was settled. Malacoda let his cloak drop and stretched his arms high over his head, arching his back. His spine cracked loudly, muscles loosening as he let out a satisfied groan. Rolling his neck from side to side, he ambled to the edge of the rooftop. Without hesitation, he stepped off.

As he descended through the air, he accessed Yggdrasil, drawing on the Root of Water. He felt his body flooding with aether pulled from the atmosphere. The channeled aether strengthened his limbs, cushioning his fall. He landed in the middle of a crowd of terrified citizens attempting to create a defensive front against the onslaught of Maldrath. The impact would have shattered the legs of an ordinary person, but his aether-fortified body absorbed it with ease. Nearby townspeople leapt in surprise at the man who just fell from the sky, landing in their midst.

“Evening,” he said, brushing off his pants and greeting the shocked townspeople with a disarming smile. “Lovely night for a stroll, isn’t it?” He strolled through the crowd towards the street teeming with Maldrath and violence, his grin widening at the absurdity of it all. He thought they were wasting their time in this dingy backwater town. Looks can certainly be deceiving, he thought.

He drew in more aether and opened his soulforge. Threads of light burst from his heart, extending through his shirt and forming a fist-sized sphere of glowing, swirling energy a hand’s span in front of his chest. Placing his right hand at his side, he tapped into the power of his soulforge and directed it to the ring on his right ring finger: a silver band set with a small sapphire stone. His totem. He thought the command, Leviathan.

In a flash of light, the ring vanished, transforming into what most bystanders would see as an oddly long silver fencing foil. A thread of silver light extended from the guard of its pommel up the blade, which continued from the tip, forming a fishing line ending in a small, gleaming hook made of the same ethereal silver energy.

With Leviathan in hand, Malacoda advanced towards the groups of Maldrath, his grin widening. The terrified townspeople watched in awe and fear as he moved with fluid grace, the silver light of his weapon casting eerie, wavering shadows on the ground. He swung Leviathan in a wide arc, the silver hook slicing through a Maldrath, which dissolved into a cloud of black dust.

“Oh, come on, that’s all you’ve got?” he taunted, sidestepping another Maldrath’s lunge with a playful twirl. “I’ve seen scarier shadows in my laundry basket.”

He felt the thrill of battle coursing through him, a rush of adrenaline mingling with the aetheric power of his soulforge. As he fought, Malacoda kept one eye on the distant Angels. Their colossal forms dominated the skyline, wreaking havoc with every movement. The hooved Angel unleashed another beam of destructive light, tearing through more buildings and scattering debris into the night. The infantile-faced Angel continued its grotesque dance, opening seams in its body and spilling forth waves of Maldrath.

“Lovely party you’ve thrown,” Malacoda called out to the Angels, deflecting a Maldrath’s swipe with a flick of his wrist. “But I’m afraid your guests are a bit of a bore.”

He stared down the thoroughfare in front of him, which was bulging at the seams with Maldrath. “Now, this is more like it.” He leaned forward, a slight bend in his knees, and Leviathan at his side, his arm extended back behind him. Drawing in more aether, Malacoda channeled the power until he could almost see the cloak of aura enveloping his body. He breathed in, focusing his vision past the sea of Shades to a distant point at the end of the street. Then, he shot forward.

Malacoda became a raging current as he soared down the street, Leviathan’s line and hook swirling around him in an intricate dance. As he rushed down the street, Maldrath on all sides of him exploded into shadowy dust. The sound of raining glass filled the air as hundreds of aether cores dropped harmlessly to the ground. In the blink of an eye, Malacado stood at the end of the street, snapping his wrist and reeling in Leviathan’s hook with a flourish.

He could see the distant, shocked faces of the townspeople and could hear utterances of “sorcerer” and “Soulsinger.” With a grin, Malacoda gave a deep bow at the waist. “Yes, yes, aren’t I amazing,” he said, though wasn’t sure any of the townspeople could actually hear him at that distance.

Malacoda’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the equine Angel, its enormous form casting long, menacing shadows across the devastated town. The thrill of battle boiled in his veins, and a reckless grin tugged at the corners of his lips. He crouched low, channeling aether into his legs, feeling the power coil like a spring ready to be unleashed. With a burst of energy, he launched himself high into the sky, soaring above the rooftops of Solstice.

The wind whipped past him, his shirt and pants billowing. He burned a little more mana, keeping himself aloft as he floated above the town, surveying the chaos below. The equine Angel moved with a terrible grace, its hooved legs crushing buildings and streets beneath it.

“Alright, big guy,” Malacoda muttered to himself, drawing on the Root of Water once more. Aether surged through his body, flowing into Leviathan as he pointed the fishing rod-like weapon at the monstrous Angel. The fishing line shimmered, transforming into an aquamarine light that enveloped the hook, making it swell and elongate into a scythe-like blade.

He raised his arm, the ethereal weapon humming with barely contained energy. With a flick of his wrist, the sickle-like hook sliced through the air, followed by the luminous fishing line. The line gleamed, a thread of pure, sharpened light, as Malacoda threw his right hand forward, sending the blade hurtling toward the Angel.

Behind him, he felt the aether forming into ethereal, glowing blue fish, each crafted from his aura and each about the five feet in length. The fish-shaped ammunition hovered around him, shimmering like ghostly specters in the night. They were his companions in this absurd fight, conjured from his soulforge and eager to wreak havoc on the Angel. Go! He commanded with a thought. The fish-shaped constructs surged forward as though they were soaring through a raging current.

The scythe struck first, the blade hooking into the shadowy flesh of the Angel’s body. The impact sent a ripple through the air, the Angel staggering as the fish constructs followed, crashing into the creature’s form with explosive force. Waves of glowing water erupted from each detonation, washing over the Angel in a cascade of luminescent brilliance.

For a moment, Malacoda allowed himself to hope that his assault had made a difference. But the Angel remained unfazed. It stood there, towering and terrible, barely acknowledging the damage as though the attack had been nothing more than the annoying buzz of a fly. The womanly face remained indifferent, the glowing eyes of the equine monstrosity never blinking. He clicked his tongue in annoyance.

“Oh, come on,” Malacoda huffed, hanging in the air, his arms crossed as he stared down the unyielding behemoth. “Not even a flinch? I’ll admit you’re tougher than I gave you credit for. But do you really need to make me look that bad?”

The Angel shifted its massive head, its glowing yellow eyes locking onto him. Malacoda felt a chill run down his spine, the weight of that gaze far more oppressive than he’d anticipated. He could sense its power, the ancient, unfathomable energy that radiated from its very being. He’d just provoked something that existed beyond human comprehension—a creature of pure, primal divinity twisted into a horrifying mockery of life. But that didn’t mean he was backing down. If anything, the thrill of the challenge only fueled his resolve. Damn, I’m cool, he thought with another grin.

“Alright, round two,” he said with a smirk, drawing in more aether as he prepared to launch another attack.

The Angel, however, had other plans. With a powerful beat of its wings, it sent a gust of icy wind toward him, the force nearly knocking him out of the sky as red clay shingles were ripped from rooftops like scales from a butchered fish. Malacoda grimaced, bracing himself against the onslaught. He laughed, letting himself summersault through the air before burning a bit of his mana to hold himself still.

He hung in the air, the smirk on his lips faltering as he suddenly felt a shift—a tremor that rippled through the fabric of reality itself. It wasn’t just the town of Solstice that trembled; it was as if the entire world paused to acknowledge the presence of something far greater. A shockwave of energy washed over him, passing through his very soul like a tidal wave of pure power.

The force of it nearly knocked him out of the sky, and for a moment, all his bravado slipped away, replaced by an overwhelming impulse to submit. His body stiffened, and he felt his limbs betray him, wanting to drop to the ground, to bow in deference to the source of this immense energy. He knew this aura. There was no mistaking it—this was Sarto. And the queen makes her appearance.

He scanned the horizon, his eyes darting over the rooftops and ruins, searching for any sign of her. But she remained elusive, her presence felt more than seen. Even his aura sense was rendered useless. It was as if she was everywhere and nowhere, an omnipresent force that dominated the battlefield without needing to show herself.

Before he could locate her, the ground beneath the equine Angel erupted with a burst of golden light. From the earth shot giant glowing chains, each link radiant with an ethereal luminescence that defied the darkness of the night. The chains moved with a life of their own, coiling around the Angel’s massive legs, binding its body in a web of pure energy. The chains were impossibly strong, pulling the Angel down with relentless force.

Malacoda watched in awe as the Angel struggled against its bindings. The creature’s long neck flailed wildly, its head snapping from side to side, a grotesque mimicry of confusion. For all its divine power, it seemed utterly bewildered, as if it couldn’t comprehend what was happening to it. The golden chains tightened, constricting the Angel until it was pinned to the ground, unable to move, its colossal body immobilized by the sheer power of Sarto’s will.

And then, as Malacoda observed with a mix of fascination and dread, the Angel began to fade. Its solid form wavered, becoming translucent, like a mirage in the heat of summer. The powerful creature that had once towered over Solstice, raining destruction with every step, was now being erased from existence, not destroyed but simply… undone.

It was a strange phenomenon, something that set these beings apart from the lesser Maldrath. Most Maldrath, when struck down, would dissolve into dust, their physical forms obliterated into the base miasma that bound them to the mortal realm. But Angels were different. Their essence was too vast, too unfathomable to be reduced to mere dust. Instead, when their time in this world was up—whether by force or by some unknowable design—they simply faded away, their presence slipping through the cracks in reality like a forgotten dream.

Malacoda watched as the last remnants of the equine Angel dissipated into the air, leaving nothing behind but the memory of its terror. The chains disappeared as well, their light dimming before they, too, vanished, absorbed back into the earth from whence they came.

He hovered there, suspended in the air by invisible threads of power pulled from Yggdrasil, a strange mix of relief and disappointment bubbling up inside him. “Well, that was… anticlimactic,” he muttered, his voice tinged with a sarcastic edge. He had been ready for a fight, eager to test his mettle against an opponent of such unimaginable power, but Sarto had ended it with a single stroke of her will. She always has a knack for ruining my fun, he thought.

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Still, there was something awe-inspiring about the way the Angel had simply ceased to be. No final roar of defiance, no cataclysmic explosion—just a slow fade into nothingness, as if it had never been there at all. Malacoda was sure many of the common townspeople of Solstice would have been able to convince themselves that it was all some sort of feverish nightmare, had it not been for the imprint of destruction the Angels left in their wake.

Malacoda sighed, glancing down at the town below. The chaos had not yet subsided, the streets still teeming with Maldrath and panicked citizens. The battle wasn’t over, not by a long shot. But with Sarto’s presence now looming over the battlefield, there was a sense of inevitability in the air.

“Perhaps I can give that other guy a shot,” he said to himself, a wry grin returning to his face. He glanced over at the infantile, masked Angel, which hovered over the rubble of the destroyed clocktower near the eastern border of the town.

Malacoda turned his gaze towards the infantile Angel, its mask-like face impassive as it loomed over the ruins of Solstice. He was already calculating the distance, preparing to launch himself across town and engage the monstrosity, when something gave him pause. The air went still—so still it felt like the entire world had stopped breathing. At first, he assumed it was Sarto’s doing again, her overwhelming presence snuffing out even the wind, but there was something different, something wrong.

The remaining Angel froze, its entire form going rigid as if seized by an unseen force. Malacoda narrowed his eyes, intrigued. The Angel’s smooth, inky skin began to ripple, unnatural waves spreading across its surface. It was as if something beneath the skin was struggling to break free. The ripples intensified, the skin stretching outward, forming a grotesque, bulbous shape—an inky black pustule swelling and distorting as it continued to expand.

“What in the hells…” Malacoda murmured, more amused than alarmed.

And then, with a sickening pop, the pustule burst, spraying a fountain of viscous, black fluid in all directions. From the ruptured surface of the Angel emerged something utterly unexpected—a gigantic, glowing white egg, throbbing and pulsing with an eerie, rhythmic light. Malacoda’s eyes widened in genuine surprise.

“Did that thing just… lay an egg?” he muttered, eyebrows arching in disbelief. Even for him, this was new.

The egg floated in the air above the town. It pulsed with a life of its own, each throb sending ripples of energy through the air. Malacoda felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. This was no ordinary egg, not that anything about Angels was ordinary to begin with.

Then, the egg began to crack. Thin lines of light etched across its surface, growing wider with each pulse. The air around it grew tense, a stillness before the storm. Malacoda’s smirk returned, this time with an edge of anticipation. Whatever was inside, it was about to make its grand entrance.

With a deafening crack, the egg burst open, sending beams of searing light shooting out in every direction. The beams sliced through buildings and streets like colossal aether-powered projectiles, leaving devastation in their wake. Malacoda shielded his eyes, squinting against the blinding brilliance as the egg shattered completely, revealing its contents.

From the remnants of the egg stepped out a figure, and for a moment, Malacoda simply stared, dumbfounded. “A third Angel?!” he exclaimed, genuinely impressed. This was unprecedented. And therefore, fascinating. Oh so fascinating.

The new arrival was smaller than the previous Angels, though still a giant compared to the buildings of Solstice. It was a humanoid shape, but not quite human—an androgynous silhouette crafted from silvery white light. Its form was both beautiful and terrifying, an ethereal being that defied the natural order. As the light stabilized, two blood-red eyes opened in what passed for its head, glowing with a malevolent energy.

Malacoda’s gaze swept over the creature, noting the strange armor it seemed to wear. The figure’s body was adorned with what appeared to be the bleached white bones of a gigantic human skeleton—rib bones, a jawbone, clavicles, scapula. It was as if someone had tried to reconstruct a human skeleton around a body of pure light, but only partially succeeded. The effect was grotesque, like a macabre fusion of life and death.

The silvery light near the creature’s jaw began to shift, splitting open to reveal a gaping maw of inky blackness. The sight of it made Malacoda’s skin crawl in a way that few things did. Then, the mouth opened wider, and the creature let out a scream—a sound so piercing, so filled with raw, agonizing emotion, that it seemed to echo from the depths of hell itself. It was a scream that was all too human, yet layered with a bestial baritone that sent shivers down Malacoda’s spine.

“Well, that’s just unsettling,” Malacoda remarked, though his tone remained flippant.

He prepared himself to engage the third Angel, a thrill of excitement coursing through him. This was new territory, something uncharted and dangerous, and Malacoda lived for such moments. But just as he was about to make his move, the Angel did something unexpected—it turned towards the infantile Angel, roaring angrily, and charged.

Malacoda blinked, momentarily thrown off guard. The newborn Angel, with its skeletal armor and blood-red eyes, lunged at the larger, masked Angel, its movements a blur of silvery light and bone. The impact was immediate and brutal, the two Angels colliding with a force that shook the ground beneath them.

“Oh, now this is interesting,” Malacoda said, a grin spreading across his face. He settled back into the air, watching with keen interest as the newly-formed Angel began to tear into the other, their divine forms clashing in a battle of incomprehensible fury. For once, he was content to be a spectator. After all, it wasn’t every day that you got to see Angels fighting among themselves.

The newly formed Angel wasted no time. Its movements were swift and brutal, as though it had been born with an instinct for violence. It cocked its arm back, a motion that seemed almost too deliberate for something so large, and then it unleashed its fury. Its fist came down on the infantile Angel’s face with the force of a piston, smashing into the mask-like visage with a sickening crack. The impact reverberated through the town, echoing off the ruins of Solstice.

Malacoda winced, a sharp intake of breath his only reaction. He’d seen a lot in his time, but this… this was something else. The smaller Angel didn’t stop there. It raised its fist again and again, pounding the infantile Angel’s face into a mess of fractures and splintered porcelain. Each blow sent shards of the chitinous visage flying in all directions, the once flawless surface now crumbling under the relentless assault, revealing an inky black void underneath.

The infantile Angel tried to fight back, its many arms flailing in a desperate attempt to fend off its attacker, but it was no use. Malacoda could swear it looked almost confused. The new Angel was relentless, a force of nature that could not be stopped. It opened its mouth again, that horrific, inky-black maw widening as it let out another scream right in the face of its larger counterpart—a sound filled with so much anger and agony.

And then, with a sudden, terrifying swiftness, the newborn Angel lunged forward, its jaw snapping shut around the neck of the other Angel. It bit down with all its might, teeth tearing through the other Angel’s flesh like a wild beast. Black liquid sprayed from the wound, a geyser of darkness that coated the ground below. It was as if the creature had found the other Angel’s jugular and was intent on draining it dry.

Malacoda watched in a mixture of horror and fascination as the newborn Angel tore into its opponent, ripping away chunks of flesh with savage ferocity. The infantile Angel’s struggles grew weaker, its movements slower, until it was little more than a lifeless doll in the other’s grip. The new Angel, however, was far from done. It pounced on the weakened creature, its glowing form slamming into the other Angel with such force that both were sent crashing to the ground.

The impact shook the earth, a tremor that sent more buildings toppling, more lives ending. But Malacoda barely noticed. His eyes were fixed on the gruesome spectacle before him, the newborn Angel now devouring its prey with a hunger that was almost primal. The infantile Angel began to fade, its once formidable form dissolving into nothingness, just as the equine-formed Angel had before it.

But the newborn Angel didn’t stop. It continued to tear and devour, even as the other Angel’s body faded away into the ether. And then, when there was nothing left but empty air, the third Angel lifted its head to the sky and let out one final, agonized scream. The sound echoed through the night, a haunting cry that sent chills down Malacoda’s spine.

As the scream died away, the Angel’s body began to dissolve, its silvery white light unraveling into wisps of energy that drifted away on an invisible wind. On the horizon, dawn began to break, a sliver of golden light reaching towards the smoldering ruins of Solstice. The transformation was almost beautiful, a stark contrast to the violence that had just unfolded. And then, when the last of the light had faded, something else appeared in its place.

Suspended in the air where the Angel had stood was the limp form of a young woman. Her body hung there, motionless, as if she were asleep. Slowly, she began to descend, her descent gentle and almost serene. Malacoda watched her, his mind racing with possibilities. Now what do we have here? Or . . . who do we have here?

“Well,” he muttered to himself, his usual sarcasm tinged with something deeper, “this night just keeps getting stranger.”

As the first light of dawn stretched its fingers across the horizon, Malacoda made his way through the rubble-strewn streets of Solstice. The once bustling town was now a graveyard of shattered buildings and broken lives, but Malacoda’s attention was focused on the task at hand. He was headed to the spot where the mysterious girl had fallen from the sky, her body descending with an eerie grace, as though an invisible had had gently lowered her back to the ground.

When he found her, she was lying unconscious among the debris. Her skin was dark, a rich umber that marked her as Olenish, the indigenous people of this region. Yet, there was something different about her. She was shorter and more sturdily built than most Olenish women, with a bulbous nose and a face scattered with freckles. Her hair was a wild mass of tight, jet-black curls that framed her sleeping face like a halo of storm clouds. She couldn’t have been older than seventeen or eighteen summers.

Malacoda knelt beside her, his earlier bravado replaced by a rare moment of tenderness. He gently lifted her into his arms, her body limp and warm against his chest. She was light, almost too light. As he stood, he felt a familiar presence approaching. It was Sarto. He began walking in her direction, his mind swirling with questions.

The town square was a scene of grim activity. The survivors, those who hadn’t been taken by the night’s horrors, were picking through the wreckage, searching for anyone who might still be alive. Others were simply mourning, their faces hollow with grief. Malacoda noticed that any remaining Shades had been vanquished, likely the work of his comrades who must have arrived while he was preoccupied with the Angels.

Then he felt it—the sensation of being watched. He turned his head slightly, and there she was. Sarto approached with the fluid grace of a predator, her striking features made all the more captivating by the early morning light. She was a petite woman, but there was nothing diminutive about her presence. Her skin was pale, almost luminescent, and her angular features were framed by long, deep maroon hair that fell in a straight cascade down her back. But it was her eyes that always caught Malacoda’s attention: golden yellow with a subtle glow, her irises were composed of several thin, concentric rings that seemed to shift and ripple like liquid gold.

Sarto’s gaze was already on him before she even looked his way, her presence so potent it was like a physical touch. She wore a well-trimmed suit beneath her navy and silver cloak, a picture of elegance and lethal precision. When she finally spoke, her voice was lyrical, a melody that felt like a pool of dark water, serene on the surface but he had no idea what lurked beneath.

“Is that the girl who fell from the sky after the third Angel disappeared?” Sarto’s lips curved into a soft, almost amused smile.

Malacoda nodded, trying to suppress the unease gnawing at the back of his mind. “Yeah, that’s her.”

“Good,” Sarto replied, her smile not fading. “She will be coming with us. We should prepare to leave as soon as possible.”

He wanted to ask her a thousand questions, but before he could open his mouth, a strange pressure settled over him like a shroud, dampening his curiosity. It was as if Sarto’s very presence was a weight that pressed down on him, stifling any desire to argue or even inquire further. He decided that now was not the time to be asking questions.

Just as he was about to turn away, a voice cut through the air like a whip. “You’re not taking her anywhere!”

Malacoda turned to see an Olenish man standing nearby, his posture aggressive. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, his dusky brown skin stretched over thick cords of muscle. He was older, perhaps in his forties, with dark eyes that blazed with anger. His smile, however, was dazzling, a stark contrast to the fury in his eyes—white, perfectly straight teeth framed by full lips. Beside him stood another man, even taller, a giant by any standard. This second man was heavily muscled despite a robust pot belly, his long locs falling past his shoulders, and his tightly cropped beard framing a broad nose. He was silent, his eyes watchful, clearly deferring to the first man. Both were dressed in silks of black, with red trim.

“She is indentured to the Blackfire Company,” the first man continued, his voice dripping with ownership. “She belongs to me!”

Sarto didn’t even turn to acknowledge him. Her expression didn’t change as she simply raised a hand, a gesture so calm and commanding it was as if she’d willed the man to silence.

But the Olenish man wasn’t finished. “You, drop her now!” he snapped at Malacoda.

Malacoda stood his ground, the girl still cradled in his arms, his expression neutral. Is this man serious? he thought.

The man’s face contorted in rage. “You foreign bitch,” he spat at Sarto, his voice rising, “who do you think you are to ignore me? This is my town, I—”

The man’s words were cut off mid-sentence, his body freezing in place. For a moment, it seemed as if time itself had stopped. Then, without warning, his entire body shattered into intricately cut cubes, each piece falling to the ground with a wet thud. What was left of him was nothing more than a puddle of gore on the cobblestones.

The larger man jumped back in shock, his eyes wide with terror. But he said nothing further, merely shrinking away into the shadows, his courage dissolved along with his superior. Someone is smarter than they look.

Sarto’s serene expression remained unchanged as she lowered her hand. “Bring the girl,” she said, her voice as composed as ever, as though she didn’t just turn a grown man into mince meat without so much as placing a finger on him. “I will gather the others. We are leaving.”

Malacoda glanced down at the girl in his arms, then back at Sarto. He could still feel that strange pressure, but he pushed it aside, forcing a grin. “You got it.”

As Sarto turned away, Malacoda followed, carrying the mysterious girl towards whatever fate awaited them all. The dawn was breaking, but the darkness of the night still lingered over Solstice.

image [https://i.imgur.com/7P7JEZo.png]

Darkness.

A faint, glowing white light . . . The light formed into neat, precise script.

Access Granted: Yggdrasil

Soulsinger Designation: Magdalena

Class: Angelic Host (Type: Unassigned)

. . .