DeSean’s fingers clawed forward and found an open wound on the Chosen’s chest. He dug in, pushed past a lead fragment, and touched his enemy’s blood directly. His rippling, seething, malevolent magic slurped up the offered blood and plunged into the target. At the same time, DeSean watched through his optiling’s eye where his left arm fell on the road.
His stomach lurched. He stepped away, clenching his jaw to keep in the scream that wanted to fly out. It took all of his Strength, Endurance, and Focus just to keep from falling in pain. So, even when he was fully aware of the muscular giant’s grab for his neck, DeSean was out of responses. His mana depth turned shallow, and he suddenly felt a deeper fatigue. Fuck!
A monstrous vice clamped around his neck.
“You think your dark magic can defeat me, Marked?” boasted the Chosen. “You will fail at that. Just like you will fail to stop me from breaking… from breaking… graaaaaaugh!”
DeSean’s vision finally cleared enough for him to look into the Chosen’s face directly. The ambient light from the suburban’s headlights shown a man covered in bloody bruises and open wounds from getting pounded by bullets. Better yet, hissing, bubbling blood was dribbling down his mouth. His flesh reddened, ballooned, then burst open as streams of smoky, lava-like blood poured out. Then the parts of him that popped like balloons suddenly sagged and steadily became weaker, more brittle.
Only the grip on his neck remained steadfast and solid, seemingly unbreakable. DeSean lifted a knife shakily and tried to stab into the wrist.
The Chosen gargled and spat acidic blood, his words becoming indiscernible. Words failed him, but the look of fear in his eyes said it all. Then DeSean saw a flicker of rage pass through them before the Chosen’s eyeballs popped out of the sockets in a flow of hissing blood. The grip on DeSean’s neck tightened, the Chosen squeezing to pull the Marine into death’s embrace with him.
The fight in DeSean was gone, and all he could think was how dumb his plan had been. There were a lot of other ways he could’ve settled this, but he’d assumed a small fire-team’s worth of bullets would put down humanoid threats. I was wrong, and I’m going to die for it.
“Let go of him, fucktard!” a girl’s squealing voice pulled DeSean from the brink of death. His swimming vision recognized a shape running and swinging a bat. No, not a bat. A rifle held like a bat! It was Dazzle—Botany! She clocked the smoking, barren skull of the Chosen and made him stumble, pulling DeSean along for the ride.
“Shoot the elbow joint!” Francis—Art History ran in from the other side and used his rifle like a staff. He smashed it against the Chosen’s sloughing shoulder and DeSean jerked to a stop.
The darkness was calling him again. It was closer now. It was singing to him a familiar tune. A comforting number that promised absolute destruction of everything that he hated if he’d let himself get taken, if he’d left himself go to rest to never fight again. That promise was alluring, oh so alluring, but a random thought flitted through his mind. The look of cute, doll-like excitement Lylothia had when she heard DeSean had enough to reach his Main Path, and she revealed the basics of her plans for him.
I can’t go yet. I’ve barely scratched the surface of what I could do. He was an investment that hadn’t panned out to its fullest. And he had people… monsters… to kill.
Botany blasted at the melting elbow joint, emptying her last mag. Only after the last bullet struck did the grip slackened. DeSean pulled away, gasping for air. Art History caught him before he fell. Across from them, the heavenly tough and strong Chosen fell into a bloody pile of melted flesh and hissing, crackling bones.
Art History lowered him down into a seat. Botany pulled out a Health Potion and popped off the cork. The Marine’s mind flashed through a reel of images flipping from his childhood to his time in the Marines, back and forth. He saw lots of pain, and he saw lots of joyful streaks of dreams that featured him as a rebel, small or large, wherever he went. He saw the hateful, tyrannical, reproach of his father and the locked room behind his office at the church. Mortar rounds shrilled through the air, the explosions shaking the church. His fellow Marines were screaming the hymns of their bloody damnation.
His ribs—CRACKED—back into place where they belonged, snapping DeSean from his crazy visions. His necked healed enough for him to feel the pain of having it nearly wrung broken. He felt the swelling around the left side of his face and the flare of pain in his left shoulder lessen. He also felt blood pouring from his severed arm slow down.
Then the magic healing stopped, leaving DeSean in this horridly awkward half-healed state. His mind roiled. His body felt very cold. The weakness of his mind and spirit was too much, and before he knew what he was doing he broke the connection between him and his optiling. The creature popped back to the Forty-First Disc of Seventy-Two Hells.
“Great, just great, he still looks like he’s dying,” Art History said, sounding distant. “Why didn’t we take the extra health potion with us?”
“It wasn’t supposed to go like,” Botany muttered. “Sergeant? DeSean? Don’t go away. We… we need a guy like you. Hailey’s the one who was supposed to survive this, not me. Don’t die like Hailey.”
“Why are you saying that?” Art History yelled. “Why the fuck you got to say these things, Dazzle? You going to make it sound like it’s your fault. Who can predict these things?”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Quinton did say something about my actions were going to get someone hurt. At least it was DeSean suffering the brunt of it instead of someone else. But I doubt the Hell Princess would see that as a good thing.
A connection from another realm pressed against DeSean’s limited magic. Speak of the devil. He pressed upon the string of otherworldly magic that boosted his stats, knowing he wouldn’t be able to sustain both the stats and the princess. Then he summoned the princess, thanking his [Talented Summoning] Skill for the help.
Lylothia popped into view in a flash of red and displaced air. Art History made a small squeal. Botany muttered intelligibly.
The Hell Princess flapped down and landed on DeSean’s chest and looked into his hazy, far-away eyes. She slapped him lightly on the uninjured side of his face.
“I was working up to calling you by your name, summoner,” she said coldly. “But this display disappoints me, and strengthens my reasoning to know you as nothing but a summoner, lest you gain your main path properly under my tutelage. Then you will be the name of your path, and nothing more.”
“Lylothia, he’s dying,” Botany whimpered.
The doll-sized princess pointed her wing all the way down the road. “Have you checked that bright-eyed carriage for loot?”
The two university students shared a look. Without a word, Art History passed DeSean to Botany and ran down to the suburban. Time flowed like rainwater, and all DeSean could recall was Lylothia’s crimson eyes staring deeply into the portals to his soul.
Before he knew it, his right hand reached up and stroke Lylothia’s porcelain cheek. It was surprisingly warm and comforting. The princess watched him curiously, letting him do as he pleased until he felt too weak to keep his arm up.
“I’ll do better,” DeSean rasped. “I’ll get stronger. Smarter. Faster.”
“I expect nothing less,” Lylothia said.
Art History came running down with another basic health potion and stamina potion. Botany stopped him before he uncorked it.
“Will this have adverse effects?” Botany asked Lylothia.
“Yes and no,” the Princess answered. “Every dosage of the same quality or lower will be weaker than the last. An immunity will be built, and it will last one hour for every health potion drank withing that period.”
“So, if we wait an hour, he’d get the full effect,” Botany said. “Shit, I could’ve asked for this to help Casey.”
“I would’ve asked for a favor before I answered the question,” the princess said. “But when it comes to my personal investment… I’m more inclined to lower my charges.”
Art History’s face stricken.
Botany patted him on the arm. “Come on, let’s get Sergeant in the truck and wait out an hour.”
“Turn off… the lights,” DeSean ordered raspily. They followed his request after they got him in the truck. With the suburban’s engine and lights cut off back down the road, Art History took the driver’s seat, slamming the door closed after him. DeSean drifted from in and out of consciousness while looking up into the underside of Botany’s chest.
Eh, she put my head in her lap. What was this, a cheesy anime Rom-Com? Whatever.
His barely hanging attention shifted over the Lylothia’s completely dry form perched on his chest like an upright bat. Her long ears tilted at odd angles as she stared into his face.
He cracked a smile. “I’m serious. I’m going to get better after this. I’ll be so awesome, you’ll be amazed.”
“I’ll only be amazed by the return of the King of Seventy-Two Hells,” she said. “But such a thing will never come to pass. The Lords and Ladies of the Heavens ensured that.”
“Why are there Seventy-Two Hells?” Botany asked. “And are each one ruled by a…?”
“Princess? Yes,” Lylothia answered. “And the Seventy-Two Hells were once Six Hells, but those Hells fractured twelve times each when the King was slain. He decreed it in his dying breath that we must be smaller to be stronger. Divided by Six times Twelve, the Hells shall be the net that catches the monstrosities of the Endless Dark. The Hells shall be the spine that holds up the realm of Skullos, the center of the System’s power, and the wearer of the Heavens placed like a layered crown. We shall serve foot and hand, offer our demons as toys and our magic as wonders of the game. In this 13th System Revelation Cycle, we tailor zones, offer treasure, and perhaps deliver boons to help mortals along in escaping their doom, for it had been written in stone that the System and the Heavenly Lord and Ladies shall always rule, their supplicants shall always rejoice, and all else will be like flour turned to bread to feed their growing hunger for power.”
Rainfall pounding on the roof filled the silence following the princess’s tirade. The moment was tense and uncanny.
“Apologies,” said the princess softly. “That was more than what you needed to hear. I find myself stirred into a great passion on this subject. And… I am quite displeased by my summoner’s condition.”
“We’re sorry, princess,” Botany said. “If only we weren’t useless.”
“Dazzle,” Art History called harshly. “We… we did the best we could.”
“You did,” DeSean rasped.
“But,” Lylothia said sharply, “I don’t just expect the summoner to improve greatly. I will have to trust that you two will increase your power and strength as well if you are worth the attention he has given you. It is almost… more promising to back out of this relationship with the summoner than to continue to see my investment be brought to reckless lows for others who aren’t normally worthy of my attention. I am crossed by this.”
“I get that,” Botany said quickly. “We’ll do better. I swear it. I just… I just need help to figure out this weird energy stuff around me. My mana depth? It’s there, humming all around me, ready to go. But I don’t know what to use it on. Or how to make my magical aptitude work? Princess, we need your help.”
The Hell Princess studied Botany.
“Summoner,” Lylothia called, “may I deepen my relationship with the soft, botanical mortal? I wish to extract a favor from her.”
“And… what would she get… in return?” DeSean asked.
“I will teach her magic that will help bury the comrade she lost. It will serve as a lesson that will help develop your third magical aspect and possible System Skill. This lesson will be the final pillar to prop the foundations of your Main Path.”
DeSean felt his mind click sluggishly. Before his attention shifted, he stayed on topic and gave Lylothia a questionable look.
“You are on the cusp of your Main Path. To delay it any longer will hurt your Od development. But to rush it without this lesson will reduce your Main Path options and personal growth. So, if this human chooses to be a limited contractor with me, and in my debt, then we shall have a lesson on the most revered of magics. Elemental Magic.”
Whoa, that’s like Avatar powers. Water, earth, air, and fire. The timing couldn’t be better, because DeSean had overlooked the System Notifications that flashed through his head while he was dying. From the muscular Chosen’s defeat, not only did DeSean get some decent Od and a much-needed amendment to his Records, but he also got a new Skill.
Sweet.