Cyril remained silent as he weighed his options. Leaving this abomination alive would be a grave stain on his honor, but dying in this forgotten ruin wouldn’t help matters either. If the Ascended creature, Hunger-Made-Alive, managed to kill him and absorb his essence, its growth would accelerate by leaps and bounds.
The only saving grace was that his death would result in mutually-assured destruction. Behemoth would be freed from their bond and manifest back into the material world, annihilating this entire region of the Underdark with its presence. Not that he expected Behemoth to go on a mad rampage after his death, like Lanazael had over Anadei. The Titan’s physical body alone would crush the entire world for miles in every direction, and that was before its innate domains began scouring the earth in a whirlwind of conceptual devastation.
Very reassuring, Cyril thought to himself.
Hunger-Made-Alive continued staring at its clawed hands, making no move to approach.
How long ago had it Ascended after bonding with the gardener-djinn? The symbiotic relationship had provided the wyrm with a measure of sapience, allowing it to communicate roughly with Cyril in the language of spirits. Enough time had passed for it to develop its own consciousness; its words belonged to a self-aware individual, distinct from the djinn. Such complex mental structures took time to arise within a monster whose prior existence had been determined by primitive instincts and reflexes.
His hope against the Half-Ascended Wyrm, if he found himself in this situation, was that it would still be adjusting to its powers. Hunger-Made-Alive had an advantage over him in that respect, probably by decades.
It had also demonstrated the self-control to leave enough monsters alive to maintain a balanced ecosystem. Those were the actions of a farmer, not a mindless hunter. Cyril imagined it had elevated its Dominions to at least the Third Sphere--maybe even the Fourth in its primary affinity, Darkness.
So it has more experience with its spirit, a core that’s at least two stages more refined, and each Dominion is probably at least a realm higher. And we’re in its home territory. Cyril swallowed and tightened his grip on his spear. At least it’s only bonded to a djinn?
He couldn’t help himself--he started chuckling at the rationalization. The laughter poured out of him, hearty and half-mad.
Hunger-Made-Alive tilted its head to the side and pointed a clawed finger at him. For a moment it looked like it wanted to speak, then it began emitting a strange, choked grunt, repeating it over and over. It took Cyril a moment to realize it was attempting to mimic his laughter.
“Yeah,” said Cyril, barely masking the disgust in his voice. “That was a good one, wasn’t it?”
Hunger-Made-Alive stopped moving for several seconds. Cyril took the opportunity to examine the figure. Its shape was a mix between the humanoids he had fought in the city and a true human. The outline of its facial features were misshapen and asymmetrical, like the wax of a melted candle, and its mouth quivered in a way reminiscent of the ringed maws of its progenitor species.
Cyril’s people granted personhood to monsters that had Ascended, recognizing that they had transcended the base nature of their birth. Isolated to this region of the Underdark, Hunger-Made-Alive had no opportunities to socialize and develop into a proper being. Not that he had much pity for the abomination. It meant his human ingenuity and Behemoth were his main advantages against it, and he intended to utilize them to their fullest extent.
The moment of peace between them shattered. Hunger-Made-Alive was the first to move. The only hint of its intention came from a subtle bending of its knees. A second later it was upon him, its dark mannequin of a body looming tall. He managed to intercept its dagger-like claws with his spear, but the force behind them made him take a step back.
For a few moments they tested one another, Cyril whirling his spear in an attempt to score glancing blows with the rusted iron tip, Hunger-Made-Alive weaving between the blows and lashing out with quick, darting attacks.
He could tell it wasn’t taking him seriously. It had never fought against another thinking individual, and it wanted to savor the kill.
Cyril redirected his Flickers to loop behind it, flooding them with as much Sun qi as he dared. With Hunger-Made-Alive in close range, he couldn’t overcharge them without blinding and burning himself as well.
“This. Is Light.” It laughed, the flaps of its disgusting mouth flexing. “Weak.”
Cyril took advantage of its mockery to free up one hand and shape it into a basic mudra. A massive spike of E-grade bronze erupted from his hand, catching Hunger-Made-Alive off-guard. It flew backwards, passing through the incinerating Flickers, which continued to follow close on its trail. The Ascended struck the wall in a thunderous crash--then burst through into the other side, still skewered on the bronze spike.
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Cyril charged forward, half in pursuit, and half because it was the only exit out of the throne room. Bones crunched underfoot, almost throwing him off balance.
He summoned a third Flicker, grimacing as his attention was split toward controlling yet another construct. It shot ahead of him to join the others. The Ascended had not been too impressed with his Sun qi, but it was the diametric opposite to its primary affinity. Though his bloodline would be eclipsed in a direct clash between their Dominions, Cyril hoped quantity would win out over quality in the end.
On the other side of the wall, Hunger-Made-Alive stood in the center of the atrium. It held the bronze spike in its hands, its claws sunk deep into the metal. Uninjured, as far as he could tell. It tossed the hunk of metal aside, hissing.
As the trio of Flickers orbited it, patches of its dark shroud bubbled. A gap in its armor. Not easy to exploit. The conjoined heat from the suns turned the room into a stone furnace. Cyril felt like he was boiling in his bronze armor. He held back. Even the enchanted material of his slippers couldn’t stop the superheated floor from burning the soles of his feet.
He kept his distance, happy to let the Flickers do their work. For a few seconds he slipped up, too intent on observing the Ascended, and he had forgotten to erect his own defenses.
Silver and crimson qi coalesced within Hunger-Made-Alive’s mouth. Cyril scrambled to erect a bronze barrier, but his reaction was too slow. A chunk of flesh vanished from his left shoulder and collarbone. He blinked down at the injury in complete surprise. It looked like the Ascended had taken a huge bite out of him; teeth marks lined the wound bed, having chewed through flesh and bronze pauldron alike with ease.
Agony flared into existence a moment later, bringing him back to his senses.
Hunger-Made-Alive’s laughter echoed, blood staining its tar-black mouth.
Cyril flung the spear with all of his might. Hunger-Made-Alive snatched it from the air with casual grace and tilted its head to the side. A Pressure Cantrip followed close behind, meant to blast the Ascended off of its feet, but it held its ground. Black droplets sprayed off Hunger-Made-Alive before whipping back into place--its shroud was a layer of flowing liquid, or at least had similar properties.
Worry began to gnaw at Cyril’s thoughts. Behemoth’s stoic presence loomed in the back of his mind, uncaring of the deadly threat towards its spiritual partner. He chose to take that as a vote of confidence.
He sealed the injury on his shoulder in bronze, ensuring he didn’t restrict the mobility of the joint too much. Blood seeped through the boundary between flesh and metal.
Silver and crimson qi swirled within Hunger-Made-Alive’s mouth once more. Cyril fired off another Pressure, localized toward the Ascended’s head. It barely turned its chin from the impact, but the qi dispersed before its bite technique could form.
A sharp, outraged hiss pierced through Cyril’s ears. Terrifying gravity weighed down on his shoulders. His heart pounded in his chest. A domain? No, not exactly. Pure killing intent poured off of the Ascended, so thick it felt like the weight of an ocean pushing down on him.
His body trembled, but his mind remained steadfast. He repeated in his head, over and over again, that his terror was unnatural, the result of a technique. It wasn’t exactly true. It didn’t need to be. It helped him stand against the psychic assault, and only that result mattered in the end.
A seed of incandescent anger started building in the back of his mind. What shame it would bring upon his family if he died down in this cursed place, to this wretched thing. The smoldering rage helped ward off the encroaching darkness of doubt.
His left arm was injured, but not enough to completely immobilize it. The situation wasn’t hopeless. He lifted his trembling hand and cast a Pressure into the ceiling above Hunger-Made-Alive.
“Missed,” it gloated, tossing his spear aside.
Massive slabs of ceiling plummeted down upon it a moment later. Not enough to bring it to its knees, but the oppressive domain of killing intent vanished. Cyril took the opportunity to throw up a bronze wall in front of him and pour as much qi as possible into the Flickers.
The trio of suns detonated. Tremors shook the palace. Scalding heat washed over Cyril, and the bronze wall glowed faintly. He panted, trying to catch his breath. After a few seconds, he dropped the wall to examine the results. A small Flicker Cantrip materialized and darted into the room.
Smoke obscured most of the atrium. In the center, a perfect sphere of darkness rotated, reminding Cyril of the stone cocoon he had made around himself to protect against the sandwyrms. Had the Ascended been watching him this whole time, examining his techniques from a distance? Learning off of him? The ember of anger in his mind expanded into a candleflame.
Then, a trio of dark suns materialized, orbiting the sphere. Perfect copies of his Flicker Cantrip. He had to wonder how, exactly, the Ascended’s mind worked, so alien to anything he understood. Shaking his head, he refocused.
Better to remain on the defensive. Outlast. His most powerful techniques had failed to inflict much harm on Hunger-Made-Alive, if any. Over a third of his core was exhausted. Needed to pace himself.
A moment later, he broke that conviction. The dark Flickers sped toward him. In a panic, he expelled Sun qi from his palm like dragon’s breath. It washed over the orbs, withering them down until they were no more than flecks.
Cyril took a shuddering breath, preparing himself to defend the next assault. Then he realized something was wrong. His left earlobe and right thigh ached with cold numbness. The black flecks had tunneled straight through his body, with the third fortunately missing. A knot formed in his throat as he realized his body would have been erased if he had taken the trio of black suns head-on.
Grimacing, Cyril sealed the hole in his leg with bronze. He thought he was beginning to understand more about Hunger-Made-Alive’s abilities. Predator monsters that Ascended through consuming their foes usually developed certain natural affinities, and he was beginning to catch on to one of its secondary Dominions.
Hunger-Made-Alive cultivated Slaughter.