The golden alien had been right about the pygmies, and their plan. Only a couple of minutes later, three of the armored pygmies broke away from the procession and descended on Vern’s cell; their creepy underbites and crooked teeth gleaming through proud grins before raising a blowpipe in Vern’s direction.

Vern’s body fell to the ground only seconds later, leaving behind his spectral form to look on in awe. Vern wondered if dying were similar as he stared down at his limp body, but his musings were cut short by the spectral form of the golden woman appearing in his cell beside him.

“I do hope you managed to come up with a plan,” she said, a pointed expression glaring across at Vern.

“About that,” Vern murmured as his hand instinctively moved to scratch his neck, only to drift straight through his incorporeal body.

The spectral woman’s eyes rolled as she shook her head, then looked over to the pygmies who had just about finished removing the lock on the cage. “Well, you better think of something quick.”

Walking straight through the golden ghost the three pygmies entered the cell and approached Vern’s unconscious body. As the three pygmies passed through the specter on their way to Vern, her spectral form dissipated as if it were a cloud of smoke being brushed away. “Good luck.” She uttered as the remnants of her form disappeared.

The moment those words rolled from the lips of the golden shade, Vern felt an unbelievable pressure weight down on him, dragging him back towards his body as if he were a fly being drained down a sink. An instant later, Vern awoke with wide and wild eyes to an electrifying gasp that shocked by back to reality.

Tilted heads and confused glances shifted between the three pygmies, who seemed to find Vern’s sudden reawakening perplexing. One, the furthermost from Vern, turned to retrieve its blowpipe with a shrug.

It would have been great to have had a plan, but Vern could only work with what he had. Fortunately, his speed was starting to add up, and the little pygmies didn’t particularly give off the vibe of great warriors.

Vern’s hand rushed forward in a blink, grabbing at the handle of an obsidian dagger sheathed along the belt of the closet’s pygmy. The pygmy’s startled eyes looked across at Vern with a flash of terror as its little hands rushed to meet Vern’s. Unfortunately for Vern, it wasn’t alone, and the pygmy beside it decided to help. Before Vern could fully draw the blade, three little hands had grabbed hold of his wrist and were struggling to keep it in place.

Whilst Vern was fairly certain he could overpower one of the pint-sized people, they had turned out to be deceptively strong. Even after bringing his free arm into the melee, Vern found himself being outmuscled by the two pygmies.

“Ugh,” Vern spat and coughed, coloring the two pygmies he wrestled in a mist of blood.

The third had quickly turned back toward Vern and charged into the melee, driving its dagger into the left side of his gut.

“Fuck,” Vern groaned. He was dying. Returning one of his hands from the tussle, Vern grabbed at his wound.

Ripping the dagger free before returning it for another deadly stab, the blade slid against Vern’s hand and sliced through as the attacking pygmy continued its relentless assault.

With his focus lost, and his remaining hand set against two, Vern was quickly overpowered. Soon the pygmy in the middle of the three had taken to restraining Vern’s right arm, whilst the one he had originally rushed, unsheathed its dagger and began its violent attack, stabbing into Vern’s right side.

“FUCK,” Vern cried as his midsection was dowsed in a sanguine film.

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Vern's hands gripped at his wounds tightly now, hopelessly trying to stem the flow of his life as it feely escaped his body. A dizzying weakness began to consume Vern as he felt himself drifting off into the abyss once more. Darkness followed, but something stirred. Thumping, a pounding cacophony that shook his very soul. The pounding drum of a heartbeat that seemed to shake reality itself. But it wasn't his own, nor was it external to him. It was a hunger swelling from within, a thirst for the blood of the universe, the blood that was its birthright. Harder the pounding throbbed, and soon it was everything, every thought, feeling, and ambition Vern held. It was his right, his thirst, his desire.

In an instant a blast of energy rang out from Vern's hands, casting a blinding crimson light that brought with it a wave of red mist cascading from Vern's wounds. In its wake, a massive two-handed sword had been summoned, its crimson blade covered in sanguine runes, whilst its hilt, guard, and pommel appeared as if they had been crafted from blood-red glass. The blade whispered a hunger, a desire, a need for blood, and its birth into this world had been greeted by ecstasy. Two of the pygmies never stood a chance, the almost two-meter-long claymore had been summoned straight through their torsos and was already consuming their lifeblood.

Shock horror engulfed the third, who had been to the right of the sword when it was summoned. Looking down at its slain comrades seemed to induce rage in the little humanoid, and it screamed an unintelligible warcry as it dove forward again, sending its dagger stabbing straight back into Vern’s gut.

The pain was excruciating, but as the blood from the two dead pygmies funneled into him, Vern not only felt himself regain strength, but the wounds themselves healing.

With a violent throw of his arm, Vern sent the final pygmy flying back against the cage wall, then rose to his feet.

A primal fear gripped the remaining pygmy as it watched the rapidly healing Vern release a triumphant roar as he returned to his feet, claymore in hand.

“My right!” Vern thundered as he whipped the claymore down against the final pygmy, cutting and shattering bone and skin alike as he tore through and mangled the pygmy.

Bloodlust fueled Vern, and the moment he spotted a couple of unfortunate pygmies walk into the village center, he hurled himself toward them, slashing wildly with his claymore. The regular villagers were no match for Vern, not with the strength of fresh blood running through his veins and the blood claymore at his side, and with each swing, another was cruelly cut down.

“This way,” a familiar voice beckoned to him, but in his berserk state, the memory was lost to him; and it only took the glimpse of a darting figure on his periphery to distract him, and off Vern went.

Relentlessly chasing pygmies down, Vern continued his wanton slaughter, barely noticing when the occasional obsidian dagger or spear managed to wound him. With every kill new blood sunk into his veins, invigorating him and healing the minor wounds as they gathered.

Bodies piled and soon the village around Vern grew quiet. The claymore sent a wave that reverberated through Vern once more, and with it, the hold of both the blade and the bloodlust that had compelled Vern faded. Followed by a confronting clarity that washed over Vern as he surveyed the destruction around him.

Streets lined with disfigured corpses threatened to sicken Vern, to make him mad, but the intrusive voice bared down on him once more, reminding him of his task. “Help me!” Called the increasingly desperate voice.

It was her, the golden alien.

Vern almost wanted to cry as his eyes swept across the village, but suppressed his inner turmoil as he ran toward the voice in his head.

Despite its incorporeal nature, the pleading voice inside Vern's thoughts was not difficult to follow. It cried to him, and within moments Vern had traveled across the small village, toward where it beckoned him.

At the far end of the village, a temple rose from the ground, a small pyramid at its center, with several stone beams surrounding it. Drawings or perhaps hieroglyphics painted its stained stone walls, whilst the vines and moss of the jungle threatened to swallow it whole.

This had been where the procession led to, and now dozens stood in the courtyard at the mouth of the temple's entrance. The slaughter hadn't gone unnoticed, and when Vern finally swung into the path leading between the stone pillars, he was greeted by an army of irate pygmies.

A vanguard of a dozen armored pygmies stood between Vern and the temple, with another couple dozen civilians standing behind them, all with weapons drawn. Behind that, stood the cage with the golden woman, beside her cage stood an abnormally large pygmy - standing close to six-foot in height, and if not for sharing the same features as its smaller brethren, might have been mistaken for something else. A feathery cloak donned the giant pygmy and in one hand he carried a skull-topped staff, the other a double-bladed obsidian axe.

“I guess that’s the chieftain.” Vern groaned, remembering through his haze that a level-up notification had drifted past his vision during his rampage. It might have been a good idea to allocate those points first.