Chapter 111
Son of Anur
The room went still, with Sylas standing in shock over not being attacked by anyone after he killed both of the women. The man that stood ‘guard’ next to them disappeared in a whisk of smoke, vanishing from their sight as though he was never there. The only ones left in the room were the two Prophets and the boy holding onto his doll. The latter stood up slowly and stilled, stiff like a puppet, craning his neck to the side and looking at the two.
Chills began to rise, almost appearing corporeal. Agnes walked closer to Sylas and hung to his rear, shaking faintly. Though he felt them too, Sylas remained unbending; they were the chills of death, he realized, the kind he’d felt millions of times already. They were nothing new, even if they were consolidated onto him. Death was not his foe, not anymore at least. If anything, the two hung like lovers in the sky too many times already.
Though Sylas was surprised that the 'boy' was behind the deathly dues, it didn't matter. Masks were aplenty in this world, and a child's was just one among them, however deviant it may have been. The silence continued to reign, pulsating freely, seemingly waiting with bated breath to be broken.
The energy changed abruptly, Sylas realized, and just as he was about to react, he realized it wasn't an attack. Instead, twilight-dyed shadows ran amok the floor and up the boy's short legs, converging toward his head, covering him completely. A subtle explosion later, a much taller and broader silhouette emerged from the smoke and dust, a figure draped in ordinary clothes that seemed two layers too thin for winter.
It was a black-haired man who looked to be in his late forties, wear and tear of age evident on his face, his nose slightly hung and crooked with a pair of slanted and narrow, twilight-colored eyes peering just above it. He was on the shorter end of things, some five-three at most, without a doll to hold this time.
Despite the ordinary appearance, Sylas stiffened momentarily; the man gave off the same sense of danger that Derrek did, causing instinctual alarms inside his body to begin ringing out like bells at dawn. I can’t defeat him, Sylas knew instinctively. Some foes he could still contend against and have some hope of defeating, and some yet he felt hopeless against--Derrek included still.
It was no longer a matter of experience, as he likely toppled over others in that department, but rather refinement and the general lack of polish and techniques. Still, it wasn’t as though he’d just bend and keel--he will still fight, if for nothing else but to discover how strong the man is for the future.
“You have just ruined twenty years of planning, you know?” the man said with a crooked smile. “How did you know that they were the Vassals?” The what?
“Because you didn’t hide them well,” Sylas replied confidently. After all, his personal motto did use to be ‘never let your ignorance get in the way of your confidence’.
“Ha ha ha ha,” the man burst out laughing suddenly, bending back and forth like a tube man in the wind, eerily unnaturally. “You really are getting on my nerves. So, so, so much is ruined. Not even ten of your lives can repay it. Not even a hundred. Nay, not even a thousand. More will now have to suffer because of you, you know?”
“Well if by ‘more’ you mean ‘you’, then yeah,” Sylas smiled. “Before I chop your head off, you’ll suffer a bit. I hope you can keep up.”
“You amuse me,” the man said. “A little plaything in the snow, dancing and singing and flailing. Had you just stayed quiet, you’d have become a part of a dream greater than you, than this land, this entire Kingdom, the entire world. Why didn’t you just stay quiet? Accept the scythe of reality?”
“What did you do to the villagers?” Sylas asked.
“Killed them, of course,” the man said casually. “What kind of a stupid question is that? Were my plans truly thwarted by a moron like you? Ah, I must be slipping. Age is catching up to me, I’ve noticed. Sometimes, I forget to pull my pants down when I crap. It’s gotten bad.”
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“Yeah, bad’s really underselling it. So,” Sylas recalled the window’s ‘explanation’ about the quest, trying to worm his way into some answers since the man appeared somewhat chatty. “What’s the Kingdom’s most nefarious and legendary murderer doing in this backwater place?”
“... oh?” a glimmer alighted inside the man’s dead gaze, a tiny spark of interest as he pulled something from his pocket, catching it between his lips and using his index finger to summon fire on top of it. Is that a freakin’ cigarette?! Taking a puff, the man stood in silence for a moment, his stern gaze locked onto Sylas. Smoke billowed out from between the dry lips, vanishing soon after, not unlike the 'man' who 'guarded' the two women. "Not a dullard, eh? Since you're here... you're at least an Exorcist. Who sent you? Mullins? Fyres? Killards? Hah. It doesn't matter. Unfortunately, you can't return. You've taken upon the Point of no return, I'm 'fraid. Shame. Kingdom needs good men, now more than ever."
“Like you?” Sylas quizzed.
"Aye, like me," the man scoffed. "You think these peasants matter? They're everywhere. Breeding as though the sky rains food. Parasites, the lot of them, leeching off from those deserving and then crying and begging when hunger strikes in. Their lives are worth more in death than in life. The Kingdom above all. I understand you Exorcists think yourselves grander than us, loftier, above the mortal matters. You sit upon your golden throne and judge us. Don't worry. Your own judgment is nigh. They shall stand drained within the same chains that they anchored us with. At least, take solace in knowing you shall welcome them, wherever you may go."
“The Kingdom above all?” Sylas smiled faintly. “Sorry. Can’t buy it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” the man said, taking another puff. “You’re not meant to. Most aren’t. While you enjoy your reveries, we fight and fight and fight. I am only a ‘nefarious murderer’ in the eyes of the worthless, pointless, and tragically numerous nobodies. In the eyes of the Kingdom, I am its Hero.”
“... eh, you just sound like another megalomaniac, if you ask me,” Sylas probed carefully. “An actual hero would fight for everyone, not just the ‘deserving’.”
“Haah,” the man took another puff, shuffling his hair. “It’s pointless. You set me back many years. Though it’s a shame, an Exorcist’s Core... should be fairly useful. Twenty? No, maybe thirty years? Hm. Should be enough,” Sylas frowned, slowly contextualizing everything. “Ah, don’t worry about the girl. I’ll kill her too--I’m not a monster.”
“... that’s a weird line to draw.”
“Even the nefarious villains have a compass,” the man grinned strangely, drawing out a thin and sharp-seeming dagger, fiddling with it. “Mine’s just a bit more comfortable with bending here and there. Goodbye, then.”
The dagger came flying in quickly, but not to the point where Sylas was helpless to respond; he shoved Agnes back and lifted the sword up, ignoring the dagger’s strike and instead immediately using Heartseeker, aiming for the man’s heart. Sylas was his best, against people, at least, when he fought blow for blow. It was truly, irrevocably impossible to quickly kill him. In fact, it was starting to be a bit troublesome, as he could even survive having his throat cut for minutes on end.
In fact, short of beheadings, it was virtually impossible to kill him in one strike. Even stabbing his heart directly yielded some mild pain at worst--short-term, at least. He’d die eventually from the blood loss if he let it bleed freely, but it would take a while.
The man, on the other hand, didn’t seem too keen on exchanging blows, using the nimbleness of a dagger to deflect his strike and slither by the blade’s edge, closing the distance between the two immediately. He was virtually pressed against Sylas’ chest, the pair of emotionless eyes peering into his soul as dagger nicked at his neck, cutting directly through the artery. The man withdrew swiftly while Sylas stood motionless, running his fingers over the wet and warm wounds. It hurt. Kind of.
“H-huh?” the man staggered when he saw Sylas ignore the wound and strike back, once again aiming for the heart. The man, despite the shock, dodged and, once again, closed the distance, nicking the other side of the neck. Sylas continued to stab, adjusting to the speed and coming closer and closer to landing a strike.
In the meantime, the man continued to chip away--a stab here, a stab there, aiming for the vital organs. It was only after over ten holes were punctured in Sylas’ body that he fell to his knees, too weak to stand up. The blood loss was simply too much. There was a victory in all of it, however--he managed to cut the man, however slightly.
“... what the hell are you?” the man asked, frowning. “Did Haren send you? No, he wouldn’t dare. I don’t sense the Way of Blood in you, anyway. How are you still alive, though? Again--what the hell are you?”
"Me?" Sylas said, grinning. His whole face was dyed in crimson, turning his smile eerie and harrowing. He lifted the sword with the last of his strength, but instead of aiming it at the man, he pointed it at his own chin. "Just your demon. See you soon, son of Anur." the man's eyes widened at that moment like saucers, his entire body shuddering. Though the name likely meant something, Sylas didn't know what. He'd have to investigate.
It wasn’t him who discovered the name--it was Agnes, actually. She heard a voice, apparently, and just before the two broke into the fight, she whispered ‘Son of Anur’ into his ear. Haah, so many names to remember: Mullin, Fyre, Killard, Anur, Haren... sheesh. This will be a long loop.