Alarion began.
Then the pain struck him.
Lightning raced through his nerves, his whole body convulsing as he fell to the ground. He curled in upon himself, crying out in agony, unable to answer Alex’s pleading as wave after wave of agony rolled over him.
Alarion could not tell how long the suffering lasted. Seconds probably, but they were among the longest in his life. When it finally abated, it left him raw and tormented. Alarion had not been sick in several years, not since his Awakening at the very least, but he distinctly remembered the stomach churning agony of a particularly bad flu. It was a strong memory and it did not even compare.
> New Condition! Internal Organ Damage – Severe.
> [Survivor’s Endurance] Has taken effect. The secondary effect of [Survivor’s Endurance] has taken effect.
> [Internal Organ Damage – Severe] has been resisted due to user’s VIT score. Condition reduced to [Internal Organ Damage – Major]
> [Internal Organ Damage – Major] – 80% Malus to all physical Attributes. 20% Malus to all mental attributes. Reduced healing speed of all conditions by 50% until this condition is fully healed.
Pig-headed resilience had once again saved Alarion from death. But in that moment, he wasn’t sure that was such a good thing.
Alex laughed slightly at Alarion’s concern.
And so he did. The two rested in silence within the black lit room, with only the chirp and buzz of small fans and motors to serenade them. The quiet stretched on into minutes, interrupted every so often by a shift from Alarion, a change in posture both for comfort and due to the need to stay awake.
Alarion stared up in the ceiling, pain pulsing at his temples.
Alarion smiled.
Alarion didn’t linger further. Ten minutes of relaxation had done wonders for the pain and for staunching the flow of blood, but the next twenty had been excessive. He was ready as he was going to be, and Sierra was waiting.
His steps were slow and careful as he crossed the room, each sending a twinge of pain up his left side. If there were any foes to face on his way down, Alarion was well and truly screwed, but for now it was a simple enough matter to gather up that metallic core from the wreckage of the wristband, and carry it over to the remnants of his opponent.
After some scrounging Alarion came away from the pile with a triangular piece of the Duke’s head roughly the size of his fist, as well as two smaller chunks each half the size of the first. The visor was cracked and ruined, its contents staining the stones and Alarion’s hands a matching red as he handled them.
Alarion did as instructed and felt the stone come alive under his hands.
It shifted like clay, warping and reforming of its own accord, pulling the metal chip containing Alex’s personality into its depths. Over the course of the next minute the three pieces melded into one, then summoned additional bits from the floor to join them as Alex forged himself a new body.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
This new form was thinner and shorter than its original, owing no doubt to the small smattering of particularly pulverized blackstone, and the missing arm, that did not heed Alex’s call. It was angular, blocky, his head initially little more than a floating cube before it spouted a golden crest and a thin green visor with descending lines that made it look as though it were crying.
Curiously there were no joints in this new body. The head floated above the neck, the hands floating below wrists, arms not attached to shoulders. It had the shape of an unfinished man, like someone outlining the dimensions of one without going back to finish in any of the detail work. Black stone morphed into a muted grey, highlighted in white and gold to give the body a more regal and less threatening appearance.
Alex looked down at his new hands. And he laughed. A sick, sadistic sound.
Alex’s monomaniacal rant was interrupted by a swift hook from Alarion’s right fist. Even with his greatly diminished strength, small chips of stone went flying and the newly incarnated Steelborn held his hands up in a pitiful defense.
Alarion eyed him warily, his miniature greatsword already drawn.
For his part, Alarion’s expression shifted from stern to perplexed to sheepish in a matter of a few heartbeats. His sword arm lowered and he turned away, cheeks reddened.
The Steelborn nodded and floated off toward the stairwell at a brisk pace. Left alone, Alarion loosened the pressure on his wound long enough to inspect it, then thought better of it when he saw the extent of the blood on his hands. The way they glowed under the strange black lights lent the sight a surreal feeling, but Alarion knew that looking at his own open wound would almost certainly turn his stomach in a way he could not turn back.
That was when he noticed it. The long red scarf that had trailed behind the duke during their battle, left amidst the remaining rubble of his body. It was a shame to leave it there, lost and forgotten.
> Exception: Unexpected Item
> Full Traceback
> Re-categorizing
>
> N̸͍͇̓̀̐͐͘a̸̱͔̎̈͑̄̀ͅn̷̢̼͚̑͋̆̋o̷̞̾-̸̛̦̫́͋̕͠p̵̹̋̈́ō̶̝͈̣͊̌l̸̡̖̜̎̂̉̃̓y̸̺̮̺͑͂̀̃ͅm̸̢͙̞̮͋̐͘é̷̜̻̘̳͗̂̒̚ṟ̷̻͝ Scarf ö̸̢̢̖̙́͐f̵͚̣̙͕͑͑ ̸̧̢̮͈̣̾̉̉̾͝t̸͇̠̉́̓͘ḩ̷̮̘͙̦͋͗ȩ̸̺̀̀͌͛͜ͅ ̶̳̩̤͋̄̎́S̸̡̲̞̠̈͗̃̓͜l̶̛̞̥̩̎͘a̷͎͂̀͠i̴̗͉̾n̴̡̬̂̇ ̷̧̜̬́̔C̷̪̈̍̑ḩ̶̫͓̰̐a̷͉̙̾̑m̶̛͚͓͑̂p̸̹͇̮̮͗͑̊i̶͉̎͋͛́ǫ̸̙͐̈́̄̎n̶̘̺̊̊̚[Legendary](Rank Nil)
>
> Description: The final relic of the slain champion of the ancients. This scarf was once a beacon of hope for millions, only to lay forgotten around the necks of unworthy successors.
>
> Requirements: None
>
> Attunement Cost: None
>
> Type: Neck
>
> Enchantment: None
>
> Ability Bonuses: None
“Hmm.” Alarion grunted, studying both system messages and scarf. It had the highest rarity of anything he’d ever seen, and it did nothing. It was soft. Very soft. Warm as well, he discovered, as he wrapped it snuggly around his own neck. Perhaps Sierra could make some sense of it.
Alex had emerged at the mouth of the exit, his body draped in a purple cloak that suited him far more than it had ever treated Alarion. With clothing on, the Steelborn looked a good deal more complete, his slender frame almost mistakable for human so long as one didn’t look at his head or hands.
Or the fact that he floated everywhere.
Alarion answered truthfully. Between potion sickness and his substantial injuries, it would be a wonder if they reached the base of the tower before nightfall. And that was without having to somehow link up with Sierra in the process.
Delighted at his own newfound agency, Alex floated past Alarion and began to work while the young man was still processing what he had said. Fingers cascaded over buttons and switches, breathing new life into long dormant machinery and flooding the dark lit room with the stinging glow of two dozen screens. Once it was on, the Steelborn navigated not with keys but with gestures, interfacing directly with the equipment.
Alarion did as he was bid, gathering up his pack and his used potion vials for good measure. With everything stowed, there was only one item remaining.
The slow scrape of metal along metal announced Alarion’s intentions. Alex ignored them at first, but as they grew more intense he was compelled to look back. His shoulders sagged, exasperation radiating off the construct as he spoke.
Alex didn’t need to breathe, but he sighed all the same.
Alarion understood immediately. Suddenly appearing in the courtyard, miles below had been disorienting. He’d been nauseous. Frightened. Sierra had been there, shocked to see him. She was angry. And frightened. She’d called him an idiot.
None of that had happened yet. Even though he remembered all of it.
Reality flickered and he was in the courtyard miles below. He was disoriented. Nauseous. Frightened. Sierra looked at him, her eyes wide as she struggled through the same experience and uttered two words overflowing with meaning.
“You idiot.”