29. The Rift (VIII)

Lady Alchemist Tanith Lectin-Malustris ducked into the chamber, the top of her head skimming the low ceiling. [Diabolists] melded against the walls like shadows. Their class designations were dim over their heads - a trick of the light, if you didn’t know better. Tanith knew better.

She took her place as one of the many. She folded her hands in front of her. She waited.

In the dark they were an audience of disembodied masks.

A thread of mana tapped her mental barrier. Tanith accepted the transmission.

“Sister Tanith,” her colleague said mentally. “You missed this evening’s requiem. Are you feeling well?”

She bowed her head down a fraction, a faint smile on her lips. “I appreciate your concern, Senior Brother Nehchalbir. My soul is still adjusting to this environment, so I’ve been taking it easy. Do not worry about me.”

“I suggest you acclimate quickly,” he said quietly. “Many of our colleagues desperately seek a position within the Unholy Temple. So near and dear to the Great One. You wouldn’t want them wondering if you are unfit for this honor.”

Every servant of the Old God had a preferred name for this ancient and ominous and grand labyrinth. It was practically a personality quiz. Newbies with glorious death in their eyes called it Blackened Church - always. If they lived long enough to have their dreams beaten out of them, they transitioned to Unholy Temple. Snobs preferred either Empire of the Fathomless Dark or the Abyssal Kingdom. Depended on which of the two poems they kept framed above their bed. The few who were able to master the old tongue insisted on Sheo-l, despite the name burning the mouths of anyone else who tried to speak it.

Almost any name was acceptable. Anything, except for what their soulpanes called it.

Prison.

Even the most damned of all humanity had their forbidden words.

“Thank you for the pointers, Senior Brother,” she transmitted back.

Tanith knew her calmness bothered Nehchalbir. Unfortunately, that was simply her temperament.

“Sister, what is your plan to improve your condition?”

“I’d love a pipe,” she drawled. “I wasn’t allowed to bring anything with me through the gateway. I dearly miss my habits.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Empty promises in the house of God?

“Oh, Sister,” Nehchalbir’s voice became thin like a needle. “Did you hear the alarms go off earlier? Something big triggered the system. I wonder what it was.”

“Why not ask the system, Senior Brother?”

“Unfortunately, the data was erased before I arrived.”

Beneath the mask, Tanith’s smile widened. “Then you should really look into that, Senior Brother. A data breach is no laughing matter.”

The transmission broke without another word and she had to stop herself from cackling.

‘Too bad, Nehchalbir. I got there first. The crow is all mine.’ If the Matron decided to visit soon, Tanith could give her the crow directly. Matrons were known for their generosity as much as their cruelty. Tanith just needed a little push to break through her current bottleneck. Surely, a crow was worth that much?

This meant sneaking around behind Nehchalbir’s back. He was going to be furious when he found out.

Nehchalbir had more pull and connections than he rightfully should. She wouldn’t be shocked if he convinced a [Judge] to try her for insubordination. Her head, her position, her reward, he’d want to take everything from her.

This was her gamble.

Tanith was betting everything on the crow’s worth.

“We have urgent news.” Senior Sister Nyoka had a voice like tissue paper. “Our Matron has decided to grace us with a visit. Please assist us with preparing the Greeting Hall for her ascension from below.”

Tanith’s heart didn’t beat faster with excitement. Her mind didn’t spin with fantasies.

She bowed as they all bowed and left the room as one.

Inevitably, if you gambled enough, you won. It was mathematics. There was nothing too exciting about math.

A new transmission entered her mind and this time there was no request for entrance. “There's trouble in the Hall of Morning Frost. Our colleagues are being attacked by four intruders. All are Alchemists of the Third Circle. We rank them as thus: Warrior, Threat Level 7. Priority kill target. Battle Mage, Threat Level 6. Controlled. Spellslinger, Threat Level 5. Controlled. Bandit - “

Tanith sighed. More intruders?

At least there were only a few of them. The last group of adventurers who dared to venture into the Prison of the Unmaker had come in a squad of twenty, all armed to the teeth. The squad had all died, of course.

No enemies had ever come close to reaching the Old One. Not for a thousand years.

///

Raziel observed the chaos from a safe distance.

When fighting the beasts, the alchemist party relied on their teamwork for easy kills. Klaas pinned them in place, and Nanette would blast them from afar.

The party members were Level 3 alchemists. Obviously their fighting skills were worth studying. However, Raziel simply saw no path for incorporating their moves into his own skill set. To spark inspiration, you first needed a bit of tinder, something which could light a flame of understanding. Raziel didn’t even possess that initial foundation.

So far, his biggest takeaway was how valuable controlling the battlefield was.

It gave him a greater appreciation for Subtle and Sublime, his support.

But the current situation was different than the past few hours.

[Diabolists] poured in from all directions like a flock of bats.

The four alchemists had been split up, desperately fighting for their own survival. Their individuality shone brightly. Raziel found that he was able to pick embers of insight from them now.

His enchanted robes were a god-send, their dampening effects helping him resist the effects of Aric’s sword.

A lock of golden hair escaped Aric’s neatly brushed hair, curling with sweat on his forehead. He swung his sword like it was a warhammer.

Raziel activated his weakened enhanced [Hyper-Vigilance], analyzing in the fighting style.

Aric was the wraith’s polar opposite.

Where wraith was untouchable, able to perform any dance flawlessly, Aric battered. Aric broke tempos, forcing his opponents to scatter for their lives.

Raziel grudgingly felt a bit of respect for Aric.

With bared teeth, Aric’s sword cut through three [Diabolists]. Their classes instantly disappeared.

Usually when someone died, their soul took a moment to leave. The designation above their head dissipated like a jar of fireflies finally set free. It was a beautiful, spiritual event, one beloved by art and literature.

But it was too easy to die when you were already in the world of the dead.

On the other side of the hall, Nanette was whispering continuously, her scythe glowing brighter. Her mana moved in strange patterns over her skin. A [Diabolist] sent a green bolt her way. Without even looking, she arched backwards, the spell flying over her. She didn’t so much as stutter her incantation.

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How could she have such concentration while also being that aware of the battlefield?

Was it her mind?

Raziel thought about how difficult it was to direct his mana into six places at the same time. Like trying to picture six faces at once. The moment his focus shifted, it all fell apart.

He looked back at Nanette and her serene expression. Her lips still moved as she said the lengthy incantation.

Is that what having an extremely developed mind looked like?

A sudden crash caused Raziel’s focus to switch to Boudine, who fought with her legs. She wore a grin of pure glee as multiple Diabolists boxed her into a corner. A high kick sent a masked head soaring into the air, black blood arcing behind it. On the surface her style was a mix of the wraith and Aric - brutish, but flexible enough to adjust. She could jump like an acrobat and fall like a meteor. Her nimble fingers flung away her opponents weapons. Her nails also punctured through masked mouths and broke teeth.

Raziel took note that once the mask was damaged, the [Diabolist] class seemed to shiver away, the person’s true class returning.

Also, the [Diabolists] always ran off when their mask broke.

Raziel analyzed Boudine deeper and realized she wasn’t like the wraith or Aric at all.

The wraith outmaneuvered.

Aric overwhelmed.

Boudine simply did the most reasonable action at the current moment. It was almost mundane.

Yet she stood and her enemies didn’t.

This kind of reasonability shook Raziel’s heart. How was she getting away with it? She had that one Martial Card which let her run fast enough to create a tornado, but otherwise, she wasn’t that fast, or that strong. She just dodged when a spell was thrown her way. Or kicked when she saw an opening. It was so simple. But the [Diabolists] were getting taken down like unawakened children.

Raziel could feel a spark of enlightenment in the back of his mind - something fleeting and ungraspable.

The sensation wasn’t as strong as when he’d watched the wraith duel Last Wish. But it was there like a pebble in his shoe. He was close to understanding something but it was so distant, like trying to remember a dream after waking.

Finally, Raziel spotted Klaas lo Luras. The [Diabolists] noticed he was an easy target, so they flocked to him.

Raziel couldn’t believe that guy was still alive. Could a Level 3 alchemist really take this much of a beating from dozens of Level 2s? Was that the difference between a Level 3 alchemist and Level 2 alchemist?

Like a bunch of angry geese trying to take down a tiger?

Klaas tried to avoid attacks, but his clumsiness worked against him. In trying to dodge, he accidentally stumbled into attacks not meant for him, or that would’ve missed him by a long shot.

The left side of Klaas’s face was swollen, lips bleeding. He clutched his shoulder as he stumbled slowly. The [Diabolists] jeered, pelting him with more abilities.

“C’mon guys, can’t you just leave me alone? I’m a dark path alchemist too…” slurred Klaas.

Klaas’s job was to support the team. But the big-hitters were occupied with their own battles, and he was alone now, vulnerable, dying by a thousand small hits.

At least, that was what Raziel had assumed.

Klaas braced his hands on knees, panting. A small smirk on his lips, hidden by the swelling. Klaas’s eyes bled black. Then, suddenly, all the attacks that he’d received over the course of the last few minutes mirrored onto anyone who had attacked him. A man who was now firing a black spell at Boudine paused, and then there was a giant hole in his abdomen - from a spell he’d casually thrown towards Klaas earlier.

The attacks seemed to bypass the enchantments on the black robes, affecting the person directly.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” said Klaas snidely, now in perfect health.

White radiance took over Klaas’s eyes. He opened his arms, and the [Diabolists’] wounds healed back. All those injuries returned to Klaas, turning him into the picture of a human punching bag. The affected [Diabolists] patted themselves over in panic, unsure of what just happened.

Klaas snickered, his eyes turning pitch black once more.

The [Spellslinger] let out an excited yell. All of the injuries flew back to their senders - the [Diabolists] stumbled to the ground with shouts of shock.

“Hurts even worse the second time, right?” Klaas laughed loudly now. His eyes started glowing white. “Told ya to leave me alone. Did you really think an alchemist who reached Level 3 would be that easy? Give me a break.”

What was Klaas trying to accomplish? Klaas obviously had a strong body that was able to endure so many life-threatening attacks, and unleashing them back on his enemies killed quite a few of them. But why was Klaas doing the same trick over and over again? Anyone who would’ve died had already perished. It couldn’t be pleasant for Klaas to feel all that pain multiple times.

Then again, out of the alchemist party, Klaas looked like he was enjoying himself most. His eyes rolled back at the feeling of his injuries returning, shivers visibly running down his spine.

Then Raziel saw the effect this had on the battlefield. Whenever the injuries hit the affected [Diabolists] their rhythm and focus broke. Nanette, Aric, and Boudine were able to take advantage of this to press their attacks harder.

The [Diabolists] were getting slaughtered. Why did they keep coming if they knew sheer numbers wouldn’t be enough?

Where were their higher-leveled members?

“Is this a good hiding spot?” asked a feminine voice. Raziel turned, startled, to see a [Diabolist] crouched right next to him, looking at where he’d been looking. She was full-figured - not fat, but heavy enough that her steps shouldn’t be silent. In the chaos of the battle, his [Hyper-Vigilance] going wild, mana of every type being shot in all directions, he never noticed her.

She wasn’t purposefully suppressing herself at all. He could even feel the vague human warmth emanating from her. The light perfume of musk and firewood. Her mana was sweet like black plums, and covered her like an unmoving violet veil.

Raziel should’ve noticed her. Had he really been that focused on the battle?

“Uh… yeah!” he responded after a beat too long. “Great view.”

Raziel felt every second of the terse silence between them.

“Death is a beautiful thing,” she said. “How have our colleagues managed to make theirs so ugly?”

//

The child nodded, though he probably would’ve nodded regardless of what Tanith had said.

He looked ridiculous.

There were a few children in their ranks - the prodigies. What concerned Tanith was the boy’s ill-fitting set of robes. It was hazardous. Her senior colleagues would never allow -

‘No,’ she realized mid-thought. ‘That’s exactly what they would do.’

Tanith looked at the boy in a more sympathetic light. Did he even realize his superiors were trying to humiliate him?

She’d been in this young alchemist’s place before. Stars that shone too brightly were forcefully dimmed. Tanith had the urge to reassure him that, yes, their lofty superiors were in fact, jealous, petty creatures, and that he wasn’t overthinking it - they really were tormenting him on purpose.

He seemed withdrawn and anxious.

He seemed…

Cocking her head, she looked at him. Really looked at him.

//

Raziel felt sweat collect along his spine.

Her judgment was as terrible as expected.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Raziel’s voice was faint. “What?”

“Your soul feels extremely dim.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, mind spinning. Her assessment made him think of his mother. “One of those enemy alchemists injured my soul.”

“Which one?” she asked calmly.

“...the Warrior.”

“A Warrior with a soul attack?” she murmured. “Fascinating.”

Was it strange for [Warriors] to have soul spells? Before Raziel could stammer something about how it might’ve been the [Spellslinger] instead, she shooed him away in a slightly distracted manner.

“Go to the infirmary. Try not to die on the way there.”

With that she swept off, and Raziel thanked his lucky stars, escaping quickly before she realized that he’d been lying through his teeth.

//

“I have new intelligence,” transmitted Tanith to Nehchalbir. “The Warrior possesses a technique that can injure souls. Proceed with caution.”

The briefest pause.

A voice spoke into the head of every [Diabolist] there. “The Warrior’s Threat Level has been upgraded to Threat Level 10. Kill him immediately.”

The soul was like a pane of glass. Even the smallest crack would eventually cause it to shatter. And even if the crack were mended in time, the soul would still be imperfect afterwards.

The [Warrior] specialization [Domination] was already a pain to deal with. If it were used in conjunction with a soul attack, the [Warrior] could punch far above his weight class here in the Spirit World.

“Given this turn of events, should we request greater assistance?” transmitted Tanith.

“No.” Came the sharp reply. “We should be able to defeat these Third Circle nuisances on our own. If the fodder all die, that only means they were too incompetent. Saves us the trouble of training them.”

Tanith nodded to herself. As she had expected, Nehchalbir did not want to make that call.

In the Cult, there were people who made Nehchalbir seem like a happy piglet by comparison. Considering that Nehchalbir was just about to let a hundred Level 2 [Diabolists] die, that meant something.

The last thing any reasonable person wanted to do was ask a person worse than Nehchalbir for help.

The [Spellslinger] placed his knobby fists out in front of himself. Steadily, he opened his fingers, one by one.

The Glyph of Light burned in his right hand. The Glyph of Darkness simmered in his left.

What was he doing?

“Lords and Ladies, let’s perform an experiment! Is it possible for darkness to coexist with the light?” asked the [Spellslinger] in a jaunty tone. “Will the pillars of the universe crumble if dawn meets the dusk? Or will something new be born?”

The [Spellslinger] slammed his hands together. An explosion blossomed around him.