Left, right. My body shifts and turns, the ash and the smoldering inferno that makes up my whole, shifting like the body of a viper, as I sway around the hero, catching each of his blows with my weapon before lunging out time after time again to launch a new, admittedly futile, strike. But it feels good. It feels great! Sparks launch through the air in all directions as the battle rages on around us, the unrelenting zombies and the always reconstructing armors all returning to their feet over and over and over and over again to launch a new wave. To press on in the war that can never end. A battle of attrition with essentially unlimited resources on all sides.
And here I am in the middle. Here he is in the middle.
The pole-axe feels right in my grip, it feels sturdy, as I push forward. The shoddy construction of the mediocre dungeon-weapon holding firm against the gnashing of the hero’s blade. The metal handle singeing and hissing with red heat as my palm grips it tighter and tighter still, the red glow rising up the shaft of the pole-arm like a corruption, like roots, as soon the whole thing begins to glow red from the sheer heat of my body, from the sheer heat of my excitement. Again. Sparks. Again! Fire. Fire! Do you see my eyes, hero? Do they shine? Do I look happy?
Our weapons meet again and as I hold firm against him. Both of us locked in place through our weight pressing against each other, I see my arms for a moment. They are clear of ash, they are clear of soot and of anything that could remind me of the black-water, all I see is a bright, red glowing flame that shines on so bright. So bright, like how I imagine the sun to be.
We pull back and then lunge forward again. Are you having fun, hero? I am. I am!
I swipe and he ducks down, his cape flying wildly behind him as the ephemeral shine of his blade runs along the red-hot metal shaft of my pole-axe, straight towards my arm that it then severs in a flash. The fire whirls and blows to the side, like a wildfire in a raging storm; tendrils of my body whip out from the force of the gusting wind, engulfing a group of already charred zombies next to me. They’re burning, burning, burning! But I turn back forward and watch as the fire of my body crawls back out to create a new arm. I can’t be extinguished by this, as long as I burn inside I can keep burning on outside. As long as the stars of the sparks shining out around us keep falling down. I strike again and watch in fascination, as they rain down around us both, showering us in a baptizing fire, in my joy and will made manifest.
All the while the dead-light creeps and crawls around myself, pushing in forward towards the hero-party who is disturbing its slumber. But now, it seems to have taken notice of me as well. I shine too bright, the light of my presence glimmers in the night of its existence. The scorching heat I radiate from myself is too much for the dead-winds to penetrate. It’s too much for the rot to spread further and I feel it slowly encircling me, encircling the hero to make both of us stop. To make both of us quiet. But neither of us are quiet as we meet once again in the center.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
I think I get it now. Why he does what he does. It’s this. This feeling. Is this what the hero feels when he fights? Every time? Is this what it’s like? Why do I always forget this feeling? This violent sensation? I lash out and strike and his shining blade rises to meet mine. A crack rings out like the snap of thunder and I watch as the head of my pole-axe is sent flying, spiraling off into the back of a zombie who falls forward, the red-hot searing metal hissing as it sticks in his rotting flesh.
I pull back as the blade just swings past me, the energies of his sword disrupting my body like a gale, my cape billowing out sidewards from the rush of the force, as my fire recollects itself and I reach out to steal another pole-axe from another armor. To keep the fight going just a little longer. Just a little more! I just want to burn a little more red. A little more red. A little more red!
Ah! No interruptions! Just me and the hero fighting! No wizard to blast me away! No thief to stab me in the back! Just me and him! Ah…
Ah?
Ah.
I look around in the heat of the moment, time slowed to a crawl by the surge of my spiritual adrenaline, as I look around to try and see her. The thief. The thief. Where is she? I haven’t seen her today. How could I not have noticed? I was so preoccupied that I didn’t notice. Where is she?
I don’t see her through the raging flames. When did the fire grow so high? All of the zombies around myself are engulfed, are consumed by the combustion. Is it mine? Or is it the wizard’s? I don’t know, but all I see is burning. I see the dead horde press forward but they all slowly fall to ash, one after the other, as the intense heat swallows them now entirely. As the fist of the monk turns their charred bodies to dust. As the blasts of the wizard destroy them entirely, as the soft magics of the priestess lull them to sleep one last time. They fall. They fall and the dead-light swirls in a rage, the dead-winds howling with fury.
I dodge again and grab hold of a pole-axe, shoving the suit of armor to the side. Sorry guy, I need this more right now.
They all fall, one after the other. Heaps of ash collect all around us, as I resume the stale-mate with the hero. Did I do this? Did I burn them all away in my passion? Several of them fall down at once in a cluster next to me just as the hero swings.
Something beeps. And the purple crystal of my menu pops up again just in time, as his sword smashes against the glass, sending out the ring of a crystal bell. Delicate. Sharp. All eyes turn to me. All eyes turn to my menu. The zombies fall to dust. The wizard looks at me. The monk looks at me. The priestess looks at me. The hero. The hero. All of their eyes look at me. They watch me. They see me. I don’t know what I press, I simply swipe everything away, selecting some skill or something at random, as I lunge forward again through the vanishing, cracked menu. More. More! I want to fight more!
But the fight is over.
The hero swings again, he swings with true strength and severs my new weapon in an instant. The play-time of before now ended. He looks at me and I look around. There is no-one left. Nobody here but me. No zombies. No armors. No Piotr. It’s just four idiots on a bridge. No. Just one. Just one.
The hero swings again.
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