“I-it’s madness. Madness, I tell you.” The young guard started shaking in his boots. In his eyes, I could see him recall traumatic sights. “In no time, the city will be overrun with ‘em! You should evacuate through the Southern Gate. Though, you should make yourselves quick — the gate will close if those things make it too far into the city. Ah! Apologies! Not that they will.”

After his shaky last warning, he ran back into the street, joining the stampede of guards and everyday folk that now began filling the streets. Orlando and I stepped into the street as well, after giving one last, wary look at the messy corpse of Marcus sprawled on the ground.

“Damn it.” Orlando looked coolly all around him, at the confused people questioning the guards, at the cries of panic of half-awake people, at the arguments of insistently stubborn old men refusing to leave, and then looked at me. “C’mon, Luqa, let’s go back to Gryphon’s Den.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I need to grab my equipment. A warrior needs his sword after all.” He smiled weakly at his statement. “Besides, it’s further from the gates, so they might not have heard the news. If we gather all of the willing adventurers there, we can join the fight to protect the city as it evacuates behind Orson’s Wall. You up for it?” he asked, his eyes gazing into me, though I didn’t return the gaze.

I simply stared at the mass of people on the streets, still growing larger and larger. Torches and lanterns began lighting up the dark city like fireflies. All around were the sights and sounds of a city stirred to a rude awakening.

“…What’s the nearest gate from here?” I questioned.

“Hm?” he grunted, audibly confused by the question. “It’s the East Gate,” he said, while pointing a finger in the direction. “Why do y— Ah, no!”

I was already in motion when he had realized the purpose of my question.

“Luqa! Don’t go by yourself!” His hand stretched out only to reach into the empty space where I had been standing.

“Orlando, please, wake Shara for me!” I shouted back at him through the crowd that now separated us.

“Do that yourself, you fool!” But the anger on his face already began to disappear, replaced by pure worry. “Take caution!”

His words of advice disappeared into the wind behind me as my wings materialized and I took flight into the rooftops, on which I landed and ran across, jumping from building to building, hopping and weaving through dormer windows and chimneys blocking my way. My path was dead set east, right in the direction that Orlando showed me.

“[Sight]”

The chaotic sights in the streets became more visible to me through the darkness. Flocks of people, children and elderly and those between, being guided by city guards, carrying nothing but a small pack on their backs. I darted my eyes back upwards and activated the mystic eye. Extending in the distance from the direction in front of me was the overwhelming presence of those things. I was headed in the right direction.

“[Tailwind]”

With a flick of my fingers, winds at my back steered me faster in my direction, flowing past my ears. I jumped, extending my winds outwards to their full span, and began gliding across, faster and faster and faster. But no matter how fast I went, I couldn’t shake off a feeling: it wasn’t fast enough.

At this very moment, who knew what manner of bloodshed could be happening ahead of me?

Still, despite how I felt, it was fast enough to change the scenery in the streets below me. As I glided further from the city’s center, the streets became less populated — and my hope was that it was because the people had already evacuated.

“Agggh! Waaah!” a high-pitched voice shrieked from below. At its call, I switched the direction of the winds to slow me down and searched for the source: a human woman carrying a crying younger girl, running from a group of five, bearing the same aura as Marcus. Though, unlike Marcus, their bodies were visibly rotting, and even from above, their skin appeared ashen and leathery. The fleeing woman was visibly injured, her limp pace too slow to outrun the inhumanly quick undead behind her.

I rushed below, not sparing a second, and landed between the two humans and the pursuers.

The undead leading in front, a woman in torn traveler clothes, with holes for eyes and rotten teeth, stopped and stared at me, as well as the four others. All of them stood at their place and gazed at me. And smiled eerily, with the very same eerie smile the undead Marcus had given me as I mercilessly cut him apart.

“Why?” The question of confusion escaped me without much thought. Why? Why weren’t they lunging at me, like they were with this woman with her child? And why did these empty, hollow things look at me so?

Those were questions I thought for only a moment, before I dashed forward. The blade of my now unsheathed scimitar aimed at the magical core shining in her abdomen, and it pierced smoothly right through. The other four turned hostile as I retrieved my sword from the undead woman, dropping dead in front of me, and they sprinted haphazardly across the cobblestone road.

I examined them closely: one with a core in his left shoulder, one with it in his right thigh, one in the middle of his chest, and one right in the middle of her head. They were approaching me fast. But I could be much quicker than them.

“[Icicle]” At the word’s utterance, from clear, liquid water materialized by magic, four thin icicles crystallized and formed, and they took aim at their targets. Quickly, one-by-one, I fired them, and each undead dropped dead, the one with the core in her head last; I steeled my gaze and tried to ignore the way her head collapsed and burst with blood and bone, the way her body jerked and twitched like a bug before stiffening to stillness, the realization still in the back of my head that this woman, once alive, and like the others attacking this city, was simply a victim.

The street became quiet and empty once more, except for the two behind me and the five corpses sprawled before me.

Corpses.

Like the ones I so vividly remember from my memories.

Dead, still, gray corpses littering the burning battlefield, lifeless faces staring up at me and at the sky, a revolting stench that made one sick to their very soul, humans killed by my own hand. And, on the other side, the corpses of demons, those under my charge, who had fought in my name, who had followed me to the continent of Nicaea for a supposed better life free of war… only to die in a war leagues away from their dear place of birth. Such sad sights were familiar to me. Or, rather, becoming more familiar as I recalled more memories over time.

Perhaps such memories I should be thankful for. Thanks to them, death was a sight I knew intimately well, and, as such, I had grown far too insensitive to it. I no longer needed to suffer like the innocent seeing such terrible sights for the first time. Though, was that really better?

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“T-thank you, you’ve saved our lives.” The woman with her child approached me and bowed. My eyes couldn’t help but notice the bloody scrape on her knee, with torn skin and blood dripping down her leg.

“No problem. Would you mind if I healed you, Mrs.?” I asked her as I cleaned my sword with a rag and sheathed it.

“Ah, you know healing magic? B-but the mana? You should save it for yourself, young man.” She shook her head and looked at me endearingly, like a mother.

“Nonsense. Please, stay still.” I knelt down and laid a hand on her, carefully avoiding touching her right on the wound. “Gather o benevolent spirits to heal wounds — [Heal]”

The woman and the child gasped as the wound started closing itself, the skin healing until there were not even scratches left. I stood back up and smiled at them.

“Are you wounded, too?” I asked the little girl holding her mother’s hand.

“Nuh-uh! T-thank you for healing M-mum!” she said, shaking her head, sniffling and crying.

“Then, you two should keep running. Make your way to the Southern Gate. And, further into this street, are guards who will keep you safe," I advised them and turned away to resume heading to the Eastern Gate.

“Thank you! I pray, Goddess bless your soul,” the woman said from behind me. My lips curved upwards in a smile at the blessing she gave me. In no world would their Goddess, if she were true, bless my wicked soul.

As I sprinted through the streets, getting closer to the ominous presence my mystic eye was seeing, the buildings around showed signs of their inhabitants’ messy departure. Doors were left open, revealing homes upturned before those who lived there left. The area was dead silent except for the unintelligible noise in the distance. And the noise was only getting louder the further I kept running along.

I realized what the sound was when I got close enough: the collective cries of the undead. It had a tragic melody. It resounded through the darkness like a requiem for themselves and for the city.

And its singers were now in front of me. A large group of undead dominated the street, though instead of walking through, they were huddled close. Like with the undead before, they paid me no mind. The street was stained with dark blood, and unlike the eerie quiet sight mere minutes ago, the houses here had gone through a visible scuffle: destroyed doors and windows on the first floor, half-destroyed furniture in the streets, and, most alarming of all, corpses of armored guards on the streets.

I had thought I was alone until a barrage of arrows hailed down the group of undead, all of them piercing through their heads, yet only one of them dropping dead to the ground. There was a hooded figure up in the rooftops, a large bow in their hands and their cape swirling in the wind.

Not paying the figure much attention, I began conjuring a spell. The light of a star began building itself in my hand. With the destructive power of explosive fire magic, surely, even a horde of these sturdy things wouldn’t survive. It grew brighter, my concentration steady until something, or, someone stopped me.

“Aaaaaaah! Agggh! Help! Someone!” The bloodcurdling cry of someone buried behind the group of undead echoed through the air. And I realized much too late why the undead were huddled amongst themselves.

I stopped the spell and used the mana instead to cast something smaller and much less destructive. “[Fire Lance]”. The gathered lance of flame flew and exploded in a ball of flames engulfing several undead, and I rushed in, scimitar in one hand, estoc in another, trying to keep myself composed, though the continuing hair-raising cries of the man were enough to make me grit my teeth.

The undead who weren’t writhing and being burnt by the flames had turned their heads and were now upon me; the sight of so many, with all their cores, and their dark, foggy auras, was overwhelming but I kept my mystic eye open nonetheless.

One after another charging at me, followed by a slash from the scimitar and a stab from the estoc after another. Left hand after right hand after left hand, each motion hacking or piercing through an undead, and each motion causing another body to drop dead on the ground. But it wasn’t fast enough. Even as I cut through, extinguishing every core of every undead near me, the screams kept resounding through the air, turning more harrowing and ghastly and full of suffering with each cry.

“[Fire Lance]; [Fire Lance]; [Fire Lance]; [Fire Lance]; [Fire Lance]”

As I cleaved through the group of undead, I conjured [Fire Lance] endlessly, culling through the remaining around and incinerating them in flames. Those caught by the spell recoiled and agonized, dancing terribly while aflame, as if they felt the pain of fire scorching their very being. But I knew they weren’t feeling pain. I knew it. In a situation like this, it was better to think so.

With a storm of spilled blood and mutilated corpses, after killing every undead standing in the way, I had cut through to reach what interested them. An older man on the ground lay in a puddle of blood, struggling, while a group of undead were atop him.

I charged in and killed the remaining undead as quickly and efficiently as I did the others with the swift movements of my blades.

“Haah…” I let out a heavy breath as the last undead fell. I put my swords back in their sheathes and looked all around. No one else stood on the bloodstained street except for me. No undead, and no people. Even the cries of the man victim to the undead had become more silent, turning from panicked screams to pained whimpers. I eyed the man sadly.

A particular scent rose and made its way to my nose, and for some reason, it made me want to chuckle. Perhaps, it wasn’t due to the smell itself, but due to the fact that I recognized it so well and so quickly. It attested to the vividness that characterized my dreams, or, rather, my memories.

It was intense, with many qualities: acrid, putrid, nauseating, yet also somewhat distinctly sweet, so many conflicting profiles that hung onto my nose. I knew I wouldn’t forget about it for days. It was the familiar stench of burned corpses.

This scent was why I preferred using my Black Flames as Demon King Malachi. The Black Flames left no trace of existence, while regular flames left such a terrible sight with a bitter aftertaste.

The shuffle of calculated footsteps rang out behind me, and I turned my head towards it. The hooded figure from the rooftops had descended to the streets and approached me. Through enhanced eyes, I recognized Metis, level headed and stone faced, though when her eyes wandered over to the still-alive man on the ground, her calmness faltered for a split-second.

“Luqa.” I quietly nodded my head at her short greeting, and turned my eyes back on the man, whose panicked eyes were on me.

“Y-you… You know magic… Please… Help me…” he groaned. Tears streamed down his pained face, and I crouched beside him. His clammy hand reached out to me as if his life depended on it. Though his voice was quiet and his face was distorted in pain, I recognized him as the receptionist who had turned me away at the Mage Guild. Though, I could hold no grudge against him. Not in such a situation like this. “Heal me… Or get someone who can do it…” he said, through long, troubled breaths.

“Don’t worry. I’ll heal you,” I said, taking his hand to comfort him.

“Luqa?” Metis was behind me. She placed her hand on my shoulder. “How can you—”

“Silence. Please,” I whispered to her.

“Thank you… Thank you…” the man cried. His tears never stopped flowing, and despite the pain, he smiled widely, looking at me as if I were his salvation. As if the Goddess truly blessed my soul, and I, an angel to pass the blessing on to him.

“Gather o benevolent spirits to heal wounds — [Heal]” I chanted.

“Ah… I can already feel the pain going away.” He squeezed my hand and eyed me proudly. “You truly are... a great mage. I should have welcomed you to the Mage Guild. Next time, I’ll… welcome you with open arms as a true mage.”

“Don’t worry about that, mister,” I said, returning his smile.

“Ah… Thank you…” He closed his eyes, relishing the pleasing, warm sensation of healing magic. It was a sentiment I understood; experiencing healing magic was like the warm embrace of a mother. Though I might've have thought so because my first experience of healing magic as Luqa came from Clara, her soft, gentle embrace around me as she stroked my head gently and healed minor scratches. I chuckled under my breath as an absurd thought sprung to my mind: Maybe giving him an embrace would make my healing even more effective. If only that were true.

“You’ll be fine now, mister. You'll be... fine.” I tried to keep my emotions steady as I felt his grip slacken in my hand and his body become completely still. No matter my abilities, I wasn’t great of a mage enough.

He was dead.

At least his closed eyes made him seem at peace, even if mutilated and burned undead corpses surrounded him, even if he had completely lost everything below his waist, his torso ending in a bloody stump.