Sunday was nervous. Not in the way a man stalking through an otherworldly city full of vampires, strange magic, and mad gods would be nervous – he was used to that. Well, the latter was a part of it perhaps. He was wary of running into any believers, worshippers, or annoying members of the Arcanum popping up and derailing everything yet again. Being holed up for a few weeks in the yard of the new brewery had made him a bit more sensitive when it came to the state of his peace of mind and plans.

However, he was mostly nervous because of how readily accepted they had been and how bloody appreciative everyone was. One would think that humans and undead alike would have a stronger reaction to people breaking into their homes, only to heal them. At least some sort of surprise— a shocked gasp, a yelp. Something.

The plan had been good on paper. The moth-infused wine was a great tool for it, as it left no traces nor impressions apart from what they purposely left. Sure, he had already gotten a few tips on improving the taste, but the sincerity and gratitude had gotten to him. Even the villagers in the swamp had been more reserved. There had been fear mixed in with gratitude there.

Frankly, the state of the stone labyrinth they were pushing through was worse than he had thought. Sunday had seen the gutters before, and they were nothing like this. His only previous experience in this place was when Elora had brought him to heal her friend. How wrong he had been to think this was an isolated case.

Blocks of stone with fewer windows than a jailhouse and worse conditions, at least on the inside, were stacked next to each other, creating a labyrinth of gloomy paths that all looked the same. The paths and the buildings themselves were oddly clean and lifeless as if scrubbed by magic to create a sense of discomfort. Each wall, each door, each cobblestone was placed in a way that made it look so ordinary, that it was difficult to tell where he had ended or where he had begun. A sea of hollowed-out cubes, filled with despair.

And in them, the worst cases of abandonment Sunday had seen, and he was an orphan. Oh, he knew Blumwin had a darker side, but in a single hour, he had seen more suffering than he had expected. Some obvious realizations came to him – things that should’ve been clear as day, and yet had slipped his Earth-bound mind.

Normal undead couldn’t heal unless placed in very specific conditions. Of course, healing magic was always an option, but altruism seemed a bit lost on the magi, and a high enough concentration of death essence was hard to find. Non-magi had a hard time utilizing essence well as if their very flesh was not efficient enough when it came to it.

And so, what had the city done when an undead had been too broken to continue their existence? They had stuck them in those blocks of stone to rot.

The hurt undead – those with broken bones who had lost the ability to move, were simply thrown away. Hatred for them was well and alive among the living, but it was subdued. Like an undercurrent, he seldom caught glimpses of because he was not just any other undead. He was different but different enough to be treated well.

He finally understood why this part of the city was known as the graveyard of the living dead. A name Kallus had mentioned one time in passing. It was a tragedy. So many minds locked into undead bodies that were too broken to move.

They were not eternal, of course. Undead needed to constantly absorb essence from their surroundings to continue existing, but that seemed to not be an issue for most in their daily lives. The essence in this place, however, felt stagnant. Unmoving and rotten. Even if it was a matter of years or decades they would all eventually fall apart. And until then, only madness awaited the trapped minds.

A breeding ground for worshippers. Any God who could bring them relief, or something to hold unto would make a killing here. This is dangerous. Sunday thought. He was baffled the city didn’t see it. All those he had met had seemed oddly competent, even if the last strange event in the Arcanum was still baffling. The whole ‘trial’ or whatever it had been was a mockery.

And there were some of the living among them. Sick, poor, and dying. They too were hopeless, and they too would latch on to any hope they found.

“This is amazing! I’ve never felt so alive!” Kallus exclaimed. He was propped up on the small wooden windbreak built over a heavy wooden door. It was too narrow for both legs, so he was waving the other without care or worry.

“Get down! Someone will see you!” Vyn hissed.

Sunday simply shook his head. He was too preoccupied with the discomforting thoughts and realizations running wild through his mind.

He didn’t mind Kallus. The point was for them to be seen after all, so for once the wight’s behavior was appreciated. Rumors didn’t become legends just because they were there. The stranger they were the more interesting they would be. And being interesting would allow the stories to travel far. Words were like a disease in a way. An unstoppable always evolving pandemic that could infect hundreds and then thousands in the span of days.

Hopefully, the gossiping culture of Blumwin was not lesser than it was back on Earth.

And yet, a part of him felt dirty. That was a rare thing, as Old Rud had often taught Sunday that there was no job too dirty if it brought along benefits, and Sunday had embraced that in his youth. From collecting garbage to being a janitor, or even working in some of the ‘shady’ companies that cleaned anything, no questions asked.

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This, however, was on a different scale. He was helping them all for fame. Profiting from a tragedy. Kallus, Vyn, and he left a few words each time they healed a person. Sunday had decided on ‘Remember the Savage Healer helped you,’ or variations of that. Kallus and Vyn had no issues with that, even if they didn’t know what the purpose of it was. It was his best title and the one he wanted to keep growing. The other two were situational and would eventually fizzle off.

“Quit yapping and let’s go,” he said.

His two companions listened. They respected him more now. He could see it in their eyes, see it in the way they acted around him, and even hear it when they spoke near him. Another odd feeling. In his past life, respect was tied to being useful or rich. Or making others fear you. Then again, fear was often a product of the other two.

They rounded a corner and Sunday struggled to guess if they had been down this road before or not. The buildings were all the same.

“It’s a new one,” Kallus helpfully said, then moved to unlock a door. Among other things, both Vyn and Kallus seemed experts when it came to lockpicking. Sunday still needed some practice with the locks of this world, but he was getting there.

Still, the door swung open easily, without needing the wight’s intervention. Most inhabitants of this district didn’t seem to care about locking their doors or closing the windows. Not that many could. Sunday imagined people just setting them on the bed, and leaving them there until… until what? Random chance brought someone like him here? Or they died.

He shook his head and entered. The sight was similar to the previous ones. Few dirty beds, a shoddy table, unused chairs, and not much more. There were two people in the room, both undead. Sunday stepped closer to the one who looked worse for wear and knelt next to the bed.

The man didn’t react other than follow him with his eyes. His skin was dry and cracked in places, and he looked every bit like a mummy from the movies. Only the eyes.

“It’s alright,” Sunday said. “I’m here to help.”

Pulling the covers almost made him gasp. The man was little more than bones. The skin was cracked, pealing away with the blanket. Sunday was afraid he had hurt him, but the man didn’t let out even a moan. Can he even? The wine won’t be much help here…

Sunday summoned two black moths, and let them gently dissipate over the man’s chest and lower body. He had been using the Omen of Duality for the major injuries and worse cases since it would’ve taken a lot of wine to treat most. Its effect was limited as the moths were essentially diluted into it.

The effect was instant as tissue moved, growing softer – but not too much – and reconnecting. The whole process was a miracle Sunday couldn’t get enough of. The experience had made him realize that the value of the moths was even larger than he had initially thought. It was a spell that gave everything, and he was sure the Arcanum would give near and dear to have control over it. And if not it, then of him.

He summoned two more moths and started moving away to check on Vyn and Kallus and their patient.

A bony hand grabbed his and Sunday instantly reached for his sword before stopping himself. The man’s arm was still a thin thing, but at least now it looked like an arm rather than something a dog had chewed on for the past year or so.

The man’s eyes were even more intense now. His cracked lips stretched into a smile, and Sunday smiled back, an uncomfortable warmth rushing through his stomach.

Then the man’s smile grew further, and further. Impossibly, his dry lips cracked, and the corners of his mouth split.

A chill took on the room and Sunday tried to pull his arm away. It didn’t budge.

“To finally meet,” an eerie, almost childish voice spoke. It had come from the man, but his smile was still on his face. However, his eyes were gone now, replaced by two orbs or swirling mist. “To finally meet like this, is an honor.”

Sunday felt as if his arm was in a vice, but he didn’t panic. His spells were responsive, and he fully believed that a slap could wipe the creepy smile. It could wipe any smile. He turned toward the Vyn and Kallus, but they were gone, and so was the one they had tended to.

“Who are you?” he asked, knowing the answer. Why here? Why now?

“I am but a humble servant…” the voice said, enunciating each word. It was coming from the mouth of the man, but it was not the man speaking. All he had was a smile. “I have come to this place, to this city long ago… Far before I knew of you and far before the one you call Joy knew of you.”

“The Prophet,” Sunday whispered.

“I am, but a Voice. A Voice of change. A Voice that brings Joy. And you are here to steal the Joy, to steal the faith, and the purpose we’ve been granted. We know who you are, chosen. A seed. A terrible, terrible thing. You’re not welcome. You’re not needed…” it paused. The smile grew yet again, becoming a grotesque mockery of one.

A seed? That’s a first. I’m getting tired of how many words they have for me…

“You fought so many of mine. I tried. I tried. You can join us, but your belief would be lost. Your faith is hollow as is your soul. Of another world, to protect that which needs no protection… Your brothers and sisters keep slaughtering us, keep seeking us out. You’re not welcome. You’re not needed.” It repeated. “Only you hide and run. Feed us your flesh. Give us a part of your soul. Kneel and become an Apostle of Joy. Higher than me. This is the path. The choice.”

It wants to eat me? That one near the village, the one that spoke, said similar things…

“An attractive offer, but surely you can do better. How about some sexy ladies, limitless booze, and a game of poker? Now that’s what I call irresistible.” Sunday said. His palm was so itchy it was almost making it hard for him to speak. He didn’t let the talent control him, though. It was his talent, and a gift was not supposed to be so demanding. “How about I pray instead? Tell me the true name of the one you serve.”

“Ah… no. A slayer shouldn’t pray. A slayer won’t pray. No. No.”

Sunday had half expected the Voice to rage, but it hadn’t. It almost sounded like it was smiling.

“If a slayer won’t kneel, then… a slayer will suffer. And all around him will know Joy. We’ll meet again, Sunday.”

Hearing his name spoken sent a jolt of anxiety through Sunday’s body, and he closed his eyes. The voice had changed at the end. It had almost sounded familiar. It couldn’t be. It was most likely a trick to make him doubt himself.

He looked down again, ready to put an end to it all.

“Thank you, thank you!” the man was saying, all signs of the smile gone, his eyes normal. His frail arm barely held on to Sunday’s wrist. Vyn and Kallus were back, hovering over the other bed, an empty bottle of healing wine next to them.

It seems I’ve been slacking with the hunting… I see why you’re pissed now, Mr. Hunter.