The Yew Tree stands tall against the storms of madness and keeps you safe from corruption of the mind and poison of the soul. Eternal. Immortal. Unbowed. How will you use this opportunity? Will you waste it as so many before you? As you’ve been wasting others?

Know, that you’re favored by the rites of eternity. Know, that your body is crafted by the desires of eons past. Know this, and find yourself, wretch.

Or fall into oblivion, as so many before you…

Accept the black sands that come to you brought by a daughter of death. Be one with this world, and usher in a new age.

The narrator’s words echoed oddly personal… Someone was angry with him, or the situation he was in.

Sunday shuddered. A second heartbeat passed through and out of him and countered whatever was happening in the hole of twisted chaotic energy. It was calling to him. It needed something from him—something he didn’t want to give.

The Prophet grew mad yet again but the empowered Baron was somehow holding his own, while Mera was supporting him from the side. The shower of spikes and blades of Mesmer Steel was never-ending, but whatever other effects the strange spell she was fused with had, they were worthless against someone like the Prophet.

Sunday tried to calm down. The Yew Tree’s Blessing was the most mysterious of them all, and it too, wanted him to do something. It had protected him. For some reason, it stood above the likes of the Hunter, or the one who had given him Chaotic Step in his mind. It was something else, like a force of nature grown sentient, even if it was a simple tree.

But what could Sunday do? What did he have, apart from the one talent that worked in his favor, and his spells? His body was exhausted, his mind sluggish, and his hope to do anything nonexistent. What sands were they speaking of? He could remember that hall where he was given the gifts. A desert of black sands…

Then what?

What do you want me to do, you bastards? What?! I can’t control those gifts you’ve given me!

“I CAN’T!” he screamed, then tried to pull at his talents in futility.

The vortex in the middle pulsed yet again, but Sunday found the world around him buzzing and resisting the force that seemed to affect everyone else. A layer of infuriating static. A layer of absolute chaos that kept him safe. Had he done that?

He half expected himself to be whisked away, but then it was gone, and he doubled over on the ground, trying to resist the forces wishing to consume him. He felt something thud to the side and saw a shower of Mesmer Steel rain upon the world as Mera was struck down from the air. She rose quickly, but half her body was patched up with the strange material she commanded, her flesh gone and broken.

Then another attack smashed her against the wall.

The Baron and the Prophet were currently above her in strength, but whatever was fueling the strange servant of the Divine, it was not something lesser and worthless like the one from the swamp had been. Vera was just a taste. A small joke. A little nobody. This was no foolish being, or at least Sunday didn’t think so.

The flesh around the Prophet exploded once again and wrapped around the Baron, who tore at it with madness akin to that of a rabid wolf. Despite that, he was slowly being overwhelmed by the seemingly inexhaustible energy. Few tendrils, sleek and fast, came for Sunday.

They crushed the remnants of the crystal coffin he was hiding behind, wrapped around him, and he screamed and fought. His sword was drawn and instantly dropped. His essence was frozen in his chest, and spells were unable to be reached.

He saw from the corner of his eye the Baron get stabbed through the chest and then pushed to the ground, by a ton of moving flesh.

“The last ingredient. I was one, they were two and three, and you, chosen are the fourth. Tell me, what will your soul give birth to as it is ground into stardust and made whole again? Hm? Do you rejoice, that your quest ends so soon? That your death will help the very Gods you so foolishly oppose? Or do you suffer, burning in anguish? Ah—tell me. Tell me! TELL ME!”

Sunday screamed as he was dragged above the hole. His limbs were pulled to the side as if about to tear him to pieces and drop him slowly into the vortex. There was anticipation in the air. He could feel the chaos inside himself resonate with the one coming from the swirling colorful darkness below. Was he supposed to jump?!

The Prophet tried to laugh, but then choked and screamed.

“What are you doing?!”

A door opened and a body flew through it, straight into the face of the Prophet. It was shrugged off and Sunday’s eyes widened as he recognized the damned undead from the library. He was broken and blinded, bones sticking from him as if he was a porcupine.

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“I did it, see! Leave me be now!” he screamed. How could he even speak, in such a state?

Then the flesh around Sunday exploded into pieces, and he was thrown backward into the wall by a stony hand. A presence descended upon the hall, and even the swirling darkness seemed lesser because of it.

A woman, beautiful, but also the angriest woman Sunday had ever seen, stood before him. Her back was turned toward the Prophet, but as soon as the fleshy protrusions tried to reach her, they were cut apart by movements too fast for the eye. She didn’t even turn to look at the one responsible.

“Are you the one?” she asked.

The seeker has found its charge…

Sunday’s eyes barely fluttered as she kicked him to the side. A tendril carved through the stone floor in the next moment, and she cut it into pieces with a seemingly single swing. How did that work?

“Are you the one I’m looking for, bastard? Speak!” she repeated.

Sunday struggled up. Everything ached. It wasn’t supposed to ache! He was undead for God’s sake!

“I think—I think might be. Am I as handsome as you thought?” he asked.

Stupid jokes. Fuck! The ones seeking for me… The ones who wanted to find me. Well, good fucking timing! She’s strong…

A hand wrapped around his throat and lifted him, while the other held up a pouch.

“A loose outsider, roaming the world. It’s a miracle you haven’t been lost already. I guess I have some bastards to thank for taking care of you in the meantime. I think I was supposed to feed this to you. Or not? I’m sure it will work out. I’m no good at following directions.”

Her fingers pried Sunday’s mouth open as if he was naught but a weak pet in the hands of a monster, and she tilted the pouch.

He wanted to scream, to curse, to fight, but he couldn’t do anything. It was worse than being in the grasp of the Prophet. It was worse than the agency Chaotic Step took away. It was worse than all the random directions he had been thrown toward day and night since coming to this shitty world.

Dust coated his tongue and then melted into essence. Something like essence at the very least. A warm energy that didn’t energize him nor did it harm him. It was a sip of warm tea. Not ash. Not dirt.

And then… it was bliss.

It reminded him of that first and last sip of alcohol Riya had given him. The sensation was a bit similar, but many times stronger. It was not memories of better times, of small pleasures he had lived. It was a wave of relief as if he was finally home after a gruesome week.

It was the warmth of the sun, all for him. It was the softness of the green grass. The thumping of a core deep beneath the earth.

Home.

This was his home.

And someone… someone was trying to tarnish it.

Wonder and rage, unbound and unyielding permeated Sunday’s soul as he was let go. His feet found solid ground and the narrator excitedly spoke in his mind yet again. A different voice. A familiar and welcoming one.

The final wretch is welcomed by the shattered world, and an old era begins anew! Rage, undying, for what had been and what was lost! Rage, for the gifts you’ve been deprived of for so long! Awaken to the power! Awaken to yourself! Awaken to the call of legends!

Awaken, and tear down the false gods daring to stand before you!

Sunday bared his teeth. He could feel the fatigue going away, and his body being energized by the very stone he was threading on. His essence was churning, and his spells were impatient. But there was also… something else. More words.

The Hunter turns away. His job is done for the moment. He deems you the weakest, but now it is not his place to punish you. You are your own. The insults you’ve given, however, will be remembered…

A young master slaps his knee and yells ‘Finally!’ as he stretches an open palm and tries to grab a star.

A smile. A frown. A story that brings tears and awe. A whisper in the wind that takes over myriad ears. Fables care not for homes. Fables care not about being welcomed. But at least now, your name will spread further now that you truly belong.

A face of chaos and darkness stirs somewhere far away. Perhaps now, you will finally shut up about their gift and learn to use it.

The Yew Tree’s leaves move gently upon nonexistent wind. It stands stall and eternal, and it awaits you to take what it has given.

“What have you done, witch?!” The Prophet screamed.

Sunday looked at everything as if it was his first time seeing the world. The colors, the vibrancy, the air itself. Stale and warm under the ground and surrounded by stone, and yet so pleasant.

“You’re no longer an outsider,” the woman said. “Now, you can finally do the job you’ve been sent to do. I’ll only help if the Divine involve themselves further. Two gods with one Prophet. Foolish. This one’s weak though. He’s faking his power and has only two spells. A pathetic undead pretending to be human... Fallen magi, especially ones so young, are only terrifying to the weak. You’re not weak.”

The flesh flowed, reading an attack, but for some reason Sunday didn’t care. There was a constant buzz around him now, as if Chaotic Step was only awaiting for him to move. To will it.

As for the woman, she was by far the scariest thing in the hall. Bar none. Sunday could feel that more than ever. All of this… the talk of ranks and power… all of it was empty. This city was a hollow remnant of something else.

“What was that sand?”

The woman smiled. Her smile was so vicious it made his newfound rage flicker and hesitate. So beautiful it made him want to frame it.

“The dust of dead gods,” she whispered. “Now go, and fight. You should have a few talents. You’ve walked this world as an outsider far too long. There’s value in that. The initial rush of being accepted by the realm will be the strongest and afterward, you’ll weaken. Make use of it. Seek out what hides in the opportunities you’ve been given. Do NOT disappoint me, alright?”

Sunday nodded. He didn’t want to disappoint her, because he didn’t want to see her angrier than this. Even now his rage was but a candle flame before a volcano. He opened his mouth again but a look made him reconsider. Questions were for later then. This is all so weird… Let’s see now.

Sunday stepped.

The world didn’t spin, nor did it disappear. Rather it was Sunday that fell apart only to come together close to the Prophet. A billion of him—chaotic little pieces that tore through space. He could be anywhere.

His palm shot out in the next moment, but he didn’t slap. Rather, he grasped the back of a head. The flesh parted for him as if afraid to touch him, revealing the human face beneath. And it too, twisted as his fingers reached the skin. Not human. Undead pretending to be human.

A falsehood. A pathetic longing. A lie given by a Mad God.

Enthusiastic laughter echoed in Sunday’s mind and he smiled too, then struck with his other hand.

Now this… was a slap.