The community hall was just a larger barn-like building made the same way as the huts. It was near the small shed where Sunday had fallen coming to this world. It was not built on supports rising above the water like most of the huts, but the earth around it was dry as can be – a testament to Arten’s hard work.
There was also another makeshift brazier near it and Arten once again used his spell on the herbs and stopped the fire.
The doors of the building were closed, but not barred. He kicked them open and Sunday followed behind, ready to call on all of his spells if need be. The sight inside shocked him enough that for a moment he forgot himself.
Rough tables and chairs were pushed aside to free the center of the wooden floor. The shutters of the netted windows were wide open so there was plenty of light. Arten’s light had a strange way of pushing away at the green vapor too. The chief that had sent Sunday away stood kneeling in the center, along with a few more villagers. One of them was the small boy who had been with little Pearl. He was weeping quietly next to his dad and mom, and a few others, who were kneeling the same as Chief Hark.
The green vapor was much thinner in the place, but they all still bore different skin lesions and wounds. It was not as bad as the ones on those outside though. Only the chief looked fine, his dry dead skin having turned slightly green. He looked bonier though. They didn’t seem to have their movements restricted and as one they turned to look at the intruders.
At the head of the strange scene stood the dark-skinned woman who had given Sunday the bag of herbs. In a sharp contrast to everyone else, she looked positively radiant. Where the marks and wrinkles left by time marred her skin before, was only glistening smooth skin as if she had just left an amazingly effective spa treatment.
However, her beauty lasted only a brief moment. Her features twisted into an inhuman smile that gave the ghouls a run for their money. Her hands rested on little Pearl’s shoulders. The girl’s eyes were vacant and she seemed nonresponsive. There were no wounds or any sight of what the others were suffering. A thin trail of blood was dripping from one of her arms and onto a chalice at her feet, however. ‘Chalice’ was a strong word, as it was a tin cup bent to look like one – probably the best the villagers had come up with.
“So, you made it,” Vela said holding on to the twisted smile stretching her features. “Just in the nick of time, like the hero you like to pretend you are. Did you wait outside for the right moment? Hm?”
“Vela, you crazy witch, what the fuck have you done?!” Arten screamed, tearing off the cloth he had used to cover his mouth. “Who is it? Who did you pray to?!”
Vela’s eyes turned sickly green at a moment’s notice and Sunday was sure he would’ve vomited right then and there if it wasn’t for the fact that there was nothing to vomit. Maybe some leftover swamp water.
“Don’t worry. There is enough grace to go around. The Divines are seldom stingy with their gifts. As for who… the one you told me about of course. I prayed for beauty... and strength.” She let go of Pearl, but the girl didn’t react. “I prayed to Tezzith.”
The name sent another jolt through Sunday’s mind. It echoed as if trying to take hold of the synapses in his brain before it nestled itself somewhere deep, where even he couldn’t reach it. It made the air shudder and the very space around the word twist as if mentioning it alone held power beyond what was natural for the universe. It was a sickening, corrupted, and wrong sensation. He was sure it was the first time he heard that name, but he didn’t like it. Not one bit.
“Let her go!” Arten yelled and took a step forward. The man sounded both desperate and furious – a combination promising bad decisions.
Sunday put a hand on Arten’s shoulder and held him back. It didn’t take much as the sight of Pearl was enough to make Arten hesitate. He couldn’t possibly kill everyone with the rusty broken sword alone and save her at the same time. Could he?
“Hey, yes. Sorry to interrupt. You don’t think you can give me a map out of the swamp so I can get out of your hair, do you?” Sunday asked.
“You –” Arten turned to him with horror. Calm down, moron.
“See, I fell from the sky. I wasn’t lying. And I brought the guy,” he pointed his thumb at Arten without looking at him, “to get on your good side, of course. I don’t care what you all are doing here. Frankly, it is none of my business. I just want to fuck off away from the swamp.”
It was as if Vela was seeing him for the first time. It took Sunday a lot to hold onto the sickly green gaze that seemed to be glowing brighter by the minute.
“You’re interesting,” Vela said.
“Oh, thank you, you’re quite charming yourself. So, what about that map?”
Vela smiled wider and took a step forward. Wordlessly Chief Hark stood up and took her place behind Pearl. A dagger glinted dangerously in his hand.
“Hark, how can you let this happen?” Arten pleaded.
“He can’t hear you. He’s… busy,” Vela said. Her face had returned to normal now, and in her current state, she was quite pretty. Sunday felt like projectile vomiting straight in the crazy bitch’s eyes.
“You want to leave?” she asked him.
“You traitorous scum, I trusted you!” Arten screamed. The sword was gripped in his hand tight, but his eyes were jumping from the dagger in Hark’s hand to Vela.
Sunday once again ignored him. Vela was a few feet away from him now. The rest of the villagers in the room stood up too, only the boy seemed hesitant and in control, but his parents dragged him along. There were about six in total, not counting the boy, Vela, and the chief.
Vela looked Sunday up and down. “That can be arranged. I certainly wouldn’t want to fight an unknown mage. Strange, you weren’t a mage when you left the village. How did that happen?”
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“Oh, it’s a long story. I’m sure you don’t have the time with all of your… beauty routines,” Sunday smiled.
“You’re right. We need to complete the sacrifice so that we can leave uncertainty and fear behind us. Then we can truly appreciate the beauty of this world. Why don’t you stay and join us? We can speak after. I promise it will be worth your while.”
Sunday barely stopped his eye from twitching. “I think I’m good. I’m more of a cuddle-with-the-cat and stay-at-home kind of guy. Different vibes, you know. Thanks though. I just want a map so I can find a city and a pub.”
Vela once again smiled – a human smile this time, nothing twisted. She came closer and closer and Sunday tensed.
“We can have so much fun though. You… are important,” she purred.
Arten took a deep breath and stepped toward her, but the villagers blocked his way. He hesitated to strike at them, not that Sunday believed the rusty metal in the man’s hand would do much. They do look awfully weak though.
“I don’t want to hurt you guys!” Arten pleaded.
Sunday wanted to slap him first and foremost. I swear there’s one brain cell in this whole place and they’ve probably dropped it in the shitter by mistake.
Vela was almost in front of Sunday, and she barely managed to react as something round shot out of Sunday’s palm.
The Smash Ball missed her head, and Vela’s face stretched unnaturally once again – as if she were a snake that was about to swallow her dinner. Sunday winked at her.
There was a thump behind as the ball curved and found its target – Hark’s one remaining eye. The undead’s head whipped back with a nasty crunch, like a dry wig being broken in two, before he fell on his back and remained still. That angered the woman and she screeched – a ghostly sound that reminded Sunday of one of Old Rud’s love interests – a nasty old fast food manager and a part-time drug dealer.
“You will p—”
The improvised bat Sunday was carrying found the side of her head with another loud crack, interrupting the usual nonsense villains spouted when things went wrong. It didn’t do much and Vela snarled as she lunged for him. He tried to swing again but she was ready this time, and easily blocked his strike. The branch broke in two as it met her hand and Sunday stepped backward toward the open door, staring at the useless wood in his hand.
Is she on magical steroids or what?! I need to commission a good bat when I find the time.
Vela quickly followed after him. There was no sign of damage on her pristine skin.
“You dare deceive me–”
It was Sunday’s turn to close the distance. The slap found her face like a homing pigeon would find its home. There was a force in the attack that was different than anything else. He knew it hurt her, even if it left no mark. A slap was, after all a special thing. It left marks beyond the mere sting of flesh. She had felt it, despite her divine strength.
She responded with a punch. Sunday barely managed to raise his hand in time to protect his head as he was sent down by the force of her attack. Swatted down like a fly into the ground.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Arten locked in a struggle with the villagers. He seemed to have no issues throwing them around… however, the man was a fool to the end, refusing to hurt them as they kept trying to hold on to him. He sure talked a big game before.
Sunday cursed him in his mind as he scrambled up. There was a whoosh as the Smash Ball shot out from where it had fallen on the floor. It rammed Vela on the side of the stomach. The force made her take a few shaky steps to the side, but other than that it only winded her a little bit.
The spell fell on the floor and rolled away. Sunday had assumed he would just shoot rubber balls at everyone but that didn’t seem to be the case. He had distinct control over the Smash Ball now that he had summoned it, and he could direct it and charge it, but it took concentration and essence.
He was barely back on his feet as Vela reached him again. She swung, and he ducked only to try and clock her in the chin. At the last moment, his hand involuntarily opened and he slapped her instead. She winced and seemed genuinely hurt. And so did he. What the fuck?! Can’t I fight normally anymore?
“I’m not sexist!” Sunday followed with a punch to her gut. His fist cracked dangerously and he yelled out in pain - it felt like hitting a wooden wall.
Vela grinned again.
“You should tell me your ab routine,” Sunday smiled back. She kicked him in the stomach and whatever swamp water and air remained in his body were forced out as he flew backward and into the flimsy wall of the building.
“You mock me you foolish thing? Do you know what awaits those who oppose the Divine? There’s no escape, no mercy, no freedom. Your souls will be the slaves that will build the new kingdom, and all will worship at the altars we build.”
Sunday propped himself up against the wall and spat the liquid in his mouth. If I knew I’d be here slap-fighting cultists I’d have had Fatty just eat me.
“Have you heard… of therapy?”
Vela scowled, “What?”
The moment of confusion was what he needed. She tried to dodge but stumbled under the brief but potent effect of Phantasmal Fall. The following slap found her cheek with the most satisfying sound of them all so far, and the dark moth summoned in Sunday’s palm burst into a cloud of darkness that covered Vela’s head. Some of it healed his wrist, making it feel much better.
Vela screamed. She screamed as if she had been submerged in boiling water. The effect was similar as the moth burned the skin and flesh of her face. She’s still human after all.
Sunday followed with another moth charged slap. He almost went for a third but she was already going down, her face melting as if assaulted by entropy itself. It was not the damage as much as being unable to breathe that fell her. The moths did much less than they had against Jishu but one still needed a mouth or a nose.
As much as he loathed doing it, Sunday wasn’t fidgety about using his sword to stab her in the brain. Her movements ceased instantly. Something left her body as she visibly deflated. It was invisible, but it was there, and it was the source of all the disgust. A presence. A breath of foulness.
It was gone in but a moment… and Sunday felt better. A tiny bit stronger like back in the city. He frowned and ignored the feeling as a new type of disgust took root. He’d killed a human. It was a dull feeling that he quickly shelved.
Her death didn’t seem to fix the others. Sunday used another moth on his supposedly cracked rib, bringing his essence almost down to nothing and making himself dizzy. He passed by the Smash Ball and picked it up, letting it return to his soul space. The spell was tricky to use.
He then took a nearby chair and whacked the nearest villager in the back of the head, bringing him down. It turned out it was the little boy’s dad – the one who had held Sunday at spearpoint. Karma has many shapes.
Arten still hesitated before joining in Sunday’s crusade. They lacked Vela’s strength; they were even weaker than normal underfed humans who lived in swamps and prayed to shit gods, and they went down easy.
With that out of the way, Sunday checked on Pearl. He had no essence for more spells, and he didn’t know if they would affect her differently. She was not undead, but she was not human either.
“She’s fine, probably drugged,” he said and looked at the weeping boy. His wounds were lesser than those of the others, but he was still just a child. “Time to clean house? Remove that green bullshit, wake people the fuck up, and tie those you don’t trust while they can’t move.” He was being a bit bossy but he was past the point of caring about Arten’s feelings.
Sunday took another chair and lay Pearl on a clean table before sitting. He felt naked without his essence and a bit wobbly from the fight. He hadn’t kicked anyone’s ass that hard before. Jishu and the hound didn’t count.
“Don’t practice your art here,” Arten said, “There might be… danger.”
Sunday glared but didn’t respond. He had just murdered a human, and he felt fine.