The silence was deafening.

Arten coughed in discomfort and looked around, but no one met his eyes. Sunday felt something was wrong. His palms were growing itchy again, which was a bad sign. For someone.

“There’s no map,” Arten said.

Sunday stared at him, then grinned. “I see. You might be confused. You’ve been through a lot.” He nodded sagely and with compassion. “You need a rest. Surely, I didn’t do all that for nothing.”

Arten sighed in defeat and some of those around shuffled in discomfort. Was that guilt written on the man’s face? Or was this an elaborate joke?

“I was told there was a way out of the swamp and you know it. That someone here knows it. There has to be.” Sunday closed his eyes and then opened them suddenly, looking around with his best impression of a pissed-off old man.

I was too nice. I helped too much. I didn’t beat up enough people. Or at least, it was not public enough. I should’ve known better. ‘Don’t be too nice or you’ll be sorry, kid’, Old Rud told me. And I still did it… Ah, to be cursed with bottomless altruism.

“Listen, I’m not trying to lie to you,” Arten said, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. Many nodded, but some stepped back widening the distance between themselves and Sunday. “We came here using a spell that is no more. A consumable of a very high grade – one of the clan’s emergency escape treasures.”

Consumable? That word certainly drew his attention. Were his spells consumable? Or were only some spells finite? The thought was quite worrying as that would shatter his current impression of things. Wasn’t that what being a mage was all about, after all – using spells multiple times without harming them? He could feel the spells inside of him benefiting from being in his soul space. Was he leading them to their doom? Jishu had called spells tools, but Sunday couldn’t agree.

He almost let the tirade of questions spill out. It was a hard-to-contain the wave pushing at the watergates that were his lips. However, he had other priorities. He glared at everyone some more. Glaring was a good option.

“It brought us here… or nearby at the very least. We found this abandoned village and made it our own. It’s an old ranun home, and some of them have confirmed it when they came to trade. It’s hard to understand, but... No one has actually been out of the swamp,” Arten continued.

No. This is bullshit! That old bastard chief said there were trade routes… a city a few days away.

“Hark knows a way out even if there’s no map,” a man spoke out. “We met a ranun who spoke our language and he traded for the information.” He was skinny and tall. Sunday almost didn’t recognize him without the accusing scowl. It was the same one whom Vela had mocked in their first meeting. The one who spoke of betrayers and traders of flesh.

“I know nothing of this,” Arten said.

“He didn’t want to tell you. Only him, Vela, and I knew. It happened one of the times you went to explore the swamp for spells. It was an insurance… if…”

“If what?!” Arten barked.

Sunday didn’t care about their drama. So, the chief knows something after all. “Bring the bastard here! Is he in any shape to speak?” He yelled out putting out whatever fires were starting between the two. He was done with the village’s internal strife.

No one responded. The ‘prisoners’ were securely bound and stuffed into the same shack Sunday had fallen into. It was a convenient place. They had deemed it necessary for the young boy to remain there too, bound until it was known whether any of the divine corruption remained. Sunday didn’t know what that entailed, and he hadn’t cared until now.

On his request and after some murmurs the now former chief was brought out. Hark seemed conscious even if a bit out of it. His one eye was veiled and distant.

“Hey,” Sunday called out and crouched next to him. He hoped there would be no hulking out this time around. Without essence, his abilities were limited to his fighting experience and some amazingly accurate slaps. Let’s think out of the box once again, shall we? This world isn’t normal, and I’m not normal either.

Slapping had other uses too… educational mostly, but sometimes also therapeutical… I’m turning into a monster.

He swung either way.

It was a soft slap. A slap one would do while trying to wake someone from deep drunken slumber, or unconsciousness. An appropriate slap for the situation. Sunday didn’t like the feel of it. He repeated a few times under the silent gaze of the crowd. It seemed whatever he was doing was having quite an effect on them. He saw quite the mixture of expressions. Are they… afraid of me?

Only a few of the younger ones were gripping spears this time around, and they were looking at their bound friends with enmity bordering on hate. Sunday was sure they wouldn’t need much of an excuse to start poking holes.

He focused on the slap again. It was a talent, right? Talents were not simple. Jishu’s talent allowed the undead to control a horde of nasty ghouls who were ready to throw their lives down for him at the drop of a thought.

Let’s see then.

“This might get ugly, but bear with me, alright bud?” Sunday said to no one in particular. The crowd shuffled in discomfort once again, and even Arten seemed hesitant. Afraid, huh? Good! It’s about time I rise in the world. Behold the beginning of my legend!

The next slap was not as gentle, but it felt wrong too. Sunday used his other hand this time and made sure to observe and feel the whole movement and the final connection. It was not hard to do the motion and aiming it felt natural, even if his target was sat on the ground and out of it. He wasn’t trying to put his whole weight into the slap. He was trying to get the special feeling that had been present a few of the previous times. A slap that transcended the simplicity of hitting someone.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Sunday wanted to slap the man’s mind and soul awake, rather than his face.

He lost himself in his experiments, ignoring the soft gasps coming from some of the villagers or the bloodlust radiating from others.

The slaps echoed one after the other, each different and unique, each a bit closer to the truth.

“Show!” “Me!” “The!” “Way!” Sunday chanted with each hit.

“I-I think that’s…” Arten began, after swallowing nervously.

“Why’s the demon slapping Uncle Chief?” a voice interrupted. It cut through the rhythm of dead flesh striking dead flesh and the murmurs of the villagers. Sunday’s hand paused mid-swing and he straightened his back to see little Pearl stand on the edge of the gathering. They shared a look for a few moments.

“I’m not a demon,” he said calmly.

“Really?” The disappointment was evident as if she had hoped he would finally agree he was, in fact, a demon.

“Yes.”

“Pearl!” Arten yelled out and rushed for the girl. She was flanked by one stone-faced old woman from before. Arten seemed to trust her above most.

“Uncle!”

The reunion was sweet and lasted for a while as Pearl threw a myriad of questions at Arten, who struggled to keep up. That was good. It truly looked like he cared for the child. Sunday had been worried he was helping just another person looking to exploit her unique lineage. He didn’t want to burden himself with the fate of a child, so soon after dying and being reborn. He wanted to live.

He turned toward the chief again and swung with a smile on his face. He loved happy endings.

The slap felt better now that some of his worries were gone. He was surprised at the relief the sight of little Pearl brought to him. The chief mumbled something and for a moment his single eye focused.

“Uncle said to do it with more feeling!” Pearl’s voice came once again.

Sunday turned toward her and then looked at Arten who shook his head with raised eyebrows.

“Which uncle?”

“The one from my dream! He told me…” She scrunched up her brow and rubbed near one of the small horns on her forehead. “He told me…” she puffed up her chest and tried to make her voice deeper, “Tell that oaf to put some feeling into it!”

Sunday’s body shivered from a cold only he could feel. There was no blood in his veins, but it had become a popsicle.

The slapman? The one who slapped away a mountain? He can speak through others? Is he real? Is he watching me? This is ridiculous… Is it because of her blood? Of course… if the hounds are real then those who gave me all the gifts I have are real too. Will they come to gather interest one day? Shit.

Sunday chased away the worrying thoughts. Nothing I can do about it now. Better go with the flow. He took a breath to calm his nerves, observing the path of the air into his crypt of a body. Then turned toward the chief again, “More feeling, huh?”

Arten was looking worriedly between Pearl and Sunday and tried to whisper something to the girl but she only shrugged him off and came closer to watch. There was a glint in her eye. She was not one bit worried that Sunday had been slapping the hell out of the chief. She seemed too curious about the violence. No one stopped her, despite the villagers exchanging worried looks. It’s all they were good at doing.

More feeling doesn’t necessarily mean more force. Perhaps it’s all a matter of desire. I could’ve been done by now if those fucks weren’t so keen on watching my every move and I had the time to recover some essence. Sunday thought, not allowing himself to be distracted.

He let some of the frustration bubble to the surface but shook his head. This was not it. This slap was not meant to be one of anger. He also didn’t feel like trying to use essence was correct either.

Looking at the undead he felt only pity and the selfish desire to escape the swamp. Even Jishu had been convinced they knew a way out. Unless everyone was fucking with him, which would’ve been unwise considering the way he was acting, then the chief before him was the answer.

The Smash Ball had already damaged the undead man quite a lot, and the orbital socket looked a bit fractured. So did the neck. Thankfully the eye was fine. Maybe I should heal him?

The movement was smooth. Sunday did put a bit of hip in it, but not his whole weight. It hit lightly, but the undead’s neck cracked as his head snapped to the side. Did that fix it? His eye focused and he lifted his head slowly, only to be met with Sunday’s cruel smile.

“I’ll be damned. Thanks, little Pearl. You know, you will make a fine demon,” Sunday grinned.

Pearl seemed to glow at the compliment and smiled widely, “Really?” then she scowled again. “But you said you weren’t a demon!”

“I don’t have to be one to know you’d be amazing as one.”

That placated the girl and she allowed Arten to pull her back. The chief remained silent, probably aware of his situation. There were no hints of green remaining on his leathery skin, but Sunday still didn’t think removing the bindings was a smart decision.

“So which way?” Sunday asked.

The chief looked at him, “W-tgah-rrt?” he rasped. No words came out of his mouth. Is he having trouble breathing? His neck is still looking a bit odd.

Sunday lightly tapped his cheek again, “Which way out of the swamp?”

That seemed to confuse the undead more as he made a bunch of unintelligible noises. Sunday frowned. Maybe I should slap him some more? Try to fix whatever’s broken. Juggle his memory?

“Give him some time. Take a breather,” Arten said softly.

Is he afraid of me too now? He better be. However, he’s right. I’m impatient. I better get some essence and heal him or he might die from all the slapping. Sunday took a calming moment and stepped away. He pointed at the community hall which at this point served as his private space. “I’ll be practicing. Don’t disturb me.”

“Can I come?” Pearl asked.

Sunday opened his mouth but saw Arten speak softly to the inferni girl. She nodded with reluctance. It was for the best for her to stay away for a while. At least until he was back at full strength.

He closed himself in the community hall without a further word. The Black Breath came slow to him as if the surrounding essence was thin and unwilling to join him in his practice, and the frustration he felt didn’t help. His mind was assaulted by stray thoughts. It took him most of the night to finally fill up his soul space due to the constant distractions. About twice as slow as it usually went – a statement to the importance of mindset.

The Smash Ball was looking a bit different, which worried him. It didn’t greedily drink essence like the Omen of Duality. Even Phantasmal Fall had finally taken in a small amount, and the purple mote shone brighter than ever, in contrast with the ball. Did it take time for the spell to warm up to him, or to get acquainted with his essence? Or was the Black Breath not a suitable art for the spell? Did each one have a personality?

He was tempted to check up on the notes he carried as a way to center himself. There was a lot though, and it took time to decipher what the crazy hermit had meant when he had written them down. Often one’s thoughts were a mystery even to their creator after some time had passed.

The first page took him nearly an hour, and he was only left more frustrated at the end. Even the book on ghoul breeding looked to be more pleasant. Sunday was not great at learning on his own. What he had achieved so far had felt natural, and easy, but that seemed to be the end of that path. He highly suspected it had to do with the Yew Tree’s Blessing, which was the vaguest of them all.

The paper covered in tiny words was heavy in his hand and weighted down his mind too. But this was a path to power, and Sunday was never one to give up advantages or slack when there was an opportunity before him.

So what if he was bad at studying without guidance? He would just have to get better.

His palm itched in impatience again, but he ignored it.