The more they advanced the more sketchy the explanation of how Hark had this knowledge seemed in Sunday’s mind.

A ranun who spoke the common tongue and knew a way out of the swamp had visited the village and shared the knowledge. Sunday was the first to admit he didn’t know a thing about the toad people. Maybe they did have the anatomy to speak like everyone else did. Arten hadn’t objected to the story and he was the linguistic expert.

However, how did one tell someone the way through a goddamned swamp? Was it as simple as pointing toward a direction? He eyed Hark who was silently walking a step behind. The former chief’s hands were bound in front of him with the thick robe that was tied around Sunday’s waist.

That seemed dangerous too. What if the guy was suddenly driven mad by divine inspiration and jumped off a cliff? Not that there were any cliffs nearby, but they’d be bound together. Still, it would be foolish not to try and pick the man’s mind while they were traversing the swamp.

“Why are you so afraid of death?” Sunday asked.

Hark didn’t respond for a while, but that was fine. It was a complicated question.

Eventually, the former chief spoke. “I died in my fifties. An accident. Trampled by the horses of some noble. Woke up in the Hall of Death, laid to rest with the corpses who had a chance to awaken in undeath.”

Not that I asked for your life’s story, but it’s not like I have anything better to do. A hall, huh? Smart. Who would want to dig up graves when those they were meant for would just crawl out in the end?

“I vividly remember the pain. The hooves breaking my bones. The darkness as I lost my eye. Undeath helped with a lot of that, but I lost my abilities as a mage, and my collarbone remained like this,” the moth hadn’t made it to the piece of collarbone that was sticking out of Hark’s chest. Can I fix this? I did heal Jishu from worse.

Hark continued, unaware of Sunday’s thoughts, “I was left bleeding and broken on the street. A newly awakened mage, on the way to the Arcanum and getting my first spell, and a place in the world. My life was on the verge of changing and then… it was over. The cold black that stole all my hopes, my dreams, my joy, and my warmth. I’m afraid of it. Who isn’t?”

“Makes sense. Kind of. Not enough to justify reaching out to weird gods but, I get you. I’ve had friends who fell even lower to escape less.”

“Oh? I thought you don’t remember much.”

“Don’t get smart with me. You’re still my prisoner.”

“It is hard to imagine there being something worse than worshipping the Divine in the eyes of others…”

Worship comes in many forms.

Hark fell silent as they continued. Occasionally, he would check the sky and point Sunday in the right direction. Sunday tried hard to understand how Hark was navigating the swamp to no avail. ‘The Sun’s light’ the chief had simply explained.

As darkness descended the temperature dropped and the familiar nightlife dwellers came out. Sunday was wary of silence now. Silence was bad – a herald of nasty things. Thankfully they didn’t run into anything more than a few large clouds of fireflies and noisy frogs. Mosquitoes were no danger to the two undead – a blessing that was probably worth more than anything else. There were also no ghouls, no toad people, and no hounds. The swamp at night was almost pleasant.

“What will become of me?” Hark eventually asked.

“I’m not a cold-blooded killer,” Sunday responded. Apart from the few times I was. Bashing skulls in, stabbing, melting faces, and feeling nothing about it. Maybe the life I led has desensitized me. Prepared me for whatever this is...maybe. Or is it just an excuse I’m looking for? “I’m not sure what happened in the village. What happened to that lady… Vela. What happened to you… I don’t know how dangerous you are.”

Sunday knew the general bits, and Arten had filled him in, but allowing the former chief to spin his own tales was good too. Sunday could compare his words to what he already knew and get a sense of the truth. Sieving through all the bullshit was how one got to the useful information.

Hark seemed to think things through before he explained as if Sunday was a child. “We prayed to one of the Divine. A minor one. Vela knew the name and the chant and led our actions. In return for the promised power and safety, we temporarily gave her our strength to connect to the Divine and offer it the child.”

“I see. Pretty straightforward, huh? Call and a mad god would answer, just as long as you got the name and the number.”

Hark didn’t respond to that.

“What did you learn from the experience?” Sunday stepped over a fallen trunk and waited for Hark to do the same, before continuing. The sound of running water slowly joined the rest of the swamp's night song.

“That we’re fools,” Hark eventually said.

At least he has learned.

Sunday suppressed a smirk. “How was it? The connection?”

“Painful,” the former chief whispered. “Glorious. To be a part of something… more. It almost made me wish I could remain like that forever. Then there was only weakness and haze as we became mindless slaves to a whisper of a will.”

“Vela.”

“I don’t know if she knew what would happen, but she welcomed our minds into hers and bound us. It felt wonderful if stifling. No worries, no need to act or think.” There was a bit of desire in the old undead’s voice that made Sunday worried. He was pretty sure just dropping down and praying wouldn’t do much. There was more to it.

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“Is it always like this? Contacting a divine?”

“I don’t know.”

Right. It’s not like he does it for a hobby.

The river soon appeared before them and Sunday paused, looking at its dark waters. It wasn’t cutting off their path, rather it curved and continued flowing down the direction they were going in the first place. He supposed it was the same river, although it was faster here, narrower.

“We follow the stream, downwards,” Hark said. “Are these necessary? It will be getting hard to keep my balance.” He lifted his bound hands and raised an eyebrow.

“I guess you can’t do much, can you? I hope that’s not a trick, but if it is I’ll make sure to reacquaint you with my palm. I need the practice.”

Hark cringed at that. The slapping had left a mark on the undead’s mind possibly even more so than the divine touch he had experienced. Sunday was sure the slaps hurt, even when they were light. They had hurt the possessed Vela too. As if the act itself was painful irrelevant to the strength behind it.

If spells were a finite resource, be it because they exhausted themselves or because they were limited by one’s essence, talents were like a spell that could be used over and over. However, they seemed much less straightforward than the spells, and even more complicated.

Sunday had five and was comfortably using only two – the golden page which had sounded like something all of those like him had, and the slap, which he was still a beginner in.

Despite the Yew Tree’s Blessing helping him out, he didn’t know anything about it apart from the fact it altered his awakening and soul space. It obviously hadn’t made him too special. He could only hold three spells compared to Arten’s two, and his essence was good for about four to five moth summons and some lesser spells, give or take.

I made quite a name for myself in the village… I wonder, will they speak of me? Will that toad lady tell tales of me to her people? It’s not like they didn’t see what I did, but if they misunderstood… I need to find the alone time to check. I don’t feel any different.

He was pretty excited. To have stories spread about his deeds and to gain strength out of it was somewhat poetic. The fact that the tales could be straight-up lies or exaggerations of what actually happened was reassuring too. All words got twisted given time, as people were unreliable sources at the very least and straight-up bullshitters when the attention of the crowd was on them.

Sunday sighed and turned around. In a swift motion, he drew the sword resting on his waist. He tried not to think how annoying it was to properly sheathe the blade afterward.

Hark froze, but the man’s one eye didn’t look away from Sunday. Rather, he raised his bound hands. Confident of your usefulness, are you? Or in my good heart? He was about to swing and remove the man’s bindings in one move before realizing that chances were he would cut a hand or two if he tried.

Feeling embarrassed he leaned forward and carefully cut the rope in the middle. It came apart easily enough and the undead rubbed his wrists.

“Thank you,” he said.

Sunday stared him down. “You asked what I’ll do to you once I see you haven’t lied.”

Hark nodded.

“I’ll let you go. I don’t care what you do. We all make bad choices and technically where I come from everyone worships something. Be it money, politicians, or gods, it doesn’t matter. Just don’t go turning into a monster and harming innocents. Deal?”

The undead’s one eye closed as he took a moment, probably in mild relief. What Sunday was offering was a better outcome than what had awaited the former chief back in the village.

“You’re a strange man. You have my eternal gratitude, as few would be as merciful as you. You can be kind, as you can be cruel. There’s great power in that.”

“Stop with the ass-kissing and move it,” Sunday snapped.

Following the river was simple in itself. Sunday stopped at times to scoop up a few of the dirt-repelling rocks he had found in his first days near the village. He only got three, but it was still something. They were tiny things and felt much different in his perception than other spells now that he had more experience. Not that he was running into many now.

He briefly remembered the frog that had escaped and cursed it in his mind. Spells were almost intoxicating to him. He wanted to know what they did, to know how they worked, and to feel the power he could unleash once they were his. The ones he had were great, but he didn’t see himself utilizing the Smash Ball and the Phantasmal Fall forever. Especially if his capacity for holding spells remained the same… He highly doubted it would.

Even now, having decided to think what he would do if he ran into a useful spell, was torture. Which one would he give up? He briefly wondered if there was a way to store them. There probably was. Spells were bound to be the most important thing in the world and storing them was certainly a thing magi of all ranks would be wondering about.

“You were a mage, weren’t you?” Sunday asked as they descended further down the current. Having a swamp on a high place struck him as odd, but he didn’t know enough about the topic. The trees were showing less signs of moisture and changing, and there were no pools of water apart from the river.

“Briefly,” he answered.

“How can one increase the amount of spells they can hold?”

“I wouldn’t know. I barely found an awakening art at the time, and I died shortly after succeeding in becoming a mage. I haven’t even tasted a spell’s power…”

Right. That must’ve sucked. Guess it could be worse. I could be him.

An inexplicable feeling of pity rose inside of Sunday and he squashed it like the vermin that it was. Pity had no place among people like him. Pity got you killed. Pity made you easy to manipulate. I can’t play hero. This isn’t a game. I need to find capable people and make use of them and what I can do. I need to grow fast.

It was another few days of constant marching and short conversation before the trees started becoming less and less frequent until eventually, they were all but gone. Sunday also noticed that there were no wild spells to be found anymore. He asked questions here and there, but whether Hark refused to give him more information or truly didn’t know the answers, remained a mystery.

What was important was they were currently staring at an empty plain. Cutting through it far away from them was something like a road. The most ‘maybe a road’ Sunday had ever seen, even if it was just well-traveled on dirt. It was empty and weaved in the distance until it disappeared between a bunch of hills.

“Fucking finally,” he whispered. Emotions were running surprisingly high inside of him. He was out of the cursed swamp. Done with the mud. Done with the plots.

Hark opened his mouth but Sunday didn’t wait for him to speak as he waved a hand.

“You’re free. You’ve done your part. Good luck.”

The former chief hesitated as Sunday stepped away from him, “Can I come? I can be of service…”

You fell once… “No.” Sunday pushed him hard in the chest, right where the broken collarbone was sticking, and translucent darkness spread briefly, before sinking into the former chief’s chest. Controlling the casts of the Omen of Duality was getting easier.

Sunday didn’t look back. With wide steps, he walked toward his salvation. He hadn’t asked the undead if he knew where the city was, but he didn’t think he needed to. Following the road would eventually lead him to civilization, and from there, things were bound to only get better.

Sunday smiled. Exploring a whole new world sounded like a wonderful adventure. Once he had the power to protect himself, that is. That took precedence.

Then there was buzzing. A static sound that made his soul tremble.

No! No! NO!

His foot was in midair as it froze for a moment before it stepped on something strange. It was not the soft grass of the plain, nor the mud of the swamp.

The world spun as it was robbed of color and direction.

It took but a moment.

Sunday fell face-first into the dirt and his eyes widened as he heard yells and neighing.

Two horses were rushing straight toward his prone body.