Vyn walked toward the Manor, looking back after every few hurried steps he took.

He was terrified. He had been so scared only a few times in his life, the worst being his trip to the belt. In comparison to what he had seen there, the simple folk that had barred their path were harmless. Weak. Yet, even now his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and the only thing that helped was gripping the handle of his sword until his knuckles were white.

He had seen something in their eyes… Something even the beasts that had gored most of his party as he ran away in terror lacked. It went against what was natural, and all the instincts Vyn had cultivated throughout his life screamed at him that he should run because there was no winning this fight.

That he would die if he stayed.

And he had after Sunday’s insistence. Shame burned in the pits of his stomach, but Vyn couldn’t stop his feet. He couldn’t bring himself to stop. He rubbed at his eyes. Was he crying? He didn’t cry. His sister had made sure to beat that out of him.

Sunday would be fine. He had to be.

He had remained calm and even sent him away with a smile. Vyn still didn’t know what the deal with the mysterious undead was, but his intuition had told him that he was someone worthy of trust. Vyn’s intuition was the only reason he was still among the living, and he trusted it above all.

Not that there were many other choices. His life was an empty parody, and short of leaving the sword and doing menial work, there was no other path to follow. Vyn knew his capabilities well.

He was not as talented as his sister.

He was not capable of becoming a mage.

And he was not brave enough to walk among those who despite being ordinary picked up arms and protected the world.

Sunday was weird and confident, spoke strangely, and loved making people mad. All traits Vyn admired – a mage, and someone who had the ability to create healing solutions. And despite being all of these things Sunday needed help. Sunday needed his help…

Vyn stopped and leaned on a tree. He was far from the fighting now. No words or sounds of combat reached him and his eyes found only leaves and branches no matter how hard he stared at the shadows of the trees.

He gritted his teeth and hit the tree with a scream. Pain shot through his fist to his elbow and he allowed it to take over. Pain always grounded him.

Was he a coward? Had his sister trained him to be a coward? Was he a person so honorless and weak that he would run at the first sight of trouble?

Vyn drew his sword and after a moment of hesitation and a deep breath, turned around. It was choices that made the person, not thoughts.

And he would choose to face his fears, even if it was out of selfishness.

He needed Sunday.

***

Vyn was frozen, staring at the sight before him. He couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing. There they were, the creepy group that had barred the road and made him shake with fear, falling and rising one by one. Their smiles were slowly eroded with each of the thunderous and impossible slaps Sunday delivered.

His new undead friend stepped awkwardly, tripped, and leaned at impossible angles to land his attacks. It was as if the world was assisting him. The air shook with the echoes of flesh meeting flesh with preternatural force. Each slap was stronger than the last, and each slap carried a wisp of something both beautiful and terrifying.

The chanting of the strange people never stopped through it all.

‘Kill us!’

‘Make us bleed!’

‘Break us!’

They would say. Gnarly whispers filled with insane desire.

All Sunday did was respond with his open palms. He never slowed down. He weaved and sidestepped, sending a strange brown ball flying from time to time and raining slap after slap with an absolute lack of grace.

Vyn could almost imagine the amount of destruction that would follow if Sunday had a sword in hand. He was unpredictable and wild as if he was not fully in control of his actions.

However through it all, the undead never balled his hands into a fist, nor did he strike with lethal force. The sword remained stabbed in the ground.

Vyn didn’t know what to do, so he waited, his sword gripped and ready.

He was no murderer and running in to cut apart those who even Sunday refused to kill wasn’t right. There was something else going on here. Something beyond him.

He had resolved to help in whichever way he could, however. He didn’t want to be as useless as he had been all his life.

So, he watched, afraid to blink. At the very least, he would be a witness.

And the dance of his new undead friend continued…

***

Each strike only made the next land harder.

Stolen story; please report.

Each strike was an epiphany into an art form that shouldn’t exist.

Each strike made the air shiver and the divine presence nested in the cultists around him falter.

Sunday had lost himself. He didn’t know when their futile attempts to force him to kill them had ended. They were trying to fight back now, but weakness and slowness made their movements easy to brush off and dodge.

Those who picked up weapons were dealt with by the Smash Ball. The spell would hit one and then roll into the grass, awaiting to be fueled again. It was as unpredictable as Sunday’s current movements.

He leaned to the side dodging the weak attempt of one of the undead to grab him, and slapped the bastard hard enough to dislocate the jaw. His hand felt fine, despite the force of the hit.

It was almost as if he was in a flow state, exhibiting knowledge he didn’t know he had. Was this why the gifts were called Talents? While Sunday believed in hard work beyond anything else, he knew people were not born equal.

Now he fully understood it.

It was a breeze, a dance of a higher power. His own body was an instrument played by a master who was so adept at the art that thinking was unnecessary, that each movement came from a place deep in his being.

Sunday was present for each moment, feeling and memorizing the patterns and the strength behind the movements. An observer, a witness to the mastery he didn’t know he had. It brought him joy to fight like this. It was freeing, unrestrained, and fun.

And finally, he let his feelings out. His laughter made the last smiling cultist lose any semblance of mad joy from his face. He had stolen it from them. They slowed down even further, like toys whose batteries were dying.

What was it about those smiles?

Their advances became even more aggressive, but it was futile. Many were stopped by the Smash Ball that flew out at odd angles to break a limb or send someone flying.

Sunday dodged a tackle, stepped to the side, and spun to land another slap. This one was the strangest yet and he felt something fall apart under the force of his palm.

His target crumpled like a paper doll and almost seemed to breathe out something foul and familiar.

After the first, the rest quickly followed. They were persistent but silent now, behaving like subdued animals rather than humans seeking death. Their defeat came soon after, accompanied solely by the dull sounds of the spell and the sharp ones of the slaps.

In the end, only Sunday remained standing on the road of dirt. The bodies lay around him, and as one the foul air coursing through their flesh left, making the world just a bit better with its absence.

He looked around and, without need, took a few deep slow breaths. He felt the telltale signs of heavy fatigue set in. His soul space was almost fully drained of essence and whether he had overused the spell or his strange state was responsible, was unclear.

Sunday almost made the spell shoot out again as he heard soft footsteps behind him, but it turned out to be the wide-eyed Vyn. The man was holding his sword and looking warily at the unmoving bodies.

“Are they dead?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Probably not.” Are they? Would I grow stronger if I killed them? The thought made him shudder. They were different then Vela. They were weak.

Sunday kicked the one closest to him with his foot just in case and when he didn’t get a reaction clicked his tongue. He hadn’t aimed to kill, that was for sure, but maybe whatever had possessed them had. He stomped on the stomach and pressed down hard. The man groaned and gasped for air.

“Can you check the others? I’m beat,” Sunday said. He was truly and utterly exhausted, and the relief of not murdering nine people washed over him like a warm relaxing shower. Soon after. His numbness toward the act was making him uncomfortable.

“I don’t think it’s you who’s beat…” Vyn mumbled as he knelt by each of the unconscious people. “Humans are fine,” he said after a while.

It was hard to tell with the undead but Sunday assumed they were just unconscious like the rest. He hadn’t been quite sure if the undead could be knocked unconscious so he treated this as a live-and-learn moment.

“Let’s go,” he said after a minute of rest. Staying was just asking for more bullshit.

Vyn looked at the lying bodies, “Do we just leave them?”

“Unless you can carry everyone while making sure they don’t wake up and start the insanity again, then yes. I can’t repeat what I just did,” Sunday said and stood up. His body which usually felt like an inexhaustible machine was heavy and slow.

“You don’t look so good,” Vyn observantly noted.

You ain’t a spring flower yourself you half-handsome bastard. At least I’ve got the excuse of being dead. “I could use a nap.”

“Very funny,” Vyn forced a smile. It was an ugly attempt. The fakeness was underlined heavily by the paleness of the man and the sweat glistening on his skin.

The two hurried off and veered a bit off the road, threading through the thick greenery, until they finally saw the city gates. Sunday felt as if someone was watching them the whole way but brushed the feeling aside.

Vyn seemed to finally gather enough courage to ask the question that had been bothering him this whole time. He swallowed heavily, “What were they?”

Sunday waved his hand in the air as if there was a fly. “Believers. Worshippers. I prefer the term cultists myself,” he said. There was a sharp gasp as Vyn tripped.

Is it that strange, or bad? They were weak. What was the point of seeking death by my hand? And more importantly, how did they find me?

They waved at a sleepy guard who paid little attention to them.

The walk back to the Wayward Rat was done in quiet thought. Neither was in the mood for talking and whatever good mood had been present after the visit to the orphanage was washed away by the nonsensical madness.

The tavern was where they left it – a fact that always seemed to surprise people even though it was a building and not a person who could just stand up and walk away. It did try to give that impression, especially when the light hit just right.

Vyn and Sunday picked a quiet table and sat down. Sunday wasn’t sure he could make it to his room, and for some reason, the thought of being alone after this made him cringe. It took about an hour of staring into space before there was a drink in front of each one, and both caressed their glasses in merciful silence until the second round came.

It was Riya bringing the drinks, without being asked. She sat three large cups on the table and picked a chair, raising one of her legs on it as she sat.

“What’s got you ladies so gloomy?” She asked.

For the first time since meeting her, Sunday didn’t enjoy her presence. The slap fest that had happened was still fresh in his mind and the only reason he was struggling against sleep was because he wanted to try and internalize that feeling, without focusing on the insanity of it all too much.

Whatever had happened, however silly it had been, was also magical. A feat of mastery and strength he wouldn’t have managed on his own no matter how much adrenaline or booze he had in his system.

There was also another reason, but Sunday forced his mind to stray from it; to avoid it like a shy boy avoids a cackle of girls. Yet, there it was, swimming out of the darkest depths of his consciousness as if enjoying itself by taking hold of his thoughts.

“We’re peachy, thanks,” Sunday grumbled. The minor distraction allowed his fears to crawl to the surface again. What if a hound comes again when I sleep? I’ve no shields. I can run through the city, use the people, and get whatever help I can get. None will be the wiser probably, unless they’ve seen it happen before. But I can’t do that. Those are normal people with lives and dreams. It was easy in the swamp when almost everyone I met was just a piece of shit like me… I hope Pearl’s alright.

“Does it have to do with the little meeting you had on the way back?” Riya leisurely asked, breaking the atmosphere like a hammer would break a glass window.

Sunday slowly lifted his eyes to meet hers and Vyn seemed to come back from whatever place he had drifted off to to do the same.

“They’re all dead,” she said as if she was announcing the laundry was done.