Despite the apparent danger of the situation and the pretty clear confirmation that Sunday was, in fact, indirectly responsible for all the trouble befalling the manor, he was in a better mood now.
He was glad that there were reasonable-looking cultists who could form coherent sentences. Of course, the sign of intellect also meant a different type of trouble. It was surely much easier to destroy monsters who took their sweet time crawling out of the bloody human skins of their chosen hosts like some mockery of cult classics.
“Gentlemen,” he said, smiling and stepping forward. He eyed the large laughing horror. He was going to make sure his moths ate it first, before melting the faces of the nice cultists. They gave him a feeling very similar to Vela, but stronger. Brainwashed suicidal bastards were getting old too anyway. Then again, his tolerance for bullshit was quite high after coming to this place.
The three looked at him, and the laughing horror moved forward. It was very imposing now that it had been given time to develop properly, but despite its size, it didn’t look as bad as the fresh ones. However, the sense of danger it gave was much higher and its stable steps made Sunday frown.
Elora is down on her last legs. I’ll have to do the heavy lifting myself in this one. He would’ve been much more worried if it was not for the new spell that had already given him so much. Taking the next step of rank one and absorbing the ‘dirty’ essence had left him in quite a good condition. Sunday had to admit he felt stronger than ever. The Vision of the Berserk Moon pulsed in his soul space, as if eager to continue the feast.
Killing those here might push me to rank two… His desire grew with each moment, and he found himself licking his lips like some sort of a maniac that couldn’t wait to kill. It was wrong, but growth felt so good… and those before him were hardly innocent. No, no. Questions first. I’m on a grand quest!
“Gentlemen,” he repeated. “Do you happen to know what all of this is about?”
The hooded man stepped forward, a strange sword with square edges in his hand. Is that a ruler? What the hell?
“Slayer, it is an honor to meet you. And it will be an honor to present you to our God.”
Present me? Is that the word you want to use, dude?
“Who’s this… Voice? Is he a… say… a Prophet of sorts? I’m dying to meet him.” He felt Elora come closer to him and felt her breath on his skin. She was perhaps wanting to whisper something, but the cultists didn’t give her the chance.
The three smiled as one. “The Voice speaks with the Divine Will and carries the burden of understanding what is not for us mere mortals to understand. You will meet him soon.”
“He is chosen. He is blessed. Much like we are, but more,” another smiled.
The third remained silent.
“Aha. And you’re like… in this for money or glory…?”
The three chuckled. “We were warned you speak a lot. We were also warned you’re dangerous. However, a rank one mage is hardly a challenge after exhausting himself so thoroughly,” the hooded one said, then turned to the others. “We’ve done enough here, let’s finish up.”
The laughter started at the same time as the large red moon bathed the hallway in its hue. Once again preceding the appearance of six large moths; three white, three black. They shot right for the maniacally laughing horrors that were advancing on them quite fast.
Sunday felt his vision swim under the pressure, but he retained enough mind to grab Elora and stop her from crumpling to the floor. He pushed her back gently and she sat down, unable to move. It took only seconds for the moths to find their target and the laughter to lessen, but it didn’t cease this time.
His eyes widened and he braced for impact as the monster rammed into him and one of its bladed limbs stabbed straight through his stomach. Sunday groaned. It was more of a stinging sensation than proper pain, but it was still unpleasant.
He briefly wondered who had decided that the undead had to feel pain. It kind of made no sense, but then again, neither did walking dead that could bone each other and get magical trips from alchemical booze.
His thoughts focused as the monster flung him to the side and into the wall. A portrait of a naked lady smiled at Sunday moments before he crashed into it and fell to the floor bringing the whole frame down. He quickly moved to stand up and tried to clear his mind. Things were not going as smoothly as he had envisioned them.
The monster was swinging its limbs around, trying to chase the moths that were already melting apart holes into its bone and flesh body. He had paired off only four, while the other two had been left to circle above just in case. Their bloodthirst was palpable, but he didn’t let them do as they pleased this time. His control seemed to have grown stronger along with his progression in rank.
This developed monster seemed to take the soul moths much better though, which was a shame. It soon gave up and moved toward Sunday again. Its laughter paused for a brief second before resuming again, letting his thoughts clear up further. He looked behind the monsters and saw one of the cultists reach the struggling form of Elora
Sunday’s eyes snapped and he felt panic unlike any he had felt before. No!
The man grabbed the girl by the hair and slit her throat without an ounce of hesitation— a smile played on his face as she started choking on her own blood and her mouth opened and closed in desperation.
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Sunday’s mind froze, the horror stabbed his abdomen again and lifted him. He didn’t care. Elora was a friend. An energetic and ambitious girl, who liked to try and outsmart people. She was kind, and trusted him! She had helped him! She couldn’t die because of him! Not like that!
The death moth fell upon the cultist and the man screamed, while the white moth descended on Elora. Please work! He had no time to summon ones untouched by the moon. Those unmodified by the Berserk Moon were too slow.
The girl was drowning and life seemed to have almost fled her as the white moth burst apart in a shower of white and red near the wound. He knew that the healing wasn’t as strong as it could be. However, the wound still closed and he saw Elora gasp a moment later. Sunday smiled in relief as the horror pushed him into the wall, stabbing through it and pinning him there.
This is nothing to me you little bitch!
Sunday slapped the thing’s head with all his strength and saw his hand get pierced by one of the jagged bones protruding from the featureless skull. The slap did little to nothing, which was a first. The surprise only lasted for a moment.
The screams of the cultist who had harmed Elora reached him and took his mind off of his perforated hand. The moth was behaving like a beast and death essence was eroding the skin and flesh of the man, while his two companions stood to the side smiling, as if it didn’t matter.
Then, their smiles flinched and a new presence washed over the hallway. Even the horror that was pinning Sunday to the wall turned its head. The moths had done significant damage and the laughter coming from it was almost gone, but it stood strong despite being eroded from the inside.
However, now its attention on Sunday wavered.
Elora was standing on her feet and breathing heavily. Her blood still dripping from her throat and down her vest. She touched it and brought her hand to her mouth taking a gentle lick, before raising her head. Her eyes were like two red moons, shining with the light of bloody violence and anger Sunday couldn’t ever imagine coming from the girl. He felt a sense of fear that was not rational wash over him. Her otherwise pink skin was growing redder too, as if she was running a fever, and her athletic body swelled up a bit, filling out her leather clothes.
Oh, fuck.
She screamed. It was an unearthly scream that carried with itself the promise of untold violence. Her blades left their sheaths and the floor broke under the power of her legs as she pushed off and reached the two cultists who barely managed to react. They blocked her attacks and managed to hold with their combined strength, but there was an evident surprise on their still smiling faces.
Elora, or whatever it was she had become kept with the attacks. She was a madwoman without a stop and the two cultists could only defend. Each strike was enough to break Sunday’s arm or more, but the two were handling it somehow.
Sunday turned his attention to the horror as it shook and started falling apart little by little due to the soul moths that had wrecked its insides. It was still clinging to existence, but the spell had done its job even if it was many times slower than with the newly born ones.
To speed the process up, Sunday cast Phantasmal Fall and the full weight of its strange power struck the monster, making it shake in place and lose its balance. It fell, dragging Sunday along with it. It broke apart like a vase and many of the bone spurs that broke off stabbed into Sunday’s flesh.
He struggled to stand up from the mess that was the horror’s remains, but his balance was all over the place. His stomach was almost cut in half and he felt his flesh bent dangerously. The discomfort was worse than the foreign sense of pain that seemed to echo from far away as if it was just a memory that didn’t belong to someone like him.
With a curse, a black moth appeared and sank into his abdomen instantly healing the stabs and reconnecting whatever had been severed. He stood up and bared his teeth as the red moon shone behind his head, absorbing the spoils. The foulness of the essence filling his soul space once again made him want to vomit, but it was nonetheless necessary.
At the same moment, a sliver of power reached him and he took a deep breath. So close. He was so close to rank two he could feel it.
The two cultists were holding their own against the maddened Elora. Sunday felt his essence get cleansed by the tree and summoned a black and a white moth without using the moon, almost draining his newly refilled reserves. There was enough left for a few strikes of Phantasmal Fall and he did just that as the black moth slowly fluttered toward the fight.
One of the cultists fell instantly to the ground as if he were a marionette with its strings cut off. Elora didn’t pass up the chance and her knife stabbed straight into the man’s eye. She pulled it back and bared her teeth at the last one as she continued her assault without pause.
There was no sign of a smile on his face now, meaning he had enough sanity left despite the worship of the Divine. That was a curious development.
Sunday walked forward, getting closer but still being wary of the raging Elora. She was not using her spells, only her enhanced strength. Her screams sent shivers down his spine. How many different sides did his new spell have? Would it affect each spell differently?
The man screamed back and slashed his sword widely as he noticed Sunday. Elora took the strike with her shoulder and grabbed him by the throat with a victorious snarl.
“Leave him alive!” Sunday yelled. She crushed the man's throat into a bloody mess and dropped the corpse to the ground. Sunday stopped the descent of the black moth he had sent above, happy to save it to heal himself some more. “Damn, we could’ve questioned him.”
Elora turned to him and his eyes widened. “Elora…? Are you there?” he tried while stepping back.
She lunged and met headfirst with the white moth. It burst into white essence that quickly healed her shoulder. Her eyes grew dim for a moment and her body shrank to its original size. Then she fell.
Sunday scrambled to catch her before she hurt herself again, then gently laid her down on the wooden floor.
He sat next to her and watched her carefully. She was breathing fine, which was a good thing, but his essence was shot. This was a mess.
A sound made him look up and he saw the strange barrier that had stood all this time drop down, and a worried Hurind walked behind the thin man in mage robes. Sunday felt a pang of anger but he stood up to greet them. They stopped shortly before the first corpse and stared at him like he was just another laughing horror.
“I-Is the danger gone?” Hurind asked. His eyes passed over Elora but he seemed more worried about his own safety. He had three guards and a mage. And yet…
“No thanks to you,” Sunday replied. The situation might’ve been due to his presence, which sucked, but still… they had just watched Elora and him fight. Elora had almost died!
“Don’t speak to Master Yunvies like that,” the thin mage said.
Sunday looked up from Elora. “Oh, you grow some balls now? Ah, sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t blame you. After all, only Master Yunvies’ life matters. Here, let me apologize.”
He stepped over the corpses and carefully reached the mage. Then, while staring into the fidgety master of the manor’s eyes, his healthy arm traveled in an arc and landed on the unsuspecting mage’s face. The man was flung into the wall and slid down, unconscious.
“Sorry.”