Sunday retreated to one of the large halls of what had been the departed Versum’s manor. It was only a two-story thing, without windows, and with a litany of fancy carvings and paintings decorating every possible surface. Sunday had neglected to take a proper look around before.

Due to his light sparring with Rubien, most of the first floor was torn apart, and so was everything else. There were holes in the ceiling, broken furniture covered in vampire blood splashed everywhere, and stained paintings or walls that looked like a vampire had been thrown through them. It was a pity. The basement was not a place Sunday wanted to revisit, although he was curious whether those imprisoned there had fled. Perhaps not. It was difficult to escape the vampires, especially if one was a human, and Sunday couldn’t do much more for them apart from not bringing yet another monstrous hound for a visit.

He’d be lucky if he survived the one on one against this hound, or whatever monster the Hunter sent this time. It was unfair that his very survival depended on the whims of so many. It pissed him off. He had grown many times stronger, and yet…

If the Baron wanted him dead, he would end up dead. Even if the buffs could allow him to trash a vampire lord, it had only worked because the lord had been unable to fight back. Sunday knew that no matter how much he buffed himself, or how many spells he got his hands on, he was outclassed.

The one thing that could save him after his duel was Mera. It hurt his pride on a level he hadn’t thought possible. Pride was a fickle thing and it often led to the downfall of men. Sunday had never thought himself prideful to an unhealthy degree. In this new life, however... He acted strangely at times.

Sunday had met Mera only once, but now his whole existence depended on her goodwill and desire to use him. He was far from the thought that she was doing it all because of the good in her heart. Perhaps hate for the Divine was a strong enough motivator, but he doubted it was only that. And if he was that special due to his underutilized Talents… then he was a great tool to have in one's pocket. And there were others like him.

The question was… how far had they gone on their paths?

With a final sigh, Sunday closed the door to the hall and reached for Phantasmal Fall. Immediately the world spun and he found himself holding on to an upturned table with his eyes closed. He hadn’t flown like the hazy memories of his berserk state claimed he had. He just knew he had done weird things.

What am I missing? Do I need the Moon? The red circle that had made things so complicated and exciting appeared once again, like a growing drop of blood. He fed it only a sliver of essence – just enough. Then, he cast Phantasmal Fall again and felt thankful that he didn’t need to consume food, otherwise blood and traces of fierce combat wouldn’t be the only thing marring the estate’s floors.

Once again, it didn’t work. However, he felt the spell this time. Phantasmal Fall was different… not stronger, but more connected to him somewhat. It was a vague feeling akin to his newfound skill with the sword. Something detached from him, and yet still there, ready for him to reach out and grab it.

With gritted teeth Sunday allowed a single moth to crawl out of the Berserk Moon’s shadow. It turned into three under the effects of the spell, but he immediately dismissed two of them. The last one gently flew into his body, before sinking like a bunch of red and black smoke.

The effect was immediate.

The world took on a red hue and Sunday felt his mind drift off. It felt good and the desire to just let go was insanely strong, almost as if he was on a ledge and what awaited below was not the hard ground and the pain of falling victim to gravity, but all his dreams and desires.

He shrugged off the feeling. Too good to be true was a concept he was very familiar with. It was difficult, but after a few deep breaths during which he took some essence from the world just as a refresher, Sunday felt in control.

His body was brimming with power, and his spells were eager to be unleashed. Not the moths or the spear though. The two stood frozen like they lacked the desire to join in. He could understand the spear, but not the moths. Was the buff affecting the Omen of Duality in some negative way? He would look into it later.

Sunday focused on the focal point of his experiment. He had wanted a movement spell, and if it turned out he had one…

Phantasmal Fall hit him immediately and Sunday fell. All he saw was a bunch of purple flecks that appeared like petals around him, contrasting with the red veil that covered everything, before the world spun once again. He didn’t fall down, but up, crashing into the ceiling with a groan and staying there. His perspective had shifted in but a split second and his body had followed that shift.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

The use of essence was not insignificant and seemed to be a constant thing as long as the effect lasted. To him, up was now down and everything else looked like it was glued to the ceiling.

He redirected the spell and braced himself, trying to land on his feet. It was difficult and Sunday groaned again as he hit the floor with speed that was slightly faster than a normal fall would be. He stood up and dusted himself off, before setting his freshly broken nose with a groan. Pain was not an issue. It was the principle of the matter. He felt some of his strength leave him as the essence powering his form flowed into his nose and healed it.

That was a neat trick. It meant that buffing himself would give him passive healing, but it would also weaken the effects of the buff.

Why is the spell responding only when I’m under the effect of the Berserk Moon though?

He tried again, sending himself hurling into a bunch of chairs until a raft filled with statues of naked women and ornate chalices stopped his side-fall. One of the statuettes fell onto his head and Sunday groaned again as it refused to shatter. He felt even more of his strength leave him as the buff healed his newly cracked skull.

Fuck me… At this pace, I might do myself in before the hound comes. Ain't that gonna be something…

Casting a spell felt different under the influence of the Berserk Moon-afflicted moths. It was like grabbing and pulling, rather than offering essence and waiting. It was not a difficult concept to grasp. The thought that the spell was offering more of its power because it was afraid of his current state was ludicrous.

Or perhaps it had to do with the fact that Phantasmal Fall was bonded to him. It was the spell with which he shared the most special connection, although he was unsure how that had happened. Some part of him believed it was due to him dying by falling. Another thought it had to do with Chaotic Step.

I’ve neglected to work on my Talents… I hope things grow calmer soon. No more tasks, since I have contribution points and money now. I might finesse that baron into working with me when it comes to booze… I’m sure he would find a way to appreciate things. Wouldn’t that be funny, working with vampires to cure those addicted to their blood and bullshit? Ha!

Sunday shook his head and stood up, dusting himself. He had to focus. He wanted to experiment more, especially since using Phantasmal Fall out in the open could technically be a suicidal move. Falling into the sky… now that was a death worthy of a legend.

There was no time now though. The buff didn’t seem to be going away, but after concentrating for a while Sunday managed to expel the energy fueling him. It was like exhaling a cloud of dark and red particles that dissipated in the world. It was not hard to do.

This was good. He had another tool at his disposal, and it allowed him to unleash some of the hidden potential of his spells. What was left was to bring himself into top condition and pray he didn’t throw himself into the jaws of the beast that was coming for him.

He sat on one of the unbroken chairs and closed his eyes, giving himself to the Black Breath and the rhythm of breathing in the world’s essence.

***

The dark and cold came without warning, bringing him out of his concentration. Like a sudden winter, or the precursor to a storm. Sunday opened his eyes and bared his teeth. He briefly considered going out in the open to give everyone the show they so much desired, but fighting in the building was too great of an advantage to give up. The walls and the furniture were barriers that could be used to buy himself time, and the many sabers and spears set about as decorations could come in handy if his own weapons betrayed him.

The last chance to prove your worth is upon ye, wretch. Prove the gifts given are not wasted on you.

Bastard…

The narrator spoke in a thick deep voice different from before as the shadows became darker, and thicker, as if they were coming from a different place. The murky light offered by the few still whole lanterns was not enough to chase them away, or even nibble at them. They washed over. Confident and cold, as if the Hunter himself was going to walk out of them.

From the other end of the hall came a beast. It was a hound, which was somewhat good since he had fought hounds twice now, and knew what to expect. However, this one was different too.

It was large. Larger than even the second had been. Its dark mane was slick, and two white complicated symbols were drawn on its shoulders. There was a single line of the same snow-white paint between its eyebrows. Worst of all, there was steel covering its chest, like a vest of armor made specifically for the beast.

Sunday didn’t care much about that. The head was exposed, and he would be going for the head.

A thin layer of darkness was smoldering over its slick black hide as if steam rising from the beast’s skin. There was murder in its eyes and Sunday returned the gaze with all the calmness he could muster. The hound still gave him the creeps, making his soul shudder in terror.

But he had spells now. He had real strength on his side.

The fated duel begins. The lost one, the tricky one, the one who had escaped the black sands and revels in the gazes of the Divine, shall fight for the right to exist. A chosen, a heretic, a scourge. A plight upon the world, a curse for the faithful, and an opportunity for the corrupted.

The war hound comes. Its strength is limited, but still higher than any beasts. A weapon of war that had once dragged the souls of wyverns and dragons through the gates of a frozen kingdom, was now sent to be a judge.

It is an honor, to fight a legend.

It was uncertain whether the last line had meant Sunday or the Hound. It mattered not.

Sunday licked his lips. It was almost as if he could hear the cheering of thousands of voices. Like wind battling against nonexistent windows, they came from everywhere before disappearing again.

It was all too… perfect.

The Fearful appeared in Sunday’s hand as he counted the seconds and grew to the size of a regular spear. Three moths came out of the Visage of the Berserk Moon. Two circled above, ready to reap flesh and seek blood.

One washed over Sunday’s being, allowing him a glimpse of the red world and giving him what his dead heart couldn’t – the sensation of burning blood running through undead veins.

“Come at me, mutt,” Sunday hissed.

The hound obeyed.