More roots burst from the dirt and coiled themselves around Raksha’s wrists, binding him even more tightly to where he stood. The Hunter turned and began walking to Aisa, who was clutching her throat and weeping even as the unholy song poured from her lips. Her eyes widened with terror as the mutant approached.
Left untended and unfed, Ignatius’s fiery circle had begun to die. The corrupted serfs stepped over the last wisps of withered flames, passed Raksha by, and closed in on the stump where Aisa was bound. They all held a blade of sorts in their hands, knives, sickles, or axes.
Midnight moonlight bathed the forest in a cold, bluish hue. The Hunter raised his hands as the serfs’ song, led by Aisa, reached its crescendo. Then it died, leaving nothing but silence. The mutant’s face twisted into a smile that showed too many teeth.
“Oh Master of the Wild, the Green!” he cried. “On this most sacred of nights, let Your calamitous touch extend! Bring ruin to mankind, who have scorned Your grace, who have betrayed Your magnanimity, who have slain Your children!”
The Hunter lowered his arms and let his voice fall into a whisper. “Humanity shall feast upon fruits of rage, nourished by hearts-blood, and scattered by song.”
Aisa began singing again. This time, hers was the only voice that climbed into the night air. She swayed on her feet.
A serf holding a knife climbed the stump. His furred features were frozen into a mask of gleeful anger. He plunged his blade into his chest. Within moments, he had cut his own heart out and was holding it in his hand. As the light of life left his eyes, he cast his heart upon the stump. The ancient wood seemed to drink the spilled blood into its cracked, pitted surface.
Another serf climbed the stump and began cutting his own heart out as well. Then another. Before long, heaps of corpses ringed the stump, and the serfs were climbing over the carcasses of their kin to offer their tributes.
Raksha recoiled at the sight. He was no stranger to sorcery, but this was beyond anything he’d ever witnessed. He struggled anew against the roots binding him, but they were far stronger than the ones the Hunter had used against him in their first battle.
The last serf killed herself. Her heart slapped wetly across the piles of freshly cut meat that had now piled waist high around Aisa. The Hunter wore a yellow, unwavering grin as he turned to the girl.
“And now, my sweet. It is your turn.”
He gestured. More roots sprouted from the stump. They wound themselves into a spike. Aisa shook her head and struggled feebly, but the Hunter seized her by the scruff of her neck and lifted her into the air.
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Then he impaled her on the spike, pushing her slight form down onto the sharpened wood. The sound of splintering bone and tearing flesh filled the air. As Raksha watched, horrified, the spike burst from Aisa’s back. Transfixed upon it was her still beating heart.
“No!” he roared.
But before he could renew his useless struggles, he caught an orange gleam in the corner of his eye. He turned his head as best as he could toward it.
It was Ignatius, holding a burning torch in his hand. The priest hadn’t died, after all, but he was at death’s door.
“The unholy must be cleansed with fire, thus is God’s decree,” Ignatius gasped, glaring at Raksha. “My son, it falls to you to burn the heretical and cast them into eternal damnation.”
“Father…!”
Ignatius hurled the torch at Raksha. The Hunter’s roots recoiled from the flames. Feeling a sudden slackness in his bindings, Raksha tore his arms free and snatched the torch from mid-air. He swept it across his body, trusting in his aegis to protect his flesh from the heat. The roots withered and died under the fire’s touch, but not quickly enough.
Gritting his teeth, Raksha pushed past his internal injuries and called upon the full strength of the Conflagration. His fourth Solar Gate blazed with its heat. He pushed it further. And further. The strain in his nexus and main channels grew. Sweat poured from his temples. More blood leaked from the corners of his mouth, a sign of further internal bleeding and ruptured meridians.
The fifth Solar Gate trembled, and for a moment, Raksha was on the verge of imploding his nexus and immolating his main channels. But then an ember danced across its cold, vacant heart. Raksha took a deep breath. He fanned that singular glow with the winds of his skill and will.
The fifth Solar Gate exploded with the flames of the Conflagration. Strength poured through Raksha’s limbs. His aegis intensified, sealing his wounds and healing his internal injuries with greater speed than it had ever done so before.
He’d attained a new height with the Conflagration, but now was no time to celebrate.
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Roaring, Raksha flexed his aegis. Its heat set the roots entangled about his frame ablaze. They writhed away in seeming agony, leaving him free.
“Go with God, my son,” Ignatius said. “Kill His enemies.”
Before Raksha could reply, an arrow sprouted from the priest’s temple. He crumpled into the dirt.
“Disgusting, worthless filth,” the Hunter spat, slinging his bow once more. “I just did you a favor by silencing him, Raksha. You can thank me later.”
“I’m going to kill you, mutant!” Raksha growled. He raised his blade and was about to charge, but a sudden massive tremor in the ground unsettled his gait. “What…”
The Hunter spread his arms and cast his gaze heavenward. “And with that, the festivities come to a close. I bid you goodnight, Raksha. I have a feeling we’ll meet again.”
Unnatural plant-life, similar to the Hunter’s roots, burst from the stump on which Aisa was impaled, wrapping around her limbs and suspending her as if it were some kind of organic crucifix. Green-black tendrils slithered forth, plunged into her exposed heart, and began pulsing like veins. All this time, Aisa was still singing, though her features spoke of unimaginable agony.