The living, swirling landscape of the Yellow Spot stretched out, seemingly endless, and Ray noticed his innards had gone completely numb at about the same time he heard the posse gaining on him. The wind turned, and by chance the thick metallic sound caught his ear, the slap slap slap of galloping occisaurs bounding along with their riders.
It would be a lie to say that was the moment his hope died – those sparks had fizzled out hours ago – but there was nonetheless a certain disappointment managing to seep through the thick coating of exhausted apathy his brain was slathered in.
It just had to be Joe-folk. One last cosmic joke at our expense… He turned; there was no point in running now that they had caught his scent. Instead of wasting the last of his energy, he instead stood stock still and prayed to the pus in his gut, the mass that was almost certainly half-way through dissolving his spine by now.
…Nothing? Nothing at all? I never thought I’d be the next High Ortus, but is a speck of power too much to ask for?
…Admittedly, it was not the most pious prayer he had ever uttered. Heartfelt, though. Shouldn’t that count for something? The holy medium apparently didn’t think so; no rush of last-minute strength flooded his veins, his midsection remaining an expanding mass of cold nothing as his body completely failed to digest any of what he had swallowed. I drank so much, though. Shouldn’t I get something, even if it kills me after?
‘So much’ was an understatement; as the rest of the Cult of Yellow Grace had fought and been whittled down one-by-one, Ray had gone down to the deepest basement far below the already sunken compound. He had spent everything he had melting through the door, and then in an act of sanity-defying desperation, had drank down every last drop of concentrated sky pus they had in storage. Then he waited for something to happen, only snapping from his anticipatory fugue when explosions began rocking the walls.
He had gone back up to fight with his last few remaining brothers, but as the Prime Movers moved in, led by their Yellow Spot minions no doubt, he couldn’t help but feel that that was the moment he had strayed. If I had stayed in the Sunroom, maybe I could have worked a miracle. But he had fought to escape instead, and now he was the last, with nothing to show for it. In moments the Cult of Yellow Grace would be gone.
Four large shapes emerged from the tickstorm, unnervingly silent despite their bulk. They were tall and well-built, almost beautiful in their own way, and the scent he caught off them denoted shared blood in contrast to the varying colours of their skin, hair, and eyes. The Spot clansmen atop their tamed beasts were more homogeneous in comparison; covered completely by thick waxed cloth to deter the omnipresent ticks, the six of them could have all been clones of the same man. Even their beasts were clothed, heavy fabric cinched tight around limbs with buckles and straps, lest the metallic creatures have their joints gummed up while running.
They did not approach with any hurry – they knew he was caught. One of the Joeists, a warrior with dark skin and thick red hair sprouting all over his body, took the lead. The others stood back while he approached, walking forward until he was close enough for Ray to see the pores on his face.
He was massive, a wall of muscle easily ten times Ray’s weight, and yet the Sun cultist felt only that resigned disappointment.
“Worshipper of a dead sky,” the man spoke, “You are the last of your line. Speak your name, that I might recall your death.”
There was a soft but gritty whisper as Ray’s bare feet slid further apart – he could no longer feel them, but at least they moved. “Ray, acolyte of the Sun.”
The Joeist waited for him to ask for his name in turn, but Ray had never had much respect for decorum – which was as good an explanation as any for why he was here, glowing radiance melting a hole through his body. Instead of further words a glob of golden energy erupted from his mouth, the little bit of power he had managed to accumulate while running turned to searing acid.
Spite is my claw, hated my tooth. Perfection is the whole of my works, the destruction of His enemies and mine. The mantra was almost entirely rote, but he attempted to inject what little malice was left in his failing meat into this last pointless attack. The glowing energy, a distillation of the Sun’s holy rancour, did not even manage to touch the warrior’s skin; his own energy softly erupted from him, and the caustic, perfect hatred slid down a membrane of pure ego to fall into the sea of ticks.
Ray’s final attack might have killed thousands, but he felt none of the elation that cleansing the earth usually brought. He was empty.
The Joeist raised his arm and Ray braced, but then the small mountain of muscle paused. A strange, far-away look came to his features. The other three Prime Movers looked equally dazed, while the Spot clansmen remained inscrutable under their cone-nosed masks.
For a moment nothing moved but the storm, and Ray frantically worked his stomach as the strange lull dragged on. One more, I can do one more. The Joeists are too strong, but I might be able to kill one of the Spots… But it was useless; his stomach was half-dead, the pus had been too much for it. That act of desperation might actually be what would end up killing him, if they spared him another minute. The numbness crept upwards, towards his chest.
Finally the giant began moving again, his arm swinging down – but the motion was off, hesitant. Ray ducked under, backing away from the sluggish strike before reversing and lashing out with his own fists. His knuckles made contact with the man’s knee, but he might as well have been punching a block of stone.
He broke to the side, and pushed at his stomach with everything he had. Come on! Just a spark, if I have just a spark I can-!
One! I’m not asking for the world, just to kill at least one of them! Please- there’s so much inside, I should be able to-! All of the hatred and spite left pooled in his soul, the work of his entire life, lurched- and then fell still, refusing to move. He took one more step before his legs failed and he stumbled, and as he hit the tide of sharp chitin something unbearably ironic occurred. He burst open – but rather than the terrible radiance of the Dying Star technique, there was only a torrent of white glowing pus spilling forth from where his entrails should have been.
The Joeist paused again, this time from surprise rather than whatever strange thing had gripped him before. Stupid. Stupid, stupid idiot. Can’t even die with dignity. Ray tried to spit out a mouthful of ticks, but they were drier than sand. There was no pain, just a red and waxy opening exposing his lower body cavity as empty. Spineless – literally. Pathetic. Didn’t even get a real hit in.
“Do it,” he breathed. “Just fucking do it.”
The giant looked back to his brothers, receiving a trio of shrugs. Then with a single huge step he closed the paltry distance Ray had managed in his last moments.
“Sorry.” The man had genuine pity on his face, a fact that should have made Ray’s blood boil and his spirit surge, but there was nothing left to give. “Looks like you don’t get the clean ending your brothers did. Boss wants you alive.”
Ray’s eyes widened. “No. Fuck you.” A arm larger than his entire body reached down, thick fingers eclipsing his head and shoulders. “No, fuck you! Kill me!”
He screamed and bit, but there was nothing he could do. As he was lifted there was a brief moment of resistance, before the thin sheath of skin connecting his upper and lower halves failed against the pull of gravity. The Joe cultist began bounding forward, leaving Ray’s legs where they had fallen. “Kill me, you dog! Kill me!”
The streaks of landscape he could see between his captor’s fingers blurred as his body finally took notice of the blood loss, and his curses became slurred. Then, like a small and dim star slowly fading away, Ray lost consciousness.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
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He awoke in a place of darkness and fire, and for a moment there was profound relief.
My legs are back. There isn’t a hole in me. He could feel his spirit pulsing under his pale skin, writhing with destructive energy. I’m in the deadworlds. He killed me after all… or I just died from my wounds like an idiot. Even the self-flagellation was buoyed up by relief. Good. This is a good thing. For all that he had dedicated his life to making the world suffer for its transgressions, he had no desire to experience torture himself. And especially not from them. Speaking of… this doesn’t look like Joe’s deadworld. Where am I?
Ray was a pious man, but he had never been very concerned for where he would end up after death – in his mind, the chances he would leave an intact enough spirit to experience any afterlife was so slim as to not be worth worrying about. He had only really paid attention to the two Ancestors most responsible for the breaking of the sky; the other four weren’t something he had sought knowledge on, and so he knew only the most surface-level details about their faiths and characters. I’m in a city. I don’t see any people, but I can hear them working. One-Man?
Entirely preferable to the alternatives. Strange, though. Did they just leave my body to the sands? What a waste. He couldn’t imagine letting meat lie in the open, but maybe they had assumed his waxification was contagious.
…I suppose it doesn’t matter where I am, or why. He stood, a small smile coming to his face as he felt the hot earth under his toes. He was nude, but the well of energy in him was as effective at shielding him from the heat as it had been from the ravenous insects of the Yellow Spot. Brick buildings towered in every direction, seeming to reach all the way up into the endless sky, gouts of flame issuing from metal exhaust pipes the only source of illumination.
He looked up. As expected there was nothing, not even a cloud; One-Man had lived long before the killing of the sky, but there was also no reason for him to place stars in the heart of his being. Long silhouettes shaped like warriors danced across the dark clay walls, his own shadow moving by the light of the many wavering flames.
“Is anyone here?”
No answer. There were distant voices, but they didn’t seem to be coming from any particular direction. The indistinct murmur was joined by the beat of drums, the crash of steel being beaten to shape, and the more savage cries of warriors doing battle – but none of it present, none of it an answer to his call.
He stood for another minute, then for lack of options chose a random direction and began to walk.
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Ray had seen the Sun’s deadworld before – illustrations, that is. The real thing was long gone, swallowed by Oldest Bones and added to the innumerable. It too was a great city, and a place of fire, but not like this.
The holy books painted the city of Fervour in tones of vivid blue and yellow, its spires made from crystal that shone like mirrors bent to reflect His glory to every corner. Its streets were paved with gold, and its citizens were free to gaze upon His majesty at all times. It had been a place of worship first and foremost, a testament to the Tyrant Sun at the height of His power.
One-Man’s territory was drab by comparison, to the point of monotony. The sight of the towering buildings expelling fire like dragons might have been inspiring in abstract, but their earthen red tones made them look more like termite nests than anything. The streets were hard-packed soil, and Ray had been walking for what felt like hours without meeting a single other soul.
This was not a place of worship or reverence. This was a forge, a place to build weapons and armour – a tool for making tools.
It said a great many things about the Great Ancestor, that the root of his spirit was so utilitarian. There was not a hint of beauty here, and as he continued to walk Ray became more and more agitated. I thought I was lucky not to end up with Joe or Uriel, but this is mind-numbing. There aren’t even any doors to get inside – why am I here? Is it just the connection with fire? No, that can’t be, it’s too shallow. I should have gone to Oldest Bones by default.
Someone, or something, has drawn me here.
Ray continued to walk, and hours passed. Then days. He ran, massive buildings streaming past as he desperately searched for anything at all. He clawed at the forges’ exteriors, struck them with concentrated malice, but they weren’t even discoloured. He ranted at the empty sky, but there were no answers.
He thought that maybe he was beginning to go mad; he should be inviolate as a dead spirit, and yet he swore he could feel an edge of hunger beginning to cut into his bones.
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“One-Man!” he screamed, as he had a hundred times in the past days. “Why am I here?! If you’ve claimed me, then do something!” All around him was a puddle of smoking acid, the aftermath of his latest attempt at carving a doorway. It was as useless as ever; the radiant liquid couldn’t even eat into the ground, much less the solid brickwork.
But this time something changed. This time, something answered.
“I have not claimed you, cultist of the Sun.”
The voice boomed down, coming from the empty sky. Ray wasn’t sure if this was really happening – it was easy to imagine the voice was only his mind snapping back at him – but by this point he didn’t care. “You haven’t?” Emotions boiled up. “Then why am I here? I’m no worshipper of yours; let me sleep with the rest of the unclaimed dead!”
The voice’s reply was curt and immediate. “You are not dead.”
Ray’s jaw flapped, his expression tightening. Not dead? Bullshit! I’d have long since starved to death if this was my real body – and I was a half-alive, legless, powerless mess before I woke up here. There’s no way I survived. “Bullshit!”
The sky was silent, but Ray’s anger continued to bubble up. He had spent his entire life learning to turn hate into power, and now after weeks – months, probably – a target had presented itself. “Bullshit!” he repeated. “I have to be dead! That’s the only thing that makes sense!”
“Joe’s cult have given you to mine. You are alive. What reason would I have to lie?”
His jaw continued to work up and down, his eyes seeming to bulge from sheer rage. “Then why am I here?”
“You were so near death, it was necessary for you to sleep off the damage. It would be… inconvenient for you to awaken early, so you will remain here for the time being.” Suddenly all the pipes releasing flame from the towers intensified in sync, and smoke flowed forth like dense stormclouds. Coloured in a thousand different shades, when it flowed together to form an image Ray was able to make out his own body; still legless but with a mostly whole torso, lying in a coffin-like contraption. Tubes snaked under the skin of his wrists and chest, the smoky medium lending the scene a flowing quality. “Do not despair. You will have your chance for a glorious death.”
Ray’s muscles tensed in waves as anger rolled through him. The feeling condensed down as it spiralled through his being, landing in his stomach and being refined. “What do you want? Why save me?” I had both feet in the grave – the amount of effort it had to have taken to keep me alive isn’t something I can even guess.
“Your desires are aligned to mine. You will be useful to Me. That is all that you need to know.”
Ray’s eyes bulged further. A second of building tension, and then glowing fluid erupted from his mouth. Unlike the walls and ground, the smoke burned where his bile touched, and the image of his slowly-healing body dissolved as One-Man’s attention recoiled. “Fuck you. I’ve been here for months! You think I’ll just do what you say?!”
The smoke hung unmoving in the air, as if incredulous, and then Ray began to feel the pressure. It began subtly, just a slight heaviness to his limbs, but within five seconds he had dropped to his hands and knees, muscles straining to support their own weight.
“Do not mistake Me, Lonesome Ray. You are alive, and yet you also dwell here, within My stomach. Even if you value your own life so shallowly, do not forget who you speak to.”
Ray struggled to breathe. The smoke drifted down lightly, mockingly, and soon the ground level was a choking impenetrable smog. The spurts of flame were reduced to diffuse impressions of light, and Ray couldn’t even see the ground an arm’s length from his nose. “What-” he choked, “What do you want? Tell me, or I’ll-”
A coughing fit that lasted well over a minute interrupted. When he next spoke his voice was ragged, and he tasted blood under the acrid smoke. “…I’ll kill myself. Detonate the moment I wake up. Kill as many as I can.” I’ll have enough power, once I’m healed.
“Very well.” Something solid gripped his chin, drawing his face upwards. In the haze it was nearly invisible, but there was a gap in the smoke – a man-shaped void, diminutive to the point of absurdity, almost more an overgrown sharpie than a warrior. “Use your life as you see fit. Is that not what you desired? A clean death?” And then the smoke was gone from his eyes and lungs. It drifted away, dissolving into the open air. The voice faded away in one last echoing sentence. “If you think you have the power necessary to defy Me, then by all means… try.”
Ray knelt on the ground for a time, his own bile sizzling against his palms and knees. His rage built and built, and then inverted itself, going from hot to cold without diminishing. Fuck you. You think I’m bluffing?
Energy coalesced, turning emotion into reality. His stomach writhed, circulating power through his veins as sickly while light shone softly from his pallid skin. I remember. The pus nearly killed me because I was too weak, but I remember what it felt like. If that picture showed reality, then I’m only halfway healed – more than enough time to turn myself into a Dying Star too big to escape. His tongue lashed out, and he began lapping up the spilled bile from the ground, choking it down along with chunks of greasy dirt.