Chapter Sixty-One:
“Souls in the Flames”
Sterling and Roland pressed forward into the Ashen Mire, each step pulling through the snow-laden muck. The ground clung to their boots, thick and unyielding, as if something beneath refused to let them go.
The ghost flames ignited around them, weaving in and out of the trees like restless spirits, their slow movements carrying an eerie intent that suggested something more than mere echoes of the past. Some wept, their sorrowful cries rising into the air before vanishing into silence. Others muttered incoherent nonsense, voices overlapping in a chorus of fragmented thoughts.
Some of the flames laughed, high, broken sounds that cut across the silent blanket snow, their levity just as unsettling as their sorrow. The flames didn’t attack, but some were watching, waiting. Their numbers grew with each step, blinking in and out of existence like embers caught in an unseen wind, each time they returned, they were closer.
Roland raised Souleater, its silver-blue radiance pushing deeper into the gloom. The nearest flames hesitated, their advance faltering under the blade’s cold light. He had been in eerie places before, places warped by Gameweaver’s influence, places where the rules of reality had frayed, but this was different.
Since he had made the decision to select "New Game" and enter her Dive, he had always felt like he was on the right path, even when the odds were stacked against him. But now, something was different. Wrong. He glanced down at Souleater, the weight of it heavier than before, guilt still gnawing at him for taking it. For the first time, he wondered if he had stepped where he wasn’t supposed to.
Sterling advanced with the sure-footed grace of a man who had long stopped fearing what lay beyond sight, his steps unhurried yet deliberate. Sterling’s staff pressed against the frozen ground, its enchanted light pushing back the endless night. “Don’t let them get in your head,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “Distraction, doubt that’s how they pull you under.”
Roland drew a slow breath, steadying himself, refusing to let the voices gnaw at the edges of his thoughts.
A new sound cut through the fractured voices, a wet, rattling rasp, each breath clawing at the silence.
Roland stiffened as something stirred beyond the trees, a figure slipping between their frozen, skeletal forms. The ghost flames pulsed near it, illuminating patches of its ruined body in sickly light. Its ribs pressed against its skin, shifting with each ragged breath, its lips peeled back over broken, blackened teeth. Eyes, milky and sunken, locked onto them, reflecting the wavering blue light, soulless and unblinking. Another rasping breath escaped its throat, wet and unnatural, carrying the scent of decayed flesh.
Then, another appeared.
And another.
The ties of Sterling’s blindfold fluttered in the breeze, his voice quiet but heavy. "Mindless bodies," he said, sensing them as they emerged from the trees. "Drawn to the souls in the flames, but damned to never know why. They crave what they will never possess, unable to merge with what they do not have. Starving, always reaching, always chasing something they cannot name."
Roland stepped forward, blade ready, but something was off. Souleater cut through the first Ghoul with ease, cleaving through its withered frame. The creature crumpled, its body turning to ash, but the blade remained unchanged, no pulse of energy, no surge of stolen essence.
Nothing. No soul. Roland's newly acquired AP remained at zero.
Another came lunging, and Roland reacted without thought, cutting it down just as quickly. Again, nothing. Souleater’s edge gleamed with its cold light, but it absorbed nothing from the slain.
Sterling moved like a man who had fought this battle a hundred times before. His staff swept out in sharp, deliberate arcs, striking with a force that sent the withered husks crumbling before they could get too close. He twisted, driving the base of his staff into a skull with a dull crack, pivoting smoothly into the next strike as though his body already knew where the next enemy would be. He didn’t need to see them to know where they were, shifting just before one got too close, dispatching them with cold efficiency. He wasn’t fighting, he was cleaning up.
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Roland exhaled sharply, pivoting to meet another, his blade carving through its brittle bones. The air soured with rot as the creature collapsed into dust, leaving behind nothing. Frustration flared beneath his skin, muscles coiling with the urge to act. What the hell was the point of this?
Sterling turned toward him, as if sensing the thought. “They are empty,” he said. “You won’t find what we need in them.”
Roland frowned, breath steadying. “Then what was the point of bringing this?” Holding up the stolen weapon.
“Because we had to.” Sterling knocked a Ghoul’s head clean from its shoulders. “But if you want it to be of any use, you’ll have to strike down the flames.”
Roland hesitated. The flames had done nothing, had only existed, watching, whispering.
He stepped closer, cautious, until one hovered within reach. It wept softly. It didn’t lash out. Didn’t move. Just floated, its wavering form carrying the shape of something almost human, yet not.
Roland tightened his grip on Souleater but didn’t swing.
Sterling’s voice came, insistent. “Charge the blade, Roland. Don’t hesitate.”
Roland lingered for a moment. This felt wrong. The flames weren’t attacking. Weren’t even hostile.
He closed his eyes.
The blade fell. The weeping flame split apart, its light scattering into nothing. For a fleeting moment, Souleater pulsed in response, the glow along its edge blazing brilliantly. Roland barely had time to react before his HUD revealed that his AP had risen. 1/5.
Roland barely registered the notification. He adjusted his hold on Souleater as the blade’s glow surged, its hunger not yet satisfied.
Sterling moved like a force of inevitability, his staff sweeping through the decayed husks. Each strike was deliberate, splintering brittle limbs and crushing torsos, ensuring none of them reached Roland. He was giving Roland space. Time.
Time to do what had to be done.
Another flame drifted closer, flickering erratically as laughter spilled from it, high and broken, like a cruel joke only it understood. Roland hesitated for only a moment before cutting through it. The laughter died instantly, swallowed by the blade’s radiant glow. 2/5.
A second flame came next, hovering near the ground, its jagged voice shouting in fury, snapping words that made no sense, locked in an endless argument with someone who no longer existed. The words cut short as Souleater passed through it, the last syllables lost to its edge. 3/5.
The next barely moved. It didn’t lash out. Didn’t wail. Instead, its voice rose, frantic, desperate. Pleading.
"Please, wait no, don’t!"
The words were echoes of a life already lost, an imprint of someone’s final moments trapped in the fire. The irony wasn’t lost on him. His stomach turned, but he didn’t stop. Souleater cut through, silencing the voice mid-breath. 4/5.
One more.
The last flame lingered, unmoving, as if resigned to its fate. It did not cry. Did not speak. Just waited.
Roland closed his mind to the doubt, his chest had felt heavier with each strike, each soul consumed. This was different from killing monsters, from slaying creatures that fought back. The Ghouls had been empty, but these flames had something. A fragment. A memory.
But he couldn’t stop now.
His blade fell one last time.
The light vanished, drawn into the sword’s core, and Souleater pulsed violently. 5/5.
It was done.
Roland turned, breath steadying as he watched Sterling dispatch the last of the Ghouls with the same unwavering control. The blindfolded man stood amidst the remains, the last husk collapsing into dust at his feet.
Without turning toward him, Sterling inclined his head slightly. "Well done," he said, his tone measured but firm. "Now, we proceed to the temple."
The Ashen Mire had fallen silent.
Roland walked alongside Sterling, his boots pressing into the fresh snow, each step crunching softly against the frozen earth. The blizzard had long since died, leaving behind only drifting flakes that settled over gnarled limbs of dead trees, their trunks warped by time and frost. The only sound beyond their footfalls was the faint whisper of snow landing on the world around them.
The ghost flames had gone.
Maybe it was because of him. Maybe it wasn’t. But their absence was undeniable. With them went the voices, the laughter, the screams, the pleading remnants of something long dead. The swamp, once alive with lingering echoes, now stood as a frozen graveyard.
Ahead, the Temple of Ash loomed, half-consumed by trees grown thick with ice. Its structure jutted from the frozen swamp, a forgotten monolith. Its stonework was cracked and weathered, yet it stood unbroken. Snow clung to the ancient carvings, burying their meaning beneath frost and time.
The massive stone skull above the doorway loomed over them, its massive jaws frozen in an eternal, silent wail. Jagged icicles jutted downward, forming a row of unnatural fangs.
Sterling stopped at the base of the steps. "We're here," he said slowly. "The Temple of Ash."
Souleater gleamed in Roland’s grip, its blue light doing little to cut through the darkness within. He exhaled, the cold curling his breath into the air as he took in the temple’s presence.
He looked to Sterling, who had yet to move. The blindfolded man stood motionless, before speaking once more.
"The Guardian of Fire awaits within. Prepare yourself."
The wind howled through the trees, but it was not the same as before. It carried no voices, no whispers, just the biting chill of what lay ahead.