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Lennon 'Monster' Hull
My eyes open to the wind screaming past me so fast that I can physically see the barrier of sound break, a wave of air bursting around me just as I've seen it happen to the other two fastest men alive. Howard Strafe and the Prime. It used to be three, but the third fell just a few months ago.
The eyes of Eden bulge, her mouth straining to speak once more to stop me in any way, her hands moving to shoot at me, and her body running backward as fast as she can.
But I am no mere human. I have crossed the boundary, my toes leaving the hard rock beneath me for a ledge high up on the mountain. Either I jump high enough, or I die. Either I begin the revolution borne of a single soul, leaving behind all that was once known, or I fade into nothingness. One single moment is all I asked for, all I bargained for, and all my body can give me. I am weak, and my body never was capable of standing up to Edward's rigid strengths, just as my Ether is slow and pitiful compared to Laura's. But while they slept, rested, and enjoyed life, I trained. I trained until I cried, until I bled, until my very body and mind collapsed, and then, I continued some more for no other reason than to improve.
They wanted to be better to save others. To fight the enemies of mankind. To enjoy the life they had. I trained for something different. Something far more primal. A sensation deep down that is inexplicable yet understandable to me. That need… it made me train until I broke, to fight until nothing remained.
Then, even without Edmund to tell me to stand up, I stand once more.
Time turns sluggish as I approach Eden, my frame barreling through the air so fast that the passing of bullets inches from me cut into my Toughened flesh. And as I get close to her, my hand goes onto my sheath as I struggle to put the blade inside, moving the two to my hip.
I close my eyes, my hands laced with blood and sweat gripping the handle and sheath of my blade. A leap like this requires only faith. Faith in oneself. I've proven myself to the world and proven the Mother Below wrong. She thought I was weak. Limited in scope and strength. Unable to fight an Angel. That I would die here like a welp. Too bad. Lennon Hull gives no quarter.
For a single moment, I wait. Then, in calmness, I focus. Going deep, so deep that everything fades, and I forget that I am even jumping. Jumping toward my future. But in this depth, I find it—a shining jewel within my hand, one that resembles my blade. And with grand force, I drag it out, unneeding to see the result, the ring of steel all that matters.
And a moment later, it is done.
My eyes open to the blinding sun above, a female head tossing through the air, and screams all around. I lean back, and my body erupts in a shower of blood and gore as my actions finally catch up to me. Even as the thump of Eden's skull hits the ground, I stare at the sun and feel a poem rise to my mind, just as my father told me they would when I was young. It's in our blood; words capable of expressing any emotion, hardship, and sentiment emerge as we achieve something. Only his achievement was harvests of crops, and mine are a different kind of harvest.
Barely audible words leave my mouth as I feel an ephemeral barrier crumbling.
"A firm heart as the endless sky, without a ripple upon the surface.
To fight. To kill. Was I born only to die?
No. To win, to draw, or to lose, I will fly over endless lit corpses to find purchase.
Boiling blood, flowing sweat, solidifying will, I refuse to sit down and comply.
I have run, leaped, and soared, yet, for now, I am still free.
If I am to die, it shall be, as I began, worthless.
No quarter given under the heavens, even to me.
But if I am to rise, it shall be as I began, giftless.
No entity shall aid me.
No man shall envy me."
The words stop as I feel the momentary barrier, the Proof to myself, fully fade like a film upon the skin sinking away to return again yet far more substantial. It is done. The dam is broken both to the world and to myself. I can do it. I can become greater than those mighty Angels or those cruel demons. For a man, a poet, a simple creature of weakness, to defeat those geniuses? Those Angels? Those Demons? Those spoonfed all the riches in the world to succeed? What must they do? What must they become?
A monster is the only option. One must crawl over the corpses of the innumerable to prove themselves to all, the blades of the world, sharpening the monster's teeth. Hundreds have fallen to my blade, and thousands more will.
Only one final step remains. I have joined the catalog of monsters born from mere men, those few figures I admire. Our flesh and bone are weaker than our ambitions, our wills indomitable forms of might. But in our world, what matters most is not the flesh but the will.
I join the ranks of three other figures across all of human history, and I shudder at the realization. Killian Graves, Vincent Harvey, and the First. Freaks that bridge the gap no one else can. Monsters that people speak of in hushed voices filled with either respect or fear. To slay an Angel as a mortal without an Absolution or Proof before the fight began, zero hints of the Angelic in our bodies before the battle.
I can feel my body breaking down, the flesh falling right off the bone. But before I do anything else, I give thanks. Thanks to my blade. I sheathe the fractured thing as I stumble forward, my legs crumbling in twain. And as I let myself fall toward the body of Eden, hundreds of people running at me, I hear the crack and shatter of my blade within the sheathe.
It has carried me for decades. Edmund's Vault gave me a partner more extraordinary than any other, and I will always be thankful. With eyes full of blood, I nod to the shattered Claymore within the sheath.
"Thank you, friend. May we meet in the Cardinal."
I let myself fall onto the body of Eden as I reach inside her body with my mind, searching, grasping, and taking what is mine. Her Sigil.
Without quarter, I rip a Sigil from her, one I'm surprised to see even if it's not entirely unexpected.
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Rogue.
It seems I have gained my fourth Rogue. But, I wonder… what will I become in the future? My eyes gaze at the insides of a familiar Cabin. I was here less than a second ago.
No. I know the answer. No matter what others call me, I will always be Lennon Ink Hull, a man who has become more than human yet no Angel.
A monster. Something far more straightforward than what all the others call themself. Behemoth, Leviathan, Wastelander, Creator, Warmaster. It's all so… arrogant. And so that is what my Dzil will be named. Monster, in respect for those who lit the path ahead.
Now, onto see what my Absolution has become. What my Power is, and the next step forward. I will go onward, unstopping, unpausing, and unbreaking until I'm either put in the dirt or enter the stars above.
I will either rise above or sink below.
Long ago, I was told to be wary of the darkness, to not become the monsters that I fight. But those men who told me such things do not know the horrors that lie in the world. They see a bristle of danger and call it a monster. They have not seen what I have. Fought what I have. Bled as I have.
Sometimes, embracing the dark is the only way to find the light at the top of that crescent slope. I've spent my whole life just barely eking out survival under the whims of these monsters whilst spending every waking moment trying to become more. But no more. The gloom is gathering, and the light is dispersing; even I, as unperceptive as I am, can feel it.
Eli has been rampaging unfettered in the recesses of humanity for far too long, the Hindrances unworthy of living, and the Prime unsuited for leadership in the coming era. A clean slate is needed for what is to come. If I have to bloody my hands with the bodies of thousands, so be it. It might not be what I proclaimed to Edmund those years ago, but few plans survive battles, and even fewer survive decades.
It's about damn time I do some real Hunting.
And with that devotion, that proclamation to myself and the world, I look upon the line of now-comprehensible words on the tome in the darkness of The Cabin.
Suffering begets experience, experience begets strength, and strength begets truth, and none have suffered as you have. As such, your suffering yields truth.
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Wyatt Graves
I sit on the log as Johnny merely shakes his head at me. I expected a long, drawn-out lecture about being more careful, but it seems he's finally given up on it. The Gunfighter, though, I suppose he now deserves a higher title fitting his Sigil, waves at Abraham and Skyswain.
"So, as we discussed before you walked in, Wyatt, we are about to enter Tornridge. Virgil did a reconnaissance of it yesterday and spoke of how absolutely filled it was with beasts, Outlaws, and even the occasional demon. In just the past months since it was taken, a haven for the depraved has sprouted up, Raystown. Ray Olive, the Fortuned Son, one of the most powerful Outlaws alive, keeps the "peace" there, as one might say."
Johnny then pulls out a map of Tornridge and the surrounding areas, his finger pointing at a town named Elderfield, the nearest place to Edmund's cabin before the outbreak.
"Raystown is less than two hours of travel for someone like Virgil and far less for someone like Ray Olive. So, as we move through the Andreis Forest, we need to be mindful not to attract attention. Because if we are beset by Outlaws, they will want more than our lives and will be far harder to escape than a pack of shambling Plagued. Virgil can only handle reconnaissance in one direction, so we need more people to keep us from danger."
Skyswain nods and volunteers herself. My eyes shift back and forth between the two as the pain in my head ebbs and flows.
"I can do that, Iron Consul. My wings are the best remaining among my people, and I should be fast enough with my lightning. I'm no Skychaser or Blightraven, but I will pull my weight."
Her words make sense, but I get hung up on the first part of what she said. Iron Consul? Is that what they're calling Johnny now? Why? He uses guns, not swords, though. I guess most guns are made of steel.
Johnny nods to Skyswain, the Bado who is now the strongest of her race, trying everything she can to keep them valuable and alive.
"Good. Wyatt, you'll have to lead us to Edmund's cabin, I only know the general area based on what you've told me, but only you can take us there. You up for that, or do you need some more rest?"
I shake my head at him despite the pain in my head. I haven't used my Ether yet, a feeling deep down warning me of the action, but I don't need it just to lead them to the Vault. But I do need to stop by Edmund's grave, though. The final bullet left by my father should be on his corpse.
"I should be fine. It's only directing you guys, right? I don't think I can use Ether or do anything strenuous, but I should be fine in a week or so. It's not my first time with such bad Ether saturation."
Johnny gives me a glance before continuing, a morsel of good news coming from him.
"Okay, just stay close to Abraham during our journey there. His mental skills have gotten quite the boost lately as he finally managed Willful Strand, and now he can speak telepathically within a thousand feet. So he can relay if something goes wrong. Also, most Vaults have Concoctions and some Serums, so you and Blake should be able to recover once we get there."
I smile at the news as Johnny stands, pointing to Heath.
"Check on Wyatt and put him back in the medical wagon. I want to be in Tornridge within the hour. Get the word out."
Heath stands, a bit of confusion coming from him as he questions Johnny.
"Why so fast? What's the hurry, Johnny? Can't we take our time to rest before moving into dangerous territory? Most are already injured, either recovering from Starkbluffs or hurt from ambushing Outlaws and creatures. Give us another day or two."
Johnny shakes his head, offering no negotiation as he exits the tent.
"We don't have the time to spare. War is coming, Heath. Should we not be armed before it does, we will die. I don't have a powerful weapon, nor do most of our forces. Only Wyatt does, and that's because the kid stole it from a Sentinel. We've been growing faster than our tools because of the circumstances. It's about time we get an upgrade."
Skyswain now pitches in, stopping Johnny from leaving entirely, a spark of soft lightning tapping the Iron Consul on the back.
"And then, what, Iron Consul? Do we run headstrong into our deaths? What is our goal here? The true one? You say you want to create a home for us to live safely, but where?"
The man at the brink of the tent pauses, his shoulder twisting back toward us.
"I have a plan, just… trust me, okay?"
Then, he walks away from us, leaving Skyswain to grumble and Abraham to step out quietly, even quieter than usual. I'll have to talk with him as he seems pretty troubled.
"How can I just trust him? So much is on the line! I–"
Hearing Skyswain's rumbling, I place a hand on her shoulder, but she whips around with paranoia and pushes me back. I stumble over the force, almost falling, but I catch myself on the tent.
“--Whoa–. Sorry, I—"
She jerks her skull and stands, her legs moving her out of the tent as her wings brush against the canvas.
"I don't need your sympathy, Graves."
Whoa, what's up with her? She seems way angrier than usual. I take a step to follow her, but Heath sighs and gains my attention. The doctor looks into his pouch as he opens his mouth.
"She's been through a lot, Wyatt. Don't be too hard on her. She doesn't mean what she says. Her people are down to less than twenty, and the responsibility is on her to keep them alive."
The doctor then gets up from his seat and wraps an arm around my shoulder as he walks me to the wagon with Bonfire in it.
"Let's just get you looked at, okay? Can't have you dying for no reason."
As we walk, I look at him, thinking back to the lack of anger at how close I came to dying.
"Yeah. What happened with Johnny? He seemed far less frustrated at that than before."
Heath pats my back, helping me into the wagon carriage once we arrive.
"He… I think he realized that he can't protect you, Wyatt. No one can. Your safety is all on you. You're a Graves, after all. He's been trying to treat you like he would his daughter, but you and she are different people. Not to mention, he couldn't save her, either."
I bob my head toward him in understanding as he uses his skills to check my body. But the slight tinges of Ether from him make me scrunch up in pain.
"Ow!"
Heath breathes deeply and thinks for a moment before speaking. Is it that bad?
"You got a severe case of Ether oversaturation, Wyatt. Anyone else would have died on the spot when all that stuff entered your brain. Looks like you're gonna be out of fighting for a little bit, but there is a bright side. When you recover, which I'm sure you will as you are still breathing, you will be far more powerful. The thickness of the Ether you put in your head will likely allow you far more leniency with Ether and possibly even make it denser. I'm no expert in this particular field, but I've read enough from Brightford to know the likely result."
I sigh with relief as I hear that I will recover, and I smile at the fact that I'll likely come from this more potent than before. But how much so? I ask him how this compares to the last time I had such horrible Ether saturation.
"So, when I was a first Sigil, I went through a similar thing but didn't notice all that big of a gap. Why is this time different?"
Heath points to my heart as he answers with a long explanation.
"Every successive time someone undergoes acute Ether saturation and recovers from it, it both becomes more dangerous to recover from and has more of a substantial effect on their person. Now, studies are few on this because of how difficult it is. Still, from the few that have occurred, mainly from Estates trying to create soldiers, the first increases the amount of Ether one can take by about 5%, which might sound minuscule but is very much not so, and comes with a 90% mortality rate with medical attention. The second seems to increase Ether resistance by about 30% and has a 99% mortality rate. No data has ever been shown for a third Trial, as the Estates call it. Now, this is all disregarding when a Concoction or something similar wipes away all the effects of the condition, which removes the steep penalty and benefit."
Heath slides a bit away and checks on Bonfire as he keeps lecturing. The man unfurls bandages before applying medicine and pricking his finger to coat Bonfire's skin with blood.
"You took a Concoction for this one, but I think whatever you did was so damaging that it didn't matter much. I reckon as long as you recover entirely, even with another Concoction or Serum, your Ether will be significantly smoother and more efficient. So, get to treatin' yourself. You've done it before; you can do it again, Wyatt."
I nod at him as my heart beats with anticipation. I've already made it past the most dangerous part of Ether saturation and spent most of it asleep. Though, I can tell by the dark circles under Heath's eyes that there is something he's omitting. My survival is likely owed to him and Johnny. I'll thank him later. For now, I want to push through this Trial. It took weeks to recover when I was on the road with Elizabeth, Earl, Leonard, and them.
That much time can't be wasted.
So, I sit and close my eyes as I take a deep breath, my mind flittering to the old manual on combating Ether sickness. I take another deep breath before I take a strand of Ether and wrench out the Ether stuck within my flesh. In and out. Phew… Here goes nothing.
"Fu-!"