Miles collapsed into an exhausted heap, as the tension that had kept him together seeped away.
The blades of golden yellow trembled in mourning, bereaved by the betrayal they had been forced into. They were helpless to do anything of their own and eventually dissipated as well. However, their departure was their own revenge, for they left behind deep, piercing gashes in his chest.
[1.6 ≈ 2 BP lost. 1/10 BP remaining.]
Dark scarlet liquid, his own blood, poured out of him in gushing torrents. The same way he desired to quench his thirst with the blood of others, he desired to staunch the bleeding. What was his, was his. Unfortunately, the often-reliable Conditional Undeath was moving at a snail’s pace for some reason...
Almost as if the speed of regeneration was dependent on the volume of blood, he had within himself.
His mind reacted slow, thoughts connecting far less often than he was used to. He could even feel his vision fraying at the edges, darkening, lulling him to an endless slumber.
[0.4 ≈ 0 BP lost. 1/10 BP remaining.]
Miles blinked through a sudden sense of disorientation. He could not afford to lose any more blood. And he was not regenerating sufficiently either.
The shadows over his eyes darkened, whispering subtle temptations, calling him to rest. Even the Beasts were unnaturally silent, as if allowing the silence so that he could give in.
‘If even they cannot…’
Miles might have done so, giving in entirely, but… but his eyes fell upon his chest.
Not the terrifying injury that had slashed through the ogre skin of the suit, not the gaping hole in his chest that exposed his nauseating organs beneath torn flesh. No, Miles was focused on what lay hanging beside them.
Though covered in blood, the frayed wood and the simple thread loop of the yin-yang talisman was exactly as it had always been.
A flicker of light, called his attention, shifting his gaze towards his own hand. Miles managed to focus his vision, just enough to see what it was. The glowing eyes of the Lykaon ring.
It was as if a pail of iced water had fallen over him.
‘What in the holy hells am I doing? Why would I need some Beast to do the work for me? When I, alone, can handle anything and everything?’
Miles focused his dissonant, wavering vision upon the blood seeping from his heart, caking his suit and shirt.
Ironblood Armament.
The blood answered the call of the skill, the droplets of scarlet trailed to his command, moving, gathering and solidifying, crackling, into some manner of blood crystal binding over his wounds.
So much blood covered his chest, and Miles funneled it all into forge what he envisioned.
First came the two halves of the front plate, starting with the left side of his chest to better cover the pierced wound. The two plates crystallized, as if forged of steel and affixed together as if true armor. Then came the back plate, connecting and solidifying the front.
Perhaps he was delirious, perhaps he went a bit too far, or perhaps there had been too much blood. Somehow Miles forced the blood to extend to the very edge of his jaw, forming a solidified gorget that defended the throat. No longer would he leave his neck exposed. There was still more blood remaining, and Miles willed them to gather over his shoulders, forming pauldrons.
By the end of it, though it had only been a few minutes, he was garbed in something that resembled a proper defense. Not just a coating of blood crystal, but genuine armor. But what mattered most was that it had perfectly stifled his bleeding, as if a scab over a minor wound.
Miles had not improved anything significant, Conditional Undeath was unreliable, but he now had time. Enough that he could afford a moment’s break, and time to think.
His situation was dire. All that remained between him being alive and well and being comatose prey, was [1/10 HP] and [2/10 BP].
A thundering growl swept out of his throat, and Miles felt the Beasts, silent the entire time, finally coming back to life. His throat seared, burning from dehydration. The pain of his thirst intensified to the point he felt he could only be satisfied if he drained a few lakes of blood.
Spurred on by the pain, Miles found himself stumbling back on to his feet, knees shaking with weakness. He could not help but lick his lips, eyes flicking over the dead corpses before him. The bewitching smell of blood, the mesmerizing sight of dark, viscous scarlet, the only cure to his ail.
Miles remembered little of his former disgust regarding the hygiene of the numbered savages.
He desired one thing only, and that was to gorge upon the nearest body, to go hog wild satiating himself.
‘I need blood, and, I have no choice about how I obtain it. I do not even have enough blood to form an ironblood spike, so I… I have no choice.’
Though Miles desired nothing else but to give into this forced logic, his mind was not so easily tricked. And somehow, he used the last of his fraying will power to force himself into a walk.
‘If–If I give in, there will be no going back.’
As Miles ventured closer and closer to the source of blood, he could foresee his future. The sight of himself gorging on corpses, blood soaked, insane and manic. A monster.
Perhaps it was this realization that allowed him a feat of superhuman will, allowing him to... walk past the corpse, ignoring the appetizing source of blood that was numbered 101. Or perhaps it was his nails, digging into bloodied palms, painful enough to focus his will.
The Beasts were not pleased. They howled, screamed and roared, furious and exasperated that Miles was casting them to a fate that was certain death.
But he persevered. He kept up his slow pace, even as he felt the last of his energy seeping out.
[0.2 ≈ 0 BP lost. 1/10 BP remaining.]
Miles’s instincts focused on the only possible saving grace left. The corpse of number 217 in the distance.
However, it was too far away. His failing body would not make it. The Beasts almost forced his retreat, forced his legs to turn, and have him yield to his desires, but Miles did not relent. He dug his nails in deeper, grit his teeth until he tasted the iron of his own blood, and… kept on.
Miles was halfway to Veilbound savage 217 when his legs failed him. They could not hold his weight any longer and collapsed, sending him crashing to the ground.
He could not feel his legs now and would not rise though he wished to. It mattered little, for Miles had reached what he wanted.
His hands reached out, feeling the splinters nearby, the remnants of the Ironblood spikes he had used before.
In his fight with the sword wielding numbered 101, he had blindly used the skill twice, failing to consider the heavy cost of blood, and wasted them entirely. That might just become what saves him now…
With the last of his energy, Miles grabbed a fistful of the ironblood spikes, the sharp edges strangely failing to harm his own body and began to crawl back. His elbows dug into the earth, sharp stones stabbing him through the sleeves of the suit, as he dragged himself back.
[0.2 ≈ 0 BP lost. 1/10 BP remaining.]
He could feel his vision begin to waver, threatening blindness. His body failing, regeneration entirely halted.
Miles was utterly exhausted now. He was running on fumes, but the sight of the blood up ahead rejuvenated the Beasts. They were the ones that pushed him the last of the distance, until finally, he collapsed onto the corpse of number 101.
He felt his mouth chattering, biting down on thin air. With the hole in his heart, the muscles on his upper torso were torn so horribly that the Beasts could not even make him turn his neck to feed. A saving grace perhaps because it gave Miles the time to avoid a drastic reaction. Time to use the final scraps of his energy and raise his hand.
He wielded the ironblood splinters as if blades, directly above the gut of the dead Veilbound.
After that, he just allowed gravity to do its job.
There was no proper strength in his attack, but the blood crystal was razor sharp, and the spikes managed to pierce halfway in.
The smell of fresh blood and half-digested meat tickled his nostrils. His delirious self, savored it, until Miles’s half open eyes witnessed a horrifying sight. Centered around the blood crystal spikes, the savage’s torso collapsed entirely inwards. The skin wrinkled, dehydrating, as if subjected to an instant consumption of sorts. In the end, only dried skin was left upon the bones, like thinned parchment. That was the cost to finally receive rejuvenation.
[+3.2 ≈ +3 BP leeched.]
The blood was like a second wind, water to a dying forest, chasing away the darkness that had almost swallowed his mind. The intolerable thirst waned, becoming so much less.
Miles growled, and he pulled out the spikes from the now deflated torso, and stabbed it in again, this time into the heart. With greater strength than even before, it pierced directly through. He did it again and again. Arms, legs, brain through the eyes, nothing was ignored until all that was left of number 101 was a mutilated mass of dried skin and bone.
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[+2.1 ≈ 2 BP leeched]
[Remaining Blood Points: 6/10 (+ Blood Bank: 0/100)]
It was as if a starving man was suddenly stuffed full of food, relieved but troubled at the same time. Miles could feel Conditional Undeath begin to work with renewed fervor, rushing through his injuries. Even the flesh of his chest and his speared heart seemed to come alive, knitting and affixing themselves to quick recovery.
His breathing heavy, finally, Miles could lay against a fallen tree trunk and rest for a few moments.
He could not believe how close he had been to defeat this time. He had lost so much of his blood, completely emptying his blood bank. Had it not been for his last, completely unproven attempt at manually using ironblood spikes to consume blood…
Miles shuddered. Thankfully, that was not the case, and he had managed to recover.
A total of 5 BP had been recovered thanks to numbered 101. This was considerably below the average human blood cost. Either the Veilbound savage's were different physiologically, or the rest of it had been spilled when he slashed their throat.
Miles did not believe there was any reason the spikes could not absorb fallen blood but too bad that blood was nowhere to be seen. Disappeared into the earth, absorbed by the land, no doubt. The strange ‘rite’ was still underway, he was still being enhanced, and he was still partially (un)balanced. Miles could still hear the endless whispered screams, that had surely influenced his actions so far in some way or the other, if he focused hard enough.
Blood. Death. Murder. Kill, kill, kill.
They resonated through his skull, but strangely enough, his mind was mostly his own. It was truly a far cry from his former experience in being (un)balanced. Though Conditional Undeath had recovered its usual pace, and his injuries were healing, Miles did not rest for long and hurried to his feet well before he was fully recovered.
For a moment, his gaze settled on the ruined corpse of number 101, bringing him to a pause. But with a deep breath, he made his decision.
Miles had just tormented a dead corpse, casting upon them the very fate he had so reviled when the Beast had done the same to Knight Xavier. And he would do it again.
Holding the shrapnel pieces of the ironblood spike in hand, Miles prepared to move onto the blood that remained in the corpse of number 217.
He was well aware of the hypocrisy, but he had no choice. Unfortunately for Miles, that was the same moment this ‘reason’ rushed into the clearing (yes, a clearing now that dozens of trees had been felled by the golden sword slashes).
Miles was caught off guard, having expected more time to prepare.
He stared at the newcomer, whose presence was hidden to all senses but sight. He observed their exhausted, sweat glistening form, as if they had been forced into a physical task beyond them.
The man’s bulging belly heaved with each deep breath; a distinguished number 666 stitched upon torn leather clothes.
The last of the Veilbound Savages had arrived.
***
Number 666 revealed no emotion. His eyes flickered across the clearing, pausing upon the remains of the corpses of the numbered for barely noticeable seconds. His face was a confusing mask of nothing, but Miles could feel the savage's entire being emanating a calm, deathly rage.
The oldest Veilbound set his eyes upon Miles, and with it, the entirety of his anger.
Miles flinched, even as the connection to the Lupine Soul expanded.
What he saw caused a cold sweat to trickle down his back.
There were no green sprites or golden swords.
Instead, a six armed, six faced, six-legged figure had manifested behind number 666, and in an instant, the figure vanished into the depths of the number 666's body.
The numbered savage roared into the sky, a roar that he could finally hear.
The trees shivered, the forest vibrated, and it made Miles feel as if the sound alone caused the entire Doorway to tremble.
The Veilbound’s skin began to blister, peeling away to reel ugly red flesh underneath. His bones snapped about, as if cast with a bout of terrifying seizures, twisting his spine in grotesque revolutions.
Miles did not stay still any longer.
Intending to interrupt whatever this transformation was, he blasted number 666 with the explosive rounds of the Caucon, since with only 6 BP remaining, he could not afford to use Ironblood spike.
Miles could not tell if what happened was accidental or intended.
Number 666 was flailing about, twisting in unnatural, inhuman motions as his skeleton reformed, bulging and expanding his flesh. And somehow, each twist and turn dodged both bullets.
Miles could swear the Numbered savage cackled in amusement.
Cursing himself for wasting ammunition, he exploded forwards, brandishing both the Caucon and the Ironblood splinters as weapons.
Miles slashed with the ironblood spikes, but somehow it was dodged. He tried to strike some more, but they too were dodged. What few attacks he got in, left no wounds, and the injured flesh was burned away. He shot with the Caucon, twice point blank, but somehow the massive blob of jiggling flesh disjointed his body out of the way.
Every attack he missed, every moment he allowed 666, filled him with sheer dread. He was running out of time.
The Veilbound was in no hurry, giggling, inhuman teeth glistening in a gleeful grin.
Miles felt a guttural roar echo from within him, as he, and the Beasts acted as one, pushing everything they had into their attack. He let loose a flurry of powerful fists and kicks... all dodged the same as before. The rare few that landed did nothing, only jarring his bones as if he had struck a lump of rippling lard.
And then, it was too late. There was no longer a numbered 666.
All that remained was a red skinned monster, holding its bulging belly as it bounced about, a jiggling mass of flesh, licking its whole face with a grotesque tongue that put far-reaching toads to shame.
Eyes once human flickered with a sickly hellish red, and it smirked, revealing an inhuman shark like maw, serrated fangs glinting. Even the ambient temperature seemed to have risen a few degrees, because Miles was sweating heavily.
The Beasts within Miles were predators, creatures at the pinnacle of the food chain, and they could tell very easily when they were out of their depth. And Miles stared at what he had just read with the help of detect.
[Veilbound Imp - Dread Spiritsworn - Lvl 80]
If the fight with number 101 had been pushing him to his limits, this was well beyond him. Once again, he and the Beasts were unanimous. They turned tail and fled.
Miles exploded with the full force of nameless move–
There was no wind to warn him, only an estranged sixth sense.
It was as if he were running in slow motion, forced to watch as the Imp appeared beside him.
Though he was aware of its arrival, Miles was helpless before its insane speed. The imp playfully licked his cheek with its looping tongue, and… slammed a fist into his side.
Miles could do nothing but be the mouse in a cat’s paw. All he managed was twisting his body to direct the attack towards his armored chest and avoid hitting anything vital. It worked, most of the force was absorbed by the blood crystal chest plate. The blood armor was one of Miles’s best constructions with Blood Armament, leagues above the simple blood crystal coating he had been using prior. But even then, it cracked upon impact, scattering crystal shards of scarlet.
The remaining force sent Miles flying into a nearby tree stump, slamming his poor side, again.
[-1 HP. 9/10 HP remaining.]
[External and Internal Bleeding detected. -0.4 BP lost.]
[Remaining Blood Points: 6/10 (+ Blood Bank: 0/100)]
The blood armor was still effective, and Miles managed to sway back onto his feet.
That hadn't been too bad. At best that punch was on par with the giant fists of rat flesh and metal he had experienced back in the Hordred maze. Yes, not too bad at all.
However Miles had forgotten something. Unlike the giant fists constrained to piles of garbage, the Imp was not as limited, and there was no mystical boundary he could hide behind.
Miles heard a giggle, and the blob of red was before him. He reacted instantly, shooting another round of the Caucon. He didn’t even get to see if it hit, for another fist slammed into him, and guided by the only sense he could rely on, Miles aimed it into his chest armor again.
The blood crystal shattered further, but it was even less damaging than before. Unfortunately, the blow had come from above and the residual force slammed him into the ground. Miles, reeling from having his head crack against a random stone, did not get to dodge again.
The next blow hit his face, broke his nose. The next crushed his gut, rearranging his internal organs. And another, reverberated through his skull, slamming it deeper into the stone he had hit in the first place.
[-1 HP. 8/10 HP remaining.]
Red fists slammed down into him, endless and unforgiving. Each of them struck with a searing heat that permeated through skin and flesh, burning through whatever regeneration he managed. The blood armor and suit did its best, but against an endless rain of blows there was little it could do.
His head was murky, like he was thinking through mud, and Miles felt his bones snap, organs rupture.
[-2 HP. 6/10 HP remaining.]
[Critical Internal Bleeding detected. -0.8 BP lost.]
He thought he heard screams, but it could not have been him. He would never. Finally, his chest plate splintered and shattered, having done its absolute best.
Miles struggled, summoning Blood Armament, reaching for the blood pooling underneath his suit.
Yes, there was more than enough to forge new armor. It was not intended, but what his bloodied and bruised eyes witnessed forming upon him was an armor that was barbed and spiked, as if a porcupine's quills.
Miles did not know why it had formed as such, but it worked. He could hear even louder screams now.
Of course it wasn’t him, it was obvious the demon had impaled its fists on the spikes of his armor. Obvious, until an unfortunate punch rumbled through his torso completely mashing his organs, and another made it past even that, splintering his spine.
[-4 HP. 4/10 HP remaining.]
[-1.1 BP lost. Remaining Blood Points: 4/10 (+ Blood Bank: 0/100)]
Ah, that explained why he could no longer feel his legs. Miles felt he should be frantic, struggling to survive. But his brain was slow, everything akin to a faded dream, and the Beasts were nowhere to be found.
Conditional Undeath was struggling, fighting an uphill battle against the heat in his wounds, and the little blood he had left. That combined with his subconscious use of Blood Armament on every drop of blood that left him, were the only things that kept him alive.
That was perhaps his misfortune, because it seemed to only be delaying the inevitable. Grasping at straws, Miles tried to do the same he had done with the first Veilbound, and aimed his palm at the demon’s head.
Ironblood Spike.
The blood spike had barely begun to form, when the creature slapped his elbow, bending the bone backward, making him miss entirely.
[-2 BP.]
His other arm struggled to shoot the Caucon, but it took a while for him to even realize he had long lost his grip on the gun. By then even that arm was broken, and it was too late. Miles could no longer move, or even think properly.
[-3 HP. 1/10 HP remaining.]
Whatever he had managed to recover from the previous fight, was completely gone now.
Through the pain, Miles felt his delirious mind focus, just enough to feel himself be dragged to the sight where the corpses of the former numbered remained. They were nothing but skin and bones now.
In his current state, mind shifting, desiring nothing but blood, Miles couldn't care less about what he had done.
The demon that held his ragged figure was laughing, cackling and giggling. It was a bellowing, roaring laugh. Sorrowful, insane, and ecstatic.
Miles felt himself being lifted into the air, the cold winds stinging against what remained of his body. His limbs were twisted, his spine cracked, and his skin and flesh sizzled as if on fire. That was when he realized he was being held from his foot, over the head of the Imp. It was as if he were a fish, and down beneath him were the lips of a grinning maw.
The imp spoke, saying something he did not hear, nor could read from the lips.
But Miles understood.
An eye for an eye. Revenge.
The serrated mouth expanded, stretching wider and wider than what could be possible, until it was stretched wide enough to fit twice of himself. He thought he could see the depths of the digestive system from here. Realization hit him, and it terrified even his broken train of thought. Forcing thought through his fading mind, Miles did the last thing he could.
Ironblood Spike.
But… this time, he couldn’t even aim. His arm was bent, pointing somewhere else, and all it did was form a shattered apparition of a spike that cracked as soon as it appeared. And for the first time ever, Miles’s blood points reached total zero.
[-2 BP. Remaining Blood Points: 0/10 (+Blood Bank: 0/100)]
He was nothing. He was empty. He was no different from skin and bone.
Miles barely felt the grip on his foot let go, and he fell into the imp’s mouth. He barely felt his legs and arms begin to be crushed. He barely felt the gnarly teeth chewing on him, savoring his taste.
His suit was a punishment, for the tough ogre skin kept him intact, suffering through more crushing under the power of these demonic jaws. He felt his limbs grinding into paste. He felt his bones crumbling, innards being smashed into paste.
Miles could still hear someone screaming, even sobbing. Pathetic.
Sometime during that, he was swallowed whole, and he could finally lose consciousness.
To be honest, it was a mercy.