Chapter 247
The final, choked gurgle of an evilus soldier died in the sudden silence.
It had been preceded moments before by a piercing, desperate scream – the sound echoing unnervingly in the confined space.
Dust, churned by the chaotic, one-sided battle, hung thick in the air, catching the faint light filtering in from nonexistent seams in the packed earth and stone.
“What? Who’s there?” A new voice, raw with panic, shattered the fragile quiet.
It belonged to another evilus soldier, his breath ragged, eyes wide and darting frantically through the gloom.
He saw only the twisted forms of his fallen comrades, the destruction absolute and seemingly instantaneous.
“Just… what is happening? A blast wave, out of nowhe—” His voice cut off abruptly, replaced by a sickening crunch and a rapid expiration of air, his life extinguished before the question could even register fully.
A heavy silence descended again, deeper and more permanent this time.
All the evilus soldiers were accounted for, lying still in the ruined space.
It was only then, when the last pulse of hostile life faded, that a figure seemed to coalesce from the swirling motes of dust and shadow.
The air shimmered for a brief instant, then settled, revealing a cloaked form.
It was Fels.
With a tired, almost mechanical movement, they lowered the hood of their shroud-like cloak – a simple, swift action that dropped the effects of the Reverse Veil, allowing them to be perceived by mundane senses once more.
The act was, in this moment, pointless; there was no one left alive to witness their form.
They stood amidst the carnage, the skeletal structure beneath the cloak a stark contrast to the messy, vital ruin surrounding them.
Fels had used their unique and devastating magic item, Magic Eater, to silently and brutally eliminate this wandering group of enemy combatants.
Suddenly, a subtle, high-pitched hum permeated the air near Fels, followed by a resonant voice that seemed to emanate from the very particles around them, ancient and steady as the bedrock of the world.
“How goes the search, Fels?”
It was Ouranus, the founding god of Orario, his voice reaching across impossible distances through a long-range communication magic artifact.
“Just encountered another wandering group of evilus soldiers, Lord Ouranus,” Fels replied, their voice a low, dry rasp, devoid of inflection.
“They have been dealt with. I am presently en route to the entrance of the lower waterways.”
Fels served as Ouranus’s closest confidante and most trusted operative, the one dispatched to execute tasks that required secrecy, subtlety, or a ruthlessness that Orario’s celebrated adventurers could not publicly embrace.
Since the onset of this grim war against the evilus, Fels had become a phantom on the front lines, a tireless force operating in the shadows, complementing the efforts of the adventurers, working dawn till dusk and back again to safeguard Orario and ensure its eventual triumph.
Time and again, they had prevented brewing insurrections, dismantled enemy plots and eliminated key agitators, often utilizing powerful, unconventional magic items they made or provided by the guild.
This was the hidden, ugly work necessitated by war, the kind no golden-hearted adventurer could ever openly undertake.
Fels was also the unheralded healer, anonymously tending to the wounded – be they adventurers pulled back from the brink or civilians caught in the crossfire.
With the aid of their loyal owl familiar, Gafiel, perched high above the city, scouting perilous routes, Fels relayed crucial intelligence – enemy positions, troop movements, infiltration points – directly to the Guild’s command, ensuring figures like Finn had the vital information needed to plan defences and offensives.
Recent reports had surfaced hinting at highly suspicious activities festering within the extensive network of waterways and sewers beneath the city’s bustling surface.
Acting on Ouranus direct orders, Fels was now heading underground to investigate this hidden threat.
“Be ever vigilant, Fels,” Ouranus’s voice carried a note of serious warning.
“If the enemy has indeed established a significant presence underground, as our intelligence suggests, there will be sentries... perhaps dozens, cunningly placed.”
The divine voice paused, then continued with sharp emphasis.
“Remember, the Reverse Veil offers cloaking from sight and masks your scent. It does not render you intangible, nor does it make you undetectable to other senses or means. Do not grow complacent... Fels?” Ouranus’s voice sharpened further, sensing the subtle waver in Fels’s focus, the flicker of a mind distracted.
Fels had been working without respite, a relentless machine of war and protection.
Their tireless efforts were known intimately only to Ouranus.
But Fels harboured no resentment for this anonymity; their sole concern was the outcome, the preservation and prosperity of Orario.
If their actions, hidden and often morally grey, contributed to positive results, then their lack of recognition was irrelevant.
They might be a figure of bone and regret, a fool who had abandoned flesh and skin in a misguided quest, tenuously held together by fragments of purpose.
Yet, despite the absence of vital organs and flowing blood, Fels was not entirely devoid of feeling.
Emotions, ancient and complex, still flowed through them, or perhaps through the soul that animated the bone.
It was a distinction that had grown increasingly blurred over centuries.
“Ouranus…” Fels’s voice was soft, almost a whisper, heavy with a weariness that transcended mere physical exhaustion.
“The dying… it never seems to stop. I am no stranger to death, Lord Ouranus. I have witnessed its embrace countless times across the ages. But the sheer scale of this… the senselessness… it is difficult.” Fels paused, the dry rasp thick with suppressed emotion, a strain on the ethereal threads that held their form together.
Fels had existed for over eight hundred years, a span of time that had forged them into a rather odd being.
They had believed, in shedding their flesh, that they had also shed unnecessary sentiment, achieving a detached state of being, observing the world from a distant, clinical perspective.
But the ongoing conflict, the relentless tide of death, proved that belief a lie.
“Death… longing… loneliness… loss…” Fels muttered, their gaze sweeping over the battlefield of corpses.
“It is all here, staring back at me from every still eye, every broken form.”
No living thing, regardless of age or experience, could be exposed to such widespread, brutal slaughter and emerge completely unshaken.
This war was forcing Fels to confront a truth they had successfully avoided for centuries: there were depths of emotion that not even eight hundred years of dedicated servitude to cold pragmatism could fully erode.
Unless they could somehow excise their very soul, it seemed these fundamental (perhaps sentient) emotions were bound to them for eternity, a silent, persistent ache.
Before them lay the grim aftermath, a field of shattered lives.
And there, among the tangled limbs and vacant stares, was the body of a young elven boy.
His features were delicate, now frozen in death, his eyes, once bright with life, gazing sightlessly in Fels’s direction.
His small arms were outstretched, palms open, in a peculiar, almost innocent gesture – as if, even in dying, he had been reaching for solace, for salvation that never came.
The sight of him, an elf so young, so tragically murdered, triggered a violent resurgence of unpleasant memories, fragments of Fels’s own distant, painful past.
For what reason had they sought immortality?
What desperate hope had fuelled their misguided dream of resurrection, the experiments that had left them like this?
Their old self, the mortal they had been, had been mired in both hubris and deep pain long before they had ever embraced the mantle of the ‘Fool,’ the skeletal servant of Ouranus.
Fels felt something akin to a quiver resonate in the space where their heart should have been, a sensation that logic dictated should have long since rotted away to nothingness.
The scene before them, the dead boy with outstretched hands, felt like a cruel, distorted mirror image of something infinitely precious they had once lost, or perhaps destroyed, in their past. And so, instinctively, like an angel of death considering its charge, Fels extended a long, bony finger towards the young elven boy’s still form.
“If my foolish creation was good for anything… this life I forged from forbidden arts…” Fels’s mind raced, the forbidden thought taking root.
“Should I dare… dare to imbue this child with a second life? A chance?” They reached out, their skeletal fingers hovering just above the boy’s cold cheek, a dangerous spark of misguided empathy igniting within them.
However, before Fels could commit such a disruptive, stupid act – one born of centuries of regret and a fleeting moment of overwhelming sorrow – Ouranus’s voice, sharp and commanding, resonated fiercely.
“You cannot.”
The divine prohibition was absolute, leaving no room for argument or hesitation.
“I will not permit the disruption of the balance,” Ouranus stated, his tone cold, yet possessing a strange, terrible mercy.
“I will not allow another such as you to exist. Any life you might attempt to snatch back from the natural order, I will simply reclaim once more by my divine authority.” The warning was stark, absolute.
“By my will, my decree, you are forbidden from ever dabbling in the affairs of life and death. Remember this, Fels.” The divine voice softened, though the underlying command remained steel.
“To a god, your mortal sentiments, these fleeting moments of empathy and regret, are naught but petty vanity.”
Fels’s reaching hand froze, then slowly, visibly, withdrew.
The dangerous spark died, replaced by a cold wave of shame and self-repulsion.
“Yes, Lord Ouranus,” Fels replied, their voice regaining its flat, obedient tone, though a tremor ran through their being.
‘I am sorry. Thank you.’
These words formed silently in Fels’s mind, directed at Ouranus, yet they could not force the sound past their non-existent lips.
Only they had to bear this eternal curse, this skeletal existence born of their own hubris.
The mere thought that they had, even for a second, considered seeking a twisted form of companionship by inflicting their own fate upon that innocent elven boy sickened Fels to the core of their soul.
“I am alright now…” Fels repeated, quieter this time, speaking as much to themselves as to the distant god.
“…Only I am needed to bear this burden. Only I.”
With a visible effort, Fels cast aside the weight of sorrow and regret.
The moment of vulnerability passed.
They straightened, the skeletal form regaining its rigid posture.
Once more, Fels donned the invisible mask of the Fool, the dedicated servant who simply carried out their tasks, who went on existing without overt personal desires or visible purpose beyond Ouranus’s will.
Yet, the depth of their devotion, the silent, loyalty to Ouranus, ran deeper than any fleeting emotional turmoil.
Fels lifted their head, turning away from the scene of death towards the entrance to the dark subterranean passages.
“It is time to go,” they muttered, the statement directed at the empty air and the divine presence that watched them.
And with that, the form of Fels seemed to melt back into the shadows, disappearing silently into the waiting maw of the waterways, ready to fufil the next task Ouranus required.
………………………………………………..
The acrid taste of bile burned in Raul's throat as he doubled over, the sound of his retching echoing obscenely in the absolute silence of the ravaged street.
A pathetic, wet splatter hit the cracked, rubble-strewn cobblestones.
He coughed again, a harsh, rattling sound that seemed to mock his weakness.
This putrid act, in this putrid place, felt like the final, pathetic capitulation of his body and mind.
"Are you alright, Raul?" Nikolaos's voice was level, clipped, devoid of excessive emotion.
He stood a few paces back, his posture alert despite the grim surroundings.
Raul forced himself to straighten, wiping his mouth with the back of a grimy hand.
The world swam slightly.
"I'm fine," he lied, the word raspy.
"I can still keep going."
His gaze flickered to Nikolaos – younger, stronger, radiating a quiet competence Raul could only envy – and then to a fellow adventurer from the Loki familia whose lithe form seemed perpetually ready for action.
He wasn't a front-line fighter, merely a messenger and support, and in this war-torn city, surrounded by adventurers leagues above his own capabilities, his role felt utterly inadequate.
He refused to be the reason they stopped, the one who held them back.
"You should listen to him, Raul," a softer, yet firm voice added.
It was Anakitty Autumn, her gaze holding a mix of concern and something more.
"You haven't managed to get any sleep at all the last couple of days."
Raul shook his head stubbornly, the movement making his vision blur again for a moment.
"I... I can't stop now. Not when there are so many relying on my efforts." The words felt hollow even to him, a desperate justification for clinging to his dwindling pride.
Nikolaos let out a short, sharp sound that might have been a scoff.
"Stubborn, fine. I don't care what's driving you. Just don't become a liability. My priority right now is getting back to the camp, and you're supposed to be leading the way." His tone wasn't cruel, merely pragmatic.
He'd seen enough death and despair in the past seventy-two hours alone – horrors that once again challenged his understanding of mortal depravity – to feel little inclination for drawn-out sympathy.
His own childhood had instilled a certain metal fortitude, a grim resilience that helped him navigate the crushing reality of this brutal war against the Evilus.
"I won't be a liability," Raul ground out, gritting his teeth against the nausea and sheer exhaustion.
With a supreme effort, he pushed himself fully upright, legs trembling slightly.
He hated feeling so weak, especially in front of this kid who possessed both higher stats and levels despite being adventurers for around the same time.
They shouldn't even be here together, really.
Nikolaos was supposed to be with his patrol partner, Clair, trying to get back to the factory district after getting separated during a skirmish with Evilus soldiers.
He'd gotten hopelessly lost in the disorienting maze of half-destroyed buildings, every street a blur of rubble and ruin, before luck (or fate) had led him to cross paths with Raul and Anakitty, who were specifically tasked with delivering some information to Riveria, who was currently still recovering in the factory district.
His meeting them had effectively merged their immediate objectives.
Now, after picking their way through another block of skeletal buildings and overturned carts, Nikolaos, who had been setting a steady, relentless pace, froze.
He held up a hand, bringing the others to an immediate halt.
"What is it?" Raul whispered, his body instantly tensing, heart hammering against his ribs. "Enemy attack?"
Anakitty tilted her head, her sensitive beast ears swivelling slightly.
"Can't you hear that?" Anakitty asked.
"I'm not like you beast-Demi humans," Raul started, slightly defensive, "my hearing isn't that sensi—" He cut himself off, his own ears straining.
Through the oppressive silence, past the faint, ever-present buzz of flies drawn to the lingering stench of death, a faint sound began to register.
Clang. Clang.
A rhythmic, metallic ring. Unmistakable.
"It sounds like a hammer," Nikolaos murmured, his expression unreadable.
Anakitty looked from Nikolaos to the direction of the sound.
"Hmm. Should we go check it out?"
Raul's initial fear flared.
"I don't know... it could be some kind of trap." The memory of the mangled bodies they'd passed, each one a grim testament to the enemy's ruthlessness, was still vividly etched behind his eyelids, slowly chipping away at his frayed sanity.
Nikolaos considered their options for a long moment, scanning the desolate surroundings. Finally, he made a decision.
"Hand me your weapons."
Anakitty raised an eyebrow.
"And why exactly would we do that?"
"If this is a trap, you'll need an edge," Nikolaos stated plainly.
“I want to apply an enchantment. Can't have my guides being taken out before we get back."
Raul stared, dumbfounded.
"Wait... you have magic?" he exclaimed, genuine shock overcoming his exhaustion.
Nikolaos looked mildly surprised by the reaction.
"Yeah? What about it?" To him, it seemed almost natural for an adventurer to possess some form of magic, a tool like any other.
‘This brat’ Raul thought, a bitter wave of jealousy washing over him.
Not only was Nikolaos clearly higher in level, but he possessed magic too – and enchantment magic at that, a rare and powerful type too.
It felt incredibly unfair.
Nikolaos paid no mind to Raul's internal turmoil.
He took Anakitty's and Raul's weapons, a faint, almost imperceptible red light shimmering around his hands for a brief moment as he worked.
They felt different when he handed them back, subtly heavier, charged with magic energy.
"Remember," Nikolaos warned, his eyes meeting theirs, "it packs quite a punch. The recoil can be severe. If you can't withstand it, use it as a last resort only."
"Got it," Anakitty and Raul responded in unison, gripping their now enchanted weapons.
With preparations made, the trio turned, stepping carefully over debris and around craters.
The shadows seemed to deepen as they moved towards the source of the rhythmic sound, the oppressive silence pressing in on them, broken only by that persistent, hammering sound, with no idea what surprise awaited them.
A/N: Feel free to read ahead on pat3on and donate.