The primal scream that erupted from Baldur's throat was an amalgamation of terror, shock, and pain all in one haunting howl. The bellowing sound reverberated through the ancient forest like a death knell, causing nearby creatures and spirits to disperse.
His severed arm hung consisted now of mere sinews and strips of torn flesh, a grotesque pendulum swaying with each labored breath. The arterial spray had painted the moss-covered ground in violent crimson, creating patterns that seemed almost ritualistic in their chaotic beauty.
Each droplet that fell hissed against the earth, as if his very blood carried the weight of his accumulated spirituality.
But Baldur was no ordinary man. He was a Sequence 7 Gladiator of the Twilight Giant pathway, blessed with the constitution of his ancient bloodline and tempered by countless battles against the corrupted and the mad.
To him, pain was merely another opponent to be conquered.
He deeply inhaled and exhaled, slowing down his heart rate and getting a hold over himself.
His thoughts crystallized into cold determination as he forced his remaining hand to stop trembling. The inner pouch of his spiritually-enhanced armor contained his most precious possessions—artifacts that had cost him three years of accumulated contributions to the patrol team. With blood-slicked fingers, he withdrew a flask sealed with violet wax, its contents sloshing with an otherworldly luminescence.
"Spare me your trials, Great Creator," he whispered through gritted teeth, his voice carrying the weight of desperate prayer. "Grant me the strength to see this through."
The healing concoction was a masterwork of alchemical mixtures —distilled from the bone marrow of a Sequence 5 Corrupted Giant, mixed with the spiritual essence of three different types of vengeful spirits, and stabilized with powdered fragments of a beyonder characteristic that belonged to a high sequence beyonder of the Sun Pathway; An Unshadowed.
The liquid scorched his throat like molten lead, and he felt his spiritual body convulse as the foreign essence merged with his own. His veins bulged and writhed beneath his skin like serpents, glowing with an eerie phosphorescence. The bleeding from his stump slowed to a trickle, then ceased entirely as new flesh began to grow with sickening speed—not a proper limb, but crude scar tissue that sealed the wound with the efficiency of a battlefield surgeon.
'Whatever striked me holds a terrifying corruption power. It acts like a poison yet I can even feel it slowly taint my very soul.'
He could feel it now—the lingering mark from whatever had severed his arm. It wasn't merely a physical wound; something had tried to poison his very soul. The healing potion warred against this foreign influence, creating a nauseating cocktail of sensations that threatened to overwhelm his consciousness.
Baldur spat out a mouthful of black ichor, the corrupted blood steaming as it hit the forest floor. When he stood, his legs trembled like a newborn foal's, but his eyes burned with the inner fire of his insurmountable spirit. His remaining hand found the grip of his consecrated silver sword—Dawnbreaker, forged from pure silver.
The blade hummed with anticipation, its spiritual resonance creating a low, musical note that seemed to repel the very shadows around him. He could feel its purifying effect towards the supernatural activate rapidly.
'In order to see this beast, I must use the powers of my spiritual perception to its full extent.'
Baldur's consciousness expanded as he activated one of his pathway's most fundamental abilities. The world around him transformed into a tapestry of spiritual light and shadow. The ancient trees pulsed with slow, green life-force. Wisps of deceased spirits drifted between the branches like ethereal jellyfish. The very air shimmered with threads of spiritual energy that connected all living things.
But there, moving through the gnarled trees of the dark forest, a creature blitzed past its surroundings. A shadow, dashing through the trees in the shape of a crouched human.
'What manner of abomination is this...!?'
The creature was approaching with terrifying speed, its movements too fluid to be that of a human's. Baldur widened his stance, calling upon the Warrior's Instinct that had kept him alive through a dozen campaigns. His muscles tensed, immediately ready to explode into action upon the first sense of danger.
Then, between one heartbeat and the next, the shadow vanished.
Every one of his instincts screamed danger. The air became stagnant and cold, forming a pattern that spoke of imminent death. He moved his gaze from left to right as he tried to track the creature's whereabouts.
Then, Without conscious thought, Baldur spun and brought his sword around in a devastating arc, the consecrated blade singing through the air.
ClANG!
The sword met resistance—not flesh, but something harder than steel. Sparks cascaded through the darkness as he pressed forward, forcing whatever had attacked him out of the shadows and into the moonlight.
What he saw defied every single one of his expectations.
It was...A boy.
A child no older than twelve years, with the kind of aristocratic beauty that belonged in a noble's portrait rather than a nightmare forest.
He had Ocean-blue eyes that held depths, complimenting his appearance furthermore. Silver-streaked hair that caught the moonlight like spun platinum flowed out of his scalp, and His clothing was immaculate—a white collared shirt without a single stain, a buttoned vest that spoke of expensive tailoring, brown gentleman's pants that seemed much more expensive than Baldur's own clothing.
Yet the air around him felt inhuman - it felt wrong. It shimmered with the same dark and twisted aura that Baldur had previously sighted.
"You..." Baldur's voice was a rasp of confusion and horror. "What are you, child? Why are you doing this!? To strike a patrol officer is gauranteed imprisonment for life!"
The boy didn't even look at him directly. His gaze was unfocused, distant, as if he were looking through Baldur to something far more interesting beyond.
"Have you been ordered by somebody inside of the city to strike me?" He asked full of anticipation for an elaborate scheme to be the boy's answer.
"I was ordered to kill you," he said in a youthful voice like ice. "So now you have to die. It's as simple as that. There's no deeper meaning to it—no grand purpose or complicated scheme. You're just a task to be completed."
'So he was ordered. But by whom?'
The casual indifference in the boy's voice was perhaps more terrifying than any roar of rage or declaration of hatred. To him - it seemed to be an everyday occurence.
"You're not a Beyonder," Baldur said, his warrior's instincts analyzing every detail. "No child your age could have advanced far enough in any pathway to possess such abilities, nor would they even have access to a pathway's potion. Yet your strength, your speed... What creature are you?"
The boy finally looked at him then, and Baldur felt ice form in his veins. Those ocean-blue eyes held no warmth, and no humanity—they were like directly looking into the depths of a frozen lake with a bottomless end.
'This boy...no this creature has no soul. But only the undead carry an extinguished spark of life.'
The realization brought a measure of relief. If this was truly a monster wearing human form, then he could act without hesitation. No guilt nor regret would plague his consciousness from executing it. Just the righteous fury of a warrior who wants to protect his people.
"Prepare to die!" Baldur shouted at the top of his lungs.
His killing intent exploded outward in a wave of spiritual pressure that would have driven a normal human to their knees. The stagnant dead air boomed with a force comparable to a mountain's.
The boy blinked once, slowly, like a cat considering a particularly interesting toy. Then he smiled—a crooked, amused expression that belonged on the face of someone infinitely more dangerous.
"This will be interesting," he murmured, and his voice carried notes of anticipation that made Baldur's skin crawl.
He then leaned forward on his right foot, and with his left - built up enough force for his charge.
Baldur's body exploded into motion, his speed carrying him forward with the force of a cannonball. Dawnbreaker whistled through the air in a perfect downward slash, its consecrated edge leaving a trail of faded silver light in its wake. The strike was flawless—the culmination of years of training and battlefield experience.
As the blade continued its path downwards, the boy simply sidestepped the attack.
After his dodge, the boy's body then twisted and spun 180-degrees.The set of movements were impossibly fluid. His foot lashed out in a precise kick aimed at Baldur's ribs, but the warrior's combat instincts were already adapting.
Baldur let the kick's momentum carry him backward, converting the force into a graceful backflip that created distance between them. But the boy—the creature—pressed the assault immediately, closing the gap with speed that made Baldur's eyes water.
A punch was immediately aimed straight at his solar plexus—
CLANG!
The blow struck his spiritually-enhanced armor and rebounded with a sound like a church bell being struck. The boy's expression flickered with something that might have been surprise, and Baldur felt a surge of grim satisfaction.
"Did you think I was just defenseless?" he growled, spinning into a devastating back-kick that caught the boy in the temple.
The creature flipped mid-air, but his recovery was too perfect and controlled. As he hung suspended for a moment, Baldur saw his opportunity and took it. Dawnbreaker swept upward in a silver arc, its consecrated edge hungry for unholy blood.
But the boy's hand snapped out, catching the flat of the blade and redirecting its force. Sparks flew as metal met whatever substance his flesh was made out of, and Baldur felt the shock of the impact travel up his arm.
He deflected my full force direct hit!'
"What are you?" Baldur demanded, putting all his confusion and growing fear into the words.
The boy landed gracefully, brushing imaginary dust from his immaculate clothing. He yawned—actually yawned—as if the life-and-death struggle was boring him.
"Boring," he said, confirming Baldur's suspicions. "You're all so predictable. Swing sword up. Swing sword down. Swing it around."
The casual mockery ignited something primal in Baldur's chest. He was a veteran of dozens of battles, a servant of the Omniscient and Omnipotent God, a guardian of humanity against the forces of evil. And he would not be mocked.
Baldur launched himself forward again, but this time he held nothing back. His sword became a blur of silver light as he unleashed a combination that had taken him years to perfect. Slashes from every angle were thrown out at a rapid-fire pace.
Still, the boy dodged them all.
Not with effort or strain, but with the casual grace of someone taking a leisurely stroll.
'This is impossible. No monster can move like that, not even an intelligent one.'
But then much to his misfortune, the child slipped. He slightly stumbled as his foot caught on a root. It was barely for a second, but Baldur's honed skills seized on it like his very life depended on it. Which it did.
He slammed into the boy with his full body weight, driving him to the ground and pressing Dawnbreaker's edge against his throat. The consecrated blade bit into flesh, and Baldur felt a moment of savage triumph.
"This is your end, you—"
But the blade wouldn't pierce.
The boy's neck had transformed, the skin taking on a gray-blue hue that Baldur recognized with growing horror. It was the same supernatural durability that he himself and higher sequenced beyonders possessed as a Twilight Giant pathway, but amplified beyond anything he had ever encountered.
He's mimicking the Twilight Giant's abilites. But how? What sort of thing could possibly do—
Golden eyes unraveled as the boy's eyes reopened. Vertically slit pupils that belonged to a serpent expanded.
"So you are a monster," Baldur growled, forcing the blade harder against the transformed flesh. "Good. That way I won't feel—"
"—Sorry for dying?" the boy whispered, his voice carrying a humorous tone.
His hands then moved to grip the blade. Not to push it away however, but to hold it steady. Then—
CRACK!
The sound was like thunder contained within a small space. The boy clapped his hands together, and Dawnbreaker—the consecrated weapon that had served Baldur faithfully for seven years—shattered like glass. Fragments of silver flew in all directions, several embedding themselves in Baldur's armor.
My sword! Shit—
The boy instantly vanished from his spot on the ground right from under him.
Baldur spun once, twice, three times, his warrior's instincts screaming warnings from every direction. The spiritual auras in the air were in chaos, pointing everywhere and nowhere at once.
On the fourth turn, Baldur found him.
The boy stood behind him, back turned, with his hand outstretched. Warped spiraling blades that looked like elongated talons sprouted out of his fingers.
The black talons that unfurled from Arthur's fingers were not natural extensions of flesh and bone—but appeared to be made out of the strongest and sturdiest material in the world.
Each talon spiraled out from his fingertips like coiled obsidian, tapering into razor-thin, curved blades
'When did he appear behind me?'
Baldur moved to strike, but stopped as he saw the drip of dark-red liquid from the claws.
It was blood.
It was his blood.
'No...'
His hand went to his throat, and his fingers came away wet. The wound was precise, surgical in its execution. The creature had moved behind him, struck with killing precision, and returned to his casual stance in the space between heartbeats.
"No," Baldur whispered, but the word came out as a gurgle.
The world tilted and His vision completely blurred. The aura that came from the boy in front of him began to flicker in and out as his eye-sight completely failed, and with it his spiritual sight.
'Captain Valer, please forgive me.'
His last thought was of the City. All of his family and relatives were now dead, and the only people who he could even call family were just his fellow members of the Patrol team. He then began to think of all of the innocent people who always lived in the predatory darkness within the City's confines, fearing for whether or not an evil spirit or monster would come - and if their next meal wouldn't.
Finally, The world tilted and his head completely left his body.
The boy turned slowly, his golden eyes reflecting the moonlight like a predator's. The sharp-toothed grin that bloomed across his face was a flower of horror in the darkness.
"I would've liked to keep you as a plaything" he murmured, his voice carrying genuine regret. "You had such interesting moves. Much more entertaining than the usual humans."
Arthur - for that was his name, though names were merely convenient labels for creatures like him, hoisted the headless corpse with a casual display of strength.
The body's blood spilled out onto the ground in an enormous pool of scarlet liquid. The ground became drenched in it, resembling a small pond. When he was finished, he let the desiccated husk crumple beside the staring head inside the giant puddle of blood.
Then he entered a state that resembled cogitation. His eyes became pools of absolute darkness, twin voids that seemed to draw in light itself. The temperature dropped twenty degrees in an instant, and a cool breeze swept throughout the air.
He began to chant, still speaking in Jotun; the language of giants and gods, his voice carrying harmonics that made reality itself shiver:
"Capella Emerada Lugunica.
Father of Devils. Lord of Deviants.
Source of Curses. Heartless God.
I pray for you to notice this offering to your kingdom..."
The blood responded to his words, writhing and reshaping itself into runes that predated human civilization. They formed patterns that hurt to perceive directly, symbols that contained concepts for which no human language had words.
Next, the blood spiraled into a vortex, pulling the corpse and severed head into whatever realm lay beyond the mortal world. In seconds, there was nothing left—no trace that Baldur had ever existed, no evidence of the battle that had just concluded.
'So Capella has finally reached it. 'She' has somehow achieved divinity.'
Arthur dusted his hands with the satisfied air of someone who had just completed a mildly interesting task.
"Spooky," he commented to the empty forest, his voice once again carrying the casual tone of a bored child.
He walked off through the trees, whistling a melodious tune.
Minutes passed, and the forest began to return to its normal state of supernatural unease. The eternal darkness that was only ever illuminated with constant strikes of lightning.
Then—
"How long are you going to keep following me?" Arthur called to the darkness, his voice carrying casual amusement.
From behind a massive black oak tree, a small figure emerged. Claire—a girl of perhaps five or six years. Her dress was torn and dirty, her brown hair disheveled, and her auburn eyes held the glazed look of someone who had seen too much.
She had been following him since, he had first taken her from the orphanage in the first place. She didn't know why, but for some reason - she was mysteriously drawn towards him.
"W-Who are you...?" she whispered, her voice barely audible above the wind through the trees.
Arthur turned to face her, and for a moment, his expression was that of a perfectly normal, friendly child. The golden eyes were once again ocean-blue, the sharp teeth hidden behind a warm smile. All in all, he appeared as a young noble scholar, a strong contrast to their current setting.
Just then, a tremendous strike of lightning occurred overhead, partially casting a light onto half of his face.
"I am Arthur."