Derek had grown accustomed to battling in the dim light. The tunnel wasn't as dark as he'd first imagined, the powerful architect, appeared to be quite considerate. He had set luminous soul cores into the walls. Derek would have loved to pry them loose and absorb their energy as he passed, but Quarren insisted that they formed the axis of the enchantment, keeping the influence of Oblivion at bay. Without the power granted by those cores, Derek was starting to feel drowsy again, a profound weariness settling in.
He was tired, utterly fed up, not to mention burdened with several injuries. He had lacerations, bruises, and scratches, but those were minor compared to what truly ailed him. His ankle was sprained, and some crazed warrior had caved in his chest, shattering ribs.
The latter was healing, albeit slowly, but the former was fresh, and each step was agony. He limped, wincing with every movement.
Derek broke the oppressive silence that had stretched between him and the pedantic weapon for hours.
"Hey, Quarren, once again how long is this forest of Oblivion?"
"I said I have no idea," Quarren admitted.
He knew Derek was angry, and rightfully so. They'd only been seeking the nearest settlement, but they'd stumbled into one trouble after another.
Now, it seemed they were hopelessly stuck in the tunnel. Derek wasn't sure how long they'd been down there, but he was sure it was over two months. Back in the living world, that was enough time to cross an entire nation, coupled with the fact that he rarely rested. He refused to believe the tunnel was that vast.
"I knew it," he said, bitterness creeping into his voice. "My gut told me not to enter this cursed place, but you..."
"Enough!" Quarren interrupted. "Are we playing the blame game now? Have you forgotten that without me, you wouldn't even be alive to complain?"
"There you are," Derek retorted, his tone sharp. "Always taking all the glory for yourself. Have you also forgotten that without me, you'd still be sitting helplessly on that land, cowering in the shadows of your dead master like some piece of trash?"
A long silence ensued, heavy with unspoken resentments.
Derek knew he might have said too much, but he just didn't care.
"He's not dead; his soul was only stolen. At least, that's what you claimed,"
Quarren replied, his voice tinged with bitterness. "But I can still feel him, like he's nearby, so I know he's not gone."
"If you don't want this to end here, you'd better think of something, like you always do." A slight grimace lingered on Derek's face.
Derek's time in the tunnel had changed him in more ways than one.
He was dirty, tousled, and calloused. Hunger and drowsiness had become constant companions. Even his rusted armor had been replaced by a tough, dark, leather-like shroud that clung to his skin.
He'd scavenged that from one of the warriors he had killed. At this point, he'd slain so many he couldn't even remember which one it came from. Not that it mattered.
He limped slightly as he kept walking. At this point, he couldn't even tell the difference between himself and these mindless thralls anymore.
Maybe that was what Oblivion was trying to achieve. Maybe it had figured out that Derek had tricked it and was seeking revenge. Maybe it already had, and Derek was like one of these people now, oblivious to reality…forever. What better solace could there be?
Derek allowed these thoughts to run idly through his mind. These intrusive thoughts, crazy and extreme as they seemed, were the only thing keeping him sane…and the seldom, biting quips from Quarren every once in a while.
Derek sucked in a deep breath and halted.
Something was intruding on the silence, and it wasn't coming from within himself.
Something was happening ahead.
Derek narrowed his eyes and kept walking. After a few steps, the source of the chaos finally came into view.
It was just two lost warriors fighting – nothing unusual in this accursed place.
Wait up
It wasn't merely two warriors engaged in conflict, but four. The remaining two had just come into view, and they seem to be a troublesome bunch.
"Ah," Derek sighed, the sound heavy with resignation, "getting past these ones will be a bit of a headache."
Derek lethargically raised his arm, initiating a forceful twirl. Coiled around his forearm was a ten-meter length of rope, its end secured to the haft of his mace.
He would have gladly indulged his fascination with the distribution of essence within the warriors' bodies, but one of them had already fixed him with its gaze. Action was...unavoidable, to say the least.
In an intense probe of the minds and souls of these lost warriors, seeking a weakness to exploit, Derek had stumbled upon a fascinating observation. During their combat, every movement possessed a hidden force, imperceptible to the untrained eye.
With each swing of a fist, each brutal kick, their souls...what remains of it pulsed.
A trickle of essence bridged the divide between soul and flesh, infusing the limb poised to strike, amplifying the impact to a devastating degree.
The soul essence, it seemed, was far more than a mere bulwark against encroaching drowsiness; its potential was vast and unexplored. He had barely scratched the surface of its capabilities but he was slowly improving.
He had shared this insight with Quarren, only to learn that such a skill was seemingly unique to the thralls of Oblivion. Others relied solely on essence for the crude advancement of rank.
This revelation, combined with Quarren's rigorous training in the art of mace-wielding, and his own unorthodox, often desperate, improvisations, had allowed him to forge a crude approximation of a combat style. Incomplete and fundamentally flawed as it was, Derek held the conviction that with time and perseverance, it would evolve.
Speaking of the thralls of Oblivion, Derek felt a flicker of something akin to pity for them. Once, they had been warriors, who were converted in battle and sought an end to the vicious circle of existence by seeking oblivion.
They did find oblivion, but not rest. Now, one of them charged toward him, a ghastly parody of glee contorting its features. They were truly pitiful thralls.
"Recieve rest,"
Derek whispered, his voice a low murmur. His arm spun faster, the mace gaining both centrifugal and centripetal force, whistling through the air as the rope gradually unwound.
As the rope reached its full extension, Derek gave it a sharp tug. The cord snapped taut, drawing the mace towards his arm, he secured the haft with a sharp grip.
Infusing his muscles with a surge of essence, he hurled the weapon with a force that surprised even him.
"Here we go againnnnn..." Quarren's voice echoed with weary exasperation. Derek paid him no heed, maintaining a mask of detached boredom.
The thrall evaded the mace with surprising agility, continuing its relentless advance.
Derek, unflinching, stood his ground, as if he had anticipated this outcome. As the rope reached the limits of its length, Derek channeled another trickle of essence into his arm, straining his muscles to the point where the veins beneath his skin seemed to writhe.
He had to carefully ration his reserves, hampered by his lingering injuries and the fact that he was very low on the said essence.
Using every ounce of strength he possessed, he hauled on the rope, jerking the mace back toward him. On its return trajectory, the mace encountered resistance – the head of the unsuspecting thrall. It detonated in a shower of gore, splattering blood and brain matter in a macabre display, a crimson tableau that Derek had become disturbingly desensitized to.
"Rest peacefully..."
Derek whispered, the words barely audible above the eerie silence of the tunnel.