Chapter VIII: The Swords of Darkness and the Shadow of Infection
Lionel woke to a leaden exhaustion that clung to his bones like grave-dirt—thick, suffocating, inescapable. Every ounce of energy had been drained from him the night before, sucked dry like marrow from a corpse, all spent scolding three troublemakers who possessed the collective wisdom of a bag of hammers. Out of all the souls scattered across E-Rantel's sprawling streets—hundreds, perhaps thousands of potential targets—they had chosen him. Momonga. Ainz Ooal Gown. The one being Lionel absolutely, categorically, desperately needed to avoid.
For now.
"I don't want anything—anything—like that ever happening again." His voice cut through the morning air like a scalpel through skin. "I scolded you last night. Lectured. Threatened. And the moment I closed my eyes, the instant I dozed off, you three disobeyed me."
Silence. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
Then, the killing blow: "This is going to reach your mother."
The effect was immediate and delicious.
"Please!" Bela's cry pierced the air like a nail through wood. She dropped to her knees before him, her Creator, her god, hands clasped in desperate supplication. "Don't tell Mother! Please, Creator! We'll never be let out again. Never! She'll lock us in the castle, chain us to the walls, seal us in the cellar with the—"
"Please, Creator!" Cassandra's voice joined the chorus of desperation.
"We'll be good!" Daniela wailed, tears—actual tears, a feat considering their nature—streaming down her pale cheeks.
Lionel let the moment. Let them squirm. Let the fear marinate in their undead hearts like a fine wine aging in a cellar.
Too nice. You've been too nice, too lenient, too much the friend and too little the master.
"No." The word fell like an executioner's blade. "Last night's disobedience will not be tolerated."
He needed to be seen as something more than a companion. Something higher. Authority demanded respect, and respect demanded distance.
"Does that mean..." Daniela's voice trembled, cracked, broke. "Does that mean you'll send us home?"
The look in her eyes—genuine sadness, genuine fear—almost made him falter.
Almost.
"No. I can't." Lionel's tone softened, just a fraction. "We already registered here at the Guild. It would raise too many questions, draw too much attention if three adventurers suddenly vanished without a trace." He paused, letting the implication hang in the air like smoke. "But I will send you back if you pull something like that again. One more mistake. One more slip. That's all it takes."
Bela lunged forward, grabbing fistfuls of his lab coat with trembling hands. "We'll never do something like that again. Never again, Creator! On our honor, on our blood, on Mother's name—"
"Good." Lionel's form shimmered, shifted, morphed—flesh rippling like water, bones creaking and reforming beneath skin that seemed almost liquid. Within moments, the scientist vanished, replaced by the rugged, travel-worn adventurer known as Damien Dimitrescu. "Now let's go. We have quests to complete. Ranks to climb. Reputations to build."
And a skeleton overlord to spy on.
The Adventurer's Guild buzzed with activity like a hive of wasps—loud, chaotic, alive. The four of them stepped inside, and Lionel's sharp eyes immediately caught sight of their target: Momonga, disguised as the warrior Momon, conversing with a group of adventurers near the quest board.
There you are, you magnificent bag of bones.
The mission was simple: observe, assess, analyze. Determine just how powerful Momonga had become in this new world. What abilities had transferred? What limitations existed? What weaknesses could be exploited?
Know your enemy. Know yourself. A hundred battles, a hundred victories.
"Umm, excuse me?" Lionel approached, tapping a broad-shouldered blonde man on the back. The adventurer turned, and Lionel was struck by the warmth in his smile—genuine, unguarded, kind.
"Yeah? Do you need something, friend?"
How am I supposed to kill people like this? The thought slithered through Lionel's mind like a serpent. They're too nice. Too innocent. Too... human.
He pushed the guilt down, buried it deep where it couldn't interfere.
"Can we still join your party?" Lionel asked, gesturing to the Dimitrescu sisters, who waved with practiced charm—all smiles and sweetness, no hint of the predators lurking beneath porcelain skin.
"I'm sorry, but..." The man scratched his head, genuinely apologetic. "With a team this size, I don't think the quest giver will be able to pay us all. The reward's already being split six ways, and adding four more would make the shares pretty thin."
"Oh, if that's the case, we don't need payment." Lionel's lie rolled off his tongue smooth as silk, sweet as honey, deadly as poison. "You see, we just started yesterday. Completed our first quest, but it was... difficult." He added a touch of embarrassment to his voice, a hint of self-deprecation. "We're hoping to tag along, learn from more experienced adventurers. The knowledge alone would be worth more than gold."
The blonde adventurer blinked, clearly taken aback by such humility. "Let me talk to our leader. Wait here."
As the man walked away, Lionel shot the sisters a glare sharp enough to cut glass. "Don't. Mess. This. Up."
Their awkward smiles would have been comical in any other situation.
The blonde returned moments later, grinning. "The leader says you can join! Welcome aboard."
They ascended to the second floor, where the air felt cooler, quieter, and more professional. Lionel "accidentally" bumped into Momonga—Momon—with the practiced clumsiness of a street pickpocket.
"Oh! Sorry about that." Lionel's eyes widened in feigned recognition. "Wait, you're the guy from yesterday, right? At the tavern?"
The skeletal overlord, hidden beneath layers of magical disguise, nodded slowly.
"I apologize for my sisters' behavior." Lionel glanced back at the trio, who suddenly found the floorboards fascinating. "They can be... flirtatious. But I assure you, they're not violent."
Lie. Terrible, bald-faced lie. They'd rip his throat out and drink him dry given half a chance.
"Isn't that right, girls?"
Three heads nodded in synchronized sheepishness, like children caught stealing sweets.
Lionel turned back, extending his hand. "I didn't catch your name yesterday. I'm Damien Dimitrescu. These are my sisters: Bela, Cassandra, and Daniela."
"Momon." The voice was deep, measured, and carefully neutral. "And this is Nabe."
The dark-haired woman—clearly more than she appeared—barely acknowledged them with a curt nod.
"Since you're already acquainted," the team leader interjected, "let me introduce everyone. I'm Peter Mauk, leader of the Swords of Darkness."
Swords of Darkness. Lionel filed the name away. If I needed a team name, what would I choose? Umbrella's Shadow? The Viral Legion? The Infected?
Too obvious. Too revealing.
"This here's our eyes and ears—Lukrut Volve, ranger extraordinaire." Peter gestured to a handsome man who immediately leaned toward Nabe with a smile that could melt butter.
The woman's response was glacial indifference, shutting him down without a single word.
Lionel suppressed a grin. Mortals. So wonderfully, tragically predictable.
He just hoped Lukrut wouldn't try the same routine with the Dimitrescu sisters. They'd take his heart.
Literally.
Rip it still-beating from his chest and—
"This big guy handles healing magic and nature manipulation," Peter continued, pulling Lionel from his dark musings. "Dyne Woodwonder, our druid."
The burly man nodded, muscles rippling beneath his tunic like coiled serpents.
The biggest one is the healer. Lionel's scientific mind catalogued the information automatically. Surprising. Usually, larger builds indicate warrior classes. Interesting physiological choice.
"And last but certainly not least, our magic caster and resident genius—Ninya."
The boyish figure bowed slightly, and Lionel's analytical gaze didn't miss a thing. Years of dissecting bodies—dead and alive—had given him an eye for anatomical truth beneath surface appearances.
Female. Definitely female. Binding, perhaps? Or simply androgynous features?
"Nice to meet you all," Ninya said, voice soft as morning mist. Then, to Peter: "But please, can you stop calling me such an embarrassing nickname?"
"Huh? Why not? It's a compliment!"
"This one's a talent holder," Lukrut chimed in, pride evident in his voice. "Pretty impressive, right?"
"Oh?" Momon's interest seemed genuine. "A talent holder?"
People are born in this world with innate abilities. Lionel's memory flickered back to his Yggdrasil days, when he'd been a proud magic caster before—
Before he'd made the choice.
Before he'd sacrificed his humanity for the guild.
Before he'd become something other.
"She has Magic Affinity," Peter explained. "Learns in four years what takes most people eight. Incredible, right?"
Ninya shifted uncomfortably under the attention. "I'm very fortunate to have been born with this gift. It's allowed me to pursue my dreams."
"Either way," Peter added, "she's one of the most famous talent holders in E-Rantel. Well, second-most famous."
"Oh?" Both Lionel and Momon leaned forward slightly.
"There's someone more famous?" Lionel asked, genuine curiosity creeping into his voice.
"Master Balear," Dyne supplied. "Nphirea Balear."
Peter turned to Momon suddenly, as if just remembering something. "Oh! I don't think we got your name."
"Momon." The helmet dipped slightly. "And this is Nabe. Please take care of us."
Peter's gaze shifted to Lionel expectantly.
"Damien," Lionel repeated, gesturing to his "sisters." "And these are Bela, Cassandra, and Daniela."
"Why are they so quiet?" Lukrut asked, eyeing the trio suspiciously. "They were pretty chatty yesterday."
"They did something wrong." Lionel's voice carried just the right amount of parental exasperation. "I'm keeping a close eye on them to ensure they behave." He glanced at Momon, a silent communication: They caused trouble with you.
The sisters laughed—high, nervous sounds like wind chimes in a storm.
Peter accepted the explanation with a shrug, and Momon smoothly redirected the conversation. "So, this Balear person. What kind of talent does he possess?"
"Ah, you must not be from around here," Peter deduced. "Nphirea Balear is the grandson of Lizzie Balear, E-Rantel's most famous pharmacist. His talent is... well, it's extraordinary. He can use any magic item, regardless of requirements."
Any magic item. Lionel's mind raced through implications, calculations, possibilities. Not particularly threatening to someone like me. Viruses are immune to high-tier magical effects. But for others? Devastating potential.
"I see," Momon said carefully. Then, barely audible: "That human sounds dangerous."
Lionel's enhanced hearing caught Nabe's whispered response: "I know."
He fought back a laugh. They don't even realize I can hear them.
"Who's dangerous?" Lionel asked innocently, eyes wide with feigned concern.
Peter chuckled. "Nphirea? Nah, he's a good kid. Powerful, sure, but kind-hearted."
Before anyone could continue, a blowfly—fat, dark, wrong—landed in the center of the table with a soft pat-pat-pat of tiny legs on wood.
Lionel's eyes snapped to the sisters like a whip-crack. Bela and Daniela immediately pointed at Cassandra, who froze like a deer sensing wolves.
Peter reached out, palm descending to crush the insect with casual, automatic violence.
SMACK!
His hand hit the table.
The fly didn't even flinch.
Peter blinked. Tried again. SMACK!
Nothing.
Is that how the Uroboros has affected them?! Lionel's mind reeled, eyes widening in genuine shock. The flies are completely indestructible to normal force. The virus has fundamentally altered their biological structure at a molecular level, reinforcing—
Cassandra stood smoothly, reaching down to "crush" the fly in her own hand. She walked to the window, making a show of tossing it out.
But Lionel saw the truth: she'd released it back to the swarm, unharmed.
He sighed, relief and exasperation warring in his chest.
The awkward moment stretched like taffy, Peter laughing nervously to break the tension.
"Anyway," he said, voice perhaps a touch too loud, "about our current job. We're tasked with eliminating monsters near E-Rantel."
"A culling mission?" Momon asked.
"Well..." Peter scratched his head. "Actually, it's not specifically requested. More of a... proactive measure."
As the conversation droned on—logistics, routes, payment structures—Lionel borrowed another blowfly from Bela, setting it on his thigh beneath the table.
Time to test you properly.
His finger elongated, flesh rippling and twisting, bones crackling like dry kindling as they reformed into a blade—razor-sharp, gleaming with an oily sheen.
Shhhhink.
He brought it down on the fly.
The blade passed over it harmlessly, as if cutting air.
Interesting.
His finger morphed again—crack-crack-crack—bones thickening, expanding, reshaping into a hammer-like appendage.
THUD.
He brought it down hard enough to dent metal.
The fly sat there, completely unharmed, cleaning its forelegs.
"This Uroboros strain is the real deal," Lionel muttered, genuine awe coloring his voice. "Molecular reinforcement on a cellular level. Complete imperviousness to physical trauma. Remarkable. Remarkable."
He returned the fly to Bela and refocused on the conversation, just in time to hear Peter ask: "Will you join us on this mission?"
"Yes," Momon agreed. "Please take care of us."
The team smiled, clearly pleased.
"Since we'll be working together," Momon continued, "I should show you my face. Build trust."
Lionel nearly choked.
What?! You're going to—
Momon's gauntleted hands rose to his helmet, lifting it free with a soft hisssss of released pressure.
The face beneath was...
Oh gods.
It was the default. The basic. The generic male face from Yggdrasil's character creation screen—the one EVERY player saw before customizing their avatar.
Lionel bit his tongue hard enough to taste blood, fighting back hysterical laughter.
You absolute FOOL. You magnificent, careless IDIOT. What if another player sees you? What if someone RECOGNIZES that face?!
"I've heard of a southern country where faces like yours are common," Peter said diplomatically.
Yes. The Country of Default Settings. Population: Every Lazy Player Ever.
"He's older than I expected," Lukrut stage-whispered to Ninya.
"That's rude!" she hissed back, elbowing him.
"I've been hiding my face to avoid drawing attention as a foreigner," Momon explained, replacing his helmet. "It could complicate things."
'Complicate things.' He says. COMPLICATE THINGS.
Before Lionel could fully process the situation, a familiar mental voice cut through his thoughts like a knife through butter:
"Creator." Deborah's voice resonated in his skull, clear as crystal, cold as winter. "More than thirty people have arrived outside the village walls. They're seeking shelter."
Lionel's posture didn't change, but his attention sharpened like a predator scenting blood.
"Go on."
"They're survivors. Refugees from Slane Theocracy attacks on surrounding villages. Displaced. Desperate. Vulnerable."
Perfect.
"Excuse me," Lionel said aloud, standing smoothly. "Nature calls. My sisters can fill me in on whatever I miss."
He walked toward the exit, pace casual, unhurried. No one questioned it.
Once outside, he ducked into a shadowed alleyway between buildings, pressing his back against cool stone.
His consciousness dove into the Hive Mind like plunging into dark water—
—and suddenly he was everywhere.
He could see through Deborah's eyes: the frightened refugees clustered outside the village gates, children crying, adults hollow-eyed with exhaustion and trauma.
He could feel through the J'avo: their hunger, their eagerness to serve, to grow, to consume.
"Have our current J'avo restrain them," Lionel commanded, voice echoing through a hundred minds simultaneously. "Commoners have no strength against our mutations. No resistance. No chance."
He paused, savoring the moment.
"Begin the infection process. We need more workforce. More tools."
[With Deborah]
The J'avo moved with disturbing synchronicity—thirty, forty, fifty bodies flowing like a single organism, a living tide of corrupted flesh.
Deborah stood at the gates, jar of C-Virus clutched in pale hands. The glass container seemed to pulse with unnatural life, the liquid within writhing like something alive, aware, hungry.
"Open the gates," she commanded.
Creeeeeak.
The massive wooden doors swung wide, and the refugees surged forward, hope blooming on their faces like flowers in spring.
That hope died quickly.
The J'avo swarmed them—not violently, not aggressively, but with inexorable efficiency. Hands grabbed arms, legs, necks. The Baker Family emerged from buildings, adding their grotesque strength to the effort.
Screams. Pleas. Prayers to gods who couldn't hear or wouldn't answer.
Deborah approached the first refugee—a middle-aged woman, still struggling weakly against her captors.
"Shhh," Deborah whispered, almost tender. "This will only hurt for a moment."
Shhhhunk.
The needle pierced skin, plunged deep, and released its payload.
The woman's scream was magnificent—pure, primal, exquisite.
Her veins blackened beneath skin that had been sun-kissed moments before. Her eyes rolled back, whites turning yellow, then orange, then something that hurt to look at.
Crack. Pop. Squelch.
Bones broke and reformed. Muscles tore and rewove themselves, denser, stronger, wrong.
When her eyes opened again, they were empty of everything that had made her human.
"Thirty-seven," Deborah counted clinically, moving to the next. "Thirty-six. Thirty-five."
Inject. Transform. Control.
It became a rhythm, almost musical.
Inject. Transform. Control.
The village had contained forty-three J'avo before.
Now it held eighty-one.
"Thirty-eight more added to our workforce," Deborah reported, satisfaction warming her voice. "It only required half the jar, Creator. Efficiency remains optimal."
She directed the new J'avo toward the farms with mental commands—no words needed, just will projected through the viral network.
They obeyed perfectly.
As they should.
Deborah was about to return inside when sound reached her ears: distant, rhythmic, ominous.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Marching.
Her head snapped toward the horizon, and her enhanced vision picked out details that would have been invisible to human eyes:
One hundred soldiers.
Slane Theocracy banners.
Weapons gleaming in afternoon sunlight.
"Creator." Her mental voice remained calm despite the spike of adrenaline. "The Slane Theocracy has dispatched a hundred soldiers. Likely to eliminate the refugees we just... acquired."
"Contact Simmons." Lionel's response was immediate, cold, and calculating. "Hold them back. Kill as many as you'd like—we'll revive them afterward. Convert them. Turn their strength against them."
Deborah smiled.
It was not a pleasant expression.
"Understood, Creator."
She disconnected from the Hive Mind and changed.
Her back erupted—skin tearing like wet paper, bone punching through muscle with sounds like breaking branches. Spider-like appendages sprouted from her spine, each one thick as a man's arm, tipped with serrated chitin that gleamed like polished obsidian.
Crack. Crack. Crack. CRACK.
Her legs twisted, reformed, enhanced—muscles swelling to three times their normal size, bones reinforcing with viral plating.
She crouched low, feeling power coil in her transformed limbs like a spring wound too tight.
Ready.
Then she leaped.
The ground exploded beneath her, dirt and stone erupting in a crater ten feet wide as she launched herself toward the approaching soldiers.
She flew through the air like a missile, spider-legs spread wide, mouth open in a war cry that was half-scream, half-roar.
The soldiers saw her coming.
Too late.
BOOOOM!
She landed in their midst like a meteor, the impact sending shockwaves radiating outward. Men flew through the air like ragdolls, armor crumpling, bones snapping with sounds like gunshots.
"YOU DARE!" Deborah's voice had changed, deepened, become something other. "YOU DARE PUT A STOP TO UMBRELLA CORPORATION'S PLANS?!"
A soldier lunged at her, sword raised high.
She caught the blade between two chitin-plated fingers.
Snap.
The steel shattered like glass.
Her other hand shot forward, fingers piercing through his chest plate, through ribs, through lungs, emerging from his back in a spray of crimson.
Squelch.
She tossed the corpse aside and moved to the next target.
Stab. Rip. Tear.
Kill kill KILL—
Her spider-legs struck with blinding speed—shink-shink-shink—impaling soldiers three at a time, lifting them struggling into the air before slamming them down with bone-crushing force.
CRUNCH.
Blood painted the ground in abstract patterns.
After twenty kills, her enhanced hearing caught a sound that made her smile:
ROOOOOAAAAAR!
"Simmons!" she called, relief and bloodlust mixing in her voice. "About time!"
Derek Simmons emerged from the tree line in his Centaur form—a grotesque fusion of man and beast, all rippling muscle and viral plating, eyes glowing with infectious madness.
He charged into the fray like a battering ram.
CRASH!
Three soldiers disappeared beneath his bulk, armor crumpling like tin cans.
His tail—thick as a tree trunk, tipped with a blade of hardened bone—lashed out with serpentine speed.
Shhhhunk-shhhhunk-shhhhunk-shhhhunk-shhhhunk!
Five soldiers impaled on a single strike, screaming as they were lifted high.
Simmons slammed them down onto their comrades below.
SPLAT.
The battle—if it could even be called that—lasted less than ten minutes.
When the dust settled, Deborah and Simmons stood amid a field of corpses, both breathing hard, both covered in blood that wasn't their own.
One hundred Slane Theocracy soldiers.
Dead.
All of them.
"Creator," Deborah reported, voice steady despite her exhaustion. "Mission accomplished. Simmons provided excellent support. What are your orders regarding the bodies?"
"Mother Miranda, Karl Heisenberg, and Salvatore Moreau are already en route," Lionel responded. "They'll handle the... processing. Good work, both of you. Return to your posts."
Deborah relayed the praise to Simmons through the Hive Mind. He nodded once, gratitude evident even in his monstrous form, then loped back toward the Laboratory.
"Creator." Deborah hesitated. "Why didn't you simply deploy the J'avo against the soldiers? They're combat-capable."
"Because J'avo mutates the parts where they sustain heavy damage," Lionel explained patiently. "A J'avo with blade-arms or tentacle-hands can't tend crops or perform delicate labor. We can't afford to lose agricultural workers."
"I apologize for my ignorance, Creator."
Lionel's laugh echoed through her mind, warm despite everything. "No need. Questions show you're thinking. I value that."
Deborah disconnected, a small smile on her lips—
—and froze as a voice spoke behind her:
"Deborah Harper?"
She spun, spider-legs retracting with wet schlurp sounds, ready to strike—
The man standing there was... attractive. Ruggedly handsome in a way that seemed almost out of place in this world of monsters and death. He wore casual clothing beneath a long coat, and his eyes held an intelligence that reminded her of the Creator.
"I'm Karl Heisenberg," he said, lips quirking into a half-smile. "Creator sent us to collect the bodies." He gestured behind him, where Salvatore Moreau and Mother Miranda stood waiting. "Splendid work, by the way. Taking care of these soldiers single-handedly—well, with Simmons's help. Still impressive."
Deborah felt heat rising in her cheeks—blushing, which shouldn't even be possible with the C-Virus coursing through her veins.
"J-just following Creator's orders," she stammered, looking away. "Plus, Simmons did most of the heavy lifting."
Before she could embarrass herself further, she fled, running back toward the village at enhanced speed.
Behind her, Moreau chuckled—a wet, bubbling sound. "I think she likes me more."
Mother Miranda's laugh was melodious, almost musical.
"Oh, shut up," Heisenberg growled, but there was no real heat in it.
[Timeskip]
The one hundred bodies were distributed across the Twelfth Floor with surgical precision:
Thirty to Alcina Dimitrescu, for conversion into Moroaicǎ and Samcă.
Thirty-five to Salvatore Moreau, for Lycan and Vârcolac production.
Thirty-five to Karl Heisenberg, for his experiments with different soldier variants.
Nothing wasted.
Everything useful.
[With Lionel]
They sat around a crackling campfire beneath a sky full of stars that seemed somehow brighter in this world, somehow more real.
Momon had been contracted for an escort quest by Nphirea Balear—the famous talent holder they'd discussed earlier. Lionel had insisted on joining without payment, claiming the experience was reward enough.
Nphirea had insisted on paying them anyway.
Too kind. This world is filled with people who are too kind.
"There are too few people in this world to convert into troops," Lionel mused silently, watching the flames dance. "Momonga has it easier—he can summon endless minions through magic. But I need living bodies. Breathing hosts. And they're so... scattered."
He pulled himself from dark thoughts and glanced at the Dimitrescu sisters.
They sat in a tight cluster, faces twisted in misery, forcing down bowls of human stew as punishment for nearly eating Lukrut when he wasn't looking.
The scene was almost comical—three apex predators gagging on cooked meat like children forced to eat vegetables.
It served dual purposes: punishment and maintaining their human disguise.
"By the way," Momon asked suddenly, pulling Lionel's attention, "why do you call yourselves the Swords of Darkness?"
Peter brightened immediately. "Oh, that! Well, Ninya—"
"Please stop!" Ninya buried her face in her hands. "It was a mistake of my youth! A terrible mistake!"
"There's nothing to be ashamed of!" Dyne insisted, genuinely confused by her embarrassment.
"Please!" Ninya's voice was muffled by her palms. "Just... just stop!"
"The name comes from the legendary swords of the Thirteen Heroes," Peter explained, unable to hide his pride. "Specifically, the four blades wielded by the warrior known as the Black Knight."
"Who are the Thirteen Heroes?" Narberal asked, voice carefully neutral.
"You don't know?" Lukrut leaned toward her, delighted to finally have knowledge she lacked. "They're only the most famous heroes in history!"
"Among the Thirteen Heroes," Ninya explained, pride overcoming embarrassment, "the Black Knight was renowned for wielding four legendary swords simultaneously—the Swords of Darkness. Each one possessed unique properties and devastating power."
"Our ultimate goal," Lukrut added, "is to find those swords. Or at least one of them. Until then..." He pulled out a simple black dagger, holding it up to catch the firelight. "These represent our dream. Our bond as a team."
"Real or fake doesn't matter," Peter said softly, producing his own matching dagger. "These symbolize what we're building together. What we're striving toward."
"Yes," Dyne agreed. "Lukrut said something surprisingly profound for once."
"Hey!" Lukrut protested. "Isn't that pretty mean?!"
"We have to encourage you occasionally," Peter teased.
"You guys treat me terribly!"
The group laughed—warm, genuine, real.
Lionel watched Momonga watching them, and recognized the expression even through the helmet:
Longing.
Envy.
Loss.
Umbrella Corporation had never been like this. Never this warm, this close.
They'd been professionals. Colleagues. Co-workers united by a common interest in Resident Evil lore, yes, but not... not friends.
Not truly.
They'd rarely talked outside their laboratories. Always working, always creating, always pushing toward some nebulous goal of "completion."
Sure, there'd been celebrations after successful missions. Parties after the NPCs were finished.
But they'd been hollow. Forced. Professional obligations rather than genuine joy.
And within a week of "completion," members had started leaving.
One by one.
Until only the NPCs remained, frozen in eternal loyalty.
"Excuse me," Lionel said, voice rough. "I need some air."
He stood and walked away from the fire, from the warmth, from the belonging he'd never truly had.
The night swallowed him whole.
Behind him, the Swords of Darkness continued their easy banter, their comfortable camaraderie, their friendship.
And Lionel felt something he hadn't expected:
Jealousy.
Pure.
Simple.
Bitter.
"I created the guild to have fun," he whispered to the uncaring stars. "To share ideas. To recreate characters I loved with people who understood that love."
The stars offered no comfort.
"Instead, it became a job. A grind. A professional obligation with people I despised."
The wind carried his words away into the darkness.
"We weren't friends. We were just... colleagues. Nothing more."
And in that moment, standing alone beneath an alien sky, Lionel understood something profound:
He was lonely.
He had always been lonely.
And no amount of viral minions or resurrected monsters could fill that void.
Not really.
Not ever.
The realization settled over him like a shroud, heavy and cold and final.
Author's Note:
Chapter VIII explores the duality of creation and loneliness, the horror of infection juxtaposed against the very human need for connection. The Swords of Darkness represent everything Lionel's guild could have been but wasn't—genuine friendship forged in shared struggle.
The body horror elements with Deborah's transformation and the systematic infection process serve as metaphors for Lionel's own transformation from human to something other. He creates armies but cannot create companionship. He commands legions but commands no genuine loyalty—only viral obedience.
The Uroboros-enhanced flies represent perfect adaptation at the cost of original purpose—much like Lionel himself.
Next chapter: The escort mission goes very, very wrong.