Marcellus fought for each breath, his chest heaving to the relentless rhythm of his own pounding heart. His gaze fell upon Ralf, the once-proud knight now reduced to nothing more than a shattered and hollow shell.
Ralf's trembling hand extended toward Marcellus, a desperate plea for mercy etched in the depths of his eyes.
Marcellus recoiled, the hilt of his sword chilling his palm to the bone. His reflection, cast within the fading light of Ralf's gaze, seemed alien—a visage marred by the unforgiving crimson of violence.
The metallic tang of blood overwhelmed his senses, a nauseating reminder of who he was now.
Marcellus straddled Ralf's chest, the weight of his victory heavy on his shoulders. The air thrummed with a charged silence and the sharp scent of fear, broken only by Ralf's laboured breaths. The knight lay still beneath him, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps, each breath a crimson wheeze.
Marcellus met his gaze, a flicker of doubt dimming the fire in his eyes.
Marcellus harboured an inner turmoil, a desire to question Ralf's motives for betraying the church. He yearned to understand the reasons behind his treachery.
Does Ralf believe his actions were justified, or did he carry the burden of guilt?
Marcellus, with the musty tomes of the chapel's hold still vivid in his mind, pieced together the fragmented tale of Ralf's betrayal.
His understanding, though not complete, gleaned from his diligent studies, provided him with a semblance of clarity. Yet, it was his own experiences that led him to conjecture about the limits of Severin's influence.
As a Sequence 7 Cipherist, Severin wielded formidable power, but Marcellus deduced that it was not omnipotent, there were limits. For if it were so, Severin would have ensnared him directly into treachery, rather than resorting to subtler machinations.
This realization that the ability to manipulate was not absolute offered a glimmer of resistance.
Marcellus longed to ask these questions, to delve into the depths of Ralf's soul and seek the truth that lay buried beneath the layers of their shared history...
Marcellus, with the weight of his own experience as a Hollowed, grasped a profound truth. Hollowed beings were fundamentally empty inside, driven by an insatiable urge to "seek" and fill the void within them. It was a relentless quest for something, anything, to fill the emptiness.
At that moment, he realized that understanding "why" Ralf had acted as he did mattered far less than the crucial question of whether Ralf would oppose him moving forward.
Ralf's once plum jovial face was now contorted in pain, a stark reminder of the brutality that had unfolded moments ago.
Marcellus forced himself to meet Ralf's eyes, pools of shattered pride reflecting the sunrise. He saw fear change to a flicker of understanding, a silent acknowledgement; there would be no mercy.
The silence stretched on, punctuated only by Ralf's ragged breaths. Marcellus knew he should move, should leave this macabre tableau, but his feet remained rooted to the spot. The weight of his actions pressed down on him, a burden he wasn't sure he could bear.
In the stillness of the night, a single question echoed in the chamber of his heart: at what cost is victory, and was this brutal claim of power truly worth the price?
Ralf, now missing his limbs, lay beneath him, coughing up blood that welled from his lungs, staining his chest where Marcellus's sword had been mercilessly driven. The air was thick with tension and the metallic scent of blood as Marcellus stared down at the man who had once seemed so formidable.
Stormseeker Ralf, the Rotund Knight and Sailor, had met his demise.
A wave of nausea washed over Marcellus, the adrenaline receding, leaving behind a hollow ache in his gut. He hadn't expected this. He hadn't expected to see the light of life extinguish so quickly, replaced by the cold darkness of death.
A faint scuffle, a muffled curse, then footsteps echoing down the cobbled alleyway. Marcellus, still astride Ralf's chest, strained his gaze into the darkness concealed by the impending sunrise.
The approaching footsteps resonated through the tense air, and Marcellus swiftly identified their source—it was Finn, moving cautiously but with purpose. Relief washed over him, but it mingled with a tinge of unease. Finn's early arrival could potentially spell trouble, casting a shadow of uncertainty over their precarious situation.
"You're alive, huh?" Marcellus's voice rasped, laced with something sharper than curiosity.
Finn swallowed, his throat dry as dust. Shivering despite the sweltering warmth and smoke, he managed a jerky nod. "Yeah, somehow."
Marcellus, his mood far from light-hearted, remained silent, showing no inclination for humour.
Finn inched closer to Ralf's lifeless form covered in a blue cloak, his gaze fixed upon the fallen knight. He began to speak, his voice tinged with a mix of nostalgia and reflection, "You know, for as long as I can remember, he had always been a rotund fellow."
Marcellus, mildly irritated by Finn's comment, chose to hold his tongue.
Finn continued, "A true Stormseeker, through and through. Perverted, yes, but he had always been Ralf."
Finn's voice strained. "He was… he was stout, as far back as I can remember. Obstinate, too. But he was a true Stormseeker to the core, through and through. And, in his bumbling way, he was good. He was…" His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, staring into the sky. "He was Ralf."
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Marcellus's gaze flickered to the still form of Ralf, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his face.
Marcellus stayed silent, his eyes, like smouldering coals, held a universe of unspoken questions, accusations, and perhaps, begrudging respect.
In that heavy silence, a gulf yawned between them, wider than the distance between life and death.
Marcellus, his breath uneven trembling fingers, slick with Ralf's lifeblood, carefully withdrew the sword from its gruesome sheath within Ralf's chest cavity.
Suddenly with a shuddering sense of dread, Marcellus watched as a strange, spherical object, wrapped in a viscous, gelatinous membrane of ectoplasm, squelched and slithered free, plopped forth from Ralf's violated chest.
Marcellus, his voice a mere whisper, broke the heavy silence that clung to the battlefield. Instinctively, his gaze turned to Finn, the one person who might hold a shred of insight in the face of such eldritch horror. His question, though spoken softly, carried the weight of the unknown.
Marcellus gazed upon the grotesque sphere with fervent curiosity, his eyes alight with a desperate hope for answers amidst the looming shadows that cloaked them.
Finn, his brow furrowing, slowly shook his head from left to right, a gesture laden with uncertainty. "I am not sure," he admitted, his voice tinged with a hint of frustration, "my knowledge of mysticism is not extensive. Only Livius might possess some insight."
With a sense of determination, Marcellus decided to take matters into his own hands. He conducted a cautious experiment by prodding the mysterious sphere with the tip of his sword.
It remained unresponsive to his touch, yet an undeniable aura of spirituality emanated from it. Although he couldn't confirm it through the lens of spirit vision, as a Hollowed, his heightened five senses allowed him to sense the spirituality within.
Most children with pure and unadulterated five senses could perceive the intangible, much like Marcellus could at this moment.
In rare cases, ordinary adults with exceptionally keen senses could even detect malevolent spirits, otherworldly entities, or the taint of cursed energy. It was akin to the uncanny feeling that accompanied being a Hollowed.
Growing impatient with the fruitless prodding, Marcellus decided to take a bold step. With a determined resolve, he lifted the orb from the ground, cradling it in his palm like a grim artefact.
His decision to seek Aulus's counsel, even at the risk of joining him in the perilous battle against Severin, was made with a clear understanding that the alternative path held greater dangers.
In a rational mind, where clarity reigned and delusions and mental tumult were vanquished, Marcellus reasoned that knowledge, however unsettling, was a beacon of light in this encroaching darkness.
The Mysterious orb held mysteries that begged to be unravelled, and the fear of the unknown gnawed at his very being.
Moreover, Marcellus harboured other pressing questions that lingered in the recesses of his mind, waiting to be addressed.
The pursuit of answers, he understood, was a perilous path, yet it was one he felt compelled to tread. With resolve burning in his heart, he decided to court death.
With a deft motion, he wiped his sword clean on the now blood-soaked remnants of Ralf's once-blue robe. Turning his attention to Finn, Marcellus ventured to break the oppressive silence that had taken hold.
"Seeing as you are alive," Marcellus began, his voice laced with a hint of urgency, "I assume you've had encounters with Edwin or Martia."
Finn's expression shifted, as though a distant memory had been stirred within him. He responded slowly, his words measured, "Well, yes and no. I did meet Martia, but it was in the company of the Governor. As for Edwin, I haven't crossed paths with him."
Without pausing for Marcellus to respond, Finn pressed on with a sense of urgency. "Actually," he began, his words tumbling out in a rush, "the Governor instructed us to take Lucia and Edwin and make our way to the rear of the island. He wants us to escape."
His voice dropped to a hushed whisper as he continued, "Captain Crowe is waiting for us with the Viper."
The revelation sent a shockwave through Marcellus's thoughts. Escape, it seemed, was now a viable option, a glimmer of hope amidst the chaos and uncertainty that had gripped them. The mention of Captain Crowe and the Viper suggested a daring plan was in motion, one that could potentially lead them to safety, but it also left a host of unanswered questions in its wake.
Marcellus weighed the proposition of leaving the island and returning when the turmoil had subsided. It was a consideration that had crossed the minds of many on Mythralis, for not everyone possessed the liberty to depart at will.
In the vast expanse of the Tethys Sea, only a select sea route, meticulously charted by the Church of Storms, offered any semblance of security. Even then, the perils of sea creatures and the ever-looming spectre of piracy cast a daunting shadow over any voyage.
Those who lacked ample provisions and resources could easily find themselves adrift, their fates uncertain.
In such circumstances, remaining on the island seemed the wiser choice for most of Mythralis's population. Yet, even within the relative safety of the island, certain regions remained untamed, harbouring formidable creatures like the dreaded Hollow Serpent.
Common wisdom dictated that these areas were best avoided.
It was thanks to the presence of the Church of Storms on the island that these formidable creatures were held at bay, prevented from venturing into human territories and unleashing devastation upon all who dwelled there. The church's vigilance served as a buffer against the encroaching darkness, preserving a fragile peace in a world fraught with danger.
In the grip of his delusions and driven by a reckless disregard for common sense, Marcellus, just a week after parting ways with the Viper's crew, made the ill-fated decision to venture into the treacherous realm inhabited by the Hollow Serpent and other creatures.
It was an act that defied reason, thankfully he did not meet any of such creatures.
The Church of Storms stood as a bulwark of protection, without their protection, the island would likely descend into chaos, with the untamed creatures of the wild wreaking havoc on all that dared to venture.
The Governor's plan, with Captain Crowe and the Viper waiting, was still not completely without risks.
Marcellus remained silent for a moment, his jaw clenched tight. It was clear that Finn's words had struck a nerve, but whether it was anger, regret, or something else entirely, remained a mystery.