"What was that?" Claude's voice cut through smoke and chaos, glancing at Charles, then at the ravaged land surrounding them.
Smoke curled lazily upward from the scorched earth, the acrid smell of charred flesh lingering in the air.
Charles exhaled heavily, raking a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "It was just a small trick..." His gaze drifted to the blackened craters and ash-covered debris. "At least it worked. Somewhat...?"
Claude's senses caught a faint scent carried on the breeze, reminiscent of the drinks served at the Red Rooster Inn. His eyes narrowed, focusing on the flask hanging from Charles' belt.
The polished surface was smudged with soot, but the faint gleam of liquid residue around the lip was obvious.
'So that's how it is...' The pieces clicked together in Claude's mind. Charles must have thrown the contents of the flask at the enemy and then ignited it—perhaps with a spell similar to Spark.
But why? Why would Charles resort to using such a crude spell?
Claude's thoughts swirled with possibilities, but he swept them aside. He had more important things at hand.
Cautiously, they moved among the corpses strewn across the battlefield. Most of their forms now warped into lanky, grey creatures.
Their spindly limbs jutted out at unnatural angles, and their eyeless faces bore a blank expression.
Claude knelt beside one of the smaller ones. "So this is what became of them," he murmured, more to himself than Charles.
He knew these weren't the children's corpses, but the fact that the Maskworn had been able to clone them pointed to one simple truth.
The children were no more.
Nearby, Charles hovered over a larger corpse—the one he'd blasted apart during the skirmish.
It was notably different from the others, its size almost double, its musculature far more defined.
"It was clever," Charles muttered. "Pretending to go after you, all the while aiming for me."
"Clever, yes." Claude rose to his feet, brushing ash from his hands. "And unsettling..."
Other than his encounter against Ag'ourth, this was the only time he had seen Voidspawn display intelligence.
Charles nodded, his expression grim. "If that thing was the Maskworn, though, shouldn't the villagers return to normal? They would no longer be under its control."
"That's the logical conclusion." Claude folded his arms, his brow furrowed. "If the Voidspawn that was warping their minds is dead, their mental anomalies should fade. But..." He trailed off.
"But what?" Charles pressed.
Claude shook his head, his voice lowering. "It was too easy. The way it targeted you instead of fleeing or fighting to its full strength—it felt like... it wanted to die." His eyes darkened. "And the villagers... their behaviour still doesn't make sense. Something's wrong."
-----
----------
----------------
The two arrived back in the village as the sun began to below the horizon, amber light climbing over the thatched-roof homes.
Claude immediately sought out the village chief, who greeted them with the same stiff reluctance he'd shown since their arrival. 'He is still the same...' Claude pondered.
Was the Maskworn truly dead? Or is something else responsible for their behaviour?
Regardless,
"Gather everyone in the square," ordered Claude.
The chief hesitated, his gaze darting around. "Is this truly necessary? Everyone is ready to go rest for the evening..." His words trailed off as he met Claude's gaze.
Sighing and, with evident reluctance, the chief complied. The village bell soon rang out, its hollow reverberation summoning the townsfolk.
Slowly, they congregated in the square, murmurs of confusion rippling through the crowd. Claude's eyes scanned the gathering. "Where are the children?"
The chief fidgeted under his gaze. "They're playing in the woods," he said hastily. "It's hard to recall them on short notice."
Claude stood still, his eyes boring into the chief, yet his mind was anything but calm. 'There were only seven missing children, so where are all the other children...?'
Confusion gnawed at him. After all, a village like this would not just have a handful of children.
Charles stepped closer to Claude, lowering his voice. "What are you planning to do?"
Claude didn't answer immediately. "Take out the Lamp of Misery."
Charles froze. "W-why? Is everything not back to normal now—?"
"Shut up!" Claude interrupted. "Just do what I say."
With visible confusion, Charles retrieved the artefact from his satchel. Soon, The Lamp of Misery emerged, its crimson glow particularly piercing in the now shadowed village.
'I knew it...' Claude sighed. From his understanding, the lamp did not merely indicate the presence of Voidspawn, rather it signalled the presence of anything contaminated by the subspace.
And, that would include... cultists.
Wasting no time, Claude raised a hand, summoning a tendril of water to ensnare the village chief. The man struggled against the watery grip, shouting in outrage.
"This is witchcraft!" Rashan bellowed, his voice cracking. "Release me at once, or I'll have you reported to the city magistrate!"
Claude ignored him, as he conjured another tendril, smaller in size, to pinch at the man's face.
The reaction was immediate. The chief screamed, thrashing violently as the tendril tugged at his skin. Then it happened.
With ease, the flesh peeled away. The face beneath was unfamiliar—a middle-aged man with pale, almost waxy skin and striking auburn hair. His lips twisted into a mocking smirk as he ceased his struggling.
His demeanour shifted from panic to amusement. "Well, well, well," he drawled. It looks like you figured it out, " he sneered. "Not that it'll make a difference. All you've done is hasten your own demise."
Around them, the villagers began to shift. Their faces contorted, skin rippling and reshaping as their true forms emerged. What had once appeared human was now a sea of twisted, unfamiliar faces—each one alien, each one cold.
The auburn-haired man threw his head back in a maniacal laugh. "What did you expect, you meddling scourge? You delayed His descent and thought you'd be spared? Fool! You'll pay for your sins in blood!"
One by one, the crowd's forms twisted and writhed, their human facades peeling away like molten wax. Their skin turned a sickly, mottled grey and they themselves soon turned into masses of corrupted flesh.
Claude recognized these horrors—just like the ones in Littourborg, their faces unholy to the senses and their frames a plague to the sight.
Charles staggered back, clutching the Lamp of Misery as its crimson light intensified, flickering wildly in response to the changing situation.
From within Claude's watery grasp, the auburn-haired man's body began to crack. A glowing fissure appeared down the centre of his torso, spilling out a pulsating, black ichor. Claude's pupils dilated in recognition as an eldritch horror clawed its way free.
Its form was an amalgamation of jagged limbs and undulating tendrils, its body covered in a carapace that shimmered like liquid obsidian.
Multiple glowing, iridescent eyes blinked across its uneven surface, each one staring in a different direction. A gaping maw opened at its stomach, displaying a set of spiral of razor-sharp teeth.
"Not again," Claude hissed through clenched teeth, condensing some water around him. He shaped it into a blade and hurled it at the creature's centre, hoping to end it before it could fully emerge.
The blade struck true, slicing into the creature's midsection—but the wound closed almost instantly, the inky carapace sealing itself as if mocking his efforts.
The monster leapt forward, its tendrils whipping toward Claude, who threw himself backwards; narrowly avoiding a strike that shattered the cobblestones where he'd stood moments before.
Soon, the other monsters lumbered forward, the ground rumbling under their towering frames.
As Claude took the sight in, he could feel his heart hammering away in his chest.
Ba-dump! Ba-dump! Ba-dump!
Biting his lip, his mind raced to find a way to defeat these cultists. No, perhaps even just survive.
Yet, time did not wait for him.
Crack!
Another tendril from the eldritch horror struck Claude, causing him to leap aside. Yet, the monster did not rest.
Again. And, again. It kept striking Claude.
Soon, amid his flurry of dodges, he was unable to cope. Another monster's fist slammed into his flank like a battering ram, driving the air from his lungs.
Pain radiated from the point of impact, a searing ache that clawed up his ribs and made his vision blur.
Boom!
"Heugh!" Claude groaned as a concoction of light-headedness and nausea assaulted him.
'Damn!' Each shallow breath felt like a dagger pressing between his ribs, but he forced himself to stay upright, teeth gritted against the pain.
Taking a deep breath, a glistening field of ice erupted around him, its surface shimmering like polished glass.
Forcing himself to ignore the pain, Claude's boots skimmed across the ice; narrowly evading the thunderous fists of the grey giants as they crashed down, shattering the frozen ground in their wake.
Crash!
Another tendril of the eldritch monster lashed out, causing Claude to lean into a sharp turn. His momentum carried him just out of reach as the tendril struck, leaving a jagged scar on the ice.
He pivoted on one foot, his body low, sliding under another massive swing from the giants. Claude then summoned a whip of water, lashing at one of the creature's legs, causing it to fall onto its knees with a deafening crash, but the others pressed on.
A sharp pain flared in his side as a glancing blow from another giant sent him sprawling. Gritting his teeth, he rolled to his feet, blood trickling from a shallow cut. He needed to thin their numbers—fast.
He staggered as he tried to steady his gait, recovering from the blow. The injuries he sustained though few were only causing a growing sense of pain, causing his movements to stiffen.
His death seemed too inevitable.
'Think Claude! Think!' Irritation gnawed at his thoughts. 'There has to be something...'
Should he freeze them like he had done in the past? Or, would that waste too much mental energy? After all, he was dealing with dozens of foes here.
Claude glanced at the abomination that had crawled its way into reality, he could almost feel its mocking gaze from its numerous eyes.
It was toying with him—relishing the sight of his desperate dance, his futile struggle, his frantic squirming.
Despite a sense of humiliation choking him in both body and soul, Claude remained calm, he understood he could not just give up here.
At least... not like this.
And, then, it clicked into place.
A sudden thought snapped into existence. Spreading like weeds in a garden. Stubborn and relentless. 'Wait! I don't need to freeze them!' His eyes flicked to the forest behind him. 'I could...'
Without hesitation, Claude dashed on the ice, his boots skidding slightly as he adjusted his stride. The biting wind cut against his face, but he pushed forward, his icy domain constantly encroaching deeper into the forest.
The monsters soon followed after, surging forward like an indomitable tide of flesh. Claude's mind spun, desperate to flesh out this makeshift plan of his. 'The Battle of Alder's Pass...'
Crack!
The sound of a tree falling snapped Claude from his thoughts, as he glanced behind. He saw a tide of grey charge at him, felling any and all obstructions between them.
He grit his teeth. 'Come on Claude, you have to think!' He forced himself back to his thoughts. Back to a story Raymond had once told him.
The Battle of Alder's Pass.
It was the night before the Battle of Alder's Pass. This battle was to decide the fate of the Saint-Aubery Rebellion.
Prior to the battle, the Duke's men had their food stored in a big granary near the battlefield. It was full of sacks of grain, piles of hay, and everything they needed to win the fight.
Watching over the granary was a Viscount. Viscount Thierry. A rather high-ranking noble. While the soldiers prepared for battle, the Viscount decided he needed a little break. He left his post, lit his pipe with a match, and leaned against the granary wall, enjoying a moment of peace.
Yet, one tiny spark from his match fell to the ground. So small, he didn't even notice. Yet, the dry hay did.
The spark fuelled by the hay grew into a flicker, the flicker into a flame. And the moment the flame licked the grain dust lying nearby, it morphed into a roaring inferno. And, before anyone could stop it, the whole granary went up in a blazing explosion.
The soldiers rushed to put out the flames, but it was no use. The food was gone, burned to ash. The next day, when the Duke's army marched to battle, they were tired, hungry, and discouraged. And, the royal army? They were well-fed and full of energy, allowing them to emerge triumphant in that fateful battle.
The Saint-Aubery rebellion fell. Along with the Duke's ambition, dreams and life.
With that tale in mind, Claude soon arrived at his goal. The granary—still half-rotten and leaning, but perfect for what he needed.
Claude threw himself through the doorway, slamming into a support beam to regain his balance. Dust motes swirled in the dim light, disturbed by his sudden entrance.
Amid his panting, he surveyed the granary. And, to his relief, he soon found stale grain littering the floor, its sickly sweet scent hanging in the air.
A guttural roar pulled him back to the present. The monsters thundered toward the entrance, crashing through the doorway, splintering wood as they came. Their milky, pustule-ridden eyes locking onto him.
Claude spun around, his mind racing. He bolted deeper into the granary, not even bothering to glance behind him.
Then, with but a thought an orb of water formed in the air before him before he hurled it towards a nearby wall.
Bang!
The force of the impact exploded outward, scattering planks and debris. Faint silver rays peeked inside as Claude's escape route opened.
Without looking back as he sprinted for the opening, but he could hear the inhuman snarls behind him.
After escaping the granary and maintaining a safe distance, Claude turned around sharply, raising his hand once more.
"Go to hell!" he whispered, conjuring a small, crackling spark. The spark leapt from his fingers, arcing towards the swirling cloud of disturbed grain dust.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, the air seemed to ignite in a sudden, deafening roar. A fireball erupted, engulfing the creatures in a searing inferno. The force of the explosion hurled Claude forward, sending him sprawling into the forest surrounding the granary.
He scrambled to his feet, the heat from the flames warming his body, chasing away the chill of the evening dusk. Turning, he saw the granary consumed by fire. The old structure gave a faint groan before it collapsed inward, sealing the fate of this entrapped within.
Before Claude could catch his breath, the now familiar eldritch horror lunged at him, its tendrils spreading wide.
And, unlike before, Claude could feel rage in its attacks. He dodged to the side, sending a jet of pressurized water at the creature's exposed flank. It reeled, but one tendril snapped out, catching his leg and pulling him to the ground.
"Darn vermin!" Claude growled, forcing the tendril away with a burst of water. He rolled to his feet, his gaze locking onto the monster's myriad eyes.
He had to end this, and fast. Drawing on the last reserves of his strength, Claude conjured a spiralling torrent of water, wrapping it around the monster's form.
The beast thrashed, its piercing screeches echoing as the water constricted tighter and tighter.
But the creature wasn't done. With a shuddering roar, it shattered the watery prison.
In mere moments, a tendril struck Claude, sending him hurtling along the forest floor. Dazed, Claude struggled to his feet, fighting the pain that had set his chest ablaze.
Was it merely a fracture? Or a punctured lung?
Claude did not know. What he did know was that this was not over. He had to fight. He had to live.
Lying on the ground, he raised a trembling arm above. Pulling every droplet of moisture from the air, he created a massive sphere of water above the creature lunging towards him.
Claude slammed the sphere down, engulfing the creature in a crashing wave. As the thrashing creature settled into the heart of the ball, Claude summoned another spark, brighter and hotter than before.
"Die," he spat, the spark leaping into the ball.
The resulting explosion illuminated the forest that had been forsaken by the retreating sun.
Arcs of lightning danced across the creature's body as it writhed in agony. Its screeches grew weaker, its movements slowing until, finally, it collapsed in a heap of smouldering flesh.
This fight... was finally over.