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150. Subito (II)
🕑 Added 2025-08-12 15:49:00 +0000 UTCHaoma’s highest levels were quiet as the three of them reached the penultimate platform. Corrin could feel the tension within him, the fear of what they’d find at the top warring with the excitement of what was to come.
Luscien could clearly feel it as well, his head swiveling around, glasses glinting in the fading sun. Kita hadn’t taken his usual perch atop the second year’s shoulders, instead pacing around his feet, ears perked as his twin tails swished nervously.
Corrin took in a breath as he looked out over the valley below. He hadn’t appreciated the view the first time they’d come, but it really was unlike any place they’d been so far. The tree’s size was undeniable, but the hills, valleys, and cliffs that made up the central basin prevented him from seeing everything below, even from its heights.
He bumped into Eryndor’s back as the spirit knight suddenly stopped, gesturing for them to hold.
Something had drifted close to them, a glowing green butterfly, which Corrin mistook for a spirit at first. But in fact, it seemed to be something else entirely—a creature made of life mana.
Luscien was immediately on guard, but Eryndor simply inspected it as it flitted closer, allowing it to alight on his forehead, where the blood had dried and caked on, like a scar.
“Is that… mana?” Corrin whispered, though he wasn’t sure who he was worried would hear.
“It’s a technique,” Luscien said. “Shikigami—a technique imbued with a facsimile of life.”
“Shikigami? Facsimile?”
“It was a type of technique popular with life channelers in Nladia,” Eryndor explained. “The term spread during the war, referring to a technique that has some level of autonomy. Kind of like a bond created from your own aura.”
The butterfly’s emerald hue slowly drained, morphing to a deep, blood red.
“What’s it doing?”
Eryndor’s eyebrows knit together. “It’s drawing my blood. Strange.”
“Your blood? Why would it…” Corrin trailed off. He remembered what Luscien had said no more than an hour earlier. “It’s taking aura from you.”
“Exchanging it with life aura,” Eryndor clarified. “It’s healing my wound.”
“Is it an even exchange?” Luscien asked.
“Hardly. Perhaps two-to-one.”
The butterfly soon turned completely red and dislodged itself from the wound, which had now healed over. It began to flit back through the air, heading downwards towards the city spread out below.
“Potent though… For a shikigami of that size, there’s likely more than one. Does it seek out blood?”
“So, it heals people? Is that a bad thing?” Corrin asked.
Eryndor shook his head. “No. In fact, it’s a good thing for both parties. Wounds slow the rate at which your aura regenerates. The aura it takes healing a wound will be quickly replenished by the body—it’s a net positive. No, it’s not the function of the technique that worries me, but rather its complexity.”
“It could have been spell-traced,” Luscien suggested.
“It’s more than a simple donation, and the shikigami persists afterwards. Why? The mana it takes—an external aura stockpile? I can’t trace it back either. Whoever is using this technique is good, very good. And yet… something about it seems familiar, like I’ve heard of something similar before. ”
Corrin tried to wrap his mind around a technique like that. His methods of making a technique—collecting and throwing his mana—seemed so primitive in comparison. “How would you even go about making a technique like that?”
Eryndor laughed, quietly for once. “Any method would be more complicated than I could explain at this time. Now come, it was worth my concern, but we’ve let it delay us enough.”
He strode forward again, and they soon reached the top of Liresil, the highest point, and the largest building in the city. The Ecclesterion.
The sun had fallen completely, and the high, circular outer wall stood imposingly in the dark. Once more, the hole blasted in the side of the structure caught Corrin’s attention—the product of a storm they’d said. Now he wondered.
The platform was empty, not a single soul in sight, and the Ecclesterion was quiet. The wind was brisker in the canopy than on the ground level, and even in the warmth of summer, Corrin shivered as a particularly cool gust picked up.
“Where is everyone?” he wondered aloud.
Eryndor’s hand rested on his sword, but he had no response.
“The Ecclesia concludes their sessions in the afternoon, yes?” Luscien offered. “And they did say it was closed for repairs.”
They continued on, until they approached the entrance. In fact, a single man was there, watching the entrance, though not visible from afar. He held out a hand when they approached.
“I’m afraid I must ask you to—”
Eryndor appeared next to the man, delivering a swift chop to his neck. The man’s body went limp, falling into the spirit knight’s arms.
“Not very knightly,” Luscien muttered.
Eryndor pulled a vial from his coat—one of the same life elixirs he’d given to the three of them. He tilted the man’s head and let a single drop slip past his lips. “I’ll do what I must,” he said calmly, setting the man down on the floor. “He’ll wake up soon, come.”
“Can you teach me how to do that?” Corrin asked, chopping his hand through the air.
Eryndor let a faint smile slip through his guard. “When this is over. It’s a simple move for a channeler to learn.”
They swept into the darkened halls of the Ecclesterion. Not even the lightstones were lit, leaving only the rising moon’s ghostly light to see by as it filtered in through the arches in the walls above. Eryndor drew his blade, and it lit with bright flames—fire mana thick enough to manifest, casting light out through the darkness. Somewhere ahead, a rat skittered around a corner and out of sight.
The sound soon faded, leaving nothing but the hiss of the blade’s fire, and the light it cast as it flickered against the walls.
Along the floor, like part of the structure itself, a thick branch curved, pulsing faintly in Corrin’s mana sight with the strange gold-green mana he’d seen before. It was weaker here—but he didn’t know if that was because they were further from the roots, or because the tree was growing weaker itself.
“Young Genevisc, what can you detect?”
Luscien raised his nose, sniffing at the air. “Nothing out of the ordinary sir. This is a busy building, so I would expect it to have the countless intermixed scents I’m picking up. They’re all fairly old though.” He sniffed again. “Except for one.”
Eryndor looked back the way they’d come. “Where does the most recent lead?”
“Further in, sir.” Luscien pointed towards an archway on the inner wall ahead, leading into a new part of the building.
“Understood.” Eryndor held the blade in front. “Stay behind me.”
***
Spirit fire blazed behind Wyn’s eyes as he stared at the mana rising up from the ground, trying to figure out where it was coming from—what it meant. Mana didn’t come from nowhere. It always had a source of some kind. At once, it came to him, as he remembered their discussion at the guild the day before.
“The Underbough,” he whispered.
“Wyn?” Sadirah’s voice had grown concerned. “What are you talking about?”
Someone bumped into him from behind, and Wyn stumbled. He turned, his eyes catching on dark robes, like the deepest point of twilight, almost black.
A dozen or so figures walked past him, sparing not so much as a glance in his direction. One of them, their robes adorned with a blood-red hood, was holding an orb, perfectly spherical, fuming with orange wisps of light. Twisted stems of mana grew from it, reaching into the ground below, pumping mana back into the ground in specific places like some sort of heart.
Wyn took a step towards them, reaching out. “Hey! What—”
A single pure tone rang out through the air, and atop a nearby pole, a stone lit a bright red.
Chaos erupted.
Sadirah grabbed his hand as people began to flee, crashing through their stalls, stumbling over each other as screams filled the air.
As she tried to pull him through the crowd, Wyn managed to stop her. “Sadirah what’s going on?”
Her sullen mood was gone. Her face was white, and she forced the words out, still trying to pull him along. “The early warning system for floods! Red is bad, Wyn! Very bad!”
Cracks and bulges began to form in the ground all across the market. And as soon as they’d formed, they burst. From the earth, horrors emerged. Monsters, climbing, crawling, flying, they escaped the gold-ranked dungeon beneath Liresil and spilled into the streets.
No no no…
Frozen, Wyn watched as a sinkhole swallowed up a young woman, her scream was silenced in an instant, and a moment later, a hulking ape-like hand lurched up, followed by a reptilian head.
Five more arms reached upwards, finding purchase on the stone and pulling a thick serpentine torso out of the hole. The chimera looked upwards, jaws letting loose a burst of flame as it roared in triumph.
“Huh?”
A small sound of confusion escaped his lips as Wyn's mind struggled to catch up, the sharpness of spirit fire suddenly feeling distant. Sadirah was desperately pulling on his arm, but his feet couldn’t move. The ground was shaking, or was it him? He could hear his heartbeat roaring in his ears, drowning out the sounds of the plaza.
It was happening again. Why was it happening again?
A sharp pain on his face shocked him back to the present, like a splash of icy water. Sadirah was staring at him, her expression set through tears of fear. She’d slapped his cheeks between both of her hands, turning his face to meet hers.
“We have to go, Wyn.” She seemed suddenly calmer, her eyes set, and focused on his own.
He almost nodded, but then shook clarity back into his head, burning more spirit fire. He swiveled back towards the hooded figures, eyes locking on the one with the orb in his hands. Even in the chaos, they continued their slow, purposeful walk, unmolested by the monsters swarming up from below.
“Stay with me Sadirah,” he said, grabbing her hand. In the growing sea of monsters, she would be safest with him.
Uncomprehending though, she let out a cry of confusion as he dragged her towards them at a sprint. Somehow, she was able to keep up with him even as he funneled aura down into his legs, and he hardly had to slow himself at all.
Within a breath, he seized the figure’s hood and yanked them back, his sword already poised, ablaze with spirit fire.
“Who the hell are you?” Wyn roared.
The rest of the robed figures turned immediately, drawing wicked silver daggers from within the dark fabric. Wyn though, only had eyes for one.
An older man, with grayed hair and sunken, dulled eyes slowly turned to face him, keeping his hands firmly clasped on the orange orb. He didn’t seem concerned at all, despite the blade only inches away from his neck.
“Greetings young sir, my name is Thestor Lysenthos, an Acolyte of The Old God, representing Sloth. And who might you be?”
For a brief moment, Wyn’s blade faltered. The man’s attitude was completely unbothered, greeting Wyn as though they were meeting over tea.
Acolyte of The Old God? Sloth? Like the five failings?
It was only a moment, one slight hesitation, but that was all it took.
“Wyn!” Eia screamed.
In the instant his guard lowered, fangs sank into his side, and Wyn was wrenched to the side, dragged across the ground by a monster of some kind. He felt venom seeping into his body, potent enough to kill, based on how his blessing responded.
Annoyance, more than fear, rushed through him, and he flipped the blade in his hand as the poison burned away, stabbing blinding into the leathery mass.
The creature was ash before he ever could ever make out what it was, leaving only its core behind. He got to his feet without sparing another thought for it.
The Acolyte, Thestor, had turned away, disregarding him entirely, and continued walking the way he’d been headed, following a path around the outskirts of the city rather than heading inwards. The others followed him, though Wyn counted less than there had been before—several had gone elsewhere?
It didn’t matter, Wyn raced towards him again.
He’s the source of this! He was certain. That orb! If I just destroy it, then—-
A scream ripped his attention away from Thestor. Where they’d just been standing, a monstrous creature, some sort of crawling tree, had broken through to the surface and immediately attacked Sadirah. She was only a few steps ahead, dodging behind one of the stalls which it tore through with ease. Around the market, similar scenes were playing out, and Wyn found himself frozen once more, head swiveling around.
A child shaking his mother’s body.
A man desperately waving a broken wooden plank, holding two monsters at bay.
A young girl trying to climb a tree as hellhounds nipped at her heels.
Wyn looked back at Thestor, his back slowly disappearing in the chaos.
The crawling tree bore down on Sadirah, and she threw up her arms to shield herself from the blow.
“Damn it!” Wyn roared, his body moving without another thought. His sword cut cleanly through the monster’s branches, quickly dicing it into a pile of ash. A large core, jagged and filled with pulsing green mana, thunked onto the stone as he held out his hand.
Sadirah’s eyes turned to him, fearful at first, then awed. She reached out her own hand, tentatively.
“You said you were… but I didn’t—”
He clasped it, wasting no more time as he pulled her up. “Stay close to me.”
Eia! Follow that ‘Acolyte’. Figure out where he’s going. He looked around at the darkening streets. Light spirits had begun dotting the air as the sun’s light faded. They weren’t as common as in Straetum, but there were still some around. And, can you get me some light spirits?
On it, was all she sent back, but he saw a purple light zip by above him, streaking through the air in a weaving pattern.
And Wyn threw himself into the fray.
***
On the other side of the inner wall, through the archway, the Ecclesterion suddenly opened up into a vast amphitheatre, dwarfing any in the city below.
“Spirits.”
“Kings.”
Corrin and Luscien whispered at the same time as they beheld the sight. The stage had no doubt once been the grandest in the city, with polished marble steps and an immense sense of scale. The structure was circular, save for the back, which abruptly ended, providing a view of the horizon to the north. It seemed dangerous to Corrin—it was a long way down.
But the grandeur of the Ecclesterion had been razed.
Below the portico which ringed the depressed stage, huge fissures, hundreds of feet long cracked open the stone, sprouting mangled roots and trees, smashed in places by immense force. Chunks of the seating had been blasted apart, and the ruins had been invaded by grass and other plants, which grew around the space as though it hadn’t been touched in hundreds of years.
And in the center of it all, on the cracked stage below, a lone, hooded figure stood. They were facing away from the steps, looking down at the river below.
Eryndor wasted no time on pleasantries, descending the steps without fanfare. “Who are you?” He shouted.
There was no reply.
Corrin and Luscien followed Eryndor down, though he gestured for them to stand further back.
“I am a second class spirit knight, operating under the authority of Edria and the unification pact. Identify yourself, or I will not hesitate to use force!”
Still nothing, but as they grew closer, it became clear the figure was shaking.
“He’s afraid,” Luscien whispered. “This close, I can smell it.”
“Sir,” Eryndor grabbed their shoulder with one arm, turning them around. “Are you—”
Under the hood was a young man, his face pale and sweaty. His whole body was shaking uncontrollably as he looked at the three of them, tears streaming down his face.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I didn’t have a choice.”
Beneath his dark robes, a crimson light began to leak through, growing brighter and hotter with each moment, until it was a blinding white.
And Corrin realized too late, they’d already lost.
Eryndor reacted first and spun around, eyes blown wide, any trace of calm long gone. He lunged towards the two of them, dropping his sword.
“Get back!”
Corrin reacted a moment later, bringing his mantle to bear as he tried to run. Besides him, Luscien’s technique began to form as he scooped Kita into his arms.
But Eryndor was quicker still. Flames erupted from his palms, slamming into Corrin’s mantle and launching him back across the steps. He flew over the steps, upwards as a flash behind them turned day to night, and a deafening boom shattered the air. Before he’d even stopped rolling, the force of the blast tossed Corrin further, and the heat burned him through his mantle as he smashed into one of the pillars at the top of the portico.
For a moment, everything went dark. Then he came to, his ears ringing, and the hair singed off his arm. Dust from the rubble stirred as he coughed, pushing a chunk of stone off his back.
Luscien had already gotten to his feet, and was trickling life elixir into Kita’s mouth, looking back towards the ruined remains of the stage. His glasses had cracked, but they weren’t mundane objects, and were still mostly in one piece.
“Sir!” He shouted, trying to spot Eryndor through the dust. “Sir?”
Flames roared up from the stage once more, controlled this time, scattering the dust in a moment, revealing the figure left standing.
Eryndor had fallen to one knee, his cape and coat in tatters. The spirit knight was gasping for breath between coughs, struggling to get to his feet. It was the first time Corrin had seen him looking so weak—physically, he was in worse shape than either of them.
Before he could sigh in relief, Corrin noticed movement above them. At the top of the walls, dozens of men in deep purple robes peered over, silently dropping into the amphitheatre like panthers hunting prey.
“I can’t smell them,” Luscien whispered, horror morphing his features. “They knew we were coming… They planned for it.”
Beneath the covered portico, the two of them hadn’t yet been spotted by the cultists, who were focused intently on Eryndor. From within their robes, some drew weapons—daggers, swords, throwing axes—others drew wands, orbs, or other miscellaneous objects. Channelers and mages both, all here to hunt one man.
Eryndor staggered to his feet, eyes blazing as he looked out over the force assembled to slay him. His sword lay a few feet away, and he walked over, stumbling, to pick it up. No one stopped him.
He grabbed the blade, and it burst alight once more. From across the amphitheatre, he locked eyes with the two of them, and took in a deep breath. Then, he shouted a single word.
“Run!”
A few of the cultists turned, realizing they weren’t alone, locking onto Corrin and Luscien behind their hoods.
Corrin held his blade up. “We’ll fight them together!”
And then one of them was on him.
Fast! He barely reacted in time as the cultist tried to slip a dagger under his guard, managing to twist away with only a glancing cut instead.
“Fool!” Luscien growled, slashing at the cultist and forcing him to back off. He spun and grabbed Corrin’s arm, pulling him away from the fight.
“Corrin, I said retreat!” Eryndor roared.
The mages began to chant as more of them rushed Eryndor, his flames growing even brighter in defiance.
Dragged along by Luscien, Corrin couldn’t even watch as the sounds of battle broke out in the center, as Eryndor took on the horde of enemies. They rushed, faster and faster, towards the only escape in reach.
They reached the edge of the portico, which ended against the open air, only a few branches of the tree and the river below them. If they fell, they’d fall all the way down to the river. From so high up, it wouldn’t be different from hitting the ground, and mantle or not, Corrin was sure it would be his end.
So he aimed for the nearest branch, muttered a prayer to the spirits, and jumped.
