Blake Pudding

Nikola stood amidst the carnage—seven broken forms sprawled across the deck, a tangle of Slaethian and Imperial blood. Smoke still curled from the barrels of his pistols, the sharp tang of scorched mana heavy in the air. Not all the fallen were dead. Not yet.

He stepped toward a writhing shape, the Slaethian mage dragging himself backward through a smear of his own blood. One leg gone. Burned away. The edge of his robe still smoldered, lips trembling as he tried—and failed—to cast another spell.

Nikola didn't blink. Each kill behind him bore a similar wound: a gaping, blackened hole punched clean through enchanted mail and flesh alike. Shields meant nothing. Wards failed on the sheer power. His pistols didn't use fire or ice, wind or lightning—they unleashed raw, uncut mana, untamed and absolute. A magic few could control. But somehow, he could. And Blake, too.

He exhaled slowly, the weight of the pistol settling into his tiny palm like an extension of thought. The air shimmered faintly around him, unseen strands of mana drawn toward the core embedded in the grip. It pulsed once, then again, recharging with greedy ease.

"P-Please, don't do this," the mage begged.

Nikola sighed. "Would you have shown me any mercy? Have you ever shown anyone mercy?"

"B-But, they're vile beasts. Y-You're a pure-breed. A gnome! W-Why side with them?" the mage stammered.

Shaking his head in disappointment, Nikola replied, "The fact that you see everyone who doesn't conform to your standards as vile is the problem." He pulled the trigger.

The blast ripped through the air with a thunderous crack. The sheer force of it launched Nikola backward, his small frame skipping across the blood-slicked deck like a stone over water. The mage's body slumped, smoking and still, a fist-sized hole bored through his chest.

Nikola grunted, pushing himself upright. He reached to holster his pistols—then froze. The second one, the one that should have been strapped across his back, was gone.

"What the hell?!"

He spun around in a full circle. His eyes frantically scanned the ground for any sign of the lost weapon, but there was no trace, no clue as to where it could have fallen, leaving him both baffled and alarmed.

Footsteps echoed from the decks above, sharp and hurried. Nikola groaned, his spine already stiffening as he yanked the pistol from its holster once more. Mana thrummed faintly in his grip. With a steadying breath, he ascended the stairs—weapon raised, gaze sharp—ready to carve more fist-sized holes through any fool bold enough to set foot on his ship.

A low creak from the hatch above was his only warning. Instinct overruled thought—Nikola squeezed the trigger.

The crystal embedded in the pistol flared to life, siphoning stored ambient mana as though the very air had ignited. Power surged down the polished wooden frame, racing through runes that shimmered like starlight—then came the release.

A burst of raw, furious magic exploded from the barrel in a thunderous roar, not cast but unleashed—a single, unrestrained discharge that would have shattered any wand. Where wands channeled with care, this one spoke in violence, its mana spent in one overwhelming breath.

The force launched Nikola backward once again, his small frame skipping across the deck like a leaf caught in a gale. The crystal at the weapon's core dimmed, its mana spent in a single, devastating pulse. But already, ambient energy coiled around him, drawn to his will. Threads of raw magic funneled into the runes, recharging the pistol's crystal even as he skidded to a halt—steady hand already aiming once more.

A woman's voice called down just as the door creaked wider. "Whoa now! Friendly!"

Nikola froze, his finger twitching as the figure stepped into view. His breath caught—white robes, dignified posture, and a gentle, knowing smile.

"Asherah?" Nikola asked, lowering his weapon slightly. "S-Sorry, I thought—"

"Shh, you did what you had to," Asherah replied, stepping lightly down the stairs. "I'm not here to judge. Just to help."

Nikola swallowed hard and nodded—but unease gnawed at the back of his mind. He was certain that last shot had struck her. He'd seen the blast connect. Hadn't he? And yet… there wasn't a mark on her. No stagger, no wound. That couldn't be right. Could it?

"The ship's almost ready," he muttered, voice tinged with confusion as the thought refused to let go. "Maybe forty-five minutes, but we can take off in ten if we have to."

"Good," Asherah said with a small, unreadable smile. "Then I'll inform the Queen and send the beastkin your way."

In the distance, the sounds of Blake's battle continued.

~

Einarr tumbled through a cascade of ruined stone, his grip unrelenting on the haft of his warhammer. He landed in a pile of debris, grunting as he rose from the dust. Though the blow had been forceful, it was far from the worst he had endured. Galen's training—with its erratic lightning and fairy mischief—had left him more battered many times before.

But this opponent was no fairy trickster.

She flooded the very air with mana, drowning his own magical presence, dulling his spells, stifling his might. His talents felt muted, smothered beneath her overwhelming aura.

He shifted tactics.

With careful control, he began to manipulate gravity around him—typically a simple effort, but now, each adjustment strained his focus. His plan was deliberate: slow her movements, retain his internal mana for strength, and siphon the chaotic ambient mana she so carelessly expelled.

Foolish. Wasteful. But to Einarr, an opportunity.

He was no mere brawler—he was a Champion, trained in all arts: casting, augmentation, absorption.

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A slow smile parted his beard.

She could push him. Feed him.

Make him stronger.

Then the fire struck.

A tidal wave of green and purple flame hurtled toward him.

"Oh, bloody me sixth wife with me hammer," he cursed.

With no time to spare, he lifted his hammer and funneled an overwhelming surge of system mana into it. The ground shook as he brought it down, and a shockwave carved through the inferno—splitting it cleanly.

But the fire held something… sinister.

"Necrotic," he whispered.

Ash rained as the flames ebbed, but the ruins still glowed with the death-charged blaze.

Then the fog began.

It wasn't smoke.

It grew. It crept. It swallowed the world one breath at a time.

In just a few moments, the dense fog had completely engulfed the area. The woman he had been confronting—a formidable presence just seconds ago—disappeared from view, consumed by the expanding mist. Illuminated by the necrotic haze of surrounding fires, the fog added a ghostly, uncertain dimension to the battlefield, transforming it into a landscape shrouded in mystery and apprehension.

"Murderer," a soft, disembodied voice whispered into Einarr's ear.

Startled, Einarr spun around, hammer extended, ready to crush whoever had spoken. But his hammer swung through empty air, striking nothing.

"Murderer," another voice murmured into his other ear.

He twisted again, heart pounding, but once more found no one behind him.

"Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!"

The voices multiplied, each echoing like an accusation spoken directly into his soul. They sounded familiar—like echoes of past victims. Einarr, ancient and battle-hardened, had slain many over his long life. But now, in this haunted fog, it felt as though every one of them had returned to whisper his sins back to him.

A chill crept down his spine.

Then, a woman emerged slowly from the mist, her figure soft and flickering, like a candle's memory. He tensed, hammer poised—then faltered as recognition struck.

She stood just a head shorter than him, her figure voluptuous, her golden beard braided and radiant even in death. She was as breathtaking now as she had been that first day. Once, he had dreamed of losing himself in her arms. But dreams curdled.

She had rejected him the moment she learned of his wives. And Einarr, believing himself entitled—as a Champion—had taken what he believed was owed.

She had chosen death over life with him.

"Murderer," she whispered.

Before Einarr could answer, another ghost stepped from the mist. This one bore the crushed skull he remembered giving him. Then another emerged. And another.

Soon, a crowd began to form.

Hundreds.

Thousands.

Every face a sin.

Every step a reckoning.

These spectral beings encircled the dwarf—a vast assembly of those he had slain. Each echoed the same chilling accusation, their voices merging into a haunting chorus that filled the misty air.

"Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!" they chanted relentlessly, surrounding Einarr with the weight of his own cruel deeds.

Among the ghostly figures, a few stirred a flicker of remorse in him—but most, he met with indifference. With a dark chuckle, he bellowed defiantly, "Ye think this will get to me, lassie!"

"Nah, but this might," came the monster's voice from behind him.

Einarr's grin widened. He spun around, eager to face her—hammer ready to strike.

But she was gone.

Instead, a second cloud began to roll in—darker, heavier, wrong. It wasn't just fog. It pulsed with corruption.

As the edge of it brushed against the hand gripping his hammer, pain exploded up his arm. Searing, sickening. It felt like his flesh was boiling.

With a strangled cry, Einarr dropped the hammer, clutching his wrist. His skin erupted in boils—pustules swelling and bursting, spreading across his flesh like wildfire.

Panic clawed through him.

No hammer.

He reached desperately back into the blight-infested mist, searching for the weapon—but his fingers met nothing. He groped blindly, the lesions crawling up his arms, across his chest, oozing and raw.

Still no hammer.

Only the foul, diseased fog—and whatever malicious thing was hiding in it, waiting.

Einarr stood still in the fog, lesions boiling across his skin, hammer lost, senses disoriented. The blight reeked. The air burned.

Then—

A faint giggle.

He froze.

It was distant, muffled—yet somehow close, threading through the mist like a whisper on a knife's edge. For a moment, he wasn't sure it had even happened.

Then came the clang of metal striking stone.

His hammer?

No—too far away. Too light.

Another giggle. This one barely contained, like someone suppressing laughter behind their hands.

Einarr growled, but the fog toyed with his sense of direction. He turned in place, searching.

Nothing.

More whispers slithered through the mist, layered and echoing—yet all in that same woman's voice, like a chorus of her own thoughts murmuring back at her from the void.

"I say we end this twat-waffle here and now."

"You don't want to toy with him a bit more?"

"Nah! I want my necklace."

"Hey! I called dibs on a new jump rope!"

"Ugh, fine."

Einarr's jaw clenched.

He moved slower now, ears twitching, eyes straining.

More laughter.

More voices.

"Umm… I say we go through the bellybutton."

"The bellybutton? Why the bellybutton?"

Einarr's eyes narrowed, his blistered fists tightening as he listened to what sounded like a one-sided conversation—unseen and unsettling.

"No, no, not that one—the backend bellybutton!"

"...Backend bellybutton? What are you—"

"You know, the brown star, brown-eye, chocolate starfish, Hershey highway, cornhole, bumhole, rear entry, the old tailpipe..."

"What. The. Hell."

"What's wrong? It's just—"

"Forget it!"

"Here I thought I was the twisted fragment."

"Seriously, will all of you shut up. I'm just going to just end him now."

Something moved behind him.

He turned just in time—instinct and rage guiding him—reaching back with his bare, blistered hand and caught it.

A tentacle.

It sizzled against his palm, but he didn't flinch.

Instead, he smiled.

"Oh, shit."

Einarr's grin widened. His lips split over raw boils. His teeth gleamed.

"Ye toyed with me too long," he rasped, tightening his grip. "My turn."

There was a pause.

A sharp little voice squeaked through the mist.

~

Jason watched the fight unfold, his brow furrowing as he flexed his hand—open, close, open again. Something had changed.

It wasn't unpleasant. Quite the opposite, actually. He felt charged—alive in a way that defied explanation. The air around him shimmered with invisible energy, like the static tension before lightning splits the sky. He couldn't see the mana, but he felt it, tingling against his skin and coiling in his veins like it had always belonged there.

His gaze drifted back to the battlefield.

What remained of Vorigan was little more than blood and scattered meat—gruesome, raw reminders of how fast even immortality could end. A sick ache settled in Jason's chest. He'd never thought of himself as someone capable of attachment. Yet the thought of that little frog bastard not bouncing back from this… it hit harder than he'd expected.

He drew in a breath, steadying himself.

"Screw this," he muttered, voice low, teeth clenched. "That prick is mine."

~

In the distance, still unnoticed by all, a small figure cloaked in pink and darkness continued to observe Blake, shaking her head in disappointment.

She idly toyed with an unusual wand she had "found," curiosity piqued by its peculiar design. The crystal at its base pulsed with an overwhelming amount of mana—far more than it should've been able to hold. Even stranger was the odd little metallic lever positioned along the wand's shaft.

Peering down the barrel, she pulled the lever.

A burst of raw magic erupted from the depths of the wand, shooting straight into her open eye.

The energy washed over her harmlessly, leaving her unscathed.

Unfazed, she blinked a few times, accepting that if it had been anyone else, the outcome would've been very final.

Still intrigued by the wand's bizarre magic, she tucked it away for later. It was an artifact of peculiar promise, brimming with potential power. Maybe she'd gift it to someone eventually. Maybe.

For now, her focus returned to the troublesome girl below.

If not for her favorite child's claim over this one, she probably wouldn't have cared.

But in these dull days—where so little truly amused her—this Blake girl was proving a rare distraction worth watching.

"Ugh, Duskara will never forgive me if I let that girl kill herself," Death whined, digging her toe absentmindedly into the dirt.

She paused.

The plants around her were already wilting.

"Oops."