NOVEL NEXT Chapter 22: The Confusing Feeling
Of the first champions to arrive at the colosseum, many have now bought their freedom today after the last game.
“You know, after this morning, I actually also have my hundred points now anyway,” says Niji-ji, the black-haired priestess, as she looks at the two of them, Marjus the human spearman and Vilalae the elven archer. She shrugs. “I think I’ll just buy my way out as soon as I collect my thoughts, honestly.”
“What?!” yells Vilale, slamming her palms against the table.
The priestess shakes her head. “I mean… this whole scheme sounded great when we were trying to break out, but… now I can just leave, so…” she says. “Why should I put myself at risk for this?” The woman shakes her head. “When I get out, I’m just going back home, way, way away from here.”
The elf points at her, hissing between her clenched teeth before she speaks. “For the principle of it!” she argues, lifting her hand to the ceiling as she whispers. “That thing… it’s dangerous,” explains the elf, looking at Marjus, the human spearman, who is also sitting there and nodding along. “It brought back the Demon-Queen! It’ll destroy the world if nobody stops it!”
Niji-ji idly lifts a finger. “It brought back the hero too, though,” she counters.
Vilale glares at her, almost crawling over the table. “That’s just because -!”
The elf stops, her ears twitching. She immediately sits back down, folding her hands. “Man, I sure had a fun time in the arena today, right, guys?” she asks, her expression and tone changing suddenly.
“Oh yeah,” replies Marjus, nodding. “Today’s game was great. But my favorite one was still the one where we had to catch fairies,” he explains, looking up toward the ceiling, where there is nothing to see at all.
The three of them sit there quietly, staring at one another, until, after a moment, the elf loosens her posture.
“It’s gone,” she remarks, looking around herself carefully again. She’s particularly sensitive, and able to feel the dungeon-core when it’s around them.
Marjus lifts a hand. “I actually have a hundred points now too,” he explains. Her eyes, shooting his way, signal only coldness. “But I’m still in,” he says, waving a hand disarmingly.
The two of them look back at Niji-ji, who is rising to her feet. “I admire your principles,” she remarks. “But I’m leaving. I wish you the best with your scheme.”
“Aren’t you a priestess?!” snaps Vilalae, looking after her as the human woman walks off. “Aren’t you duty bound to make the world a better place?” asks the elf with venom in her voice.
“Huh? Oh,” replies Niji-ji, looking back at them over her shoulder. She pinches the fabric of her robe. “I just became a priestess because I wanted to wear the outfit,” she explains. “I think it suits me.”
“It does,” replies Marjus, getting elbowed sharply from the side.
“Come on, Marjus,” says Niji-ji, waving to him. “Let’s get out of here together,” she offers.
“No,” replies Marjus, waving a hand at her. “I’m sticking it through.”
She shrugs indifferently. “Your loss,” replies the priestess, walking away to gather her things.
Vilalae sighs, getting up. “This doesn’t change anything,” explains the elf, looking at him. “We can still pull it off without her.”
“Hey, why do you care so much anyway?” asks Marjus. “Like… for real?” he looks at her. “None of that justice or ‘for the world’ stuff.”
Vilale stands there, her palms resting on the table for a moment, her eyes staring blankly at him. “Because it resurrected me, Marjus,” explains the elf.
“Huh?” he asks.
She leans in toward him. “I wanted to stay dead. I wanted to stay dead forever,” explains the woman, her eyes wide and vacant, as she still hasn’t blinked yet.
“Just let the core kill-kill you then,” he replies, raising an eyebrow.
“No,” replies Vilalae. “I won’t just let it get away with what it did.” She stares at him for a time and then sighs, dropping her shoulders, her normal features returning. “Come on,” says Vilalae, grabbing his hand. “Forget Niji,” she says. “Let’s go back to my bunk and make some noise.”
“Ah, actually…” starts Marjus, rising to his feet. He pulls his hand out of her grasp. “We can’t sleep together anymore,” he explains. Vilalae looks back at him as he digs into his pocket and then pulls out a single, skeletal ring-finger that he had in there. “Me and her… Well, we talked about it, and we decided to become exclusive,” explains the spearman, looking back up at the elf as he shows her the small bone.
She stares at him quietly. “You and… the skeleton? The dead person?”
“Yeah,” replies Marjus, rubbing the back of his head somewhat sheepishly. “I’m a dead person too, right?”
“— The skeleton that works for the thing that we’re trying to kill?” asks Vilale incredulously.
“We get along great! She’s really fun to be around,” he remarks. “She has such a beautiful voice.”
Vilalae grabs Marjus by the shoulders, looking him dead in the eyes. “Marjus. Are you sick in the head?” she asks. “It’s a skeleton,” explains the elf. “It, not ‘she’, doesn’t have a heart, a mind, or a single stuffable hole in its body. I do. It’s a monster.”
“Wow,” remarks Marjus sharply, pulling her hands off of his shoulder. “You know, that’s just not okay to say,” he replies, shaking his head. “She’s so funny and sweet,” he explains. “We were up all night last night just talking about our feelings and life and stuff.” He looks at her. “I expected better of you.”
“…Huh…” says Vilalae, staring at him as he walks away.
“Let me know when we’re ready to move,” he replies, waving a hand over his shoulder. “But until then… maybe we shouldn’t talk so much.”
She stands at the table, staring vacantly as he leaves.
What the hell?
The elf turns her head, looking at the hero who is walking by, with a full gaggle of priestesses chasing after him like a flock of chirping sparrows. Priestesses are chaste, right? “Hey,” she says, getting his attention. “You want to come to my bed and reclaim the holy land?”
— The priestesses all shoot pure poison her way through their looks.
“I’m sorry,” replies the hero, waving a hand at her. “I promise you that your heart will mend soon,” he explains. “Rebounds are hard,” says the man, walking off, the priestesses shuffling after him, fawning after every footstep he leaves behind.
Vilalae rolls her eyes, turning her head to the side, and looks at the Demon-Queen who is walking by in the other direction. “Hey!” she calls, the entity turning her head to look her way with a deathly gaze. “You into elves?”
“I have devoured the marrow from the brittle bones of your ilk by the thousands,” replies the Demon-Queen. She looks down at her clawed hands. “Still now, in my dreams, I hear their desperate lamentations as I snap their limbs open further inch by inch .”
Vilalae stares at her quietly for a time.
The Demon-Queen looks back at her.
“Good enough,” says the elf, shrugging. She, being a woman who yearns for the true sleep of death, grabs the Demon-Queen’s wrist and drags her away.
“I thought I told you to feed them!” barks Munera. The skeleton flinches, guarding itself as some unseen force pelts a handful of birdseed at its head. “You’re my worst employee!” snaps the dungeon-core. “You know how mad humans get about dead children!” A second handful of seeds is thrown at it. “Get to work before I throw you into the arena.”
The dungeon-core vanishes, its presence fading as the skeleton drops down to the sandy ground, picking up one single seed after the other and collecting them together. It looks up toward the cages suspended above the arena, in which the lucky children are able to view so many fun, exciting games every day. It wishes it could live a life like them. Instead, it must toil and labor forever under its cruel taskmaster. Longingly, it screams, looking back down at the dirt as it collects one seed after the next, one of its fingers on its left hand missing.
— Another hand lays down on top of its.
“Hey,” says a voice from beside the skeleton. It looks up at the man who is next to it. “Not much longer,” assures Marjus, having knelt down. His other hand rests against the undead’s bony cheek as he looks at the skeleton’s hollow eye sockets. “…This is all almost over,” he says. “I promise.” The skeleton holds his hand against its cheek.
Crying comes from the cages above. But only weakly.
They are hungry, after all.