Demon Core

~ [Shaushka] ~

Elf, Female, Classless Location: The Scorched Forest LEVEL: 04

Shaushka sits in the rain, staring at the rock.

The rock stares back at her.

It’s been a while since she stopped here to look at the rock. A full day, it feels like. But the storm nonetheless continues to fall over the world, as if the rains were simply intent on never ending — even if all of the fires have long since been drowned and extinguished, and even if the ashy, ruined soil was becoming soaked and bog-like.

She misses the smell of the bakery.

But this is nice too.

The rain and the forest come together to create the smell of deep moisture, stemming from the natural world, that is very refreshing in a way. It’s not wholesome and heavy, like the smell of baked bread. Rather, it’s softer and dewier; it’s a gentle coolness, compared to the savoriness of bread.

The elf squats there, her hands wrapped around her knees, as the two of them stare at each other.

Rocks do not do much except stare.

It is simply their nature.

*SCRAW* screeches something in the distance through the rain.

Shaushka slowly blinks, her soaked hair sticking to her eyelids, as she meanderingly turns her head.

*SCRAW* protests a very angry crow up in a tree that it has landed on.

The elf tilts her head, watching the crow screech and scraw.

Slowly, Shaushka looks back at the rock.

“— AH!” says the elf in surprise, leaning over forward, her hands in the mud as she examines the area.

— The rock is gone.

Confused, she looks around herself, trying to find it.

But it is nowhere to be seen.

How strange.

It didn’t even say goodbye.

*SCRAW!* shrieks the crow, clearly having a bad day as far as crow-days are concerned.

Shaushka turns her head to look back at it and then gets up, following its voice.

The bird flies off from its perch, landing several trees further down the way, and she, unblinkingly, with water raining into her open eyes, walks barefoot through the mud of the road as she moves after the bird that clearly has an opinion to share.

Very unusual.

~ [Sir Alencia] ~

Human, Female, Royal Knight Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Floor Four LEVEL: 86

Alencia tosses and turns in her sleep, the first rest that she’s gotten since this nightmare started.

But in her slumber, the nightmare continues.

Even here in her rest, she can feel something nearby. It’s an old, primal darkness that she knows not out of the knowledge that she’s gained over the course of her life and education. Rather, it’s an old, deep, inexplicable feeling that is rooted in her biology. It is the innate human sense of something dark creeping in the shadows.

— A presence.

Laying in bed, she opens her eyes and cautiously looks past the blobby faces of her compatriots towards the shadow that stands off against the wall, simply staring at it. It’s the shadow of a person, a silhouette that has come to life, and its existence and presence nearby feels… dreadful.

In a state of reactive fear, she sits upright, throwing her blanket off of herself.

— In the very instant where her own arm swipes past her face, casting the thin traveling blanket off of course, in that brief, impossible second as her vision is only obscured for a moment, the thing moves.

By the time that second ends and her arm has swung out once, the blanket having moved past her field of vision, the shadow is standing right in front of her bed — right in-front of her.

It feels so cold.

Her body fails to do what she wants, and she simply falls over backward, her head landing back on her pillow, her eyes growing heavy as the shadow hangs over her paralyzed form.

Sir Alencia gasps, sitting upright in her bedding, waking from the nightmare, her heart pounding as she fearfully looks around herself.

The camp is exactly as it should be. Everyone is exactly as they ought to be.

It was just a nightmare.

She exhales, rubbing her face.

But it felt so real.

Applied Status: [Paranoia], [Poor Rest], [Night Terror]

She sighs, rubbing her face in exhaustion as she lays back down.

~ [Ruhr, the River-Sorceress] ~

Human-Half-Elf, Female, Sorceress Rank: SSS Location: The Demon-King's Castle, Floor Four LEVEL: 93

They’ve set up camp on floor four of the Demon-King’s castle after clearing it.

It’s true that time is of the essence, but morale is… poor. Ruhr looks around at the soldiers, noble-blooded creatures of sword and magic, who are all far more akin to their pampered lives in the palace and practice duels of honor than this — this real, gritty, horrific gnashing of teeth that is the sum total of the Demon-King’s castle.

Like children, they slowly started getting more and more upset the further they went, arguing and bickering about this and that, as if they had all gotten cranky in the middle of a long walk.

Ruhr sighs in agitation, looking down the pit as she rubs the bridge of her nose. “What do we do?” she asks.

Zacarias, standing next to her, looks down the hole. “We have to keep moving. The longer we wait, the more our chances of killing the beast and escaping here vanish.”

“I know that, Zac,” replies Ruhr, turning her head to look at him. “But tell that to them.” She points over her shoulder. “They’re not listening to me anymore,” says Ruhr, looking over her shoulder. The soldiers have split into their own camps, each electing leaders of their own. It would seem that after these successive failures and this latest springing of the trap that has sealed them all down here, even Ruhr’s apparently divine nature did little to convince them of her authority anymore.

“We can’t go back,” says Zacarias. “The way back is blocked off. That just leaves going down or staying here to starve as the available options.” He shakes his head. “They’ll have no choice but to move when their stomachs start growling.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing, Z.z. baby,” replies Ruhr.

“It is. They’ll listen to sense then,” replies Zacarias.

Ruhr thinks for a moment and then shakes her head. “Or, because we’re the ones who made them throw their food away, they’ll kill and eat us both,” explains the river-sorceress. “Then when we’re picked clean, they’ll start with each other. Hell, maybe they’ll kill a monster or two and try to survive off that, but…”

“But the Demon-King will pick them off,” says Zacarias. “If they don’t do it themselves.”

Ruhr groans in exasperation, slapping her face with both hands and rigorously scrunching her face in anger. “What a fuck-up this was. I should have just left town when everything went to shit,” she swears. “This could have been someone else’s problem, but noooo~” says Ruhr. “I went and made it fucking mine.” She hisses through her gritted teeth, hating herself.

She flops down, crossing her legs as she stares at the abyss, steaming air coming to meet them from below. Despite it being hot, the woman adjusts her yellow scarf and wizard’s hat. The clothes bring her some comfort.

A hand plants itself on her shoulder. Ruhr looks up at Zacarias. “Sometimes, we do the right things, but for the wrong reasons,” explains the man, letting go. “Why the hell do you want to be some cushy-life living celebrity?” he asks. “I’ve seen nobles grow up and become adults; I’ve watched some of them for their whole lives,” explains the man. “Trust me, it’s not a place you want to exist in forever.” He nods his head behind himself. “Just look at them.”

Ruhr sighs. “You don’t get it, Zac. You’re a rich boy,” says the river-sorceress. “Where I’m from, money is everything,” explains the woman. “You can’t exist or be anyone without money,” says the woman. “You can’t have bread, you can’t have a home, you can’t have people — you just can’t have SHIT,” she exclaims. “— if you don’t have money.”

Zacarias looks at her in confusion. “You’re strong already with a level in the nineties. Less than five percent of the population ever gets that far, and that includes nobles,” explains the man. “I’m sure you already have plenty of money to live your life as is,” replies Zacarias, setting his shield down, wedging it in the stones, and leaning against it. “You don’t need more money. That’s not why you’re here.”

She looks at him and shakes her head. “You just don’t get it, Zac,” she says looking back down at her own hands as she squeezes her fingers, trying to grab something that isn’t there — apart from in her mind’s eye. “But you can’t. It’s not something that you can understand if you didn’t grow up in it.”

Zacarias looks at her for a moment and then nods, looking back out over the pit. “I see,” replies the man.

Ruhr looks back up toward the hole above them. “…I bet I could use my water-magic to get us out of here,” says Ruhr. “Really sure about it, actually.” She stares up towards the entrance to the dungeon, three floors above their heads on the other side of the massive cylindrical shaft. “We could bail. You and me, we could just… leave,” says the river-sorceress. “Fuck this place. Fuck these guys and fuck the Demon-King! We could just blast our way out of the door and then ditch the whole carriage and the whole Demon-King thing,” explains the sorceress. “We’d just… I dunno.” She shrugs. “We’d just run off in the opposite direction. Everyone would think that we’re dead, and we could just start over somewhere else.”

“We could,” replies Zacarias. “But that would be disappointing,” says the man, hoisting his shield back up and out of the stones. Ruhr looks back up at him as he walks away. “I’d be let down since I was told to expect big things from Ruhr, the river-sorceress.” He looks back at her for a moment, and then walks off. “People are counting on you.”

Ruhr watches him go and then returns her vision to her hands as she thinks about what he said.

The woman tsks.

What an annoying asshole.

She can’t even brood in peace with him around. That dick. She wasn’t looking for a pep talk, she wanted him to say sad and mean things so that she could keep feeling this way and then justify actually leaving.

Fuck.

The river-sorceress rises to her feet, clenching her empty fists as she glares down at the void below and then turns around, shooting that same look towards the camps of soldiers.

If they won’t listen to her in the confines of their bubble of noble society, then she’s just going to have to show them how social hierarchies work in her neighborhood.

Ruhr cracks her neck, knuckles and rolls her shoulders as she walks toward them, the soldiers already starting to look her way.

~ [Byblos] ~

Dark-Elf, Female, Cook Location: The Mooncall Tavern LEVEL: 08

“— GET THE HELL OUT OF MY KITCHEN!” screams Byblos, throwing the cleaver in her hand towards the door, which quickly slams shut as the waitress, who had passed on a customer’s complaint about his order, retreats.

Glaring at the shut door with wide eyes, daring it to open again, the woman stands there, her chest heaving as she breathes angrily.

The door stays closed.

Fuming, she stomps over towards it and yanks the cleaver out of the creaking wood. Her eyes turn back toward the plate that had been sent back.

— 'Undercooked'?

She walks over to it. It’s perfect. It’s…

Her heart beats as she looks at the food, the creation of her hands and of her soul. This isn’t some slop, even if one would expect it in this run-down, piece of shit tavern that she has to work in.

This is…

The woman hacks the cleaver down into the counter, letting out her anger onto the wood as she lowers herself into a half kneeling position, closely examining the plate with cautious eyes.

— It’s perfect! It’s…

She presses her finger against the top of the plated cut of meat, topped with a beautiful sprig of green garnish and plated together with baked, crusted tubers.

There’s a slight crust, and the inside of the cut of the minotaur flank is beautifully pink. They’re very densely muscled creatures with a very low fat content, so one has to cook the meat very delicately. Meat with more fat has more leeway, but these lean cuts need to be tenderly heated so that it doesn’t turn rock hard and chewy like bark.

— It’s art.

Her eye twitches as she picks up the steak that she had lovingly made — perfectly made — and closes her eyes, looking away as she drops it back into the hot pan, sure that she is about to cry, feeling as if she were casting her own child into the fire.

It’s wrong.

This is all wrong.

— The dark-elf bites down on her finger as the sizzling fills her ears and heart with anguish as wet wells in her eyes and a savory, warm smell fills the kitchen.

These people are animals.

They don’t want food. They just want slop from a trough.

It’s bad enough that they all had to stay here because the old man was making a fortune on the evacuation and threatened to fire them and not pay their due wages if they left. But this…

— It’s too much.

She grits her teeth, holding back her tears.

~ [Cartouche] ~

Gallu, Female, Dancer Location: Far West of the Demon-Carnival LEVEL: 69

Cartouche stands on the crest of a far off hill, staring out into the distance. She’s on the edge of the dungeon’s territory, having used the new ability she was granted by the Demon-King to move out here.

A full day has passed since the start of all of this, and… what a day it was.

It feels like it was just a breath ago, just a short, tiny moment ago, that she was still crawling around on a stage, gathering loose change in exchange for her self-respect, in order to move towards her goal in life, which, in reality, was perhaps really unobtainable.

She had told herself that it would only take a few years of that work to get enough savings to escape it, but… the truth is that she knows that after those few years, she would say the same exact thing. The situation would have changed, property would be more expensive, she would have had an unexpected expense or loss or something of the kind and then she’d sell her soul for a few more Obols, bit by bit by bit, until there was nothing left of her but ash.

The gallu holds a hand over her heart as she watches the horizon, dotted with small villages and towns.

The same kinds of villages and towns that the old carnival had driven through so many times. The same kinds of villages and towns that are full of drunken idiots or, worse, monsters who have no control of sense or self. There are people out there everywhere who exist as nothing more than base, growling, disgusting creatures who live only to follow their biological drives of eating and lusting and reveling.

There’s nothing else there.

There’s nothing behind their eyes except animal concepts. There’s no love of life and of it… they can’t even comprehend it — what it really is, beauty. In their animal desire, they can’t look past a person’s body to see its delicate, intricate, and perfected movements. They can’t look past a pair of bright eyes to see the dying soul behind it that their glances are extinguishing.

— Cartouche rubs her hand over her heart.

Ugliness.

There’s just… so much ugliness, isn’t there? It’s not even a sea of simple neutrality that surrounds the rare blossom of beauty. It’s just… filth.

The woman turns around, making her way back to the carnival, to guide the undead toward this new direction so that the Demon-King, so that she – so that they can get a little closer to finding the true resting place of the thing that her heart wants most.

~ [Seaman Minani-ni] ~

Vildt (Feline), Male, Master Sailor Location: High-seas of the great eastern ocean, The Abigalia LEVEL: 76

The wind howls, waves crashing against the bough of the ship as they rise up to meet it — briny water flying over the deck and washing half a dozen men off of their feet as it rushes over them. Minani-ni holds onto the ropes, staring out ahead of himself as the ship moves across the ocean, heading towards the western continent, pushing through the storm that never seems to stop.

The wind howls across the world; everywhere from the land to the sea is lost under the crushing presence of the Demon-King.

His wet, short hair sticks matted to his head, salt-water dripping out of his protruding feline ears as he holds himself steady, the ship crashing down the body of the massive wave from before.

Hundreds of men – soldiers – are aboard this ship.

Their kind, their species that stems from a time of the old gods, might not be welcome on the western continent by the laws that the humans have set.

— But they’ll just have to accept it now, whether they like it or not.

They won’t let the fate of the world rest in their hands alone.

The storm surges on as the Abigail sails through it, one of hundreds of ships that navigate the screaming darkness, heading towards the Demon-King.

~ [Abydos] ~

Gallu, Male, Painter Location: The Demon-Carnival LEVEL: 69

Abydos sits at the front of the carriage, next to the undead zombie that holds onto the reins of the rotting anqas pulling it along. Mud splashes up everywhere along the sides of the road as the carnival and its dozens of carriages move in convoy through the winds and the rain.

— A body suddenly appears just ahead of him, landing gracefully on the back of an anqa. Cartouche sits backwards on the undead bird that leads the parade.

“I found a place,” says Cartouche, pointing up ahead. “Turn right at the crossroads.”

The undead coachman groans, whipping the reins.

“I’ll go find the next place then,” says Abydos. Cartouche nods. The painter teleports away and she zaps forward, to take his spot on the front of the carriage, rain pelting down on her face as she stares up towards the beautiful storm in the sky.

~ [Grand Crusader Vilheim] ~

Human, Female, Crusader Location: The Distant North LEVEL: 100

Vilheim sits knelt on one leg, her hands locked in prayer on the top of her knee and her head resting down on her woven fingers, fervent whispers escaping her mouth. The world rattles, rumbling as they move, as the — what is essentially a box — that she is inside of is carried towards the maw of horrors that has emerged within the world.

She whispers, praying.

The crusade has begun. Hundreds of them have gathered and are gathering along the way as the march progresses. Thousands of men and women from her city and from every other city in the nation, all of the faith, have come to band together as one, so as to act as the sword of God, to smite the blemish of evil upon the gentle face of this good world.

She whispers, her voice echoing around herself in the box that she’s been inside of for a day now. There’s no room for her to move.

Her knelt, hunched over back presses against the lid. Her hair, matted against her head, rubs along the wood as she prays without having an inch to move.

It will be days yet till they arrive where they are needed.

Until then, she will pray.

And she will pray to be heard.

The crusade marches, with thousands of boots walking, trampling, and marching outside of her box — the coffin of the resolute living.

~ [Ruhr, the River-Sorceress] ~

Human-Half-Elf, Female, Sorceress Rank: SSS Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Floor Four LEVEL: 93

The man’s jaw cracks, and Ruhr throws him down to the ground, planting her boot on top of the side of his head as loose dust and sediment fly up into the air. She looks around at the crowd of soldiers, many of whom step back a step or two from the heap of groaning bodies laying there, covered in various welts and bruises.

— This went well.

“You’re going to march, you whining babies,” orders Ruhr. “Or I’m executing you all for dereliction of duty and killing the Demon-King by myself!” she proclaims, glaring around at the circle around her, which doesn’t try to encroach anymore, now that a good half a dozen of them have served as examples already.

Now, of course, really fighting them all would be a tall order, given their numbers in the hundreds. But they’re not unified enough to band together against her. As far as they’re concerned, they’re all individual groups of a few people, or even alone, against her. They don’t view themselves as one, unified whole.

“You low-born whore!” barks one of the soldiers, stepping forward. He grabs his knife from his belt, pulling it free. “You got us into this!” he says, pointing it at her. “You’re not allowed to talk to us like this!”

A murmur of agreement comes from the crowd.

Looking around himself, the man sees the many faces of approval come his way as he makes the next attempt, far more serious than the attempts that came before him. He lunges forward towards Ruhr.

(Zacarias) has used: [Royal Decree {Halt.}] Applied Status: [Grappled]

A chain wraps itself around the man’s legs, causing him to stumble forward.

Ruhr kicks the back of the head that her boot was resting on for the sake of it and then walks over towards this latest challenger, who lies tied up on his back by magical chains.

“You people don’t really seem to understand what this is,” says Ruhr, looking around herself. “I run this show. You noble-blooded brats better learn your place, because it’s below me.” She points at them. “I talk, you listen. I shit, you wipe.” She turns her head. “Zac. What’s the punishment for dereliction of duty in a national crisis?”

“Death,” replies Zacarias.

“What’s the punishment for wielding a weapon against your superior?” asks Ruhr.

“Death,” repeats Zacarias.

Ruhr holds her hands out to her sides, looking at the crowd that shuffles uneasily. The man below her struggles against the magical chains binding him in place. She nods her head to Zacarias.

(Zacarias) has used: [Royal Decree {Halt.}]

A new chain moves out of the stones, wrapping itself around the head of the man with the knife, holding it in place.

Ruhr bends down, looking at him.

— He spits in her face.

The river-sorceress narrows her eyes and then presses her hand against his mouth.

“You can’t do this!” yells a voice from the side.

Ruhr turns to look at him. “I can. I will and I’ll do it to you too,” she promises.

(Ruhr) has used: [Serpentine Flow]

The pinned man’s eyes go wide as a burst of water shoots out of Ruhr’s palm, spraying off to the sides as it forces its way down his throat. His legs kick and shake as he struggles, trying to pull himself free from the chains that pin him down. His eyes bulge.

Applied Status: [Drowning {Minor}], [Nausea {Minor}], [Bloating {Minor}]

— The spell continues, with more and more water pressing itself down his spluttering throat. At the same time, the bound man vomits, purging as she holds her spell, indiscriminate liquid gushing through the gaps of her fingers and running down his face and into his eyes.

Applied Status: [Drowning {Normal}], [Nausea {Normal}], [Bloating {Normal}]

She locks her fingers around his head, and more water presses the man’s bile back into his own, overfilling stomach. His belly extends outward; his chest heaves as he hacks and splutters. His lungs fill up with water as he drowns on land.

It’s uncertain what will kill him first, the drowning or the rupturing of his organs as she fills his gut with more and more water.

Applied Status: [Drowning {Severe}], [Nausea {Severe}], [Bloating {Severe}], [Internal Damage {Stomach}{Lungs}]

“Stop!” yells a horrified voice from the side.

The river-sorceress turns her head, her eyes wild. “MARCH!” screams Ruhr at the soldier, who stiffens up immediately beneath her gaze.

The drowning man’s eyes roll back into his head as he kicks and struggles, his movements seeming more like instinctive animal twitches than those of a coordinated being.

Applied Status: [Drowning {Severe}], [Nausea {Severe}], [Bloating {Severe}], [Internal Damage {Stomach}{Lungs}{Upper Intestinal Tract}]

“STOP! STOP!” yells a voice from the side. “We’ll go!” relents one man.

Ruhr lifts her hand from the man’s mouth, looking at the soldier who has given in. He pulls his men to the side, yanking them after him as he breaks the circle, heading towards the direction of the next floor.

Water and vomit pour out of the bound man’s mouth, and Ruhr rises back up, standing in a puddle of bile and urine as she looks around at the crowd that slowly begins to disperse itself.

It seems that she’s made her point.

A few people shoot sidelong glances as they go, but quickly look ahead of themselves again as they meet eyes with her.

The soldiers gather their things, and then the march moves down to the next floor — disgruntled and angry, but moving.

It’s an improvement. They had been disgruntled and angry before too. But at least now, the moving part is locked down.

Ruhr looks down at the injured all around her and points at a group packing up their camp. “Clean this up,” orders Ruhr as she walks, wiping the various collections of fluids off of herself as she goes.

“Nice job,” says Zacarias. “You make an impressive dictator.”

“I tried to be nice, Zac,” says Ruhr, walking along to the staircase that leads down the massive cylinder. “We’re in the Demon-King’s castle. We can’t play nice. Playing nice is going to get them and, most importantly, me, killed.” The river-sorceress shakes her head. “What a waste that would be.”

“Agreed,” replies Zacarias, looking back over his shoulder. “Why didn’t you finish the execution?” asks the man. “It was right, if not… grim. Sometimes, a tree needs to be pruned for it to grow right.”

Ruhr places a vomit and spit covered hand against his chest. “Zazari, sweetheart, you’re all business,” says Ruhr. “Leave the heart stuff to Mama Ruhr.”

“Excuse me?” asks Zacarias, looking at her as she lets go of him, a strand of sticky bile connecting them as her fingers move away from his armor. “Do you hear yourself sometimes?” He looks after her.

Ruhr looks over her shoulder, spinning a finger in the air. “Of course. I’m the only person worth listening to here,” says Ruhr. She winks at him, and then marches off into the darkness.

Zacarias sighs and follows after her.

~ [The Demon-King] ~

Swain sits on his throne, his soul-points having mostly been restored now after a day of rest on his seat of power.

Soul-Points: 129/138

~ [Achievement Unlocked] ~ 'A Creature of Purpose {01}' Unlocked By: Sitting in one place, awake, for {12} hours in a row Reward: Your legs have fallen asleep.

The carriage has been traveling, and the humans inside of the castle have wasted their time, reveling in their own darkness and misery. They’ve only now started moving, and it is far too late for them.

He can already feel the demon-sickness spreading outward, out over the new lands that the carriage travels through.

Animals die. People die. It all dies, and that power, those thousands of new souls, all begin to move his way, filling the air as they fly — tormented ghosts.

Level Up! ~ [The Demon-King] ~

You are now level {70}! Level: 70↗ Experience: 03/150000 Attribute: DARK Soul-Points: 140/140↗ Presence: 13.7 km ↗ Obols: 000

You have {25} free Ability Points to spend!

Through the vision of his many eyes, he can see that they’re moving towards a human settlement. Cartouche and Abydos are doing well with their task.

Swain sits there, as he has been doing, and considers the presence of these two entities.

In his old life, he recalls only ever having one creature around himself, during the day in his thoughts and beating heart and during the night… that was when she was around, filling his senses with the essence of her presence.

But now, she is gone in both the day and the night, yet the shapeless vision of the entity he tries to envision darts around before his mind’s eye like a fairy in a midnight wood — always hidden, just on the edge of sight, but unable to conceal its auburn glow.

In contrast, two souls wander around him and they do so… quietly. They don’t ask and poke and provoke. The union of their meeting is different than it was with her. They are compatriots aboard the same vessel, seeking the same treasure.

Swain’s dozens of eyes narrow as he holds his hand out, tearing a ghost towards himself.

“Paper,” orders the Demon-King, releasing the squirming thing he had held between his massive claws.

The horrified ghost flies off, finding some for him to write on.

~ [Shaushka] ~

Elf, Female, Classless Location: The Scorched Forest LEVEL: 04

*SCRAW* craws the crow.

Shaushka stares and then slowly nods. It makes perfect sense.

Being a crow sounds hard.

The soaked elf stares up at the tree, and, a moment later, the crow flies off to another tree, further down the way.

“Huh…” mutters the elf to herself as she meanders along behind it through the storm, not sure what it has to show her.

~ [Byblos] ~

Dark-Elf, Female, Cook Location: The Mooncall Tavern LEVEL: 08

The dark-elf stands there, her long white hair tied up in a bun beneath her hairnet, as she stoically stirs the pot of sauce.

She didn’t have a choice.

There’s nothing she could have done about it.

— The door opens behind her, only a crack. “Hey, thanks! The customer said it's perfect now,” says the waitress, and then quickly closes the door again before anything can happen.

Byblos hisses, wincing as she closes her eyes, turning her head.

Monsters.

They don’t have any appreciation for it, do they?

She’s been stuck in this shithole for so long, practicing every day by chopping and cutting sacks of tubers and vegetables. She’s been mastering the art of cooking piece by piece. Her nights outside of the kitchen, she’s reading the one book on cooking she has, that she managed to buy off of a traveling merchant one time — for most of her salary — and her days she’s spending here, making perfection for people who just want… anything.

The dark-elf stops, her dead eyes staring at the floor as her arm stops moving.

It doesn’t matter if she’s here.

Anyone could be here.

The waitress could take over the cooking; hell, they could catch a wild boar outside and throw it in here, and the customers would still be just as happy with what comes out of the kitchen. Her presence here, her efforts — they’re just… not relevant.

What is she doing?

What is her life?

Why is she here? She should be in the great halls of kings and queens, creating things that people appreciate, creating delicate senses and moments that are just…

— The dark-elf wiggles with her fingers, trying to figure it out.

Just…

The pot on the stove starts to boil, which is unusual, since the heat is off. She blinks, looking at it.

You are suffering from: [DEMON-SICKNESS {01}] ! [Corruption] ||[{Minor} Nausea] || [{Minor} Disorientation]

[DEMON-SICKNESS]

You are within the befouling presence of the Demon-King. The longer you stay here, the stronger this effect will continue to stack, until reaching either the point of minimum DARK resistance or death.

With each increasing stage, the symptoms will become more severe, possibly becoming permanent.

She wobbles on her feet, feeling a strange surge run through her head.

Outside, screams emerge; furniture crashes as people stampede.

Byblos tries to steady herself and inadvertently grabs the handle of the pot, falling over and pulling the thing down with her, boiling, thick soup splashing over her face and mouth as she screams.

And in her flailing and writhing, her animal-screams fail to deny the single, stupid, entirely senseless thought that runs through her dying mind.

— She didn’t salt it enough.

DAMN I-

~ [Ruhr, the River-Sorceress] ~

Human-Half-Elf, Female, Sorceress Rank: SSS Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Floor Five LEVEL: 93

Ruhr sits there on the throne and looks around herself, trying to understand the nature of the floor that they’re on.

One thing that she has noticed about the Demon-King’s castle thus far, at least this second castle, is that there haven’t been any monsters at all.

Why?

Is this just to lure them into a sense of false security? Or was he really so hindered before that he simply wasn’t capable of making more?

She looks around herself, at the courtyard down below her seat.

She’s…

Ruhr blinks.

Wait.

The sorceress turns her head, looking down at herself. Why is she sitting on a throne? How did she get here? They were just walking to floor five of the castle and they entered it and then…

“— Pardon me,” says a voice from the side, and Ruhr looks, watching as a priestess kneels down and starts to pull off her boot. The sorceress yanks her leg away, but she doesn’t get up.

The priestess blinks, looking up towards her. “What’s wrong?” she asks. “I was instructed to tend to you.”

Ruhr narrows her eyes.

Something seems wrong here, but her mind feels a bit… foggy. The woman leans back on the throne, rubbing her face as she holds out her foot again. Why is she so upset? Of course, the priestess is here to tend to her. She’s Ruhr, the river-sorceress after all. She’s a hero of the people, famous and beloved. She’s worked her ass off for years to get this far, and now she’s finally here.

Ruhr sighs, her shoulders drooping as her boot slides off and the priestess starts rubbing her soles. She relaxes, looking up at the ceiling of the throne-room that she’s in. It’s bright and made of a good stone. “Where is everyone?” asks Ruhr, her voice echoing around the room.

“Pardon me. Your grace?” asks the priestess.

“It’s so empty here,” says Ruhr. “Where did everyone go?” she asks. “Where’s Zac?”

— A pair of hands grab her shoulders from behind. She turns to look. It’s another priestess who starts massaging her. “You sent them out, remember?” asks the second priestess. “Zacarias was being annoying, so you sent him to go to town and not come back until he found something to apologize with.”

Ruhr blinks, thinking about it. “Oh… right…” she says. That sounds right. It sounds like what she’d do. Zacarias is a dick, but he’s useful, and she kind of likes him, even if he is a huuuge ass. “Right. Thanks,” says Ruhr, laughing at her own silliness as she leans back against the throne, allowing herself to be tended to.

This is the life.

This is what she deserves.

Zac grew up in this kind of place; he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand why it’s so special to have this. For her, this is the opposite of where she came from. It’s the ultimate achievement for her to have come this far.

She’ll explain it to him when he gets back from…

Uh…

Ruhr opens her eyes. “Hey, where did I send Zac again?”

“The town,” replies the woman who is tenderly rubbing her ankle.

Ruhr nods. “Ah, yeah, sorry. I forgot. I feel a little foggy today.”

The priestess shakes her head. “That’s okay. Please relax,” says the woman. “You deserve it after everything.”

Ruhr has an easy time accepting that and rolls her shoulders in comfort, feeling the hands working the knots out of them, loosening her up.

This is the best.

She wants Zac to come back, though. It feels a little lonely here. Sure, having attendants like this is nice and exactly her thing, but… it’s not the same.

Ruhr slowly opens her eyes, staring at her empty paradise.

— It’s beautiful.

The walls are made of artistically hewn stone and painted with the grace of angels. The daylight that shines in through the high windows is warm and soft. The hands massaging her body are supple and gentle and fill her with ideas that a professional of her status, honestly, shouldn’t be getting. But she’s ‘alone’ here and well…

Ruhr stares out at the empty hall, trying to understand what’s missing.

When are Zacarias and the others going to get back? How long can it take to go to…

— Ruhr narrows her eyes in suspicion.

‘Town’?

Wait a damn minute.

The river-sorceress sits upright.

A town?!

“What’s the matter?” asks the priestess. “Please, relax.”

Ruhr jumps to her feet at this great injustice of the universe. A TOWN?!

She grabs the priestess by her collar with her hands on her shoulders and pulls her forward towards herself.

“Why do I have a town?!” barks Ruhr into the woman’s face.

“Y- your grace?” asks the priestess nervously.

Ruhr points at herself with her thumb as she makes clear what the universe needs to understand. “RUHR! THE RIVER-SORCERESS DOESN’T SETTLE FOR ‘TOWNS’!” she screams at the priestess. “— I WANT A CITY!”

— The illusion shatters.

The walls of the throne-room decay, crumbling and falling apart as the paint and stone break off like flaking ash. The sunlight fades, leaving only resolute darkness. Ruhr stares at the things latched to her body.

Attached to her leg is a long, leech-like entity, sucking the blood from her limb. Attached to both of her shoulders are two more, worming around in joy as they deprive her of blood, and held in her hand, the thing that had been a priestess only a moment ago, is now a fat, wiggling parasite — a round, black, oily tube. The inside of it is ringed with multiple spirals of sharp teeth, dripping with her blood.

Ruhr yells in abject, animal disgust as she frees herself from the parasites, tearing them off and throwing them down as she crawls back and away over the stones, looking.

The throne she had sat on was nothing but a heap of blood-thirsty, squishy worms.

She looks all around herself.

The entire room is lined with such sights. Hundreds of men and women sit, latched on to by drinking, suckling leeches that take their life-force and return to them an illusion of grandeur and false paradise.

“ZAC!” yells Ruhr, scrambling across the room past dozens of people as she tears the worms off of Zacarias, stomping them into mush.

Only after he’s freed and starts to stir, safely sitting in the middle of the room, does she start running towards the others to free them.

~ [The Demon-King] ~

Level Up! ~ [The Demon-King] ~

You are now level {71}! You are now level {72}! Level: 72↗ Experience: 03/185750 Attribute: DARK Soul-Points: 144/144↗ Presence: 14.1 km ↗ Obols: 000

You have {26} free Ability Points to spend!

~ [Graveyard {Level 03}] ~ Corpses Collected: 500 Summoned Monsters

[Imps]: 62

[Shadow People]: 41

[Corpse Collector]: 01

~ [Achievement Unlocked] ~ 'I Don’t Know Where They’re All Coming From {02}' Unlocked By: Collecting {500} corpses Reward: All IMPS under your control will gain a new ability, allowing them to project illusionary voices in order to lure or distract prey

~ [Achievement Unlocked] ~ 'No Matter Where You Go, I’ll Be There' Unlocked By: Killing someone with the [Demon-Sickness] who had already been afflicted with [Demon-Sickness] once and managed to survive. Reward: Stacking status [Hallucinations {01}] will now be applied to anyone suffering from the [Demon-Sickness]

Swain sits there, watching the intruders break free from the spell.

Again, it's her. The woman with the blue hair seems like the most potent of them in many ways. She’s once again broken the illusion.

— His long claws tap against the armrest of his throne as he watches her tend to a man, fully ignoring the suffering of everyone else, before she then moves on to help them as a second priority. His other hand clutches his poem.

Still, it’s too late for them.

Souls fly around the throne room, screaming as they hurtle down the shaft towards him, being drawn in from the surrounding landscape that is being devastated by his corrupting presence.

They fly into the many open, salivating maws on his body, and one of them brings with it a familiar anger.

Ah.

~ [Byblos] ~

Dark-Elf, Female, Cook Location: ??? LEVEL: 08

Byblos twitches with her hand, mimicking the motion of cutting something with a knife.

— She doesn’t have a knife, mind you. But she still feels like she wants to practice the motion, for when she does.

The dark-elf looks around herself at the void she’s in, staring at the hundreds of floating lights all around her. They’re shaped like people.

She looks down at herself, at her body. It looks like her old body in a sense, but it’s made up out of strange, string-like shapes that come together — like she’s a woven doll.

The woman supposes that this is her soul.

She looks back forward, sliding her hand ahead of herself, as if she were slicing carrots. It’s a simple, mechanical motion, but that’s where it all begins. The glaze that forms at the bottom of a pan, the crispness, the savouriness, the sourness — every little shift in sense and experience that a person has while eating, every memory that gets triggered by smells and tastes, every idea that is born over a hot soup and every heartfelt smile that comes from a warm meal on a cold day — all of these things start from the most rudimentary, basic, simple, mechanical motions.

But they’re so much more than the sum of their parts. Cooking is something that these people around her don’t get. They don’t understand.

For them, it’s just a process of making food.

They only see physical nourishment. They’re hungry. They eat. They go. They shit.

That’s it. That’s the full sum of their living experience from start to end.

But all of that delicate soulfulness that is meant to be captured along the way, all of that dripping essence of life — they don’t even see it.

— Her chopping motion stops.

“They don’t even see it,” repeats the dark-elf to herself. What a world. Why is she like this? Why is she always like this? Why is she so obsessed with this… this stupid thing? Why is she haunted by this desire that nobody around her ever seems to acknowledge? It’s like she’s crazy. It’s like she’s the weird one and they’re all normal, but she doesn’t understand why it’s like that. Why aren’t they after what she’s after too?

Her eyes dart between the thousands of souls.

Can’t they sense it? Can’t they taste it, smell it, feel it?

It’s so close. The thing she’s looking for – the apex of the soul. With every slice and every stir and every flip of a spatula, it’s just… it’s just like she’s been turning a key in a door, but the lock never clicks with that satisfying, heavy clack and she just keeps turning and turning and turning and -

The woman suddenly flails, kicking and shaking her arms in pointless, angry frustration as she screams as loud as she can.

“— It’s because it’s not for them to know,” says a voice from all around herself. Byblos turns her head, looking as the darkness rips open in the distance like a tear in a black drape, letting in sunlight from the other side. “It’s not for their eyes to see, or for their hearts to know,” explains the voice. “It wasn’t made for them.” Her eyes open wide. “— It was made for you.”

“What…?” asks Byblos, fairly certain that she’s talking to the reaper of souls. “What is it?” she asks. “When can I finally…” She squirms, pressing herself free from her own stubbornness as she moves towards the light. “When can I finally have it?” she asks. “I don’t even care anymore if they see it,” explains the woman. “I don’t care if they never taste it or smell it or even know that it exists. I’m so tired of speaking in a language that nobody around me understands.” She reaches the light. “When can I… What… what is it?!” she asks.

“Beauty,” replies the heavy voice, causing the frayed ends all over her body to stand up on end, electrified. “Pure, ethereal beauty, uncorrupted by the imperfections of those beasts around yourself, those drooling masses of slobbering meat.”

“Please!” begs Byblos, clenching her hands. “Before I die, let me see it. Let me just… let me know that it’s real.”

“It is real,” says the voice.

— Something grabs her.

“- And you won’t die, not until we’ve found it together.”

She is torn out of the darkness.

~ [The Demon-King] ~

Swain tears the woman out of his core, the mouth on the side of his body gagging and splitting open wide, as he pulls her full, wet body out from himself — slime covering her and his hands as he sets her down.

She immediately falls over, laying on the stones of the throne-room like a newborn infant.

Her dark-skin takes on an ashier, less blue tone. Her eyes shift to an autumn-light yellow. Her white hair remains the same but loses the last tinge of yellowness that it carried with it.

The chef cries, hacking out mouthfuls of afterbirth from her lungs and throat. Swain looks away, allowing her the dignity of this moment of privacy, as he looks over his poem that has already begun to work.

Between each beat of your still striking heart,

Shambles the Shambler through these spaces apart,

With every new strike, it moves one inch fore,

And with every new faltering, it moves one inch more,

The Shambler is amongst us, moving onward in stride,

As in the gaps between men and women, it hides,

In every space that is blank and devoid,

The Shambler presides as it moves with such toils,

You see it not, for it resides off far,

Always just next to you,

- But not where you are,

— The Shambler shambles

(Swain) has used [Poetic Summoning] to summon: [The Shambler] Cost: 60% SOUL-POINTS

~ The Shambler ~

- Summoned Entity -

A strange, crooked creature that you can never quite see. The Shambler will always reside in spaces where there is no clear line of sight from any creature, human or animal, even if it is right next to them or in the middle of a crowd. It has strange, impossibly long legs with sharp joints and will do awkward, strange stepping dances as it hovers over people, always moving itself out of their vision just in time, before anyone can see it, even in masses of hundreds of people.

From there, it will reach down for its prey. So that it can’t be seen, it starts with their eyes and then crawls inside their bodies through them, stuffing its impossibly large, bizarre size inside the confines of their meat.

Given its strange limbs, the Shambler earns its namesake through its movements while on the hunt, before reaching its victims.

After a person has been eaten from the inside, the Shambler will shamble onward, using their form to continue its hunt in disguise.

~ [Sir Alencia] ~

Human, Female, Royal Knight Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Floor Five LEVEL: 86

Alencia shudders, looking at the horrific room that they’re in. She wipes her neck off. Just the thought of those things, those worms touching her…

— The knight makes a revolted face, cringing together and wiping herself off, even if she’s already cleaned.

Disgusting.

She looks around at the people gathered in the middle of the room. A lot of them survived, but a lot of them didn’t. Many were already drained too dry to be saved from the worms.

— Something moves in the corner of her eye and she looks.

But there is nothing there.

The woman blinks, rubbing her eyes. She’s just tired because she slept badly and because of the nightmare here.

The woman sighs and rubs her tired eyes.

As she opens them again, something presses itself in through her pupil, severing her brain-stem immediately.

Despite sitting in a crowd of a hundred or so people, the creature above, positioned perfectly so that none of them see it, slides in through her eyes, pulling them down with itself into her belly, where it eats them inside of the safety of her meat and then eats the rest of her too.

“— Hey!” barks a voice from behind her a second time. A hand places itself on the elf’s shoulder as she stands there, ‘staring’ vacantly into the distance.

— She slowly turns her head around, looking at the man. “Come on. We’re going,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “Weren’t your eyes green?”

Sir Alencia blinks. “What do you mean?” she asks, opening her lids again to reveal a clear, emerald hue. “They are.”

The knight rubs his face, looking at her again. “Oh, sorry. I think I’m tired.”

“You slept bad too?” asks Alencia.

“Yeah, how could I not?” asks the man, sighing as he turns around. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Alencia smiles, watching the man and everyone leave.

She shambles after them.

~ [Shaushka] ~

Elf, Female, Classless Location: The Scorched Forest LEVEL: 04

Shaushka holds her arms out at her side.

— The crow is not pleased.

“Ah…” says the elf, lowering her arms again as she stares at the crow and the crow stares at her.

*SCRAW* says the crow, who then flies off, vanishing.

“Ah!” calls Shaushka, reaching after it.

But the crow does not return.

The elf frowns, slowly looking around herself. Now what?

The rain continues to howl and the storm rages, and she stands out here by herself, nowhere near a baker, a leaf, a friendly droplet, a rude rock, or any other crow.

“Hmm…” says the elf. She sits down exactly where she stands, the rain pouring around her as she watches with her mouth somewhat agape, waiting for a new thing to come, and in the meantime, she keeps her head empty and her eyes full.