The Exorcist Doctor

Lorcawn's new friend rippled as if it were breathing for him.

The pinkish-purple mass he'd conjured from his own wound clapped shut into plates, and those plates clicked and slid until they formed a complete, seamless armor. Now, Gael had seen Hosts swollen with Myrmurs, but he'd never seen a Myrmur wear a man like a suit.

His lenses took it all in, but all he really saw was red.

Then the old bastard moved.

The first step came like a drum. The second erased the distance. By the third, Lorcawn's ten-armed silhouette simply appeared inside Gael's guard and threw a punch.

Gael reflexively crossed blade and sheath, but the punch broke both as if they were breadsticks.

Metal shrieked. The punch didn't stop, and it caved into his chest. His ribs chimed for a moment, and then his lungs inverted; the world changed angles. He turned into a thrown object. He and the next wall met poorly, and then he went out through plaster, wood, and stone, falling out of the building and hitting the cobbles of the Repossessor Bazaar hard enough that his spine sang like a bell.

As storm and rain pelted his face, he lay there on the ground, tasting coins.

Unh.

What… the fuck.

While he groaned, he fumbled for a syringe and quickly jammed it into a vein under his jaw. A cool numbness immediately rushed the pain and wrestled it into a softer shape, but even as he chucked the syringe away, his hands were still trembling.

The bazaar was empty around him. Considering he'd sent a letter to Lorcawn before he launched his attack tonight, it only made sense that the old man had everyone driven away, but the tall street-lamps still burned bright gold in the storm. The bazaar was as bright as any street in Bharncair could be, so that meant—as he sat up slowly, coughing specks of blood into his mask—he saw Lorcawn bright and clear.

The old man loomed by the hole on the second-floor, still growing in size.

Gael blinked away the pain to glance at the interface next to Lorcawn's head again.

[Identification Complete]

[Name: Headlight Beetle]

[Grade: F-Rank Blight-Class]

[Swarmblood Art: Sclerotize Concentration]

[Brief Description: The headlight beetle can control bioarcanic essence into its chitin plates, temporarily increasing its toughness by thirty percent]

[Swarmblood Aura: ~2,000]

[Strength: ~8, Speed: ~6, Toughness: ~8, Dexterity: ~3, Perception: ~4]

… A Blight-Class Myrmur.

Can't say I've ever seen one before.

Lorcawn's face was the last part of his body left unmasked by the bulging flesh, muscles, and chitin. He'd torn off his brass mask at some point, so he gave Gael a rotten smile as he flexed his ten limbs, the newborn chitin along them gleaming wetly.

"How… strange this feels," he murmured, as if confiding a secret over tea. "There are two voices in me, Doctor. It whispers to me, Doctor. Such sweet promises of power and potency… I can see why these things drive men mad."

Gael staggered up onto one wobbly foot. "What'd you do, old man?"

"Nothing much." The sneer fit him like an old ring. "You're not the only Demonic Plagueplain Doctor running around these parts."

Then Lorcawn stepped off the broken ledge. His living armor flowed up over his cheeks, kissed his brow, and sealed the remainder of his human face with an armored beetle's face. What remained was a five-meter-tall giant clad in smooth beetle chitin, and two bright green-yellow luminous organs burning on the sides of his neck.

"Ah," Gael muttered, wincing as the light blinded him momentarily. "So that's why it's called a 'headlight' beetle."

And a normal headlight beetle should only have six limbs, but Lorcawn had ten arms and two legs. Gael also made the astute observation that Bligth-Class Myrmurs—in all likelihood—could not only wear their Host like a sheathe, but also augment their base abilities, which meant if he stood any chance against Lorcawn before…

Well, with its Art increasing its toughness by that much, Gael had no real plans, really.

The first punch came down like a hammer. Cobbles shattered under the blow, and cracks spiderwebbed across the street, racing toward Gael. Naturally, he backpedaled, then ran, and the cracks chased him like cheerful minnows. Over his shoulder, every arm Lorcawn owned reached for something bigger than a fist—shutters, beams, stone slabs, even a chunk of a broken storefront—and they began to throw.

Gael whipped his right arm back. The giant flower opened with a delighted roar, gnawing and swallowing a cartwheel of stone that would've cut him in half, but it was just one flower to many, many projectiles. Another chunk flew past the flower, forcing him to block with his left arm as he was clubbed off his feet. He skidded, rolled, and felt something in his left arm crack as he eventually slowed to a halt.

Okay, timeout. I didn't sign up to fight a pure muscle brute.

Three ravens circled overhead as he grunted, trying to claw to his feet while Lorcawn's headlights approached him slowly.

"Move, boy!" Winston cawed.

"What do you think I'm trying to do?"

"Dance for the old spider!" Marlowe cawed.

"He's hardly a spider anymore."

"You disappoint!" Balthazor cawed.

"Do you guys only show up when somebody's about to die—"

"Stand up and face me, Raven!" Lorcawn's roar cut over them all, a muffled, flesh-blocked sound that made the rain physically shiver around him. "Is this all you have?"

Then the old man stabbed his ten arms into the ground to tear more of the street loose, but before Gael could brace himself from the barrage of undodgeable debris—six shadows knifed in from windows on both sides of the street, leaping straight onto Lorcawn.

Fergal and his five goons climbed around Lorcawn the way gulls climbed a whale, stabbing at his joints and prying for seams with their rusted iron weapons. Every time a small blade found purchase, sparks went instead of blood.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

At the same time, the roofs all around flowered with men in clean suits and golden masks. Dozens of Rot Merchants braced on the shingles, and their pistols and rifles cracked in rhythm, unloading a fusillade of incendiary rounds at the stumbling giant.

Gael narrowed his eyes. A little further off to the side, on an even more distant roof, stood the aloof and unwavering boss of the Rot Merchants. Juno kept her hands tucked behind her back, chin tilted high as she watched her men pepper Lorcawn with living fire. The half of her face that hadn't been crystallized grinned like she'd been waiting her entire life to see the old man burn.

… Tch.

But before he could push to his feet and join Fergal in the stabby-stabby game, Lorcawn bellowed—a roar that made the gold masks and the pests crawling around his oversized body flinch.

"Fuck off!" he thundered, headlights flaring, all ten arms tearing and swatting. "This is between me and the Raven!"

And to prove his ire, he jammed all ten arms into the building on his right.

Mortar screamed. Wood cracked. Gael whispered something obscene as the old gangster ripped the whole structure out of its foundation—as if it were no more than a rotten tooth—and turned to hurl it down the street.

The shadow eclipsed the storm.

Gael lay there, body too battered to run, ribs too sore to breathe fast enough. He saw the building falling and did the only thing he could: raised both arms like a child against the tide, shut his eyes, and waited for the weight to erase him.

The world collapsed. The sound was a cathedral breaking. Dust folded over light, and no longer did rain pelt his face.

But…

He didn't feel the pain of being crushed.

For a terrible instant, he wondered if this was what death felt like—pressure without pain, silence too heavy to hear—but then he realized he was still breathing. Still hurting slightly. Still himself.

He pried his eyelids open, half-expecting candelabra and white-winged angels.

Instead, he found himself surrounded by debris in a dark little pocket, and the only reason why he hadn't been crushed was because of the stubborn little lady bracing the entire building against her back.

Maeve.

The Exorcist looked like shit. Her skin was pale as unlit wax, her dark hair matted with filth, and her eyes scored purple with hunger and hurt. Sweat slicked her collarbones. Her back and shoulders braced the fractured wall that wanted to come down and erase them both.

Quite surprisingly—even to him—he was the one who spoke first.

"You… alright?" he asked.

Maeve managed a smile that bared her teeth as much as it bared her grit. "Fine as day." She grimaced. "And you look like absolute shit."

"I'll be fine," he muttered, trying to sit up straight. A rib pricked him with a clean knife of pain and his vision salted black at the edges. "I've got things under cont—"

She put a palm to his chest and pushed him flat. "Yeah, sure, and you're gonna send the Myrmur to the pale from the ground?"

"... Are you repeating what I told you the night we met? Do you have it all memorized?"

"I wouldn't forget it. What's your name?"

Outside their pocket of rubble, the city roared: gunfire stuttered, men howled, and Lorcawn's new voice boomed like a storm with lungs. The whole street shook like a dog coming out of a river, but even then…

Gael allowed himself to smile a little as he reached for the free end of the bloodshackle at his ankle, snapping the Hunter's end over Maeve's left ankle.

[Blood to blood contact established]

[Host is designated as 'Gael'. Hunter is designated as 'Maeve']

[Beginning system integratioṉ̶͛ ̵̲͠f̵͕̂o̵̱̎ř̶͉ ̴̘͐H̶͖̃õ̴̟s̷̳͌t̵̫́ ̴̹̐ä̵̺n̸̯̈́ḍ̴̛ ̴̖̈H̶̻̉ṵ̵͌n̶͂ͅt̴͑͜è̷̟ř̶̡—̵͈̕]̷̘͠

̴̹̒[̵̧͝E̴̩̽s̸̅ͅt̸̙͂ï̵̗m̶͍̈a̵̲̍t̸̗͑ḛ̸̍d̷̦͆ ̵͇̄t̶̠̑i̴͉͝m̶͔͝e̵̥̓ ̴̜͑r̸̪̀ḙ̸̏m̷̔ͅa̴̧͋ỉ̶̯n̵͕͠î̷͈ṇ̸̕g̴̚͜:̶̤̿

[Integration Complete]

"Gael Halloway, your friendly neighborhood doctor," he said. "What's your name?"

Her breath hitched. Then she actually laughed, a little wild and a little wet. "Maeve Valcieran. I'm here to exorcise Myrmurs—"

But before she could finish her sentence, he reached into his coat and pulled out a bag of wet, soggy meat, shoving the entire thing raw into her mouth.

"Open," he said. Her eyes widened, equal parts surprise and relief, but she didn't spit out the Myrmur flesh he'd pre-seared days ago and packed into an edible sack. He had a feeling he'd need it—and he was glad he wasn't wrong. "You look like a dog eating out of my hand."

"You're the dog," she grumbled between bites. "Look at how you're lying on the ground."

"I'm supervising."

"From the ground."

"Command position."

"Let's see how you eat after two weeks of starvation. Excuse my unseemly behavior."

"You're excused. Now put all your points into unlocking your T3 mutations. I've already unlocked all of mine, so—"

Right on cue, a status interface popped up next to their heads as Maeve did as she was told, unlocking the same mutations he'd unlocked the past two weeks.

[All T3 Core Mutations have been unlocked. Advanced Class Mutation Selection is now available]

[First Advanced Class Mutation Option: Gall Wasp]

[Passive Mutation: Blight Eyes]

[Brief Description: In addition to being able to detect Nightspawn, both the Hunter and the Host's eyes will develop contracting lenses that can throb and release faint directional toxic pulses, subtly disrupting regenerative functions of whatever they are looking at]

[Swarmblood Art: Purging Lifeblood / Lifeblood Covenant]

[Purging Lifeblood Brief Description: The Hunter can concentrate bioarcanic essence into their blood, making it extremely toxic to organic materials while also significantly weakening regeneration. Furthermore, when it touches an organic material, it will also induce rapid, localized tumour growth, sapping their vitality]

[Lifeblood Covenant Brief Description: The Host can transfer their blood to the Hunter. Furthermore, the transferred blood will heal and rejuvenate the Hunter's stamina]

Maeve inhaled sharply as she read their first Advanced Class option. "I don't want to accidentally give someone tumors."

"You don't?"

"No. Do you?"

"Well, if you give someone tumors and then refer them to the clinic, we'll earn more—"

"Denied. Next option."

[Second Class Mutation Option: Bramble Wasp]

[Passive Mutation: Bramble Eyes]

[Passive Mutation: In addition to being able to detect Nightspawn, both the Hunter and Host's vision will tint red when an imminent attack or hostile intent is directed at either of you. Your eyes will also flare with a sharp, prickling sensation, serving as an early warning system]

[Swarmblood Art: Purging Thornblood / Thornblood Covenant]

[Purging Thornblood Brief Description: The Hunter can concentrate bioarcanic essence into their blood, making it extremely toxic to organic materials. Furthermore, when it comes in contact with an organic material, it will also rapidly harden into thorns, cutting and shredding the material from the inside-out]

[Thornblood Covenant Brief Description: The Host can transfer their blood to the Hunter. Furthermore, the transferred blood will induce temporary thorn growths on the Hunter's skin, providing barbed defence for the hunter. The thorns have the same toughness level as the Hunter's toughness level]

"Rejected," Gael said before Maeve could even open her mouth.

"Why?"

"You serious? That passive mutation is ass. Who doesn't have hostile intent in Bharncair?"

"Oh. Right. Our eyes will be permanently itchy if we pick this option, then."

"Next.

The third and final Advanced Class option popped up next to them, and they read the descriptions slowly.

Then one more time.

Then one more time.

Their eyes locked for a moment, and a wordless agreement flared between them. They chose the third option together.

While their bodies—and their eyes, mostly—writhed under the strain of new mutations, Gael gritted his teeth and grinned through the pain.

"Oh, yeah. I have two more gifts for you."

For the first, he reached into the back of his coat one more time, rummaging past alcohol bottles and toxin flasks until his fingers closed on something too long for reason. He heaved, he grunted, and then he pulled out Mistrender, tossing the umbrella up at Maeve.

Maeve's lips parted, then curled into a tired, astonished smile as she took it. "How in the Saintess' good name do you store a weapon that long in that ridiculous coat?"

"Trade secret. And I'm not done yet." He lifted his head, eyes burning brighter behind his lenses. "You're probably not gonna like the second gift, but it's the only mask I've got for you now."