Chapter 129 - Reunions, SC

NOTE: I'll probably be caught up with everything by the end of tomorrow or thursday. I'm not rushing, as I'm catching up on sleep and some much-needed editing. Time to crawl out of that hole and go full-steam ahead.

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Sunday’s eyes roamed down the shining golden page, ignoring the vampire in the room. The strange and terrifying vampire had just started complaining about a cousin of his or something, and hopefully, that would take a while since there were more changes to go through, and Sunday was dying to read them without being bothered.

He vaguely understood the Yew Tree’s Favor, although the very concept of touching upon the powers of a god seemed wrong. He was still reeling from the thought of replacing the Divine. Were he and his fellow corpses truly to begin a new pantheon, replacing the old? Who was he to do so? Their fate was one of madness and suffering for them and their followers, and he wasn’t about to go against whatever had caused that. Then again, his reality of gods was very different in this world.

The next one on the list was a talent he had used a lot, with different degrees of success. The memory of the feeling of conjuring that giant palm like some sort of a Buddha and striking at the incarnation of the Divine still made him excited. Despite the tree in his soul space working over time, there was only a grain of divinity, and achieving the same prowess was probably impossible.

Talents hadn’t needed divinity before though. Perhaps it was the key to their awakening, and nothing more. He was hopeful.

Open Palm (Martial) – Some learn the sword, others the spear. You, however, wield an open palm, both welcoming the world and taking all you want from it. Your hand is one of virtue and folly, of kindness and of anger. Sometimes damage to the flesh is temporary, but the change in the soul is everlasting. Find the purpose of your strength, find the meaning behind your outstretched hand, and bring rebirth and destruction to a land that desperately needs it. Nothing is beyond your hand.

This was certainly a far cry from simply being able to slap anyone and anything, even if it meant touching beings that weren’t meant to be touched. Slapping was bound to be part of it, but something really bothered Sunday. There were only a few ways to wield an open palm in his mind. Strike, slap, and take things. What else was there? The words of the description just made it more complicated than it was supposed to be, and the young master had been quite clear that Sunday needed to trust himself more, and others less.

Wasn’t this a gift he was supposed to rediscover? A legacy to continue, rather than adopt? He smiled at the thought. It was pleasant. It was freeing.

A Fable’s Strength (Fame) – Words float in the wind like autumn leaves and take root in people’s minds. From mouth to mouth they spread like an everchanging disease, and even lies turn into truths as belief shapes them. Stories or rumors of your deeds can grant you a small portion of power, as long as there’s someone to believe them.

*Savage Healer - Your strength has grown significantly, and so has the potency of any healing you administer personally. Your spells take less essence when used to heal. Death essence favors you, and some beings can sense it.

*Blessed by the Night – Your strength has grown, strange child of the night. You can resist the aura of elder undead. Their compulsion does nothing but warm your mind. It’s easier to anticipate the attacks and moods of vampires and their thralls. The dark night makes you feel safe.

Sunday’s eyes widened once again. The talent was the same, and his two titles were a large part of the reason he was still alive. But something about it… wasn’t it awfully close to faith? People spoke of him, whispered his name, and knew of his deeds, and all of that made him stronger. Perhaps in the future, he would have to pick a single moniker from the ones he had collected. Perhaps this was the true path of a future god. Establishing fate as fables, spreading his name far and wide, only to reap it all when the moment came.

I’m getting ahead of myself. My thoughts might as well be very, very wrong. I’m still a pawn in a game I barely understand, and I’m sure almost omnipotent beings can find much better candidates for godhood than a street urchin like me. But if I’m right…

He had put some effort into it, but not nearly enough. The thoughts of gold and power were way more dominant in his mind. It was, after all, what he was taught mattered by his life experiences and the path he had walked. This life, however, was different. And he had wasted a lot of it with mundane desires and the troubles of others.

Chaotic Step (Chaos) – A single candle can burn an ocean. A single breeze can level a mountain. The slightest touch can change a destiny. Walk the path of Chaos, and rage against what is written in the books of those marching under the tune of Fate. Find the opportunities hidden between the moments, and let a single step become the spark that will throw it all into Chaos.

So very different… The implication of what he was supposed to do was much clearer now, and there was no hidden mockery in the talent’s description. He still saw it as a great movement technique above all else. There were bound to be spells with similar effects, but Chaotic Step cost no essence, and he had just learned to repeatedly use it.

How could one know where to go, and who to find, to start chains of events that will echo through the continent? What he had seen and heard during the little excursion he had been brought along for certainly seemed to be a part of that very idea. Overhearing plans, dropping something in a cauldron, meeting a strange ruler… that weird old lady in the forest…

The only answer was to continue being a puppet on strings, but Sunday was resolved to fight against that no matter what. To him, such fate was worse than the Divine themselves. He was not a chained dog, and he wouldn’t allow himself to become one just because the forces of the beyond wanted him to. This remained the most complicated of the talents Sunday had, bar none. But at the very least he had advanced somewhat in his understanding.

He threw a last glimpse toward the fifth of his talents, which remained unchanged as it was simply the Golden Page he was reading from, and willed it to disappear. There was a lot to reevaluate and a lot to consider.

“… and the princess, mind you at the time my cousin didn’t know she was a princess—one of the Corpse King’s very own chosen— attacked him! Now, I’m not against some more extreme quests for pleasure, but—”

“Fascinating,” Sunday said. “Can we perhaps go find the others?”

“Ah, but—my story. I’m sure your friend is very interested in the ending. Aren’t you, sneaky wight?”

There was a tense moment of silence before Kallus appeared as if he had always been there.

“You’re strong, vampire,” he said with a squint. “I was making sure you hold no ulterior motives. I-I don’t think your kind are capable of compassion or friendship.”

“Hurtful words! And if I did hold evil thoughts, would you have been able to stop me? Ha! I might fear your kind, but that’s only because of Nysandra, and you my friend are a far cry from her.”

Kallus remained silent, staring at the vampire with tension and fear. Sunday lifted his arm to scratch his head but realized he had tried to do so with the missing one. This was going to be annoying, but at least no one seemed too worried. He was bound to unravel this as well and find a solution.

The current situation was engaging enough that it lifted his spirits some more. A wight afraid of vampires, and a traumatized vampire who had some trepidations when it came to wights.

I should get Zihei to write a book about that. If he’s even alive…

“I think,” Sunday said, “I’ve had enough of this. Let’s go. There’s a lot to talk about.”

The vampire bowed, then moved swiftly through the doorway. Sunday tried to remember ever seeing doors in Mera’s underground, but most passages were simply made by her strange ability. This was perhaps yet another part of the underground below the inn.

“Thank you, Kallus,” Sunday said as the wight shadowed him close behind, staring at the back of Vesper.

“I don’t trust him,” Kallus whispered.

“I don’t either, but he can probably hear us. He’s too strong for us to do anything about it.”

The vampire seemed to slump for a moment, then straightened up as they entered a larger hall. It was decorated quite well, but he didn’t care about it at the moment. Mera was sat on a chair, almost fully human once again apart from the armor that covered most of her privates. It was a modest one.

And on her lap, sat a girl. A familiar girl.

“Little Pearl?” Sunday asked with wide eyes.

The little inferni immediately turned toward him and then jumped down with a yell before barreling forward. “Uncle Demon! Uncle Demon!”

She threw herself at him, hugging him and sobbing. Everyone’s eyes turned toward him, and even Nysandra appeared from a nearby room to see what was happening. Sunday tried to overcome the sudden embarrassment as he stroked the girl’s hair. She seemed to have grown despite the short time they had been apart. What was it… a few months at most?

“There, there,” he said.

Eloquent as ever.

“I see. When she spoke of a demon you were not the first person we thought of,” Nysandra said as she approached. She threw a glance toward Kallus, and Sunday felt the wight tense next to him. It was like a solid object had appeared, exuding cold. Wights were weird.

“Yeah, we have some history. She’s the first person I spoke to when I came to this world… Where did you find her?”

“You’ll be surprised… Vesper. Bring that ghoul trash here. Let’s get to the bottom of this.”

Sunday frowned, and then when the vampire moved in a split second and was back, holding a familiar person, almost screamed in surprise.

The features were different. The body was similar to Sunday’s own as if he was looking at another corpse from the strange city where he had been reborn. However, there were both familiarity and differences in the shade of the skin, in the sharp teeth, and in the venomous look. The head was bald, one arm was missing similar to Sunday’s…

No.

He felt a strange sort of connection to the one before him. A feeling that was as alien as it was intimate. Almost as if they shared a bond or something. It was not friendship, nor anything on the emotional level, but something primal and inexplicable.

“Didn’t I kill you?” Sunday mumbled.

“Only because I allowed it,” Jishu replied. “You’ve come far.”

Sunday nodded absentmindedly.

“I had a decent teacher. There was a period during which I saw quite a few visions of the swamp… of ghouls… was that you?”

Jishu grunted but a kick from Vesper made him talk. It was strange seeing the once terrifying undead in such a vulnerable position. How strong were exactly Nysandra and Vesper?

“A side effect,” Jishu grunted.

“Of what?”

“A spell…”

“I see you’re not as talkative as before... Are my new sword skills thanks to you?”

At that, Jishu seemed to get surprised as well, and all the hatred disappeared for a moment, leaving the very familiar expression Sunday sometimes saw in his waking nightmares. The old bastard had been a massive boon to his birth in this world, and a major source of worries. The scheming light in his eyes was more the reason to kill him on the spot. However, Sunday was resolved to be a different player from now on. If this was a game, he was done being the pawn.

“It seems that spell of yours is quite complicated,” Sunday grinned, suddenly aware of the fact that he was perhaps, for a lack of a better term, losing the plot completely. “Are there any more surprises, Nysandra? Where’s Rust?”

The wight raised an eyebrow at his tone, but Sunday held her dark and deep gaze without an ounce of fear. She terrified him on a very animal level, but so what? There were scarier things than a pretty undead who could kill him with a flick of her finger. He was who they were looking for, and they would get no subservience from him.

In more ways than one, Sunday fully intended to grab the opportunities before him by the balls and do his utmost to ruin as many plans as possible. If he was good at one thing, it was messing things up and finding his own path among the wreckage.