August Intruder- Chapter 200- Thirsty

The pain was not going down. It was not reducing. There was no forgetting it.

Melmarc stared down at Balusad’s body. The ring of mana from [Secrecy] was still embedded in his chest. A cold breath left him.

He staggered.

No.

It was like declaration, a demand of himself. He would not fall.

The ring of mana glowed a little brighter. Then it exploded, drowning him in the effect of [Secrecy]. But there was no enemy to fight, nothing to disable.

So he just stood there, within the comfort of his own mana, feeling no comfort. As for Balusad, he was beginning to decay. His robe was losing its luster, turning grey all over. Melmarc walked towards him, eyes on the glaive.

He could learn to use the weapon, couldn’t he?

Apart from the things he’d seen in the movie, he did not know the first thing about fighting with the weapon. But he could make it work.

Fallen High had weapons classes. They were only accessible to the second year students but he was sure he could figure something out.

If not that, then he could learn from Uncle Dorthna during the holidays. The handle of the glaive was still leaking black ichor, though. Watching it only pained him. The cuts and injuries that riddled his torso now trembled at the mere sight. They knew what had created them.

The weapon had marked him with stains of black as well. It had torn through his flesh, cut through muscle. Melmarc looked at his forearm.

The Oath had cut him to the bone.

Yet, I’m still standing.

He had pushed through the pain and the pressure of an enemy superior to him. He had fought and clawed. Everything had been against him to the point that he had gotten himself weapons that had not even helped.

Now that he thought about it, where even where the daggers he had taken from Flenki?

Turning his head, he was embraced by a burst of pain in his shoulders. This time, when his knees threatened to buckle beneath him, they did.

He dropped to his knee, shoulders screaming at him. His vision waned, blurring slightly. Each breath changed. Where they had been heavy once, they felt like he was dry heaving.

His tongue felt dry, parched.

He was thirsty.

Water.

He needed water.

The space around him tilted slightly. It felt like being hit with a bout of vertigo. He was kneeling, but he felt like he had gotten up too fast.

He laughed. It was all he could do.

Still, the glaive watched him. There was curiosity there, as if it was wondering. As if it was alive. Melmarc’s hand reached out to it, but everything was difficult to navigate through. His body refused to listen. His hand felt like lead.

In front of him, he watched his hand tremble, shake. He blinked as the feeling ran up his arm. What hurt was knowing that it wasn’t running up his arm, it was simply within him. He was trembling.

His breathing slowed now. Melmarc placed the trembling hand on the ground. He was tired, so very tired. He just wanted to…

… to lie down. He just…

His vision deemed, darkness claiming the edges, usurping his sight. Even the light from the hole above the cavernous chamber didn’t look so bright anymore.

Was it day or night?

Where even was he?

A fight, he tried to remember. He’d been fighting someone who had disrespected him.

Why?

Because he could.

Because he could what? Was he asking why he had been disrespected or why he had been fighting someone who had disrespected him?

It wasn’t making much sense to him. What he knew was that he had been fighting.

Had he won?

He didn’t know. Maybe he had lost. But it didn’t feel like it. It certainly didn’t feel like he had won either.

A draw maybe?

A draw.

He nodded gently, his eyes flickering closed. “A draw.”

His words came out like sludge through an already clogged pipe. It also felt heavy to speak. It was because he was thirsty. His throat was dry and he had to drink water.

Water seemed so unimportant right now. He just wanted to rest here on the floor, where it was hot.

He blinked a little, in the way the sleepy do, with heavy lids and a tired soul. When had he laid down? It was an important question, but the answer was not necessary. He just needed to lie down for a moment, catch his breath.

Drink some…

Someone said something in the background. It was like the chirping of birds. Melmarc couldn’t focus on it. He was so sleepy, so tired.

He needed to rest. He needed to…

… maybe…

Everything faded.

So did life.

…

“What do you mean you can’t heal him?!” Flenki barked at Spakkow.

Spakkow’s hands were shaking now as he cast another healing spell that did not take any effect. “I’m trying.” His voice was shaking now, horror filling him. “It’s not working.”

Flenki turned to look at Famon. He was the oldest of them, the most experienced, too. The man had piercing eyes focused forward.

“There has to be something that can be done,” she said. “Look at him. He’s going to die.”

The Unkati was on the ground, a massive thing. She had watched him at the end of the fight. He had stood there for a moment as the line of fire the old demon had cast in the ground died out. He had looked at the demon, then he had staggered.

The moment he dropped to his knees, all of them knew that his victory had come at a price. Famon had said that no one should move, no one should go to him.

The portal had not yet given them a notification of the death of the old demon. It could still be alive, biding its time.

Flenki had been opposed to it. They had already let the Unkati fight alone. He had solo-ed the demon, taking upon himself a fight that was supposed to be done by a group. For seed’s sake, he was just B-rank. Everyone knew that each rank was worth ten of the ones below it.

Yet, he had suffered under the barrage of attacks, tanked blows that should’ve killed him. There was a massive gash in his shoulder. It was so deep and powerful that it had divided that shoulder, cleaving it open. Flenki remembered the blow. It had been the final blow from the demon. The glaive had come down with a wave of black ichor that had gone beyond the Unkati, ripping through the air and the ground behind him.

When he had started lying down, with the glaive still in his shoulder, Flenki had ignored orders and rushed to him.

Now here they were, looking down at the Unkati.

His white existence had gone pale, greatly translucent, as if he was no longer there. But there were parts of him that were deeply white. Cut marks marked the translucence in sharp white. White liquid bled from his ruined shoulders.

The Unkati was still breathing so she had begged, pleaded for Spakkow to save him, to heal him.

Famon had permitted it.

Spakkow had tried…

He had failed.

He was still trying…

… he was still failing.

The Unkati was still breathing. But he was staring at nothing now. Eyes closed, he looked like he was sleeping, at peace. He looked like he was resting.

Flenki knew better. He was not resting. He was dying. Her mother had died the same way, beating and broken in combat. She had died from blood loss, just as the Unkati was.

A tear slipped from her eye, ran down her beak.

Famon placed a consoling hand on her shoulder. “He is Unkati,” he said. “This was his purpose. Know that he died doing what he was born for.”

Flenki closed her eyes and turned away from them. She sat on the ground, buried her head in her arms. There were probably a lot of ways to describe what she did. It was without decorum. It was disgusting to behold. It was childish. It was a lot of things, if truth be told.

But at its core, it was a simple thing.

Flenki wept

Sitting among teammates in a cavernous chamber next to the corpse of an old demon and a dying Unkati, she cried.

“Melmarc.”

She raised her head to look at Famon. “What?” she sniffled.

“Melmarc,” he repeated. “Melmarc Lockwood. That was its name.”

She nodded slowly, but it brought her no peace, even though she knew Famon had gotten that information for the very purpose of consoling her.

Or maybe it did, because things were different now.

Her interface popped up, so did that of the others.

[Congratulations!]

[Quest Completed!]

[Portal Quest: The Tyranny of Balusad.]

When power rises, it corrupts. Those it cannot corrupt do not wield it. Cut through the little ones, survive the numbers and the horde for they are not the only beings here. They are not the beings you need to survive. Your task, should you be unable to refuse, is to conclude the reign of Balusad by force.

[Objective Complete: Defeat Balusad 1/1.]

Flenki looked up, watched the last of Melmarc Lockwood, the Unkati as the particles of him were blown in the wind, leaving behind nothing but the glaive that had cleaved his shoulder.

She felt like she should say something.

It saddened her that she had nothing to say. But say she must. So she wracked through her brain until she found something. It was a simple thing—a quiet thing.

She smiled through her tears and said, “Thank you, Melmarc Lockwood.”

…

If there was one fact that Veebee would die protecting right now, it was that Veebee was hungry.

It sat, levitating on the bounds of existence, arms folded the way Melmarc’s race tended to do.

It had been here for a while, waiting for Melmarc. Along with its patient waiting, it was trying to figure out what task Melmarc was supposed to accomplish and what the reward for the task was supposed to be.

Nothing came to mind.

Veebee was irked. It had never not known what it felt it was supposed to know. Too much time had passed. To Veebee, it was nothing more than the blink of an eye. But its body knew. Its mind knew. It still remembered that it had been banished to the void.

The confusing part was that nothing returned from the void. Just because voidbeasts were made from it, that did not mean that they were a part of it.

But something had returned from the void once before. Twice, actually.

Veebee would be the third.

Did that mean that they would come for it? Would the others see it as something that should not be?

It had eaten another of its kind, though.

Maybe, if it could just figure things out, it could fight its case. The others that escaped had bound themselves to sapient beings, so maybe that had something to do with why they were left alone.

Perhaps…

The mana in the path between worlds trembled. Veebee took its attention from its musing and prepared for what was to come.

One side of the tunnel walls morphed, twisted and turned. The failures, hands reaching out, beings seeking any and every form of life wailed. They cried. Something was hurting them. something was pulling at them.

Horror settled on Veebee. It was too soon. Had they already come for it.

No.

The answer was easy. There were only a handful of beings that could cause pain to the failures. The most unpredictable was one being. He was known by many monikers. [The First Named]. [The Endless Path]. The [Envoy] that stood above all other [Envoy]s.

[The Envoy of God].

To those who observed the portals, they called him one more thing, because his appearance was as rare as the birth of a [Creator]. But when he arrived, he acted of his own accord, and there was none who could stop him in combat—none except the first [Namer].

To them, he was the [Necessary Evil].

Veebee shivered at the thought, then braced itself.

Melmarc manifested out of nowhere and dropped like a ragdoll. He thudded once and did not move. Silence settled on the path between worlds now. The pain was gone.

Veebee floated over to Melmarc. It looked around. How had Melmarc caused the chaos? What had he done?

It shook his head, banishing the thoughts. That was not what was important. What was important was the state of Melmarc.

He was dying. Veebee could feel his life force dwindling.

What had he faced. He’d fought a Demi-god and survived. Had the portal sent him to help fight a god?

It shook its head. He was not that powerful yet.

Veebee lowered itself to him and sat on his chest. It watched him. Survival was unpredictable. The boy could either heal from this or he would not.

There was nothing it could do about it.

All it could do was wait it out. If Melmarc died, there would be nothing protecting it from the punishment of pushing him to become an [August Intruder], escaping the void—even if it didn’t know how it had done it—or eating the [Nenit].

It looked into his closed eyelids.

<<You must live.>>

“I reckon he doesn’t have to.”

Veebee froze at the voice. It dared not move, and yet, it dared to look. Its eyes moved from Melmarc’s, tracing a path upwards. He saw no shoe. The owner’s feet were covered by the hem of a long flowing dress.

A being with a deep baritone, clad in a black frock. It feared, yet hoped it was wrong as it finally looked at the being’s face. A man with skin the color of night and grey eyes.

Horror dawned, settled in Veebee’s existence like a putrid thing.

It had been right in the beginning.

It stared into the eyes of the [Envoy of God].