Book 5: Chapter 20 - Sacrosanct (RAW)

The Everdark is not merely a labyrinth of shadows beneath the known lands—it is a realm where night itself is born and perpetually thrives. In the endless gloom below, ancient caverns coil like serpents, twisting and turning in labyrinthian confusion. 

Within these colossal chambers and winding tunnels, giant fungi grow in eerie clusters, their luminescent caps casting a ghostly glow that flickers across the stalagmites. Such light offers only fleeting comfort—here, monstrous creatures slither and prowl, silhouettes of the unknown hungry for flesh and fear. Pale spiders the size of horses spin traps that glitter with poisonous dew, while chittering reptilian hordes patrol the gloom, awaiting the unwary. There are things with too many eyes, far too many limbs, and a cunning so alien that they defy comprehension. And there are too many by far for me to document.

Yet the Everdark’s terrors extend beyond mere beasts. In the heart of its blackest caverns lie the ruins of civilizations long lost to time—cities carved from obsidian by hands both mortal and dread. 

The Everdark, the Great Below, is the realm of Iasis the Mother of Monsters.

- The Fanciful Travels of Beron de Laney 376 AC.

Idris had been an indirect and irritating old man, prone to rambling that frayed one’s patience. But he was efficient, I would give him that. It was thanks to his planning that House Tammuzar—the troublesome Minor House resisting the new Sultanate—was now cornered like a snake in a jar.

The occasion for their downfall? The fifth birthday of their precious heir. In Al-Lazarian culture, where a child’s death was common, the second, fifth, and tenth birthdays were milestones—marked with great celebration. And tonight, the walled Tammuzar estate was alight with music and revelry.

Outside, however, the mood was far from festive. Grim-eyed soldiers surrounded the estate, their expressions stony but their weariness visible to those who knew how to look. Though they were not there to play the ignoble role of butcher, none relished their duties.

Oh well, their loss, I mused. More glory, more experience points for me.

I had told Larynda nothing of my plans. The half-elven girl would have understood—I knew her well enough to be sure of that—but I had learned that sparing certain truths was its own kindness. Her empathy was a gift, and I would not taint it unnecessarily.

From our position, the muffled sounds of flutes, drums, and laughter drifted over the walls. Farzan gave me a curt nod, signaling it was time. Reflexively, I almost gave him a thumbs-up before catching myself. A childish, foreign gesture, and worse, a rude one here. Instead, I settled for a sharp nod and slammed down my visor and the world narrowed into a singular focus.

This would be easy. A chore. A mere sidequest.

With my enhanced strength and my magical warhammer, it was almost farcical how easily I brought the gate’s doors crashing down. Each of my swings had been timed to the beat of the heavy drums inside, a parody of rhythm. No doubt, the revelers remained oblivious, their festivities masking the sound of the assault.

As I stepped into the courtyard, a lone guard stumbled forward, his features slack and unprepared. A bulbous man, he reeked of indolent complacency. For a moment, he simply blinked at me drunkenly, as if his sluggish mind could not comprehend the figure in black and gold armor before him.

Zariyah the Dancing Blade, whispered for release, her voice a seductive hum in her sheathe. I obliged. One clean thrust, and the guard’s life spilled out in a dark, wet bloom across the flagstones. A pitiful offering, barely worth the effort.

But the guard was not alone. His companion stood a few paces away, frozen in place, his wide eyes betraying the storm of fear within. In moments like these, the world divided itself into two kinds of people: those who acted and those who froze.

Unfortunately for him, he was the latter.

Zariyah seemed to sing as I let her fly with a throw. The blade spun through the air, a streak of silver that found its mark. It sliced through the guard’s throat in a wet, ugly arc, and the man dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.

The dagger returned, hovering just above my right shoulder, eager and expectant, like a predator savoring the scent of fresh blood.

A flying dagger, who would have thought?

It was the first time I had killed with Zariyah and this new property of the weapon was most welcome.

The sounds of steel scraping against stone echoed as I moved through the courtyard, Bellringer resting heavily in my grip. My armored boots crushed the gravel path beneath them, each step filled with murderous thoughts.

The first wave of guards came as I passed into the inner courtyard. Four of them, armed with spears and short swords, their shields emblazoned with the sigil of House Tammuzar—a coiled serpent clutching a golden sun in its jaws. Their armor was of good quality, a collection of boiled leather and mail. Still, they were common guards and only one among them wearing a proper steel breastplate. The House had grown complacent.

The man in the steel breastplate stepped forward, raising his spear. His eyes darted to the crumpled bodies near the gate, and I saw fear flicker across his face before duty hardened his resolve.

“Stop where you are!” he barked, his voice trembling slightly. The others fanned out behind him, attempting to flank me. I almost pitied them.

The Shocksteel weapon came alive in my hands as I surged forward, closing the distance faster than they anticipated with Improved Dash. The first strike was devastating—a horizontal swing that caught the lead guard in the chest. His breastplate crumpled like tin beneath the force of the blow, the sound of breaking ribs punctuating the impact. He crumpled to the ground, gasping wetly for air.

You have slain a Human. 10 experience gained.

The notification flashed briefly in the corner of my vision and I quickly dismissed it. Just more numbers to add to my glory. Another guard lunged at me from the side, his short sword aimed for my visor, his shield protecting his side. A deft twist of my head turned the blade aside, the sound of steel scraping against Adamantine alloy filling the air.

Zariyah hissed with delight, the dagger launching itself at the hapless man and slicing clean through the leather strap holding his shield to his arm. The shield clattered uselessly to the ground and the spike of hammer found his throat. Blood sprayed in a hot arc, and the man fell back with a gurgling cry.

More numbers filled my vision, an ode to their worthlessness. Still, it filled my Asura gauge by an infinitesimal amount.

The third guard—young, barely old enough to grow a beard—let out a panicked yell and thrust his spear at me in desperation. The weapon struck my breastplate, glancing off harmlessly, and I caught the haft with my gauntleted hand. With a sharp tug, I yanked him forward, unbalancing him. Bellringer came down in a brutal overhead arc, caving in his skull.

More numbers.

The last guard hesitated, his sword trembling in his grip. He looked between me and his fallen comrades, his resolve breaking with each passing second. I stepped forward, my boots splashing in the blood pooling beneath the young man I had just felled.

“Run,” I snarled, my voice distorted by the confines of my helm.

He needed no further urging. The guard turned and bolted for the main building. Unfortunately for him, I sent Rust after him—the black lightning of the spell caught and roasted him just before he reached the heavy wooden doors. A small mercy I had given him, hope at the end. The smell of roasting pork might go unnoticed, but his screams certainly would.

I followed, resting my hammer on my shoulder, with Zariyah hovering just behind me like a patient ghost. It’s often at the strangest moments that the most errant thoughts intrude—I found myself thinking of Harun and what I should do with him.

The heat from the burning guard washed over me as I reached the doors. To my surprise, he was still alive, so I ended his suffering with a swift kick to the head.

The heat reminded me of the desert. Yes… I would send my new flock in search of Cordelia. It might be a fruitless mission, but better them than me wasting my time. So it was decided. So it would be.

Now to finish the task at hand.

Entering the building, I spotted several servants, as stunned and disbelieving as the first man I had killed. They gawped at me like idiots, then fled, screaming. There would be time to slaughter them all later.

Then I felt it, a small rumbling beneath my feet. A minor earthquake, I thought to myself with a mental shrug.

I headed down a long corridor lined with detailed mosaics depicting some epic battle of ages past. Delicate jade pots and other valuables that reeked of antiquity stood as a testament to the wealth of even this Minor House.

My appreciation for the artwork was cut short by a line of guards blocking my path. For the sake of expediency, I did not bother with hand-to-hand combat. This House was unprepared for a man who could wield the power of Entropy. My Rust spell burned them with ease—the void energy leaping from one guard to the next—until they formed a choir of screaming, burning corpses.

More experience.

Eventually, I reached the doors to the main hall, the loud music and laughter drifting through the thick wood. With Mana to spare, I cast Decay on the doors to weaken them. I waited a few moments for the spell to take hold, then drove my foot into the weakened, darkening wood, sending the doors flying open with a resounding crash that echoed through the grand chamber beyond.

The hall was a riot of color and light. Rich tapestries depicting the victories and triumphs of House Tammuzar lined the walls, and long tables laden with food and drink stretched across the room. Guests in elaborate silks and jewels danced and laughed, oblivious to the carnage that had unfolded outside. 

For a moment, the sight was almost disarming, a stark contrast to the violence that still clung to me like a second skin. But slowly even the drunken revelers began to notice. The music faltered before dying away as heads turned toward the intruder in blood-spattered plate armor.

A murmur rippled through the crowd, confusion giving way to recognition.

“It’s him,” someone half-shouted, their voice tinged with disbelief.

“The Salahaem,” another complained, their face pale.

The murmurs grew louder, panic creeping into the edges of the room. A man near the head of the hall—a minor lord of the city, judging by his ornate clothes—rose to his feet, his face twisted with fury.

“You dare desecrate this house on this sacred night?” he bellowed, pointing a jeweled finger at me. “Guards! Kill him!”

The doors on either side of the hall burst open, and more soldiers poured in, better armed and armored than the ones outside. Swords, maces, and halberds gleamed in the firelight as they formed a line between me and the lord’s table.

I tightened my grip on my weapon, feeling its reassuring weight in my hands. Zariyah hummed softly at my shoulder, eager for more blood.

This would be fun.

The soldiers rushed forward, forming a ragged line to defend their masters and the guests. At the edges of my vision, I noticed more servants—pale, trembling things—huddling near the far walls.

I considered incinerating the armed men with Rust again, but where was the challenge in that? I still had plenty of Mana to spare, but I wanted to feel the clash of steel and taste the terror in their eyes. 

Gilgamesh would do this unaided the old-fashioned way.

So instead of taking the easy option, I shouldered my hammer and braced myself behind a massive table. Grinning, I planted a gauntleted hand against its surface and heaved it forward with all my Strength. Dishes, cutlery, and goblets scattered in a whirlwind of food and splintering wood as the table hurtled into the guards. Their formation broke in seconds; a few of them were knocked flat beneath the crushing weight.

Those who managed to dodge scrambled to their feet, weapons drawn. They engaged me, their desperate blows clanged and skittered across my adamantine armor, leaving barely a scratch. In retaliation my flying dagger struck at them, causing wounds here and there where she found a gap in their armor. In my eagerness, I had forgotten to sheathe Zariyah. Oh well, so much for doing this unaided.

The look in their eyes said they knew they were doomed, but still they came at me.

I swung for the nearest guard, but he ducked behind a servant at the last moment. My strike cleaved the poor wretch instead, cutting short his terrified shriek. Blood spattered across my visor. I offered the corpse nothing but a disdainful glance—he was not my true target, merely unfortunate enough to stand in the path of my blade. 

A notification came which, of course, I dismissed.

A notification appeared, which I promptly dismissed. Freed of that brief distraction, I turned my attention back to the surviving guards. No... no... they were not my real target.

Behind the arrogant man who had ordered my demise, several women in fine garments were bundling away a small boy. I reached behind my shoulder, grasped my dancing blade from the air, and hurled the dagger straight at the child. The magical weapon whirled through the air, paused momentarily midair, then accelerated forward as straight as an arrow. It deftly wove its way through the crowd before it found its target, ending the life of the small boy—the heir to this House.

You have slain a human. 2 experience gained.

As the child fell, the women wailed in horror and anguish. With tears in their eyes, the guards renewed their assault. The sound of their anguish was a sweet melody to my ears. A twisted part of me tried to rationalize that it was not truly I who slew the boy, but rather Zariyah—a poor excuse. Yet did I need an excuse at all? I was the living embodiment of Justice in this world.

My moralizing was abruptly cut short by a commotion at the other entrances to the hall. A horde of ragged, dirty dark-furred creatures with long whiskered snouts and rusty, pitted weapons spilled in. Humanoid and low to the ground, they had clawed hands, feet, and grotesquely long tails—Beastkin of a rodent variety. Without hesitation, they began carving through guests and soldiers alike with frenzied glee.

I braced myself for the next phase of this level, but noticed something peculiar: I was gaining small amounts of experience even from the members of House Tammuzar whom I had not personally ‘tagged’ with any skill or special ability. Intrigued, I decided to observe rather than intervene for the moment. After all, the enemy of my enemy was, for now at least, my ally.

Corpses kept on piling up until the hall attained a measure of quiet—a stillness broken now and then by distant screams echoing through the manse. The foul vermin scuttled about, starting to finish off any survivors, and I gained fractions of experience points from their slaughter.

By then, I felt certain my mission was well and truly complete. In one corner, a small group of people huddled together, moments away from being murdered by the Beastkin. It was an opportune time to secure some secondary objectives—and possibly earn extra points.

“Enough!” I roared. Immediately, the fighting ceased. For emphasis, I snatched Zariyah from midair and shoved it back into its sheath.

Silence settled over the carnage once more. Deep within me, I felt the faintest thread of connection to these rodent-like creatures.

Before long, the ugliest thing I had seen since arriving in these strange lands approached. Draped in patchwork rags, filthy and tattered, it bore two heads—one white-furred and one black. All of its eyes were sewn shut, yet it regarded me as if it could see perfectly.

It bowed before, pressing its head to the floor made sacrosanct with freshly spilled blood. In a shrill, chittering voice, it spoke. “We-we come before the Father. What do you will of uz?” The words grated against its vocal cords, never meant for human speech.

I regarded the creature with disdain, but curiosity kept me from cutting it down. A pressing need to know more took hold of me, and I could not ignore it.