Take Up the Cross – Chapter 104: Unbridled Killer

Trampling upon a butchered land, ichor-soaked horrors seek to consume a new foe that is as incomprehensible as they are. This killer leaks scarlet as she becomes one with her ruined blade.

Terrors move among the bodies, ignoring the bulbs which rise from the fresh blood that never cools.

 

(A persistent curse corrupted the land with her scream.)

 

Though no name should be heard when spoken by a lost partner, a study of humanity who is far more observant than the other dumb girls can name this woman who is part trellis and all psychopath.

 

(This is your… [Serras], Adris?)

 

As the woman from Xin performs a spiral leap into the air, spinning like a dancer with ribbons of moisture flapping out from her aloft sword…

 

 

 

— In mind’s eye, a mutant fish of gargantuan size opens its four-numbered, catlike eyes.

Long whiskers flick like those ribbons of water, whipping with annoyance at its slumber cut short, undulating its slimy body as it screeches…—

 

 

 

(An encapsulated nightmare…!?)

 

Still leans back with her hand over mask, keeping it to her face as pulsing currents condense around all onlookers.

 

As this woman becomes a waterspout, the ocean she ravages is brought to life from fear!

 

(Why must I suffer when others show off?)

 

Too close to escape the tide rushing in from behind, Still’s arm is nearly torn off when curtains rip her back upon getting sucked in.

Witchy hat flaps in the almighty wash, barely plucked in time by cloth fingers attached to a curtain scene of peaceful farmers harvesting a fall crop of wheat.

 

“Understand the current, and live in defiance of its mindless direction!”

 

Though underwater, her mentor shares wisdom which isn’t drowned out.

She alone ignores the manifestation by sheer presence.

 

(You are what I mean! You’re so powerful that others look bad in comparison.)

 

“HALT ITTTTT!” Waves of bright, sea-green blue flush through the horde which leaps into them, desperate to save a screaming sage. “Ah!? ‘Forsake unworldly view of common mind, and ride instead within the clutches of the starborn!’ [Hold Me High Upon Your Glory]!”

Black-and-purple smoke shoots up from the dead ground, lifting the Castillo braggart skyward on a jagged, vitreous claw.

The column of mindless soldiers that orderly followed her are swept toward an evil blade’s reach. Siege engines constructed from extraplanar intellect collapse as a dauntless tide rips their beams apart.

 

Blind eyes crack and fall, as flotsam rushes back where waters flowed from to pool beneath the hovering devil.

Her funerary clothes float gently in invisible waters, before the swordmaiden laboriously flips over like a somersaulting dolphin.

 

 

 

“[Hi’shang’e Delian’ja!]”

 

A liquid butcher’s blade roars into a jet of pulverizing water that erupts from its guard, beginning to spin as her twirling body transfers its momentum.

 

The elongated mass drops upon the surge below her like an angry sea giant’s barnacled club of judgment.

 

 

 

Sea disappears with the crash, becoming instead a heaven-sending boom of waters.

Leftovers of the victims either vanish to the stars or coat the lands with the melange of their pulpy fluids.

 

“Hmm, very energizing for us! Kekeke!”

A mentor witch is almost giddy as her curtains part, sucking into their deep fibers the gore heaped onto them, before the animated cloth returns Still’s hat to her head. In the distance, the sturdiest horrors rise on foot, talon, or slimy skin to watch as the bloody flower that pulverized them falls to the ground slowly.

 

“… Don’t just gape, dolts of mismaking! Resist! RESIST!”

At the singsong sage’s cowardly rallying cry, these fearless creatures roar with cacophonous screeches and willingly close on death itself.

 

(Now is the time to act.)

 

With the sage’s full attention placed on this wild card of an intruder, a quick twirl of shortswords precedes Still’s quiet feet sliding forward.

 

(If I slip in, I can place one in her heart from—)

 

 

 

Curtains circle in defiance of intent, cordoning off a vicious girl.

When the apprentice turns a sword upon her master, their tenseness becomes a world separate from the outside carnage.

 

{Move. Now.}

“So much fire! Was it not murky waters that you bonded with?”

 

Even if Still turns a blade on her, it’s a useless gesture when curtains flutter ominously above.

 

(… I can’t…)

 

“To call forth an entire ocean into being along with all of its crushing weight, even for a moment, is either the domain of higher-tier alchemical magics or of the sea spirits’ gifts.” Maintaining a gentle tone, the observant elder performs the minutest pulls at the sable dress she wears to correct its flow.

Its slightly damp appearance is ignored by the speaker.

 

(Those waters affected even you?)

 

{If it was an ocean, then she’s winded. Now—!}

“Now we see her limits.”

 

 

 

A boom throws off Still’s next comment, turning her toward its origin.

 

Upon touching the ground, Serras of Xin became a cannonball.

 

Piercing horizontally, the swordmaiden carves through bodies in flight.

By the side she cuts torso from legs; passing above, she pierces skull with a thrust; and when forced to pass through, she bisects in twine with a brutal lack of sharpness.

 

(How can she fly…?)

 

No wind spirit keeps this projectile aloft and no obstacle prevents it from colliding with the jagged hand of a god that holds the enemy sage above.

Sword pierces skin, to allow scarlet light to flow through its veins.

 

“No way… ACK!”

 

The disbelieving secrets seeker collapses through the palm that holds her up, falling with her bodyguard peacockatrice as their perch shatters.

 

Toward death given form, which wavers as dark whispers are drawn from the army around it…

 

 

 

—Within a vaulted room full of holes in ceiling, a single long-limbed regent hangs from a column carved with aged ideograms down its spiral length. With tight skin as bluish milk and a face always hidden in shadow no matter how it chooses to move, the streams of dark and light shift when it gestures with slender fingers.

 

From moldy bone piles and silent, prostrated bodies, translucent dark warriors with impassioned faces rise up, screaming wordless and soundless death cries as they sail toward the one witnessing this deep-soaked king—

 

 

 

“Must you continue peeking?”

{!?}

A curtain wraps around Still’s head, hoisting her from the ground as it blocks sight.

“One nightmare may commune with another to touch its secrets, but may also resonate.”

{Set me down, you mistrustful old hag! I’m fine!}

 

(And I’m missing my chance to act!)

 

But if Still is sound, the noise of slicing flesh proves that others aren’t.

 

“[Jaunt]!”

“HYAAH!”

 

Sage and peacockatrice explode into green smoke as they drop, escaping into magical transposition as a black form carves through their space. It howls a warcry as it misses, flipping once before dissolving into streamers of loose shadow.

 

([Shadowplay]? I’m being thieved from, my signature style stolen…)

 

There’s no play in the chaos surrounding Serras, though.

 

One slice of gory blade splits a monster in two, soaking the owner with glee.

When two other assailants seek to trap her in pincer’s jaws, the darkness at her side thinks differently.

 

A crying voice wails as one shadowy warrior takes form, stabbing through a slimy heart.

—That wail calls out silently toward a woman’s ignominious fate, with tears shed by a girl who could never find the opportunity to intercede.—

 

Just as an unintelligible scream of blame chills Still when its origin hacks off two limbs with a cross-over strike using skilled momentum continuance.

—Anger, sufficient to melt the heart that tried to contain it, almost killed her by itself long before the abuse of that fetid, hellish sun shining on endless carnal abuse did.—

 

These triplets of real and shadow lash out at the same time, before two emotions die with satisfaction and the angry original steps into reach of the next victim with one footfall.

 

(Even if she’s a violent bitch, it’s faultless. What he called “natural talent”.)

 

Still’s legs grow weak as she falls to one knee, forcing herself not to feel anything else while watching this butcher work.

Despite constant practice, no way that Still can swing her blades matches the brutal efficiency of this enemy.

 

(I’m not her peer at all… that’s frustrating.)

 

“Calm yourself. It’d be nice to call this blade sorcery born of talent, as it feels quite vigorous with its collected rage and impetus, but the emotions only follow the effect rather than birthing them…”

{It’s not sorcery? Is this effect… born of a true nightmare in its own right?}

 

(No! No human can wield different nightmares unto themselves and remain in one constant state.)

 

Such a statement, though, applies to those of Zennia…

 

(“A false god from another world”… was it?)

 

“A human who incarnates as a nightmare, using multiple facets of different nightmares’ abilities… isn’t this historical~?”

{She should be a chimeric monster.}

 

Without chanting and only once naming her power in a foreign tongue, this woman carves through the strongest remnants of the sage’s horde. Legions of her own self take form from her shadow just long enough to steal life and cheer in the relish of killing.

A field of flowers trails in her wake, with bulbs opening to reveal resplendent pinkish-white lotus flowers.

 

“My, my, my, her base nature is made apparent with those…?” Glee is thick when the witch leaning forward flicks her finger toward each manifestation of this wraith’s power. “Ocean, shadow, self-augmentation, and—!”

 

Corpses become a flowing sea of glowing flowers that match the ones in the devil’s black hair.

 

{Serras… [Locust Flower]… Lotuses, opening their blossoms to feast on what…?}

 

A woman’s true self is revealed in symbolical terms, but all Still can feel is emotional outrage on a scale that feels familiar.

Nothing makes sense, least of all her endless vitality.

 

(We don’t have long before she turns toward us.)

 

Numbers thin as the sage remains an unseen coward after her last escape. With the blade cleaving without bone even hindering its slices, Serras will soon be done with the five creatures left.

 

(… I have to jump in… to defeat her…)

 

But as Still observes, she falls back in fright, hitting against her master.

Because an intentional changing of her sight, narrowing it to look over the berserk woman’s pulsating red star form that screams of her delicious life force, reveals roots tracing back over the field of her advance.

 

Every lotus flower has her same tone and taste. From the corpses they bloom on, the remnant vitality is leeched away.

 

(She’s getting stronger with each one she murders. Those flowers are her.)

 

Still cannot think of a means of defeating such an effect, as the battlefield is now an extension of her life.

 

{M…Master.}

“Hmm? Noticed now?”

As if the obvious was blazingly bright, the witch sweeps her hand.

 

The curtains all around flap as they fall inward toward the castle’s center. They are guided to the granny’s back, becoming a revelry like a floating banner show that plays about her with jealous energies, jockeying for notice from their master.

 

“Not even a castle may forestall a mythical dragon. Come.”

{What?}

With a hand placed to Still’s breasts, the older woman pats her once.

“That cheeky mystic has the correct solution, loathsome as it is to copy her.”

{Your grand answer is ‘hidi’—!?

!?!?!}

 

Still’s agile body disappears, her hand signs becoming unintelligible when pushed into the embrace of one lonesome curtain. The prim witch who “tsks” at her student’s ungainly disappearance takes one last look at the unnatural world around them, settling on a figure who has yet to act.

 

In the distance, a man continues to lean on his spear. His endless smile of confidence has yet to change.

Only the direction of his “sight” momentarily shifts, centered on the hag like a blazing beacon.

 

“Let’s sew the resolution to tonight quickly, my dear, before the ‘lord of flute’ decides to intervene.”

A ruler of unseen mires steps through the shadow gate she conjured with soundless words, pulling her last curtain along with her.

 

 

---

 

 

A massive, crablike giant hammers down its serrated claws on a maddened swordmaster.

 

“aaaaAAAAHHH!”

 

Two shadow maidens with inhuman strength slam their blades into the vices to halt them, before the center figure of blue-and-red leans so low to the ground in her charge that she should plant her face.

Instead, her sword angles straight up into the monster’s softer underbelly as her body channels the earth’s solidity.

A massive, struggling brute lifts above her head, impaled on a broken sword that refuses to shatter.

 

“HYAH!”

 

With one twitch, her body blurs as the cyclopean horror three times her size is dissected by the storm of shadows which carve outward.

Though she should surely be winded, when the massive pieces of the creature threaten to drop on her head, the woman’s body emits a milky aura of scarlet energy.

 

Her booming body sends the pieces skyward, where they catch ablaze before falling with crunching impacts.

 

 

 

(How can she use innumerable nightmare Talents without a single break? What is this insanity?)

 

 

 

Still hides among the descending shadows of the bodies, floating as they are within the world beneath.

Swimming from one pond of gore to another, careful not to poke her head above the surfaces between the transparent corpses, she watches the fight outside transpire as a detached observer.

 

This space that she has only shared sparingly with others, but never before lingered in with them, reflects the collapsing nature of the world above through a never-ending procession of strangled time.

A blue-black mermaid silently witnesses present, past, and possibly future float, with remnants of Petripolis’ buildings and memories locked in the vitreous substance called shadow. Only through shining holes above does light, sweet and pure, give shape to what is stuck within the endless depths.

 

As Still watches, she learns more about the strange outward flow of this Serras.

 

(What this crying terror represents is an impossible state. A [darkspring]. She is a gateway for another entity’s power to flow out from…)

 

“How attracted to you he must be, since you constantly catch his gaze.”

{That’s not possible~. You’re paranoid.}

 

Within this place, only emotions and memories exist.

A sea of consciousness hidden within darkness.

Because only emotions exist, her own are muted to allow for survival within. Even Adris, with his preternatural senses, cannot see through shadows.

 

(He can’t see over to this side, of course, no human could without magical aid…)

 

Despite claiming that, Still quickly swims toward the witch contained within a bubble of transparent curtains below her.

The Granny of Malice spreads her hands over a glowing orb she conjured, spectating in her own way. This space which would erode her body if not for the curtains’ protection proves too hazardous for the living, even as corrupt of a life as hers has become.

 

“So confident. Soooo confident…” Tapping the orb, the woman sighs melodramatically while stretching her hand toward Still. “If my original apprentice was bright like the sun, but also as shy of confrontation as the red Pilgrim that hides from darkness, then you smell of the same smugness of the Traveler and its sparkling, lifeless cities.”

{It’s unusual for you to compliment others. I’m quite fond of the violet moon.}

A quick curtsy with her night dress pinched and pulled up earns a cackle before Still departs once more.

 

(Are you sure we see the same things, old woman~?)

 

 

 

“Haaah… haaaah…”

With the last foes defeated, the groaning swordmaiden falls to her knees.

She clutches her lacking breasts, staring at the carnage all around.

Before her eyes fall on her sword pierced into the ground.

 

“Ah… ugh…

hic…”

 

In her moment of near-absolute victory, this unstoppable woman…

 

(Oh, you choose to cry? How sad, I’m almost sobbing in sympathy…)

 

Softly sobs while raking the ground with her hands.

A sword is abandoned before her, stained forever by otherworldly lives stolen.

 

(I see. A weepy rampager. You really picked a useful pawn, Adris.)

 

Still’s own hand clenches, shaking harshly.

Her view of the floating hidden place burns redder, her sense of touch spiking painfully, until she shakes loose the tension.

 

(No fear, no anger. I am human.

Within the [Great Placid], we are all loose. We all float.)

 

Besides, now is the time she’s been waiting for.

At the nearest puddle to him, Still awaits the man’s show when he starts strutting forward.

 

(When your pawn becomes ineffectual, you will finally…)

 

Spear in hand, the man casually rears back with it.

One foot shoots forward. His body follows the arm hurling death skyward as he lifts off the ground briefly.

 

Like a missile loosed from a bow, the spear screams as it flies. The energies forced within the rainbow spear cause its head to flare up with a spirited glow.

 

Soaring toward the clouds, it halts sixty feet up.

Falling forward with mechanical precision, it plummets back to the earth slowly and with a shaky spiral.

 

As it picks up speed, the direction suddenly narrows and becomes certain.

The air cracks as it becomes a blur, aiming for empty land!

 

“… How did that boy sniff us out!?”

 

(With sight that no human should have. And with the principle to only act if he’s forced to, but always for profit.)

 

A dome that’s penetrated cracks and flakes away.

The empty space it enclosed over slowly reveals a hopping mad sage and her bodyguard, now very exposed next to an impaled spear on the level plain of corpses.

 

“…Huhh!?”

When the mystic cries out in outrage, a sobbing woman is roused from her suffering.

She snatches back up her battered sword, before snarling loudly.

“haaah… Haaah!”

When the woman takes on a stance of drawing forth her blade from a missing scabbard, atmosphere flickers as it sparks off of her heating body.

 

“HAAAAAH!”

“WHY!?”

 

The vicious dragon that is born from her gleaming sword’s sudden slash lunges into the distance.

It fills the air with its massive thickness, looking much like the real creature as it screeches.

 

“Vim, Vim, Vim without end she has!? [Protection of Necessity]!”

Along with the vibrating, crackling force dome that is called into being by the woman’s words, Kaskin’s doppelganger brandishes his saber.

“HUT!”

The spear that quakes nearby earns a quick slash, knocking the subtle saboteur spinning away before it can potentially act. He then lines up to bisect the charging visage of red death.

 

(What is this endless reservoir she dips into?)

 

A burning sage hops tens of feet away from a great explosion of rising currents that erupts slowly through her hanging barrier. Behind her, Kaskin’s clone, half-burnt and smoking up the air, swings his sword to throw off the scarlet milk still clinging to it. Though the phantasmal dragon had earlier wiped out many horrors, a comparatively fragile peacockatrice endured it head on.

 

“OHO? Much of the woman’s blade manifestation…”

{… was smothered by the anti-sorcery configuration he renewed.}

Two witches revel in the inferno’s aftermath, as another’s suffering gleans useful information.

“I’m quite sure now, apprentice: this woman’s power is not one she controls well when used to this degree.”

{How so?}

 

Swimming back after confirming Adris’ intentions, Still chooses to listen one last time to her master.

 

(I have an inkling of who needs stabbing, but let’s hear her out.)

 

“Observe what comes next if you’re not resting your eyes.”

Her master flicks her hand, producing a shaking illusion in the air of her hideaway.

Within it, the sage is recreated with crystal clarity.

 

 

 

“Playing with fire will get you burnt in turn! ‘From the death of oldest stars, let what is born after inflame your mind!’ [Elder Blaze]!”

 

Stars, and what’s beyond the stars, burn within the cold flames which jet out toward Serras.

Even if this swordmaiden’s suffering has stripped away higher thoughts, not even base fear of the impossible unknown reveals itself when she leans into the coming attack.

 

An inferno that approaches still isn’t nearly as fearsome as the gently swirling air that follows in Serras’ wake, carrying its own glimpses of impossible encounters.

Still’s sight, no matter how she dissuades it, is captured in awe by the beautiful red life merging with the darkness clinging to the woman. Unreal feeds on real, giving form as elemental annihilation contorting with ever-lasting rage.

“Only pure imagination gives her manifestations basis, for she uses no incantations or theorems…”

 

That imagination clings to the end of her butcher’s tool as it takes the chill of a freezing tip of green ice.

 

When fire meets cold, a clear winner welcomes an age of ice when the green shines…

 

 

 

—The snow that continued to fall upon the city began many moons ago.

What was once a gentle slope with a green top turned into a roaring explosion of an angry god’s wrath as the mountain shot toward the heavens. Buried deep within its core, an inconceivable winter lay dormant.

Under the glittering-green snowy skies, even sunlight ceased to penetrate, leaving cold that sucked at the bones, aiming for every fire that was lit as it swirled down from the heavens like fireflies…!—

 

 

 

“NONONONO!?”

All-consuming fire birthed by impossible knowledge wars with the newest surprise, but surrenders with a hiss to birth a chain-reaction of bursting green crystalline ice held briefly aloft before crashing.

It devours and assimilates, expanding to encase all in its path as it traces back the fuel of the sage’s spell.

“Why is it following!?”

 

(Anti-magic!? Magic eater!? What is this…?)

 

Unable to see with eyes what Still can, the sage cannot comprehend the ice which trails the hidden streams of the spell she cast.

It aims like a fast bloodhound as the hopping woman screeches, reaching out to claim her arm before the sage’s clever mind deduces a solution.

 

“HUH!? This, huh!?”

In a last-ditch effort, the annoying spellcaster tosses her writhing rod away.

“EEEI!”

 

The ice snatches it instead of her, growing swiftly into a giant block sculpture.

Stuck at the center, the undulating rod cracks and splinters unwillingly.

 

 

 

“See, see? Only sheer willpower maintains the cohesion of what she conjures, for it acts of its own accord thereafter. Were it under her control, then the hungry ice would ignore ‘bait’. This is part of the ‘truth’, apprentice.”

{The ice sucked out the spellmarrow itself, too.}

“Others paying for your insights is a wonderful method for excelling in life! Whatever the true nature of her green ice, it thrives upon consuming what is found to be fantastical, especially if it’s born of illusory matter.”

Spying on the battle sets Still to tapping her fingers on her legs.

An itch runs through her that constantly draws her attention back to a lonesome vulture.

 

(I’m losing time to save his stupid soul from further corruption. Already, he feels less like…)

 

{Sorcery is defined by that substance of non-existence… how could we possibly survive its consumption of our emotional ensorcelments? We’ll be just as helpless as the star cultist.}

“By not being struck by it, nor giving it passage upon our thoughts.”

Even from this between realm, her master’s fingers tug at the threads connecting back to reality.

“They must neither see, nor feel, their doom when it comes for them.”

 

(Ambush only? Fortunately, a girl of suitable skill can be found.)

 

Wind whipping above the puddles distorts the light from the real world, causing Still to shiver despite the lack of cold or a life. Far from just a single gust, distant traveling winds are wiping out the portholes above as liquid shadow is blown away.

 

(That lucky misfortune is doing something ridiculous!)

 

The holy feeling ripples the portholes, threatening their pristine passage back to the real world.

 

{No more time… “master”, I’m heading back. Join when, or if, you’re ready~.}

 

Hand over hand, an expert swimmer makes for the surface.

 

“… ‘Back’? Why bother returning to only poke at the destined losers’ future corpses? Huhu…”

The guileful sinner chitters in a way that brings back flashes of the past.

Before her most horrific acts, this old woman would speak softly and with ill humor befitting a grandmother.

 

{What are you doing?}

 

At top speed, Still presses her hands and mask against the bubble of protection. It sparks briefly but without effect, for Still’s acclimation to its curses is sufficient to inure her.

“Doing? ‘Done’.”

Like a cat, the old woman stretches before reclining on her rolled up curtains.

Laziness settles into her bones despite her fanciful dress and adornments, a testament to her confidence as she revels in her sloth. “Time is a commodity we made efficient use of. I certainly valued it when that blathering bunny took all of their aggression from us~.”

Still’s palm slaps the bubble, distorting the calm space around them both so that it flashes violently with yellow and red before settling.

“Be pleasant, child, lest you unsettle your mind.”

{… What curse did you lodge against them?}

“A curse of pure venom, born of the mass of proto-existence that Master Falke dabbles with. Like a plague it spreads, settling into organ silently until it reaches its precipice.” Her mentor taps her orb, causing it to fade from existence into dust.

“And, soon…”

 

([Witch of Bane]. Tragic… how could I forget that title, when I’ve seen the bodies decay up close?)

 

{I’m not aiming to destroy him.}

“Yes, and isn’t that the queerest statement out of a girl like you?” Though Still clings to her curtains as if to pierce them, the elder witch reveals no troubles. “With a fixer like myself deigning to clean your mess, you could be free of his lies… and of their uselessness.”

 

(Free…?)

 

The thought sends a shock through the sneak, for she failed to recognize the lacking bonds of oath. A pact made with the lord of death doesn’t whisper at the moment, with the other holder so twisted from the original self that made it.

“Of course, the threat that men, all men including him, represents is forgetting our way.”

A hand with steel tips traces Still’s on the bubble. This teacher from the uncertain past lowers her voice, becoming a lulling purr as she continues her chat. Within this locked away place, two people are left to conspire without interruption.

“Why emerge as a victor among many when you could be the winner? Do you not recall her state, that lovely automaton that you seek to liberate?”

{… Neesiette?}

“She is in the hands of another man. A sure sign of his duplicity in how he clutches her, how little he truly sees of her.”

 

(I haven’t forgotten about him. Just another grudge to be resolved.)

 

“The Alchemaster is a worthy target of castigation, such a noble, noble cause a girl afraid of commitment finally settles upon! Never would I have marked you of sufficient stomach for it, heehee!”

If the barrier did not separate them, Still might be within her master’s embracing arms, for the hateful girl feels warm with the love replete in the older woman’s silky tone. Always stuck between youthful honey and aged wine, this horrific instructor’s voice easily picks through Still’s psyche to find the most unnerving praise.

“Why scrounge within that destitute atelier you chanced upon deep within the mountain, when a perfectly serviceable villa is within your grasp?”

{Take over this place?}

 

(… I could do that. This is a defensible location with a wonderful procurement capacity…)

 

Still bows her head, placing it against the bubble as her master’s words dance within her ears.

“As ally or captive, make that man come to her defense. Weave his thoughts with your fingers, if necessary.

If he wishes for this place to belong to her, then why not set yourself behind the wonderful lunar child’s throne?”

 

(… I see. I seeeee, I get it. That’s a wonderful idea…)

 

Coins clink against the curtains.

Still’s mentor almost reveals her face as she whispers, two women with no distance between their hearts left as innermost desires are called forth to discuss.

 

“I’ve not much love of you, apprentice, but the situation is… interesting. As such, with me advising at times… huhuhu…”

 

The curtains part, so that the witch’s hands can grasp Still’s.

Outside of the protection the metallic gauntlets begin to discolor.

 

 

 

“Throw away worthless things and take back up our great work. There are bound to be other sisters still remaining. No man nor nation can persecute us all! Let no fey or ‘divine’ entity forestall our justice, apprentice.

Within this manse, remake it in your image…!”

 

Thirsty in a way hers never was, this wretched creature’s temptations hit and miss all at once.

No matter how attractive the offer…

 

“Keep Neesiette vera Luna for yourself, and let us show all of Zennia what true peace looks—!”

{Ahhhhh, too obvious. She would’ve never been this direct~.}

 

 

 

Still drags on the woman’s arms, trying to wrench her from her protective bubble!

Instead, Still flounders when the woman throws off the grasp with immense strength ill-befitting her body’s slightness.

 

Toward the woman’s snicking black scissors shaped with reflective curves like porcelain tea cups, the cloaked girl just waggles a finger.

 

 

 

{Do it.}

 

(End me, old woman, if you can.)

 

 

 

Without bothering to escape, Still slowly swims back to the bubble.

With her neck presented for the shears to sever, she awaits the proper vengeance when the witch reaches out with perfect control to bluff with its delivery.

 

And, then abruptly stops.

 

{Anger like the sun, but cold and absolute~. That’s the emotional response she would have, yes…~}

 

When an incensed magical master offers no punishment, Still just scoffs with theatrical arm twirls, before swimming away.

 

{A fake doesn’t get to offer me anything, though. Falke’s temptations mean nothing to me.}

 

 

 

(I’m coming for you, Adris.)

 

Emotions are impossible to stifle after this revelation is made perfectly clear.

The thought of him dying ignominiously, lacking Vigor as he does, is a hot poker against her soul. Especially if he dies because she wasted time with a soulless puppet.

 

(Nobody gets to harm you but me. I might not beat that woman you use as a shield, but I can absolutely crush you.)

 

“Waters” around her grow tortured and violent as she swims, leaching her emotional turbulence unto themselves.

As she nears the closest porthole, a lonesome woman’s voice starts with deprecation…

 

“The great plan has no need of attachments. Our cultivation of the hearts and minds of mortals culminates as naught but hypocritical ruination if we choose lesser concerns to cloud our rationality…”

 

(The plan!? FUCK THE PLAN!)

 

At this, Still turns around while swinging a fist, uselessly giving time to a “puppet” who languishes in isolation.

 

{Your plans! Your methods! Your war, not mine!}

“Odd, since you once felt the same passion, so much so that you called to me… Though never calculated and only lukewarm with cunning, that hatred was certainly invigorating…”

A hidden smile sends Still into a tizzy, especially when the woman places a hand upon her stomach and reclines in a temptful manner.

“My, my, for a man to be so smooth that he sends my tomboy into heat makes me quite jealous. Tell me: what words does he speak that make you lose self-control, bending over with haste to let him plow your thirsty muffin~?”

 

{– WHAT RIGHT DO YOU HAVE TO SPEAK ABOUT MY CHOICES?

ALL I EVER WANTED WAS TO BE… TRULY WANTED! –}

 

(Even if you take back your golden needle, I’ve stolen plenty from you, you loathsome, mire-borne slut for evil!)

 

Because she never had the opportunity before, Still can’t help but swim back.

An exuberance forces itself to reveal in her gestures, flighty and ecstatic, as her blood burns so hot that the resonance with her fake master transfers intent without need for them.

 

{– I became yours out of weakness, fear, and cajoling. Now…? –}

 

She twirls in the water with both blades, slicing through like a spinning top as she returns to her former owner.

 

{– Your shadow is as cold dead as your real body. I’ve stolen your curses and secrets, made them my own. And you, oh foolish ‘mother’… –}

 

Still pokes at the curtains containing a hateful menagerie of imprisoned abominations.

Ever spiteful and vindictive when the apprentice was a child, these clever pieces of colorful cloth now shake with impotent anger.

They cannot touch upon her.

Not even the thought is allowed, as they silently subside.

 

{– YOU ARE JUST A PUPPET SHAPED FOR ME FROM GRAY CLAY.

Ill-considered gift, jail-keeper, temptress, or worse, you still exist to do my bidding… so, do it.}

 

A tremor comes over Still as she kicks straight into the curtains, bouncing off as angry gestures flash with a new, irreverent kind of enthusiasm.

 

{– … Save my partner or go get raped, you fuckin’ worm-ridden, life-stealin’, hope-eatin’, shit-savin’ bitch whore of a thousand devils! –}

 

 

 

Through the closest porthole to him she rushes, ignoring the repercussions of her outburst.

Blades push through with great effort, announcing her re-emergence into the ongoing struggle as the winds of a snake wipe away easy access.

 

(TIME FOR YOUR KISS, ADRIS.)

 

“You’re no apprentice nor daughter of mine with a tongue like that, for I never taught you those vile words!

Heeeheeeheeeeeee!”

A cackling woman vanishes in the gloom, the lights going out in the harsh realm trapped forever in the forbidden place called others’ shadows.

 

 

 

(Good, I ain’t needin’ anyone like the others did! I never had a fuckin’ master save one: the harsh streets and the cold night!)

 

 

 

The same owner that the man she’s about to humiliate served.

 

 

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Characters:

 

Glossary:

Chapter 103         Table of Contents          Chapter 105