Chapter 91 - He Who Would Undo the Heavens (V)

Chapter 91

He Who Would Undo the Heavens (V)

They tore through the nether and came burning out, disfigured.

There was no longer a concentrated array of misshapen things–two-three types, rather–but an assortment of all manner of abominations unfit for life. They seem resplendent in their horror, abject in their existence, a visual manifestation of torment, of a curse evil put upon life. There was nothing melodic about them, nothing wrought with life; in the sea of decaying and rotting flesh and the melting bones, there were shapes that could barely be recognised–a dog with two mutilated heads and eight, stinger-like tails and a body of worms for fur; a bull that crawled like a centipede, its head a blighted form of flesh and rot warped unto itself, a maw gaping where eyes ought to be, drooling black ooze.

Yet, in the midst of the somewhat recognisable, there was also mangled and twisted–amalgamations of shapes and colours cursed to live a tortuous existence. They crawled and clawed and scurried forth, black-bleeding eyes weeping for something transcendental.

Ethan, however, ignored it all–taking a deep breath, he unsheathed the blade and rallied forth, his figure a tiny array of light in the sea of engulfing darkness. There was something imperceptible in the way he moved, in the way he dove into the heart of aberrant terror. Fearless, dauntless, unflinching.

Accompanying him were blades of blood, and soon enough a trickling rain from above–it was the first time he’d used Crimson Rain, its effects a blessing to his bones. Red dyed the sky as the earth, cradling everything within a hundred square feet in its hue, relentless in its pursuit of the abyss.

Ethan slashed forward, causing the blade to hum the melody of death–the swing cut through the bundle of flesh the size of a grown man, shaped like three spheres stacked on each other, tiny, wiggling arms protruding from the shapes, reaching for something beyond their grasp. The blade cut through the flesh finely and decorated it, causing it to erupt in a shower of blood and gore. Rotting, rancid smell exploded as the decaying bones came forth from within the flesh, but Ethan ignored it all.

He cut and cut and cut and cut. Relentless, obstinate, unchanging.

However, no matter how many he cut… more and more came pouring out of the seeming nowhere. There was a sea of monstrosities and they all came crashing toward him. The few that tried to move beyond and toward the two kids were met with swift ends at the end of his blade. The world seemed dark and desolate, the obsidian tiles beneath somehow growing yet another shade darker.

As the darkness thickened like a shroud, Ethan wove through the horde with surreal agility. The battlefield, lit by the ebbing luminescence of his Crimson Blade, was a canvas for his Hemomancy. With a thought, he vanished in a Blood Shuffle, dissolving into a mere puddle, only to rematerialize behind a grotesque amalgam—a spider-like creature with eyes that wept pus and legs of jagged bone. The creature turned, its movements a disjointed dance of death, but Ethan was swifter. His blade sang its deadly lullaby, severing the monster's legs, which collapsed into a heap, their animation lost.

A roar erupted as an entity, towering and malformed, with arms that split into fractal tendrils, lunged at Ethan. Its maw was a gate to oblivion, a dark cavity ringed with fangs. But it was met with a dance of blood as Ethan commanded the very essence of his foe, twisting it against itself. The tendrils recoiled, binding the creature as the summoned blade of blood carved through its essence, releasing a fountain of ichor that soaked the ground.

In the distance, an aberration whose form mocked the grace of an eagle, with wings of tattered flesh stretched over broken frames, soared towards him. Its shriek was a harrowing sound that clawed at the mind. Ethan's blood answered the call, coalescing into sharp projectiles that launched upwards, piercing through the winged nightmare. It plummeted, its descent a silent testament to Ethan's prowess.

Another creature, its body a sack of swollen flesh, pulsating with the beat of a hundred hearts visible through its translucent skin, attempted a stealthy approach. But the Blood World had been activated, and Ethan's senses were as sharp as his blade. With a force that shook the air itself, the creature exploded, the compressed blood that Ethan manipulated turning it inside out in a gruesome display of power.

With fifteen fallen, the Blood World's gift surged through him. Ethan's form became a blur, a mirage of crimson against the darkness. His movements were a symphony of violence, each step a note, each death a beat. Blood leached from his strikes, weaving around him, strengthening him. The air hummed with the power of his abilities, now magnified beyond comprehension.

An entity that bore the sorrowful face of a woman atop a serpentine body with limbs jutting out at impossible angles moved as a whisper on the wind. Yet, not silent enough. Ethan, now a conduit of raw, blood-fueled energy, dispatched a hovering blade to meet it. The blade spun with a life of its own, severing each limb with a precision that was almost tender, leaving the creature to collapse under the weight of its own impossibility.

The air crackled with the screams and howls of the nether-spawn, but above it all, Ethan's resolve burned brighter. He faced a hulking brute whose very steps corrupted the ground, its fists like mallets of ruin. Blood Shuffle, and Ethan was the shadow, the ghost that slipped through grasp after grasp. The brute's roar was cut short as Ethan's blade found its throat, the sound ending in a gurgle of liberated blood.

In the midst of a sight that would leave countless reeling, even Ethan began to struggle–their sheer numbers were simply overwhelming. No matter how strong and durable he was, at the end of the day, his stamina wasn’t infinite. Soon enough, he could feel his lungs beginning to cry faintly, and his legs beginning to slip. And he hadn’t even gone through half of them yet.

After all, it wasn’t just the matter of killing twice as many monsters as for the third wave–the frequency and the quantity at which they appeared were much greater. Whereas for the third wave, he’d have to face 2-3 beasts at once initially, slowly growing to 4-5, this time around, he was forced to face 6-7 from the onset, and that number grew in double digits. He had to expend far more stamina to slay one monster for the fourth wave than he did for 3-4 monsters during the third wave.

It must have been hours, Ethan mused inwardly while cleaving yet another misshapen and misfortune thing. By now, he’d lost count as to how many he’d felled–his blade was quenched to the point the blood had seeped into its steel, and his boots had long since had their soles gnawed off by the crimson rivers beneath. His hair was dishevelled, his clothes tattered and torn, and his wounds were repeatedly being healed, though the blood that poured out of him was enough to form a lake. Even he was beginning to feel slightly dizzy, having lost count over how many times many of his passively active spells had gone off.

In the end, all he did was mechanically swing his arm–there was no longer any rhythm to it, any reason, any transcendental skill. There was just a tired man whacking away as though today was the first day he’d picked up a sword. But even so… monsters fell. Forty. Thirty. Twenty. Ten.

Soon enough, just the last few were left–toads with a tortoise shell made of crimson rot, and a pair of car-sized ravens with boiled wings that would not flutter, and heads skewered on backwards. Just like all others, they, too, felt the faint cold of his blade before being decimated into the bits and pieces that somehow, unnaturally, looked more to fit than the previous whole.

It’s over…

Ethan plopped down without an ounce of strength, splaying his limbs out, his lungs burning. His chest heaved up and down rapidly and his sight was slightly blurry. There was nothing left in him–he was beyond spent. But he did it–he cleared the fourth way all on his own. However, just as the surge of joy came, the despondent reality set in, too–he’d originally planned to clear five waves, but that was out of the question. Perhaps if he’d used G’huun he might be able to clear it, but he was somewhat reluctant due to the rather vague backlash–entering a ‘weakened state’ could mean anything from feeling tired for a few days to effectively becoming a cripple for a month.

It was a Core spell that he’d first have to test out when he had enough free time to spare, or use as the absolute last resort. Without it, though, he stood absolutely no chance of clearing the fifth wave. He imagined that he’d fall even before clearing away half of the monsters, swallowed by the tide that would never end.

But this was enough.

This Tunnel, after all, was never meant to be cleared alone. Besides… a strange idea curled up inside of his head–something that he simply had to test out. As such, despite every inch of his body hurting, he sat up and glanced toward the kids. As expected, both were splayed on the floor, having long since passed out. Even he could barely handle the stench, and he mused that it’d likely take months and hundreds of baths to wash out the rancid malodor from underneath his skin.

His lips curled up into a faint smile–if his idea worked… It really might be a stroke of fortune for the future. But even if it didn’t, it was fine–he’d reaped more than enough rewards through Levels alone, all else notwithstanding. Greed, irrevocably, was the valley where dreams came to rest.