Hushed mumbles were buried beneath cold winds.
Months have passed, with seeds being carried far on the breeze— yet there was a longer time still until flowers bloomed and colourful fruit ripened on the vine.
The house— now old and withered— creaked and settled. Nature's breath, however gentle it might have been, rattled the aged wood and the mossy stones that made up the foundation. Out here, there was only greenery, dense foliage that seemed to swallow the rest of the world whole.
Yet the man knew that not everything that grows becomes a fruit, sweet and pure.
So he clutched his bristly quilt tighter. The way the setal fibres of the thorny blanket chafed his skin bothered him not. But even still the meagre warmth provided could not chase off the bone-deep chill that had invaded this sanctuary.
The grass had grown unkempt. Far removed from how orderly it used to be. With vibrant green having been replaced with that sickly, sickly yellow. It was an infestation. A perversion of nature.
Still, he turned his head and pretended not to notice. Even when his close confidants— isolated with him— changed. When they remained in the cellar for far too long, returning smelling faintly of decaying meat. Different in ways he was not able to place.
With heavy heart, he feigned ignorance, appearing unwitting of how his haven was lost to him— metamorphosed into a tiny island in a vast ocean, where attempting to cross it meant certain death. ...With higher and higher tide lapping at sands, threatening to sweep it all away.
He did not turn to face his servants when they whispered behind his back. How their spoken words no longer resembled a language he could recognize. ...Wilfully ignorant of the way teeth far too yellow clacked shut more often than they should, and how blank looks were cast his way from the other side of the room.
He pretended not to notice how his reanimated dead now stared at him when they thought he wasn't looking. ...How the normally sterile air around them had grown rank— with a subtle shifting movement somewhere within flesh or marrow.
'Nothing' was all he could do.
For acknowledging it was suicide.
So he merely prayed. Quietly. Murmuring in the dead of night. His servants died in their sleep, with their bodies having left them behind. Still walking. Still talking. Still acting as though nothing had changed.
The putrid, twitchy thing outside his window never left him in peace, regardless of his wishes that it would just disappear. ...That its tendrils would no longer reach through the glass and gently brush against the wooden shutters inside. (Ergot. Mildew. Decay of flesh, silent and perseverant.)
It sang to him.
Like it had sung to his confidants.
A dissonant lullaby coaxing him to a dreamless sleep. A sleepless sleep.
An antler-adorned shadow was cast over his shivering form as the faint melody was hummed beneath whistling winds and creaking of floorboards. A mockery. A mimicked tune that carried an air of faux-jauntiness.
The words distorted, spoken by a collection of differing voices; a harrowing choir. The halting last whine of a small child on repeat— each iteration altered in miniscule ways. The warped baritone of a man screaming his daughter's name, pitched so that the grief was replaced with something unknowable. A hundred voices, all flowing together into that godforsaken croon. —With a clicking rasp to punctuate it all.
It knew he wasn't sleeping.
Yet he still clutched his bristly blanket closer. Yet he still prayed.
He prayed that the singing would stop.
(It never did.)
Chapter 15 - Fly in a Burning Web
The fire was so loud that it nearly drowned out everything else.
With scenery that bordered on phantasmagoric, it felt as though he had been plunged into a whole other reality for the second time that month. —This time a realm of orange embers and walls of dancing flames.
But Momon didn't feel a thing. The sweltering heat that could soften steel and reduce flesh to ash was nothing more than a reassuring warmth, like sitting a comfortable distance away from a fireplace. No. What stood out to him was the slightest prickling. Like an itchy piece of fabric being ran along every inch of his skin— though this textile was not made of woven cloth. The Supreme Being wasn't sure exactly what it was. ...But an idea was forming.
Like a newborn baby opening their eyes to the world for the very first time having blurred vision due to their underdeveloped eyes, he was made aware of another trait of his that was slowly coming into focus. Whether it stemmed from his new species, job-levels or something else entirely, he could not tell. Nor was he able to discern the extent of this newfound 'sense'.
It was empathy. Or rather an extension of it. ...Nazarick had been overwhelming. Like a light too bright or a scent too strong. A jarring cacophony of disharmonious things that endlessly blared— drowning out any semblance of normalcy while also cluing one in to how much of a den of monsters the Tomb really was.
...In the same sense how he had a vague, esoteric and unreliable understanding of other's emotions, he garnered a form of comprehension that was impossible to put into words. The demon's mere presence— though significantly weaker than many demons in Nazarick— could very clearly be experienced. The malevolence of its aura was a thing that was ever-present without bordering on annoying. Rather, it was the hostility that the entity harboured towards him that soured the experience, making an otherwise neutral sensation prickly and impossible to ignore.
"Honestly..." The dark warrior mumbled, fighting off the urge to drop his swords and dust himself off, feeling how the metaphorical cloth of interwoven ill-will was brushed against him from two directions. "...I put plenty of work into creating that cape of mine." He declared smarmily, giving one of his swords a theatrical twirl as his face gave way to a slight grin.
'I feel as if we have an understanding of sorts.' He noted with slight amusement, staring down the still hunched over Avatar. It seemed almost weary of him, oddly reminiscent of a wild animal having been backed into a corner, observing from a slight distance away. Gauging carefully before attempting an approach.'—Weird. I didn't expect to find a near mid-level demon out here.'
...Not that it mattered now. Beneath his smarmy behaviour and tangible excitement, something akin to shame was building up. Swept away by the moment, he had held back, both in an ill-fated effort to conceal power, and to selfishly enjoy himself. Indeed, joy and excitement would be a very difficult emotion to justify to a group of fearful and paranoid adventurers. ...But now, refusing to step up would mean letting those around him die.
(Even with outsiders not mattering nearly as much as Nazarick and its inhabitants, he could still feel for them. There was a level of understanding there that Nazarick just didn't get. Even as they toiled, the denizens of the Tomb always had a place of belonging. Of safety. The poverty, the grime, the constant struggling where the ones in charge didn't care for you in the slightest...?
In that sense, Ainz understood the common folk of this world in a way that the Guardians, Pleiades and myriad of other servants never would be able to fully grasp. ...Perhaps he truly cared about the people around him.
...And with Nazarick's predisposition towards outsiders... What a troubling thought that was.)
[Shizu. Please keep an eye out on from the high ground.] He spoke through the [Message], not sounding nearly as lax as he did outwardly.
[Understood.]
With that command out of the way, the disguised Angel's eyes once again fell on the Avatar.
"Well. After that brief stint, I regret to inform you that your undead posse has ceased to amuse." The dark warrior drawled, and upon faintly realising that the unholy thing was capable of understanding him to an extent— cockily adopted a more nonchalant standing posture to further goad it. The clicking snarl proved that it worked on some level, much to the Supreme Being's delight. "...Hm." A sword was held up, pointing towards the deer-like demon. "—Then what about you? How long will you entertain?"
That taunt finally did it, as all surrounding hostiles threw themselves into action simultaneously— with a choir of distorted warbles serving as a battle-cry.
About twenty burning cadavers ran towards his back as fast as their fetid bodies could carry them— joined by a dozen approaching his side and the Avatar breaking into a near gallop with another ten dead clinging to it like infernal meat-shields. The veritable stampede charged forward, tossing up a trail of soot, char and embers in their wake— wild fire whipping about due to the sudden shift in airflow, all in an attempt to overwhelm.
Unable to hold back a laugh, the Supreme Being danced out of the way, allowing the demon lunge at the place he once occupied, while simultaneously raising a leg and causing the three corpses who dove for him to miss by a wide margin.
How reckless. To charge a supposed melee-specialist. Then again, this lack of self-preservation might have just confirmed a theory.
With that unconcerned dodge out of the way, he retaliated with gusto— allowing a foot to stomp a few prone dead into paste as his right arm swung wide, digging through the Avatar's meat-shield and clipping its side. As if following a cue, four bolts whizzed by like angry hornets, two embedding themselves in the hollow of the demon's shoulder, and another two striking the ground next to the dark warrior.
...Momon grinned. He couldn't hear Shizu say it, but that was undoubtedly another power-efficient [Contact Engage]. The Avatar didn't even manage a shriek of pain before all fire and sound disappeared with a 'THWOOM'— with more than a dozen corpses being swept away by the shock wave and the rot-demon itself being flung back as though it were weightless.
Not quite done with his retaliation, the dark warrior whirled, and in a single motion brutally vivisected yet another five of charging zombies behind him— breaking their advance in half. Flames danced, guided along by the tip of his sword, throwing ash and soot into the air and nearly managing to form a blisteringly hot whirlwind around the armoured angel.
A meagre three moves had effectively destroyed the unholy creature's attempt at an offence.
The steel-clad warrior leaned forward.
...And charged.
Like a bowling ball smashing into a bunch of pins, the first line of undead were knocked aside. His armour— softened by the suffocating heat and warped by the sudden and immense pressure put on it— adopted a rounded and warped shape before finally clashing against the wall of burning corpses. An arm was swung horizontally, sweeping the blade it held— sundering flesh, bone, organs and old armour alike.
Every slice obliterated whatever stood before it— reducing the substantial wall of flesh into nothing more than reddish brown ribbons and minced meat. Momon attacked again and again. Alternating. Each merciless cut punctuated with him taking a massive step forward— gaining more and more momentum.
In mere fractions of a second he had reached the heart of the crowd.
With a slight pivot with his foot as a fulcrum, the horrifyingly lethal momentum shifted on a dime, producing enough force to blend the brain and unravel sinew like yarn if attempted by a lesser man. To Momon, however, it was little more than a dainty pirouette, with his massive blades swinging in a wide circular arc— bifurcating the pitiful undead around him.
The dark warrior let out an amused hum behind the visor— feeling well and truly like a giddy child set loose in a playground.
Prodding.
Experimenting.
Testing limits and applying self-imposed limitations.
—With laser-precise control over his own body (that could be downright intoxicating at times), the Fallen Angel had initially kept to the approximate standard of the good Warrior Captain, Gazef Stronoff. That man was supposed to be the cream of the crop, after all. As such, going past level 30 would likely oust both himself and Shizu as freaks of nature by the standards of this world.
Of course, it was not meant to last.
Though keeping his physical prowess hovering around level 30 or so was enough to deal with the dense horde of puppeteered corpses, he had to step up his game to aid his squishier allies. ...And again, to outpace a level 40 Abhorrent Avatar of Rot.
'This is enough.'
Level 50. That would do. Enough to overpower, without appearing as outright monstrous in the eyes of the gold-ranked adventurers. He could of course just waltz right through entire barrages of attacks, and simply bash the demon until it stops moving. ...Though that would defeat the purpose of keeping his cards close to his chest.
The comforting thrum of [Perfect Warrior] would see him through to the end. ...And its companion-skill, [Flexible Purpose]*, would aid him when he could not rely on brute force alone. That particular skill (acquired at the behest of Bellriver) added a substantial drain to the normally cost-effective [Perfect Warrior], while allowing the caster to use the weaker "generic" skills from non-specialized melee classes.
Useless in the game, but useful now, when being able to use these skills translated to an ingrained martial 'instinct' that guided his hand— as though [Flexible Purpose] was intrinsically linked to competence in melee combat. ...Even still, Momon was far from as effective as he could be, with swordplay being based on beauty and aesthetic purpose rather than knowledge about the subject.
Nevertheless, it had to be enough. The rest he could figure out in due time.
The dark warrior ducked out of the way of another attack. A viscous black liquid fired by the Avatar, who was hiding behind hordes of dead, far more cautious than before.
The tide of living dead had split. The vast majority focused on him— though an offshoot had returned to the siege, attempting to clamber atop the roof. Though, at this point, Shizu wasn't having any of it. —With the Pleiade standing guard, the exhausted (and stupefied) adventuring team didn't really have anything to worry about.
Momon smiled, following up his stab with a broad horizontal slash that separated a monstrosity's head from its shoulders. Each and every movement flowed into another with relaxed elegance— each stroke of the blade and each refined swing of the fist permanently ending one summoned wretch if not more.
The distance between him and the Avatar closed blindingly fast, as the warrior rushed over burning and corpse-littered earth so swiftly he barely touched it— leaving a trail of cleanly cut bodies in his wake.
The Avatar sought to increase the distance between them— firing off more and more infested lymph as a veritable platform of dead attempted to carry them away and gain a bit of distance.
Punch, reducing a overly meaty head to shards and a shower of grey matter. Overhead swing, separating a crispy carcass into two symmetrical halves— from head to crotch, with the spray of stale blood satiating the dessicated and burning earth.
(Pulse pounding.)
Turn shoulders, allowing a wild swing and subsequent gush of boiling mould to pass. Back away from the follow-up attack while tripping the manic charge with a low kick to the shins. Another approaches from behind, hunched low— lean back over them, and roll using the corpse's back as a surface.
(Adrenaline flowing.)
While mid-somersault, grab the corpse by the throat and throw after landing.
(Mad grin decorating a pair immaculate lips.)
Within the blink of an eye, the distance was closed— and an impossibly tough ebony blade sheared cleanly through the strange carpet of raving dead the Avatar tried to ride away on. With a shrill screech, it attempted another desperate and clumsy swing, with a shuddering claw narrowly passing by Momon's tilted head— left unable to pull back fast enough before a sword was plunged into its stomach.
(Rest of the world slowly slipping away.)
It should have come as no surprise how the sword was sticking out the other side, with how thin this thing was.
The Fallen Angel drove an elbow into the Avatar's nose, sending it careening backwards and off the blade— landing in the sea of flames a fair distance away. An intentional move, as killing it quite so soon would be a mistake.
Of course, that which prevented Momon from simply ending the fight right then and there was more than just negligence or desire to tortuously draw out the fight. Undead were streaming out of the woods and into the inferno, bolstering the rapidly thinning ranks of living corpses.
'Don't tell me you thought that I'd believe that was a naturally occurring phenomenon.' The dark warrior groused, bisecting an entire posse of ravenous corpses that closed in on his flank.
The rot-demon practically mewled, shakily climbing back onto its feet. Though it never looked to be in particularly good shape, with that putrid body and revolting skin, at least it was a decaying body as opposed to a flayed and desecrated one.
The Angel's hip rolled, twisting with tangible force— allowing the blade held in his right hand to flash in a brilliant arc. Those who dared attempt a flanking attack, "normal" undead and abominable lumps of flesh alike, were very quickly dismantled, with an edge of sharpened black steel tearing through burnt meat without slowing.
And in one swift motion—
Clang
A sword was raised above his head, parallel to the ground.
...Blocking a downwards swipe that had come from behind. Using the ceaseless barrage of clamouring dead, the Abhorrent Avatar— despite its worn down state— had attempted an ambush, only for its target to effortlessly parry without even bothering to turn around.
With a lazy shrug, the writhing claw was thrown off with such force that the deer-headed demon had to take a step back.
A small sigh escaped the dark warrior's lips. "—Didn't anybody tell you that surprise attacks are best conducted in silence? ...With how loud your chittering wheezes are, its a miracle you're able to catch anything," he jeered with a stifled chuckle.
(It felt difficult to stop rambling.)
(Was he drunk...? It was starting to feel that way.)
As the Avatar recovered, an exaggerated flourish of the blade sending embers flying, the Fallen Angel plunged the ebony great sword held in his left hand into the scorched earth— embedding it like a stake. Discarding one's weapon would usually be a sign of surrender, but that obviously wasn't it.
Momon turned around, adopting yet another smugly unbothered pose, giving the bristling Avatar a 'come here' gesture with his now free hand. (Maybe he was enjoying himself a bit too much, but... This enemy was not deserving of mercy. ...Nothing wrong with having fun, right?)
(This sudden violence and gore, not unlike Carne, should have been horrifying for someone with very little experience. And yet... Ainz had a hard time feeling anything other than a sort of detached amusement. ...Nothing but malice-driven disaffection.)
Walking towards the demon— further away from the embedded blade— and with head turning to casually look around, the warrior looked almost too easy to approach. And with how endlessly tenacious and self-destructive the devil was, it came as no surprise how it charged straight ahead with murderous intent.
"Come on." S̶o̶m̶e̶w̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶b̶a̶c̶k̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶ ̶i̶m̶a̶g̶i̶n̶a̶r̶y̶ ̶c̶r̶o̶w̶d̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶c̶h̶e̶e̶r̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶a̶s̶ ̶A̶i̶n̶z̶ ̶g̶o̶a̶d̶e̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶d̶e̶m̶o̶n̶ ̶a̶g̶a̶i̶n̶.̶ ̶T̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶Y̶g̶g̶d̶r̶a̶s̶i̶l̶.̶ ̶T̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶a̶ ̶g̶a̶m̶e̶.̶ ̶N̶o̶t̶ ̶a̶n̶y̶m̶o̶r̶e̶.̶ ̶A̶n̶d̶ ̶y̶e̶t̶,̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶f̶i̶n̶d̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶w̶a̶y̶s̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶m̶a̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶o̶n̶e̶.̶ "I'll take you on hitless."
(The promise was made.)
(The game was on.)
(Pride was bolstered and ego swelled.)
(Walking on sunshine and lounging on cloud nine, Ainz felt only elation.)
Standing a single step away with both claws raised, and with the defender looking nonchalant as ever— sword resting against shoulder— it looked like a foregone conclusion. And yet the attack never came.
FZZZT
Not as the Abhorrent Avatar of Rot was struck by lightning— fizzling, twitching and adding to the pungent stench of burnt flesh— the light so bright and sudden the image was practically chiselled into his retinas.
...Well.
It wasn't quite lightning.
It was a [Terrawatt Storm-Bullet], Momon surmised. —A quick glance towards the roof confirmed that suspicion, as Shizu glared between the Avatar and the Supreme Being himself, looking more disapproving than Ainz could ever recall having seen her, as though she was internally screaming 'what are you doing'.
It wasn't disapproval. Clearly. ...Though with Shizu's no-nonsense expressions it certainly looked that way. How adorable.
'So easy to read.' Ainz's inner voice chirped, referring to the Avatar's aggression and Shizu's overprotectiveness. ...From her, he felt nothing but love and respect. ...And from the Avatar, nothing but disdain and fear. The only real outcome, if he had to be frank. But perhaps more importantly... '...Found you.'
"[Re-Equip]." With those spoken words, the black blade that was lodged in the earth was pulled into the air— spinning several times before flying right back into the dark warrior's hand. A [Flexible Purpose]-originated skill, undoubtedly useful, but not functioning the way Momon anticipated.
'...Thought you would teleport to me. —Or maybe this will work.'
The demon's spastic convulsion died down, though it didn't have a chance to touch the ground before the dark warrior carved a chunk out of it with a single arcing swipe.
In that instance, one of the Abhorrent Avatar's arms went flying through the air, no longer connected to its body— the Fallen Angel standing poised with a remarkably clean sword held high.
An unholy wail, far removed from any natural cry, topped the intensely symphonic choir of raging flames, bursting earth and screaming dead.
It didn't go beyond that.
Not as the Fallen Angel's foot practically flew out, striking the demonic beast square in the shin. With a stomach-churning snap, the leg folded in a way it really wasn't supposed to.
...The monster lost its balance and toppled over, effectively falling into a pile. It didn't even get to squeal as the Supreme Being gave his sword a showy twirl before plunging it into the demon's chest without hesitation. The sword was left there, pinning the demon to the earth.
Impaled.
Bleeding out.
It didn't even manage a last wheeze before a foot crushed its head into paste— quenching the torrid and burning earth with whatever was inside its skull.
'—And now, it attempts to flee.' Too little. Too late. At this distance, and with how much it moves around, keeping track of it was quite difficult with so many other things. But now...?
[Shizu, back me up. Eleven o'clock. Behind that birch. Fire in case I miss.]
[Mm.]
'...Simple is best.'
.
.
.
Karatus was not having a good day.
Then again, nobody was. Except maybe Momon. But calling it "good" was probably still pushing it.
'—Shit.' That one internal uttering, coloured with genuine shock and incredulity that couldn't be kept out of his mind, effectively summarized his thought process for the last quarter hour or so. It was quite obvious that not everything was well the second they came stumbling into the clearing.
...But "unwell" and "completely and utterly fucked" were two very different things. —And they had evidently failed to properly gauge the situation, if their current circumstance was anything to go by. At least they weren't dead yet, which— holy hell— it had been a terrible day when that was the gold standard.
The archer's fingers, calloused and bloodied after having nocked arrow after arrow, still itched. Whereas his dry lips, tasting faintly of smoke, pursed. ...Sadly, his raw fingertips would have to wait a while longer before being granted their rest.
The tanned adventurer grimaced, looking down towards the pure, pancreas-pulverizing pandemonium playing out on the ground level.
It was frustrating how Momon didn't seem to need any help as he nonchalantly trounced the foul tide of burning corpses that had nearly ended Cherry Stem in their heyday— with the man behind the battered armour moving as though he was none the worse for wear. Admittedly, this was a blessing with just how full their hands were.
The dark warrior casually breaking the roof and casting the demon into the sea of flames offered them a much needed breather. Hell, it drew the attention of all the undead. Meaning they weren't at the risk for being ambushed either. ...Sadly, that didn't last. Not as Shizuka decided to put them on the Avatar's radar again.
'Momon... How is he managing to hold off all of them...? On all sides?'
By the gods, Momon's way of fighting was a sight. ...It was enamouring in a way that not even choreographed dances could hope to be, so effortlessly graceful that Karatus had to wonder if he'd only ever borne witness to children wildly flailing around with sticks prior to this. —And yet, ironically enough, the way the man moved carried something he could only describe as 'childlike playfulness'.
Not that he had time to dwell on it.
Not as another horrific thing tried to get atop the roof. —This time from only oneside, courtesy of the dark warrior pulling all the heat. It was far more manageable, with Shizuka kicking things up a notch, keeping pace with the entirety of Cherry Stem combined.
Arrow after arrow was fired. Some imbued with [Power Shot], others not. ...Occasionally, he'd have to fall back on the knife.
Shizuka had handed Yon, Milla and Bard a potion— with Karatus being the only one yet to receive one. ...Though the unconscious dwarf still had his wounds infested with mould. It wasn't lethal yet, but his survival hinged on Momon felling the demon.
The littlest adventurer was a damn hawk at this point— watching over the comatose Yon. ...And he thought that she was fast before. Now the archer was forced to remind himself that the girl didn't posses a legendary enchanted repeater-crossbow, as she fired at the enemies near Momon with speeds so fast that any ordinary wooden crossbow would have caught on fire.
—Just then, Momon came smashing into a crowd, sending bodies flying through the air in all directions.
With a loud SPLAT, a bulbous undead came smashing into the edge of the roof, effectively painting the wall like an exceptionally juicy fly. Its lower half— now unbound by anything— went spinning through the air, landing a few steps away from Karatus with a dull thump.
He couldn't afford to flinch. Not now.
Stained in sweat, blood, and most certainly tears, his fingers ghosted above his quiver, not brushing up against any arrows with which to fire. Karatus reached for the knife.
"FUUUUCK!" —Though he was somewhat interrupted by the captain, screaming with more wrath and with words more vulgar than he had ever heard the man utter. "—FUCK FUCK FUCK!" The potion Shizuka handed him lent some spring to his step, but didn't restore any mana.
...Though that didn't seem to slow him down at all.
Seeing how the mage had cast aside his staff in favour of one of Yon's axes, the madman brandished it with bared teeth and bloodshot eyes— wildly hacking away at the horrors that grasped for the edge of the roof.
'Shit, Bard.'
"HEY, I'M OUTTA ARRO—Gh-!" He didn't get to finish that, as another bundle was pushed onto his chest so hard and fast his diaphragm was nearly flattened. ...A bundle of arrows, and a small glass vial filled with red liquid. Shizuka looked more fed-up than he could ever recall seeing her.
"Drink." She ordered. And honestly, who was Karatus to refute that? Teeth sank into the cork, pulling it free and spitting it aside before consuming the unpalatable red liquid within. Almost immediately, exhaustion the ranger wasn't even aware of melted away— with cracked bones being repaired, and lacerations fusing shut.
Not that he had much time, another freak grabbed on, attempting to grasp at Milla's boots.
"RAGH!"
—Only for the now empty bottle, thrown by Karatus, to strike it square in the forehead. ...And the tanned adventurer could swear that the skull broke before the glass did.
'WHAT ARE THESE THINGS MADE OF?!' He screamed internally, unsure if he was referring to the bottle or the dead.
These things were growing more horrific with each passing moment. —Their forms so irreversibly twisted that it was hard to think they were ever human in the first place. What a sight it was, to see a once humanoid forms forcefully morphed and contorted into the shape of ravenous hounds, with spines and limbs so radically altered to fit into quadrupedal form that they bore no resemblance to their original shape.
Burning. Panting. Glossed over eyes staring forward, with flayed faces and serrated jaws of yellowed teeth clicking shut in an attempt at intimidation, they scrambled with greater agility— prevented from completely swarming due to Shizuka's efforts in culling them.
Gods, these things were varied. Bulbous masses of spoilt meat, quadrupedal freaks, many-limbed monstrosities...
And yet, they didn't lose.
Not yet.
Largely due to the freakishly strong father-daughter combo, sure, but Cherry Stem themselves had no intention of buckling or breaking, as those still able hacked away with manic desperation, clinging on with an unshakeable will to stay alive.
The moment was somewhat interrupted by an overwhelmingly bright light and accompanying thunderclap.
"Hiie—!" Karatus yelped, face pulling into a grimace as a loud blast graced his ears.
'W-wha!'
When he recovered enough to peer out past narrowed eyelids, it was obvious how almost all of the living dead had been swept off the walls. ...And how the Abhorrent Avatar of Rot seemed pinned in place within the burning meadow— sparks and motes of electricity leaping from its twitching flesh.
'—Did it get struck by lightning?!'
Feeling the static charge in the air tickle his skin, the ranger's head almost instinctively swivelled towards the source— eyes going wide upon seeing the little girl suddenly holding a much larger crossbow.
...Unlike the dainty little thing strapped to her wrist, that piece of equipment was nearly as large as its wielder. And frankly, Karatus was starting to feel ashamed over his astonishment when Shizuka loaded it so quickly and easily. (Because of course she would.)
"...Shit."
And when he turned back, things were still escalating.
Momon... Just stabbed the the Avatar to death.
Its skull was crushed.
Contents leaking out.
'I-it's over...?'
Karatus took a deep, shaky breath— seeing the tension practically drain from his mage companion. —That didn't last long. Not when the undead were still moving about, though no longer focused on them.
And yet... "—Why is he just standing there?" Karatus asked listlessly, staring at the flame-wrapped Momon who was looking in the wrong direction, as the hordes of undead seemed very eager to avenge their fallen leader.
Bard seemed similarly flummoxed, looking on with wider eyes and an increasingly grievous expression. "...Don't know." He mumbled.
Karatus' lips pulled into a thin line. He had half a mind to just leap off the roof with dagger in hand, lending his aid while also giving Momon a good hard kick to the back of his stupid, stupid head. Though that plan was abandoned due to how the clearing was ON FIRE and infested with horrors he'd be better off facing with some range.
"HEY! MOMON! TO THE RIGHT!" The ranger roared with growing anxiety. "—OI, JACKASS—!" That almost desperate insult was cut off by Bard driving an elbow into his ribs, making the archer double over with a wheeze.
"What are you doing?!" The mage hissed, shooting his teammate a glare, though there was no hiding the trepidation on his face. Karatus coughed, something brought about by thick black smoke and Bard's surprisingly strong strike.
"W-what am I doing? What is he doing?!"
"I don't know, but he's clearly not just standing there waiting to die...! Now shut—"
BOOM
It was a miracle in and of itself that no embers ended up embedded beneath Karatus' eyelids when the chest-tightening shock wave hit him. ...Or that he still had eyebrows, as the licks of flame rose high, stoked by potent winds.
Bard was knocked back, clumsily landing on his ass— impact only slightly reduced by the tilting roof. Karatus, courtesy of his nimbleness, managed to remain standing, if only barely. That chokingly potent blast of hot air still launched him back, somehow pushing his full weight up the gently sloping surface.
He coughed and retched, with the taste of smoke and burnt rot coating the inside of his mouth.
—And with the high-pitched ringing in his ears meshing with the ever-constant white noise of burning flames, making out anything was a difficult task.
Stinging eyes, spurred by a confused yet curious mind, were forced open to see.
Barely, just barely, the ranger was able to piece together an idea of what just happened.
The meadow embodied the word 'conflagration'. A brilliant blend of bright orange, stretching far and wide, figures scurrying around in its blistering bowels, all except two slowly wasting away. This place was an inferno.
An ocean of flames.
...A sea of fire.
—That had now been split down the middle.
There was a new ditch in the geography of this place, stretching from where Momon stood, all the way to the forest's edge, where several trees were felled.
A raw wound upon the land, leaving knots of diseased and dissected roots bare for the world to see— where all fire had been forcefully snuffed out. A segment of land where nothing could burn— for there was only earth that had been pressurized so fast that it was glassed.
The sword in Momon's left hand wasn't there anymore.
It had been thrown.
'—Why?'
That question was soon answered, as the blade returned once more. Slower this time. ...Dragging along something that raked the sooty dirt as it went. Something not to be seen by the naked eye. Eventually, the blade seemed to loosen, with the invisible thing freeing itself a small distance away, and allowing the weapon to fly back to Momon at full speed.
Karatus' breath hitched as the thing that had been pulled back towards Momon slowly came into view— its invisibility falling away. Amidst the parted sea of fire, Momon stood surrounded by scorching flames, many malformed dead...
And in front of another Abhorrent Avatar of Rot.
x=x=X=x=x
'Like a deer in the headlights' felt like a fitting term to describe the demon right about now.
[Re-Equip]'s unexpected functionality had saved him the trouble of relying on Shizu for this. ...Either that or going about it the manual way, skewering the beast before rushing over to drag it kicking and screaming away from the safety of the woods.
The giant demon screeched shrilly, flailing and attempting to put some distance between it and Momon.
A sorry display, when comparing it to the rather imposing sight that it used to be.
When it was hidden with [Invisibility], the Supreme Being kept an eye on the Avatar still, even during the initial waves when it skulked around the edge of the meadow. So razor-focused was he, that the idea of it being able to use a certain skill had slipped his mind until its summoned double had ambushed Yon.
It was not unlike how the Evil Lord of Wrath was able to summon one other Evil Lord at a time. An ability that included additional Evil Lords of Wrath, who were identical to the summoner in every way— except their inability to conjure more demons in turn.
Simple, really. There was no doubt in the Fallen Angel's mind that he was going up against a disposable body-double when it rushed towards him— showing little self-preservation in the act of challenging a melee-specialist that it was supposedly wary of.
It had used basic, predictable strategies and severely limited its repertoire of skills and magic. ...When it finally began running out of undead, it did not summon more, for it was unable to. The disposable double was supposed to go for one last clash and die. All so that the irreplaceable main body could silently slip away after having deemed the battle unwinnable.
"Sorry." Momon spoke chipperly, sounding not at all sincere. The Avatar shuddered and clicked. In spite of having its middle-section obliterated by his sword being hurled at it, the demon still seemed capable of movement, if not a little more sluggishly than before. ...Since Momon was limited to pure physical damage, he'd have to go for the skull to really ensure it didn't get back up. —Either that or brute force it, smashing the damn thing until either its constitution or regeneration couldn't keep it alive.
With the level-gap... It wouldn't be too hard. Frankly, this thing was freakishly durable and blessedly lucky to have survived even a single improvised attack from Momon.
His eyes swept over the burning hellscape, lingering on the demon and undead populating it.
Time to end it, right?
Momon sprinted forward (not really considering the toothy grin taking shape beneath his helmet).
Undead were barged aside with wheezing screams or merely the sound of tearing cartilage.
And—
'Huh?'
With that surprised uttering, the dark warrior instinctually veered to the right.
...Which proved to be a good reaction, with how another Abhorrent Avatar was birthed from the chest-cavity of the original with an anguished howl and a burst of rotting lymph. —Though the surprise attack would have failed to do any damage regardless, it was still something that rendered the Supreme Being dumbstruck as he dodged out of the way.
'Couldn't do that in the game.'
By drawing the true form into the fray, he had effectively kicked the hornet's nest.
[Presence of Rapid Decay] would soften wood and instantly reduce flesh to mulch, were it not for Momon's innate resistance and Shizuka using yet another expendable item for the group. The density of undead had increased yet again, with the demon pulling no stops. Though this time, its ranks were bolstered by Rot-Fiends as well. ...Not to mention yet another expendable Avatar, birthed by a skill that should have been on cooldown.
A twinge of annoyance bloomed in Ainz's chest as his eyebrows knitted together.
(A sadistic impulse, still infantile. Anger over having been snubbed for his kill. Childish annoyance that his little no-hit run BM was nearly ruined.)
The Avatar's true form attempted a retreat, turning tail and making a break for it.
...Ainz didn't even need to issue to command. A pinning bolt nailed the demon's foot to the ground, causing it to come to a dead stop with a shrill, clicking yowl.
With several buffing abilities coursing through its fetid system, the disposable Avatar raised its clawed hands, ready to initiate a flurry of furious swings and a onslaught of magic-spells far more lethal than the rot-spew from moments prior. The disposable Avatar closed the gap and swung again, and Momon sidestepped, simultaneously ducking and spinning out of the way of a [Eclipse-Sliver]-generated arc of concentrated darkness that aimed for his neck.
Using that low duck, his legs moved, entering into a smooth kneeling twirl that gutted no less than seven of the quadrupedal undead before finally rolling out of the way of another rabid swipe and back onto his feet— simultaneously swatting an entire barrage of [Magic Missiles] out of the air.
With a flurry of manic attacks, the demon advanced, though each strike was either gracefully avoided or parried— showering their immolated environments with sparks. The way the two mortal enemies played off of each other was nearly hypnotic, with blades alternating between fending off physical attacks, spells and encroaching summons with beautiful movements. All culminating in one single man fighting off what could be passed off as a small army without taking a single scratch.
Slash against slash.
Blow against blow.
Blades splitting animalistic dead and rushing magic-spells alike.
—Silkily continuous and carefully considered footwork weaving back and forth, moving like the frantic steps in a convoluted dance.
Just like tango. ...Though you probably wouldn't finish such a dance-number by cutting off your partner's arm and sending them flying backwards with a pelvis-crushing kick. The demon howled, though Ainz didn't dwell. Not as a hundred others wanted a piece of him.
Rot-Fiends were tough. ...Tough enough for a pair of them to fight an adamantine adventurer to a standstill, and for a trio or more to spell said adventurer's doom.
Ainz was not an adamantine adventurer.
Not intending to give the dark warrior the fraction of a second worth of reprieve, the whip-like appendage of a Rot-Fiend was swung in a wide arc to sever tendons and maim.
With a polished and mindbogglingly fast flick of the wrist, the Rot-Fiend's lymph-slathered bone-whip was deflected and swiftly wrapped around an oversized black blade— Momon following up by twisting his upper body, and allowing ferocious undead being yanked off its feet, drawn in close and subsequently cleaved in two gory halves.
...And promptly discarded like trash.
The ground suddenly shook. Another unforeseen thing. Another thing to further fuel Ainz's growing ire.
(This thing was well prepared. Incredibly so.)
[Shizu.] That alone was enough.
[Got it.]
What was once flat ground shifted as many thrashing roots— each thicker than a human thigh and with toughness eclipsing steel— came bursting from below, some threading large stones or pieces of bedrock, other roots carrying entire plateaus worth of scorched (and still burning) land.
Though it was the sheer quantity that proved itself most impressive.
The decayed and mould-eaten stumps that dotted the meadow weren't for show. They were indicative of a more complex root-system that was hidden away beneath the surface. A root-system that was infested with mould, accessed by the Avatar-double sticking its claws into the earth.
The entire meadow creaked and began breaking apart.
Everything came along, ripped from the earth by a thousand thrashing timber appendages— effectively taking up the full volume of this side of the meadow. ...From giant stone blocks, to the very foundation that the lumberjack's cabin was built on— they were all either dragged aside or lifted high.
Unable to hold on, Cherry Stem were slung along this momentum. Karatus screamed as most of the building's foundation— alongside the basement— came loose. ...With Shizuka and her quick thinking, Yon was pulled to safety as half of the house collapsed and was dragged along the roots— the adventuring team now delegated to a small section of roof still standing.
The Avatar's true form wrenched itself free from the pinning bolt, making a break for the woods with hordes of undead and slithering roots— now controlled by its disposable body-double— covering for its escape.
"H-hey, wait!" Karatus' plea was ignored, as the petite battle-maid leapt off the building, onto the serpent-like roots before running up the enormous boulders they carried as Ainz elegantly cut his way through entire swathes of mutilated corpses to reach the root-controlling Avatar-double.
A frown adorning her face, the little girl easily weaved out of the way of the wooden tendrils' crude attempts at grabbing her, hopping and resting a smooth palm against the rough top of the speeding stone, turning her little leap into a graceful vault, twirling out of the way of attempted grabs to get a clean shot on the true-Avatar.
—Another [Pincushion] struck true, nailing the fleeing demon in the back of its knee, enough to slow, but not enough to stop. Once again, it was forced on the defensive, doing its damnest to control roots and fire spells to stave the girl off. The automaton's brows knitted together.
Shots were blocked by the myriad of intercrossing roots, defensive spells, or merely the fire acting in tandem with [Invisibility] to help obscure it. This thing was tough.
Or at least, that was her impression as she leapt about from wooden trunk to wooden trunk, dodging grasping timbre appendages and thrown pieces of earth— simultaneously pelting the ground with bolts, some enhanced, others natural. She was a gunner, and though she could reap some benefits by wielding a crossbow, it didn't change the fact that she was working with a handicap.
In a similar breath, Ainz had his hands full on the ground.
With a loud burst, an enormous chunk of granite was dislodged from the earth— fire sputtering as a cloud of dust was thrown into the air, followed by a shower of dirt. Within the blink of an eye, the roots which wrapped around it were thrust forward, propelling the cottage-sized boulder towards Ainz in an attempt to smear him.
Not losing a second, the many offending wooden limbs and the boulders they carried were shredded into virtually nothing— black sword moving so fast it looked like faint wisps of smoke surrounding its wielder. Though when an exceptionally large granite chunk was thrown his way, he still elegantly slid under it.
Level 40. That demon was level 40. ...Shizu was level 46. Weakest among the Pleiades.
...Though she wouldn't— shouldn't lose against it under any normal circumstance... This thing was prepared. Prepared in a way Yggdrasil-limitations shouldn't allow for.
Ainz's mouth pulled into a thin line. Theoretically, if facing off against this thing alone... There was an infinitesimal chance of Shizu losing. How strange it was, for the blood in his veins to start burning brighter, burning hotter than the conflagration consuming the meadow, when considering that possibility.
There was no 'losing'. Not in the traditional sense, anyways. But he had underestimated the enemy. It was sobering, to an extent.
—Bumbled into a trap again.
Yet another unforeseen circumstance that he didn't account for.
Because he was an idiot, again.
He was supposed to be in control.
Slash. Another bisected monstrosity.
He was in control. (Had to be.)
Slash. Another overlarge stone, split in two.
Elegant. Effortless. ...Those things seemed indicative of a Supreme Being. Though it felt as though he was falling short for the umpteenth time, as if this trip was no different from when he was sitting on his ass in the Tomb, filling in paperwork, crossing his fingers and hoping for the best.
The Avatar-double, carried by undead slaves, tried to gain some distance. But it wasn't quick enough.
Of course. He could just throw a hissy fit, and end it right here.
Just... Bash the problem until it goes away.
What a joke.
(It was a matter of secrecy. To ensure that he didn't show off too much before outsiders such as Cherry Stem. ...It was a matter of pride. To show how he could get them out of this situation without overwhelming power. Force. Was what everything boiled down to? Was that the only expectation he could live up to? Did Suzuki Satoru's experience with the game amount to nothing now that everything had been made real?)
Fuming with apoplectic rage that the Avatar probably could feel— if its expression was anything to go by— Ainz charged forward, dodging magic-potshots, charging dead, thrashing roots and landmark-sized stones being tossed his way.
So adroitly avoided. As if not a single being in this world could lay a finger on him. As it should be, when the enemy was this much weaker.
One final lunge.
Blade pulled back.
Undead meat-shields threw themselves in front. It shouldn't have mattered. Not as the black-blade was thrust forward, biting through flesh and bone in an almighty stab.
Three mutated undead were skewered alongside one Rot-Fiend. ...Before the sword pierced the Avatar, punching through ribs and soft innards, effectively nailing it to the ground that it was still raking with its claws.
It should have been a triumph.
...Had the damn thing not survived.
Manifold roots burst from the earth, wrapping around the Supreme Being as a posse of living dead latched on in an attempt to pull him to the burning ground. With that, the armoured warrior was seemingly immobilized, much to the demon's jubilance.
[Momonga-sam—!]
[Move. You're in the way.] Shizu flinched. Before, the Supreme Being's orders had been little more than little nudges. Kind words spoken softly, as though requesting her to act. That, was a command. And not a veiled one.
With that, Shizuka retreated, ceasing covering fire— using roots, raised plateaus, stones and burning earth alike to jump, sprint and vault back to the roof.
"Wha—!" Milla exclaimed. "—Momon...! He—!"
"He'll be fine." Shizu spoke with absolute certainty, drawing the attention of every conscious member of Cherry Stem. She didn't elaborate, merely looking back at the mess unfolding in the blistering meadow below. Calm on the outside, and deeply troubled on the inside.
...
Ainz grit his teeth.
Twenty five undead— amounting to about two metric tons of rotting meat— along with god knows how many roots, were wrapped around his armoured form. ...The demon's jubilance had died down, seeing how the man didn't crumple in the slightest under pressure.
—And then he stepped forward, as if he wasn't being tied down at all.
The Avatar-double scrambled back— with sword still in chest—, and the slowed, staggering true-form sat staring, having stopped its attempts at fleeing when the tide turned.
"...Fine." Ainz hissed with enough venom to fell a blue whale in two seconds flat. "You win." That declaration was followed up with a mirthless chuckle.
(How frustrating. A few better choices, and this wouldn't be necessary. He could make excuses about how unused to real melee combat he was, but really, this was another mark on the tally of poor decision-making that bit into his soul.)
('...I'm gonna punch Demiurge in his smug fucking face.')
...His good humour had ran somewhat dry. In place of joking observations was a thrill of annoyance and acrimonious internal musings born of a persistent desire to do harm. (Only sometimes aimed at other sources of stress.)
A smile pulled at his face. A genuine one. There was a quick-fix for this little conundrum, now that the bar had been lowered.
Those roots, despite being very much on fire, were still bolstered by rot and afforded a tensile strength surpassing that of steel. ...Though that didn't mean much at this point. Ainz rolled his shoulders, and tensed his muscles. Each fibre that made up his musculature had strength far beyond thick adamantine cables. And with that, he yanked.
In that moment, the idea of restraining himself to level 50 wasn't even considered.
Someone from Cherry Stem yelped, barely audible over the sound of how the world's crust shook and broke apart. The roots threaded every inch of space beneath their feet, and now the dark warrior was removing all of it. From the old tree-stumps to the deformed roots that had burrowed into the very foundation of the house.
All was pulled from the cool safety of the earth, and into the scorching, uneven inferno above.
With the first blade embedded deeply in the Avatar's double, his second weapon was also discarded. Dropped from an overwhelmingly strong hand that briefly allowed itself to relax before gripping a root that wrapped around its opposite forearm. Ainz's torso turned, moving his bindings and everything attached to them.
Several sets of wide eyes, some belonging to adventurer team and others to the demon, stared aghast at what was unfolding— growing more horrified yet upon realising just what was about to happen. ...And Ainz grinned, feeling how the Abhorrent Avatar's aura had long since lost its hostile edge, with their 'presence' gaining a tinge of primal terror in its place.
Utilizing his ungodly strength, the Supreme Being suddenly twisted in the opposite direction, flicking the massive root-system like a whip. ...With a thunderous crack, everything was knocked loose.
The cloud of dust that was thrown into the air almost smothered the fire that enveloped what remained of the meadow.
—A fierce smile. Toothy enough to be registered as outright demonic.
It was such an expression that Ainz wore as he stepped forward. (And as the Avatar crawled back.)
Reason and restraint was no longer being considered. Yet the Fallen Angel still felt perfectly lucid. Undead were supposed to know no fear. And the heads of deer weren't exactly the best at expressing human emotion.
But the Supreme Being could read them all the same.
His fists clenched tighter, gripping the roots that had been wrapped around his forearms— fingers digging through their unnaturally tough surface like hooks. In a slow, almost cruelly taunting motion, he lifted his arms above his head, wordlessly establishing his superiority.
...And the roots were swung.
Silent. Utterly shocked, Cherry Stem could do nothing but sit there and watch as Momon proceeded to juggle the entire meadow and everything in it.
Roots like intercrossing veins whipped about at subsonic speeds, with wild winds stoking the raging flames that had bit into them. There was not a sound that could top the all-consuming whoosh of fire and wood, as the dark warrior swung root, house, bedrock and the sizeable chucks of land that were uprooted along with everything else.
The results were... As one would expect from a hundred meter long bludgeon weighing in well over five hundred tons.
Everything was smeared.
Launched into the air and subsequently liquefied by stray roots whipping about at blinding speeds, droplets of bloody chunks once belonging to undead beasts— already fallen or recently active— rained down.
...And as if to match the outlandish escalation, the dark sky finally burst— torrential downpour obscuring view even further as it warred against the immolated whip that Ainz wielded with ease— joining the foul mixture of pulped cadavers soaking the barren and broken earth that once resembled a meadow.
Bloody mist. Clouds of dust and soot. These things coated the ruined field of battle when the dark warrior's offence came to an end. Until the thick curtain of rain washed it all away. The fire sputtered, hissed. ...And was slowly put out, leaving only thin billows of smoke drifting from a burnt and uneven ground.
Not a single other sound could be heard over the constant pitter-patter of rainfall.
Not a breath. Not a wheeze. Not a scream.
Ainz calmly bent over, picking up the black blade that had been dropped seconds earlier before casting a look forward. The Abhorrent Avatar of Rot shivered. Its body was battered beyond recognition. ...All options depleted. Perhaps it just wasn't in demonic nature to simply roll over and accept death, as it still attempted to weakly drag itself away. Even when several appendages had been snapped like twigs, and as it couldn't move faster than a snail's pace.
With but a flick of the blade, the thick roots and unmoving dead around his body were severed, and the Fallen Angel was free to march forward. Though with his ruined surroundings— consisting of scorched earth, uprooted forest, a field of unearthed boulders and several hundred desecrated corpses— none would be able to confuse this for a relaxed promenade.
He slowed only when hearing a light 'thump' behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, the form which met his eyes was not one belonging to an adventurer, as he would have expected.
All of its limbs were twisted the wrong way.
That was Ainz's very first impression, as he once more laid eyes on an Avatar-double who looked to be seconds away from keeling over dead. Both of the demon's horns were snapped off and its right arm was still missing, though its remaining extremities didn't look to be in much better shape— having had a dozen new "joints" forcefully introduced to each flayed limb.
It could do nothing more than emit a pained whimper— the weak imitation of a battle-cry. Though, admittedly, that might have been because of Ainz's other sword, which was still embedded in the devil's chest— punching cleanly through ribs and lungs, assuming it possessed such anatomy.
Clearly, it took everything it had to barely keep pace with the dark warrior's leisurely speed on broken legs that really shouldn't have been able to carry its weight.
The Fallen Angel's mouth opened and closed. 'Tenacious one, aren't you?' or '—Don't you know it's in poor taste to be so clingy?' were two of the quips that died on his tongue.
A shaky clawed hand was raised. Intending to be brought down. ...To buy half a second. The tenth of a second.
It didn't manage that much.
Without stopping his walk forward, or even turning around, the ebony blade in the Supreme Being's right hand was briefly reduced to a crescentic black smudge as it was swung wide.
Everything above the Avatar's lower jaw simply... Popped off like a champagne cork.
Faster than what anyone could even comprehend, a legendary demon— one capable of untold amounts of destruction and havoc— was destroyed. Slowly it crumpled... Falling to its knees boneless and limp. Only then did Ainz bother to reach out and nonchalantly free his other weapon— pulling it loose with a squelch— now that the rot-demon was reduced to an unmoving pile, low down enough that he didn't have to stretch to reach it.
Not giving the demon's quickly-fading corpse another look, the dark warrior retained that very same pace, walking up to the prone true-Avatar.
Fear. Despair. These emotions were thick in the air, weighing down on everything like a leaden blanket on the ravaged clearing. It should come as no surprise how most of it hailed from the Avatar's broken and shuddering form— hateful eyes looking over the shoulder to meet Ainz's own. ...Though, a fair amount of it also hailed from the gormlessly staring adventuring team.
And, Ainz... Wasn't entirely sure what to say. If he needed to say anything. If he wanted to say anything, as he stood looming over the utterly demolished demon. And in the end... He uttered but two words.
"[Discern Mettle]." An ability from [Flexible Purpose] that gave insight into an enemy's health-value.
...The Abhorrent Avatar of Rot was afforded neither parting words nor a quick death.
Not as ruthless black blades were brought down again and again.
Shrills shrieks of anguish, the wet sound of tearing meat, the crunching of bone... It practically harmonized with the rain.
Lightning crackled somewhere in the far distance, as the demon's flailing limbs were hacked off— each slash rending flesh and cutting the extremities shorter and shorter— like aggressively pruning a tree until only the trunk remained.
Wetted by rain and made slick by oily blood, ebony blades kept cutting. Carving chunks out of a worn body. Disembowelling with gratuitous violence, frantic speed and scalpel-like precision.
Eventually, the spectators could only stare with growing dismay as weaponry was discarded in favour of fists. ...Tearing at the deer-like head of the Avatar with what felt like an unsettling blend of vitriolic rancour and outright excitement (even if Bard was the only one managing to decipher it as such).
Sometimes, punches were held back to avoid outright death, or halted for just long enough for the regenerative properties of the demon to pull it back from the brink of oblivion.
When the Avatar's deer-like head looked to be as flayed as the rest of it— and when the sounds it made was little more than a faint whistling whimper— the base of its horns were grasped by unsympathetic hands. ...And the skull was finally folded.
The weak little 'snap' was drowned out by the rain.
x=x=X=x=x
Fucking hell.
That sentiment must have been shared with the others.
And for once, it wasn't about how the dark skies was pissing with rain.
Karatus just sat down. Staring. Not even pacing worriedly— swept away by the mama-hen frenzy he was known for when he couldn't get involved.
Milla was unreadable. In a way Cassian hadn't ever seen her in. ...And frankly, the mage couldn't even begin to hazard a guess on what was going through her mind at the moment. With that look on her face... He couldn't even ascertain whether she was feeling positive or negative about whatever the fresh-faced hell this was.
Yon seemed— ironically enough— most well adjusted. ...Being unconscious (but otherwise in good shape), he had the privilege (misfortune?) of not bearing witness to... What Bard hesitated to call a fight.
Bard himself wasn't much better off. Unsure of what to think. ...Still in shock and too drained to think anything, really.
The clearing, if it could still be called such, was an absolute mess.
First it had been covered in corpses and mould.
Then burned to a crisp.
Then covered in more corpses and mould.
...And finally torn up by several waves of thrashing roots (now resting criss-crossed above the surface), effectively tilling every square inch of the blackened earth while also introducing a dozen new landmarks in the form of rock formations created via the power of violence.
Hell, the only building still standing was the one they were sat atop. ...If this tiny surface that was left could be considered "still standing".
About 70% of the house had migrated south, pulled along with the shifting roots— either torn to shreds, pulled underground, spread out across the meadow in pieces or outright juggled by Momon, when the man decided to pull a fast one over the very gods.
Cassian took a very deep breath. Thankfully, the scent of rain, mud and plain smoke overtook the nuanced flavour of roasted dead.
'...Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.'
Between this mess and the casual distribution of 'God's Blood' healing potions... Karatus' theory of Shizuka and Momon hailing from the south-east could still hold true, assuming it was the south-east of a higher plane of existence, rather than this comparatively pitiful continent. (The conversation they had by the lake replayed with greater clarity.)
...Speaking of Shizuka, she looked a fair bit more impatient that Cassian had ever recalled seeing her.
With the downpour quenching the freshly ploughed earth, she simply leapt down, landing in the smouldering clearing and making her way towards the armoured warrior, who now stood tall above the ravaged body of the Abhorrent Avatar.
After a brief moment's hesitation... Bard followed suit, not quite certain what had possessed him to do so.
"H-hey...!" Karatus managed. "...What are you-?"
"Not now."
The spellcaster jumped off the roof, bending his legs when hitting the ground. Nevertheless wincing when nearly breaking his ankles against the uneven and difficult to navigate terrain of the altered meadow.
'...How the hell did Momon traverse this mess?' He wondered before shutting down that thought. 'No. Don't even bother. That was hardly the most unbelievable thing he accomplished today.' An exhausted sigh escaped his mouth.
What a macabre sight it was.
So, so many corpses. Charred black, half-buried. ...And still rigid, with grasping arms sticking out from beneath loose dirt, like the most horrid garden Bard has ever had the displeasure of witnessing. With a grim expression painting his countenance, he stepped over the endless sea of cadavers and newly formed hills, approaching the father-daughter(?) pair who were conversing at a low volume.
There were many things he kept thinking about. That he couldn't simply disregard.
More concern than relief in his mind, with that last brutal display still fresh.
The wind blew, and rain pelted the dry earth— soaking Bard's robes and hair. The mage felt cold, and yet, he was certain that it wasn't because of his drenched clothing. Momon, somehow hearing his approach over the all-consumingly loud precipitation, turned around to face him, not speaking a word. Shizuka looked between the two, singular green eye conveying something akin to worry.
Damn. Though the dark warrior seemed none the worse for wear beneath the armour, he was still one hell of a sight. The cape was long gone, the sharpened visceral exterior of his dusky armour had been rounded and warped... Its golden highlights obscured by a mixture of ash, char and blood.
Looking at this, Bard's lips pulled into a thin line.
'How are you so strong?' 'That was excessive.' '...Did you enjoy doing that?' 'Aleph's grace, did you lose your mind near the end?' 'I thought we were going to die!' 'Are you two god-kin?' 'Damn it, Momon.'
Lots of questions. Utterances. Grievances to be aired. Gratitude to be conveyed. ...And yet, all of that could wait. He could pass along his thoughts later, and his less flattering opinions could be shared at a later date through passive-aggressive remarks masqueraded as ironic dry humour. There was one question above all others that couldn't wait.
"...Are you okay?" Cassian asked, sounding (and feeling) about a decade older. The dark warrior looked somewhat taken aback by the question, as if he hadn't expected it at all.
"Perfectly fine." Momon replied smoothly, sounding completely unaffected— if not distracted, as though he had a thousand important matters to ponder. ...Which may very well have been the case, knowing the man. That gentle tone, however, felt just a tad too "far away" for Bard to take it to heart.
So they stood there, allowing the slowly subsiding rainfall to fill in the silence. The mage briefly glanced over the shoulder, seeing Milla climb down the remaining corner of the building, while Karatus grabbed the dwarf by the collar to shake him awake.
With a fond exhale, a weak smile pulled at the mage's dry lips when he turned back to Momon.
"Good grief. —You do realise that we won't get more than an iron-ranked wage for this...?" He joked tiredly, and a beat of quiet followed before the dark warrior began to snicker— Bard soon following suit with a drained laugh of his own.
"...That may very well be the case." The armoured adventurer spoke wistfully, seeming a little surprised how the conversation had pulled away from the elephant (demon) in the room. "I don't think you and I will be allowed to choose jobs anymore." He mused, drawing greater laughter from the caster.
"Maybe not." The spellcaster agreed with a voice full of mirth, the horrors of the day seeming just a little easier to bear.
After another brief moment of wordless introspection, Momon stepped past the caster, making his way towards the remainder of Cherry Stem. ...Presumably to help Karatus and Milla in getting a very confused Yon off the roof— Shizu following very closely behind.
"Oh. One more thing." Bard grunted, causing the dark warrior to stop in his tracks and cast a glance over the shoulder. "...Thank you. For... This. Sorting out this... Absolute mess."
Momon seemed to pause. "...You're welcome." He finally said. A reply so plain that Bard couldn't help but snort.
"Could've crushed the Abhorrent bastard a little earlier." He followed up cheekily. Things got quiet. ...And the caster had to wonder if it he had said something wrong.
"...Yeah." The dark warrior agreed, something indecipherable and depthless in his voice. "I suppose I could have." Bard wasn't entirely sure what to make of that. With those cryptic words, Momon gave a lazy wave before heading off towards the remainder of Cherry Stem— leaving the caster on his own.
The mage sighed— voice brimming with fresh amusement and barely repressed enervation— running a hand through his soaked hair before wringing his waterlogged robe. The downpour had been reduced to something more closely resembling a drizzle, as opposed to the deluge that came down so thick that fish would be able to thrive among birds.
And looking at Momon's back... The man seemed larger than life. Larger than even the towering demon that would be haunting Bard's dreams from this moment onwards. Some smaller minded folk may very well brand the man a monster, had they laid eyes on such a wild display of power.
Cassian sighed, feeling very certain that he'd earn many titles soon enough. Not all of them flattering, owing to the brutality that had shone through at the tail end of that slaughter. 'Champion'... 'Adamantine adventurer'. 'Legendary warrior'. 'Merciless god-kin'. Whatever. Bard shook his head and scratched his lightly bearded cheek. Above all others, one moniker felt like a perfect fit.
'Dark Hero'.
Chapter End
*[Flexible Purpose] was primarily introduced so that we can have a bit more fun with Momon's fights, rather than them being Ainz brute-forcing his way through with mindless swinging and charging.
Either way, it was made to make fights more spectacular and more fun to write. ...But don't you worry. He'll still have training-sessions with uncle Cocytus. Besides— I've got future plans for this skill. (Also, those of you who read Karma Weaver when it first came out, were able to see this skill listed in Ainz's unedited character sheet with matching explanation.)
A/N)
Boy howdy i dont understand why these chapters turn out to be 3 times as long as they should be
Really, I think I need a neutral beta-reader, with me being too indecisive with what to remove. The first half is to establish how in control Momon is + show how he fights. Karatus' reaction seemed like a fun thing. ...Then I needed to establish what was different when the Avatar's true form was introduced... And finally the STOMP. I just couldn't bring myself to remove any of it.
(So here, hope you enjoyed the payoff, where the payoff is just Bard/Cassian being traumatized for two chapters before it smash-cuts to Ainz on vacation)
