Stockwell heard the latch on the door begin to move.
At last.
His months of planning had come down to this moment.
He had memorized all of the cultists in charge of watching over him; he knew their faces, the unique cadences of their footfalls, their schedules, and the various degrees of caution with which they treated him.
Every possible variable had been taken into account. Several months of analyzing, working, and obsessing. It all was leading to this.
The door creaked open and the cultist he expected to see entered the cell.
"You know the drill." The cultist said.
Every cultist within the crypt was capable of casting at least 2nd tier spells. Stockwell in contrast possessed no such fighting abilities. If he tried to put up a resistance he could be paralyzed with a flick of the wrist.
As such, the cultists saw no risk in only sending one man into his cell to retrieve him.
Stockwell squatted at the far end of the cell, seemingly oblivious to the cultist's voice.
He squatted with his water bucket between his legs and his face looking down into it. He mumbled incoherently beneath his breath.
"Hey. You. I know you heard me." The cultist repeated.
The cultist stepped further into the cell and felt his foot make contact with something. He looked down to see a large brick that had been dislodged from the wall.
The cultist looked back up to Stockwell. "You know you're not supposed to be messing with that wall again- Hey! What's that you're sitting on?"
The cultist eyed another dislodged brick beneath Stockwell. He was using it as a stool.
"Didn't you only make one hole? Where did you get that second brick?"
The cultist stepped over the brick at his feet and moved closer to Stockwell.
Stockwell stuttered madly. "I...I…"
"Yes? What is it? Spit it out."
"I...I g-got from th-there."
Stockwell weakly pointed a finger back towards the open door. The cultist's gaze turned to follow the finger.
Stockwell's mind steeled over as he watched the cultist's neck turn.
He had rehearsed this exact moment hundreds of times in his head. Every small detail, from how he positioned himself in the cell and down to the very cadence of his breaths.
Move now.
The cultist's gaze followed Stockwell's finger but saw nothing out of the ordinary by the doorway. "I don't see- !"
As the cultist turned his attention back towards Stockwell, he saw the madman already lunging at him from across the cell with the bucket in mid-throw.
"What-!?"
The cultist had little time to react before whatever liquid was in the bucket splashed into him.
Pain pierced through his body immediately as the liquid contacted his skin and eyes.
The cultist reeled backward in confusion. It seemed to him that he had been drenched in acid. Though in truth, it was not actually acid but instead a base. Stockwell had dissolved as much excess sodium hydroxide he could into the bucket of water in preparation.
The result was an incredibly caustic, alkaline solution.
The cultist attempted to cast a spell through his immediate pain. "[S-Shock-!]"
But as he attempted to cast the spell, his confused backward reeling caused him to trip over the brick he had stepped over previously.
The cast failed and the mana was lost.
The madman did not waste a single moment in seizing the initiative. He had already scooped up the brick he was sitting on and pounced at the defenseless cultist.
In a panicked attempt to flee, the cultist rolled onto his hands and feet, but by the time he did so, Stockwell was already upon him.
The madman brought the brick down hard on the back of the cultist's head in a falling motion. Utilizing the full force of gravity, the brick connected with the cultist's head.
The cultist went limp with the sound of cracking skull and gushing brain matter.
Stockwell did not waste a moment. His hands frantically scoured the cultist's robes. Dagger. Knife…
He eventually found the thing he was looking for: a simple dagger tucked neatly beneath the cultist's clothes. He greedily clutched it with both hands and thrust it hard into the cultist's heart through his back, confirming his death. He pulled out the blade and blood spurted from the wound.
A devilish glee crossed his face. HahHHAhahaHA~ That's one down.
He took a moment to stare at the bloody corpse. The bloody corpse of the man who had just been alive and moving only seconds prior.
He had just killed another human being. Not through economics and shady deals as he had done so before, but directly with his own two hands. A once unthinkable act.
But he was no longer on Earth. Rather, it could be said that Earth itself seemed just like a dream and so too did all of the morals he had known. Absolutely nothing was holding him back.
These people had tortured him and he had every right to take take revnege and claw his way out of captivity. That is what he told himself.
He felt completely in the present, the only emotion coursing through him was complete elation as endorphins flooded his brain. His hands that clutched the bloody dagger quivered with adrenaline.
He folded his hands and dagger over his chest in an attempt to stay calm. He had a plan to stick to that would require all of his mental faculties.
He took a deep breath and continued his work.
First, he gently closed his cell door on the chance that someone might pass by. Then went to the corner of his cell to retrieve a urine-soaked piece of cloth. It was just a piece of torn shirt he had urinated on an hour prior.
He tied it around his face, making sure to tightly cover his nose and mouth in a make-shift face mask.
He then went back to the dead cultist and used the dagger to cut out a piece of their robes that were now drenched in the sodium hydroxide solution. He then took that piece and also tied it around his face atop the previous one.
His nose scrunched up instinctively as the caustic sodium hydroxide and the stench of urine hit his nostrils, but he was well acclimated to living in such squalid stench so it did not distract him.
He then took out the two items he needed from his hiding spot behind the brick wall. The first was a bottle of spirits Vera had given him which based on taste was probably above 90% ethanol. Its top was stoppered by a rag covered in several months worth of his earwax. The second item was a tiny glass salt shaker filled with a deep red liquid. The top of the salt shaker had been plugged so the liquid would not spill out.
He placed the two items carefully by the door, but out of direct sight from the doorway so that people would not accidentally trip over them.
Once that was done he dragged the cultist's soaked and bloody corpse to the back of the cell and crawled beneath it.
Finally, he took one last look around his cell. Everything is in place.
He took a deep breath…
"HELP ME!" He shouted.
"COME HERE! EVERYONE HELP ME! AHHHH!"
He shouted as loud as he could in an attempt to draw whoever he could into his cell.
About ten seconds later a cultist opened the door and rushed to the cell. "What's going on!? Why is-!?"
The cultist saw the dead body from which beneath the madman was shouting.
"DON'T HURT ME!" The madman continued to shout.
Three more cultists entered the cell a moment later.
"What's wrong!? How come the prisoner…"
Their voices trailed off when they too saw the dead body.
Their voices filled with rage. "You bastard! You killed Keta!"
"DON'T HURT ME PLEASE!" Stockwell screamed. "ANYTHING BUT LIGHTNING! DON'T SHOCK ME!"
One of the cultist's palms sparked to life in preparation for a spell. "Lightning!? I'll show you lightning!"
Stockwell immediately opened his mouth, covered his ears, and closed his eyes upon hearing the cultist's words. He shifted himself beneath the dead body even further.
[Shock]
Several things happened in the instant the spell was launched.
Over the months, Stockwell had been using his electric hand crank to separate hydrogen and oxygen from water. The hydrogen, which was lighter than air and kept inside by the magic barrier, had since accumulated to nearly head height.
The instant the spell was launched, ambient hydrogen in the room caught the spark and ignited. The result was a bright red fireball that filled the room with a catastrophic bang, receding as fast as it appeared.
Stockwell was low to the ground and covered by a wet meat shield, so he was somewhat protected from the effects of the flame front, though not perfectly. He felt an acute sting like acid on his exposed skin.
Additionally, he had emptied his lungs, opened his mouth wide, put one ear to the ground, and covered his ears with his palms. He had hoped to minimize the effects of the shockwave in this manner. However, despite the shockwave traveling through the meat shield on top of him, he still felt an immense pain in his gut.
The four cultists had far worse luck. Their faces were seared by the fireball and they were knocked to the ground as the shock wave destroyed their sense of balance. But even after all that, all they had time for was a short cry of pain.
Immediately after the hydrogen ignited, yellow-green fog erupted into the cell from the seams between the bricks and mortar with a loud hiss.
The force of the explosion had caused the magical barrier to burst like an over-filled balloon. A year's worth of electrolyzed chlorine gas swallowed the room in an instant.
Stockwell planned for this to happen and as such, closed his mouth and eyes immediately after the hydrogen explosion.
Stockwell shot from beneath his meat shield and scurried to the door on all fours like a crazed rat. Even without his sight, he knew the layout of the cell better than the back of his hand. He grabbed his bottle of alcohol and salt shaker on the way out.
The cultists could do nothing to stop him. They were dazed, deafened, blinded, and now choking on chlorine. They tried to find the door before him but to no avail.
Stockwell reached the corridor and locked the door firmly behind him, leaving the four men inside to suffocate.
haHA! That's four more!
He did not dare open his eyes or take a breath yet. He could tell by the smell that the initial eruption of chlorine had already filled the immediate corridor. The door to the cell had windows as well, so the chlorine would continue to expand.
The sodium hydroxide and urine-soaked rags around his face served the purpose of reducing the amount of chlorine gas trying to get in his lungs, but it was far from perfect. He would need to gain a little bit of distance from the initial gas cloud before he could take a breath.
Even with his bio-synthetic lungs designed for the heavily polluted atmosphere of 2138, breathing such high concentrations of chlorine gas would inevitably kill him.
Vera had schooled him on the layout of the entire crypt, so he knew which way to run.
He ran up the corridor and rounded the corner as the cloud of deadly gas crept forward behind him.
...
.
Aamon jumped in his chair in response to the sound of an explosion. Decades-old dust dislodged from the crevices in the walls and from the tops of his bookcases.
What was that!?
The shock wave reverberated in his body like the sound of thunder.
Did that come from inside the crypt? Is someone practicing magic?
He got up from his study and raced for the door. He racked his mind for what the source of the noise could have been.
That was far too loud for [Fireball]. Maybe it was [Lightning]? But neither [Fireball] or [Lightning] have that loud bang with it…
As he was opening the door, another cultist came rushing in from the other side.
"Disciple Aamon!" The cultist said.
"What is it? What was that noise!?" Asked Aamon.
"I don't know!"
"Then figure it out!"
Another cultist clutching his chest stumbled into the corridor a few moments later.
Aamon called out to him. "You! What was that noise?"
The cultist tried to reply but was overcome with coughing every time he tried to speak. "T-The p…"
"-What is it!? Spit it out!" Aamon demanded.
The cultist collapsed to the floor in front of him. Phlegm filled his words. "I-It's R-Rham… Rhamnusia."
"Rhamnusia?"
The other cultist froze in response to the name.
Dread filled Aamon's voice. "The Prisoner? Stockwell? Are you saying he's the one how made that noise!? Has he finally made his move!? Has he escaped!?"
The cultist's breathing was far too erratic to respond, and it was clear that he was on the verge of fainting. It was as though he was drowning in nothing but the cool crypt air.
"Is he the one how did this to you!? Answer me!" Aamon screamed at him.
[Light Cure Wounds]. Aamons staff glowed in response to his spell.
The cultist's vision and breathing cleared momentarily because of the spell, but only long enough to sputter out a few more words. "P-Poison. T-The air..."
"Poison?"
"D-Don't breathe the f-fog.." The cultist's words drifted off.
[Light cure wounds] Could only mend and regenerate tissues, it could not eliminate poisons from the body. The cultist drifted into unconsciousness.
Aamon bit his tongue. Damn it! What the hell is going on here? Is Stockwell making a move!? Now of all times!
"Disciple Aamon, look!" The cultist next to him pointed up the corridor.
A thin veil of yellow fog was slowly creeping its way towards them at waist height.
Fog? Is that what he was talking about? Is it poisonous? Ahhh! I don't know what's happening!
He gritted his teeth.
"Hold your breath. We're going." Aamon said. He walked into poisonous gas.
However careless it may have been, he needed to reach the exit of the crypt before the madman. He would not allow him to escape and destroy the entire world.
...
Stockwell followed his mental map of the crypt
Based on what he had seen and heard of the crypt thus far from Vera, it was likely he had made enough chlorine gas over the year to fully permeate the underground space with a lethal concentration.
Stockwell walked just ahead of the chlorine cloud keeping pace behind him.
Chlorine gas was heavier than air so it would permeate lower sections of an indoor space faster than higher ones. The path he followed through the crypt was one that Vera had said went continuously upwards.
Keeping pace with the expanding gas behind him meant he was progressing very slowly, but it meant that anyone who tried to attack him from behind would have to go through the chlorine. It also meant that he would be able to intercept many of the cultists who were at lower points in the crypt and who were now trying to escape
That could've gone better.
In a way, it was a good thing he was moving slowly. He felt that something in his gut had ruptured from the hydrogen explosion. He walked with a slight hunch that pinched his abdomen.
The pain he felt was only a secondary concern. Not only had endured torture that made this feel like nothing, the adrenalin pumping through him was so high that he could endure anything. This gut injury would be a problem however if there was a large amount of internal bleeding associated with it.
He felt nauseous and light headed, but he refused to fall before making it out of the crypt.
An animated skeleton sporting a shield and sword passed by him, unaffected by the chlorine gas. It looked around as though searching for someone. Its burning blue eyes shifted to Stockwell but they did not see him.
That was the third skeleton to pass him thus far.
Vera's charm is working.
He heard the sound of a door opening behind him followed by intense coughing.
A cultist came stumbling out of the chlorine behind him. His breaths were shallow and gurgling with respiratory fluids. He desperately gasped for fresh air upon making out of the fog.
Upon seeing the sorry state of the cultist, Stockwell tucked in his gut and allowed an arrogant, acidic laugh to escape his mouth.
"Guten tag. Herr Magician."
The cultist startled at the voice. "-W-Who-!"
A wave of coughing followed by realization hit him. "T-THe Prisoner!-"
The cultist tried to look at Stockwell, but his eyes were swollen and bloodshot, and his vision was blurred beyond all use. Chlorine gas forms hydrochloric acid when coming into contact with water, such as the water in the film of corneas.
"Prisoner?" Stockwell laughed. "A prisoner is someone who's bound to a cell. I see no such person!"
"-You cast this spell!" The cultist coughed. "You created that explosion and this fog!"
"Yes, that's right?" Stockwell laughed arrogantly. He saw the cultist suddenly stretch a hand towards him. He took a quiet step back.
[Fire Bolt] A small bolt of fire rocketed from the cultist's hand. It missed and collided with the wall.
Magic or not, the cultist was blind and barely on his feet. It would not be too difficult for Stockwell to run his dagger through the man's heart, but he resisted the urge to kill him.
"You know the layout of this crypt. Go on ahead, tell everyone you meet to run far away from here. Anyone left inside by the time I reach the exit will be killed. I'm giving you all a chance. So go, run along, before I change my mind!"
As much as Stockwell wished to kill everyone within the crypt, he had little more than a single dagger and an inanimate cloud of chlorine gas. He would not be able to defeat a group of magic casters if they intended to actually fight back in an organized manner.
As such, the only scenario in which he successfully escaped this crypt was one where most of its combatants fled in fear.
"Go!" He kicked the cultist from behind. "Tell them Rhamnusia has come to smite all of you fuckers!"
The cultist screamed and stumbled quickly around the corner.
Even if the rest of these bastards flee, I doubt Aamon will be scared off. I should at least find a shield before I go face him. He thought.
Immediately after the cultist rounded the corner, Stockwell heard the sounds of another one stumbling out of the chlorine behind him.
Speak of the devil. He turned his dagger towards the sound.
…
Stockwell approached the exit of the crypt. It was just a narrow corridor, barely wide enough for two people to stretch their arms out from side to side.
In his grasp was a blinded and fearful cultist, shuffling a couple of feet in front of him as Stockwell held a dagger to his throat. In his other hand, he held his bottle of alcohol with a smoldering cloth wick stuffed in its neck.
As the exit to the crypt came into view, Stockwell saw an old man standing guard. Beside him was a strange undead creature that Stockwell did not recognize. The creature appeared to be a hovering, semi-corporeal upper half of a human skeleton draped in flowing, wisp-like garments
Stockwell laughed seeing that Aamon was alone, save for the creature. "Hahaha! Did the rest of your men abandon you?"
Aamon replied evenly. "I can no longer blame them. It should be clear to everyone now that you are beyond this world."
Aamon kneeled over in a fit of coughing.
"Awwww~ You not feeling well Mr. Aamon?" Stockwell teased. "Couldn't quite hold your breath all the way could you? Even a little bit of chlorine will cause permanent damage. I'd thought a geezer like yourself would've died with just one whiff."
Aamon fought back his coughing and stood straight. It took all of his strength to will his old body to remain balanced as he leaned into his staff. "I was the one who brought you into this world. The responsibility falls to me to take you out of it."
Stockwell took a step forward and pushed his hostage along with him as the now faint cloud of chlorine gas filtered in from behind him.
In response, Aamon's staff bubbled with energy. "I've been practicing magic for longer than most people have been alive. I'm a necromancer of the highest order. Do you really think you can escape? With just a hostage and- what even is that?"
Aamon's eyes fell on the bottle in Stockwell's hand.
"Oh, this? It's something the Finns used in the winter war; 'started naming it after a soviet minister named Molotov." Stockwell chuckled. "I should probably throw it at you soon before the wick burns all the way up to my hand."
Aamon leveled his gaze. "If you think you can defeat me with such a crude weapon, then by all means."
"And what about you?" Stockwell gestured to the creature hovering beside Aamon. "You get scared and hire a bodyguard?"
"This is a specter, summoned to do my bidding by a 3rd tier spell. I am a necromancer, weren't you listening? This is how I fight. Your hostage won't save you." Aamon looked at the cultist barely managing to stay on his feet in Stockwell's arms. "Well done getting captured by the way, Habo."
The cultist managed to spit out a quiet "sorry" between labored breaths.
Aamon turned his attention back to Stockwell. "Even if you manage to hide behind him, it'll only buy you a second. The specter attacks by entering the body of its enemy. It will enter him and rip him from the inside out in less than a second before coming out the other side and doing the same to you. That charm you're wearing only affects low tier undead. This specter sees you just fine."
The cultist in Stockwell's grasp chimed up at the sound. His words were unintelligible but the sentiment was clear. "Won't that kill me too?"
Aamon scoffed. "You were dead the moment you allowed yourself to be captured."
Aamon's staff glowed with energy in preparation for a spell. His voice surged with power and phlegm. "Go forth my specter! Kill him!"
The specter lurched forwards at Stockwell from across the room.
"—Wai—" The hostage's cries were cut short as Stockwell smashed the bottle of alcohol across the back of the cultist's head and kicked him into the path of the approaching specter.
In the narrow corridor, it was easy to hide behind the hostage.
The specter's semi-corporeal form phased into the body of the hostage. And like Aamon had said, less than a second after, the hostage's back swelled like a massive blister and burst open to reveal the head of the specter.
But as the specter attempted to exit the body and continue towards Stockwell, the alcohol from the smashed bottle caught fire from the smoldering cloth and the body erupted into flame. The specter shrieked and pulled with the burning body it was still partially enmeshed with as it fell to the ground.
But, this was an outcome Aamon had already accounted for. Stockwell had used his one weapon against the specter, he was defenseless now. This was actually the best possible outcome.
Aamon's study was in the deepest part of the crypt; he needed to march through more chlorine filled corridors than anyone else. He had burned through most of his mana repeatedly using [light cure wounds] to stay on his feet as he braved through the poison gas to reach the entrance of the crypt.
Ending this fight now was the best scenario.
"Now die." Aamon released the spell charging in his staff. [Maximize Magic: Acid Javelin]
Stockwell did his best to dive behind the burning corpse of what was formally his hostage, but the spell was far too quick for him in the narrow corridor.
A large jet of corrosive fluid homed in on Stockwell's position, clipping the edge of the flames before striking Stockwell's side. Like a jet of water through a sugar cube, his flesh offered no resistance as the liquid burned a huge gash in his left lower torso.
The spell would've been fatal had it landed a few more inches towards his center.
Stockwell fell to the ground in a whimper.
"I'm impressed," Aamon said through a pained breath as the effects of the chlorine gas made themselves apparent. "You're quicker than I gave you credit for, but no matter. You used your only weapon."
Stockwell seemingly struggled to get to his hands and knees. Expressions of pain crossed his face.
"Look at you." Aamon said. "How does that acid feel? I hear it's worse than fire, to have every one of your nerves there exposed and flayed. You're in so much pain you can hardly move."
Even in Stockwell's weakened state, Aamon was not stupid enough to approach him. He could hardly stand much less navigate around a burning corpse in the middle of the narrow corridor.
He was content on watching Stockwell slowly succumb to his injury as the chlorine gas slowly filtered in from behind him. He didn't have much mana left to do anything besides that. He would make his way up the stairs to safety when he confirmed the madman's death.
"Well then?" Aamon said. "Any last words?"
"...Vera." Stockwell mumbled.
"What was that?"
Stockwell weakly raised a finger and pointed to the entrance of the crypt behind Aamon. His voice filled with surprise.
"V-Vera! Why did you come here?"
"Vera!?" Aamon turned around.
He expected to see his granddaughter standing by the entrance. Instead, he saw nothing. He looked once more, thinking perhaps he'd gone insane. But no, no one was there. The large stone which sealed the crypt had not even been opened.
He turned back towards Stockwell and his eyes grew wide.
"Wha-!?"
Stockwell was no longer on the ground clutching his side in pain like a wounded animal and was instead standing with his arm fully extended, the object he had thrown at him already in mid-air.
A vial of reddish-black liquid smashed into his face, releasing a cloud of dark red vapor.
"Hot! Hot!?"
Aamon fell to the floor in excruciating pain. His face blistered immediately, and what control of his breathing he had retained after enduring the chlorine all but disappeared the moment the vapor entered his lungs.
Stockwell's voice boomed through Aamon's screams and the still crackling fire of the burning corpse.
"HahaHAHAhAH! You fool!" Stockwell cackled with demented glee. "You fell for the oldest trick in the book! I've used that twice today! Twice! Did you really think I would be playing fair!?"
He approached Aamon who had been reduced to a crying heap. The weakness Stockwell was displaying just moments prior was nowhere to be found.
"Did you really think that spell of yours would actually hurt!? After all you bastards put me through!? Look! You even cauterized the wound for me!"
Stockwell gestured to the wound left by the acid javelin. It was a discolored valley that cut deep into the right of his waist. The pain that would normally result from such an acid injury would be debilitating, but Stockwell was far from a normal mental state.
The wound had merely shaved off the bottom of his left external oblique muscle, a large area of fat, and a piece of his large intestine. The spell had cauterized the blood vessels closed, so as long as used his left arm as a brace, he could still remain conscious and upright.
"Oh! HAhahAH! I guess you can't see."
Stockwell paid heed to cover his face with his mask and stay out of the vapor cloud as he approached Aamon
"I'm not much of a drinker, and I don't particularly like spicy foods, so what do you think I was doing with all that alcohol and all those peppers?"
Aamon was curled into a ball and could not reply. He was in far too much pain to even think.
"The answer is that I was concentrating capsaicin."
Stockwell took much pleasure in watching the old man, who had so often bloviated about the power of magic, taken down by what amounts to some distilled pepper juice.
"Concentrated capsaicin is nasty stuff. Even the strongest pepper sprays dilute it so it doesn't cause permanent damage. Inhaling vapor like you are now will inflame your lungs and probably kill you! Not like you were long for this world anyways…"
Stockwell laughed as he looked back at the chlorine slowly making its way into the corridor.
"Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go get a deep breath of fresh air."
He stepped around Aamon's crying heap. It was unlikely the man could even hear clearly with his ears swollen beyond recognition from the capsaicin.
Stockwell braced his side and continued up the stairs, leaving the old man to die to the chlorine.
…
Stockwell sealed the crypt behind him. Doing so took every last bit of his strength as he rolled the large stone back into its place. But when he did so, it filled him with a sense of finality.
He limped forward and felt cool grass beneath his bare feet. After having been a prisoner for more than a year, he was finally free.
The nighttime breeze blew through the surrounding trees and carried a cacophony of pining crickets. He felt the cool breeze on his face and the soft mud beneath his feet. Stockwell looked up towards the sky and his eyes grew wide.
The night sky he was used to seeing on Earth was a smoggy black blanket, devoid of change and color, so it was very rare for him to even spot one star.
For a moment he thought that he must've been inside an eco-dome with a synthetically projected sky. But no, there was only one such arcology on Earth with an eco-dome large enough to produce a sight like this and he had been there before. This experience was completely different.
These were "real" stars. You could see them on Mars, the Moon, or in interplanetary space, but never unobstructed by glass.
Seeing them with his own eyes unobstructed, was simply put, magical.
It was a great indigo sea where stars splashed about in a cornucopia of life and color. They flickered in blues, yellows, and reds, like molten silver and gold scattered about a canvas. And nebulae, visible to the naked eye, rose from the indigo sea's floor like great algal blooms.
The planet's moon, which just like the stars, he had only seen on a few chance occasions, rose behind the silhouette of distant mountains. That glimmering platinum orb shone like a lighthouse that stood guard on the sea's rocky coast.
He collapsed to his knees, his shins and toes dug into the soft mud, it was a pleasant sensation.
He had known that magic existed in this new world of his, but this was confirmation. Mere balls of plasma could not evoke such emotions without magical assistance, he reasoned.
Tears streamed from his face as he looked up into the sky. He shouted at the top of his lungs. It was filled with anger and pining.
"How dare you!?"
Stockwell had been tortured underground for months on end. He had clawed his way out of hell, only to be greeted by such beauty. To finally discover that such a sight was always there, hidden from his sight, it felt to him like fate was mocking him.
"How dare you keep me in that hole!?"
He slammed his fist into the ground and tears continued to roll from his face. "I wouldn't have sinned so much if I had known heaven was that beautiful. All I wanted to do was get back home. But now you've even taken that desire from me. How could I ever go back home knowing that there was a sky like this?"
He buckled over and began to vomit. His body had long since reached its breaking point. Even with his face mask and bioengineered organs, he had still inhaled too much chlorine and sustained far too much internal damage from the explosion. His eyes stung from trace amounts of capsaicin and tears, and every orifice of his body ached.
But, he still had one more thing to do. It was likely that the cultists who had escaped ahead of him would return. If he wanted to see this sky again he needed to move his legs and flee from this place.
He shuffled into the depths of the forest before him.
His body gave way soon after. He collapsed into the mud and surrendered to sleep.
...
The Bareare residence in Carne Village was a humble abode; a simple wood and plaster frame supporting a peaked thatched roof. But the building's humble appearance belied the true skills of the alchemist who lived there.
One of the rooms inside served as an infirmary that reeked of urine and foul-smelling concoctions. Splayed across the bed was a man riddled in ugly scars. His facial features were sharp and wolfish
"Is he going to make it, Enfi?" A blonde-haired girl leaned over the back of a young man, trying to get a closer look at the stranger splayed on the bed. Her hair hung down into the young man's face, obstructing his view.
Nfirea blushed as he politely brushed Enri's hair out of his face.
"I think he'll be alright. I gave him some medicines that should help stabilize his condition after Jugem-san brought him in last night. He has some other problems too that will need targeted healing. His bladder and intestine burst, and he's still bleeding from his left ear canal, it's a miracle he's managed to hang on to life so long."
Nfirea slowly passed his hands up and down the man's bare chest. "He has so many scars… These aren't the kind of injuries made by weapons. He must've been being tortured for a long time."
Nfirea and Enri looked at the man's broken and bandaged body with eyes overflowing with empathy. "When will he wake up?"
"I'm not sure. His physical condition has mostly stabilized, but I can't even begin to guess what his mental condition is like."
Nfirea stood up and sheepishly ushered Enri out of the room, "In any case, all we can do now is maintain his bandages and wait."