Re:Animation Chapter 5: Three Souls in a Green Gem, a re:zero fanfic

"Come on, guys, hustle." Raeburn yelled, urgency lacing his voice. He urged the trail of skeletons behind him, led by his loyal Tank, back through the path he'd carved earlier. The bony constructs followed seamlessly, their grip on the children remarkably gentle.

Raeburn watched, awestruck, as they navigated rocky terrain without jostling their precious cargo, the children appearing to float serenely within their grasp. His lupine companion took the lead home without his guidance, allowing the young man to stand up on the liger's back and scan for threats.

Just as before, they met no resistance. The forest remained eerily quiet, devoid of pursuit. Relief washed over him as they broke into the clear. Reaching the tree line, they were met with cheers of relief… which quickly curdled into screams and horrified gasps as the townsfolk spotted their unusual entourage. Even the men were shaken.

Tank's guttural barks demanded attention. "Calm down!" Raeburn shouted, taking control. "They're with me! Get these kids inside! Get them blankets and stay with them! They were just cursed! Whoever's a healer, attend to them!"

He watched as Petra's skeletal bearer gently placed her into her parents' tearful embrace, then crumbled to dust. The other constructs followed suit, moving in unison to complete their mission. With his mind at ease, Raeburn spurred Tank towards the square, hoping he wasn't too late.

The sight that greeted him was a massive crowd gathered around the very spot he'd instructed Frederica to take Rem.

Great.

"Fuck out of the way!" He bellowed, Tank echoing his command with a ferocious bark. The crowd parted like a wave before the speeding duo, their shouts swallowed by the wind. "Do not gather! Give'm some air, for fuck's sake!"

Bursting through the crowd, Raeburn dismounted, leaving Tank to maintain order. He sprinted towards Ram and Emilia, Rem's frail form trembling beneath a makeshift blanket. Despite the layers, her pallor deepened, an unsettling contrast to the horn on her forehead, glowing faintly like a dying ember as it absorbed ambient mana. Time was running out.

"Move aside, Emilia!" He commanded, swiftly retrieving the blue stone embedded in his club, the sole artifact he had from Pandemonium. Discarding his weapon, he knelt beside Rem, replacing Emilia's frantic touch. "This curse eats mana. This stone should give her a dose of it while I try to get rid of it."

Ram, her usually unwavering eyes glistening with tears, squeezed her sister's hand. "Please hurry! Whatever method you have, just do it! Save Ram's sister!" For the first time, he's seeing the weaker and most vulnerable side of this confident maid, weeping and begging.

Oh, he hated the sight of it. Only that haughty, imperious and confident look belying the kindness in them he would only find on this woman. Anything else is but a slight to her honor.

"Ma...mas...er...Rae..." Rem's voice rasped, weak and fading.

"Shut up, Rem. Save your energy." Raeburn instructed, his heart pounding in his chest. He clasped her small hand, placing the mana stone against her palm. The reservoir within should hold her steady, but the true fight was yet to come. This would be painful, but it was her only chance.

Steel resolve etched on his face, Raeburn pressed the stone against Rem's hand, channeling its mana directly into her Od. Once again, he damned his inability to offer his own mana – attempting such would only make it worse, as their bodies would reject the foreign energy. Only the Necro and a handful of others shared this ability.

He fought to focus, adrenaline blurring his perception. Was her breathing stabilizing? It was hard to tell. Tank's frantic barking only made it harder. Once he sensed Rem's mana replenished, he pocketed the stone and moved to the crux of the matter. Cupping his hand over her chest, he flipped it, black tendrils of the curse leaking from her and into him.

His body, a barren wasteland, offered no fertile ground for curses to grow. They held no power to trick, beguile, ruin, or kill him. Not even the unique curses of this world. This was his gift, the crucible that forged his being. This was Raeburn Cursebane.

Pandemonium called it a Gift. This world called it a Divine Blessing. He questioned these labels daily, remembering the suffering it had brought him. But today, it was the only tool he had that stood between Rem and oblivion, to save this girl.

...and he was quickly losing hope.

"Yoouuuuu baaastaaaaarrrrrrd...!" Raeburn snarled, fury twisting his expression as he fought to siphon the tendrils of darkness. Yet, the curse clung on, unwavering.

"What!? What's wrong!?" Ram's voice trembled, fear mirroring his distress.

"This...this...I can't pull it out! This curse...this curse, it's eating too quickly! I can't rip it out!" The curse was like a weed, growing more in length faster than he could rip it out of the ground. Both Rem and his mana are being devoured as well, if it goes on like this, then two people will die instead. "I can't give her my mana, can't even give her Emilia's mana—FUCK! If only the Necro was here!"

"The witchbeast! The witchbeast that has done this!"

Raeburn turned his gaze up to Ram, "What? What about?"

"If that witchbeast dies, then this curse will be nullified automatically! You have to go back and hunt this thing down, Brearan! If you won't, then Ram will!"

"NO, RAM!" Raeburn roared, his control slipping. "Even if I go, how am I supposed to find that fucking thing in a forest as big as that!? Wait! Maybe the Necro could find it! He's the one holding all the curses of the other children! I think he could track the bastard down!"

"Then why is Rem still uncured!? Why isn't she free from it!?"

"I DON'T FUCKING KNOW, RAM! HE COULD STILL BE SEARCHING!"

"WE DON'T HAVE TIME! RAM'S LITTLE SISTER IS DYING!"

"Master Raeburn! Master Raeburn!" A frantic voice sliced through the tense silence, the last thing Raeburn needed.

"WHAT!? WHAT NOW!? SPIT IT OUT!" He whipped around, his gaze hardening into a glare as he met Petra's father.

The man, held at bay by Tank's menacing growl, strained to be heard. "Petra...she said there's another one! A child! Her name is Meili!"

"What?" Raeburn's world tilted. Panic threatened to white-out his vision. Then, a blur of white – Emilia, charging towards the treeline with surprising speed. He reacted instantly, catching her arm before she disappeared, knowing exactly what she was planning. "Where the fuck do you think you're going, Emilia!?"

"I can't just stand here doing nothing, Raeburn!" She screamed out, the ears of her white Concealment Cloak barely upright after being wrung throughout the stress. "You're fighting to save Rem, and the beast responsible needs to be killed! And there's another child you missed! I can fight, Raeburn! You've done enough! I can't let my friend bear this burden alone!"

Raeburn yanked her back before she started running again, "You're not going anywhere."

"But wh—"

He slammed the mana stone into her palm, closing her fingers around it. "Keep this pressed against Rem's hand. Feed her your mana. Don't worry about incompatibility. The curse will drain it faster before her body can reject it."

With a clenched jaw, Raeburn released Emilia's hand. A shrill whistle summoned Tank, the massive liger bounding towards him. He mounted with swift agility, and the beast let out a guttural howl. Raeburn held out his palm, and his loyal club, Snakebite, flew from the ground, magnetizing to his back.

"Where are you going, Raeburn!? What are you going to do!?"

He met her gaze, his eyes now icy cold, colder than any frost spell his weapon could conjure. "I'm gonna hunt that fucking thing down," He stated, his voice devoid of the warmth she knew from him. "I'll burn the entire forest down, if I have to. I won't lose another friend, especially not someone's sibling. Never again."

The crowd, sensing the shift in his aura, parted instinctively before he finished his sentence. Tank, understanding his rider's fury, plunged forward with newfound speed, tearing into the tree line. This wasn't a rescue mission anymore. This was a hunt, fueled by grief and a burning desire for vengeance. Tank's growl echoed through the woods, a predator preparing to feast on its prey.

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Less than a minute later, they were back on the verdant hill where he and the Necro found the cursed children. Tank, his keen nose on high alert, quickly picked up the man's trail. These enigmatic beings were notoriously difficult to track, leaving no scent, no footprints, nothing. They could seemingly materialize behind locked doors, dispatch the occupant inside and leave without disturbing a single item. In this case, however, the ground bore mute witness: telltale tracks of a mud golem, including the crater it had burst from. The golem's presence marks the significance of the threat present that necessitated its creation.

Raeburn knew the Death Mage had located the source of the curse. Following him meant finding the cure for Rem, if the culprit wasn't already dead. In that case, Rem would be free, and he can enact the purging of the forest. It could even mean an opportunity for Earlham Village to expand.

Then, a metallic stench assaulted Raeburn's sensitive nose. Tank halted, snorting in disgust. 413 meters ahead, they found the source: a gruesome expanse of fresh blood, scattered organs, and a few scraps of fur. Something had been viciously murdered, its remains desecrated before being reanimated as a skeletal pawn, bound to its killer's will and likely sent on a rampage.

Tank snorted again, almost a choked gurgle, echoing Raeburn's own disgust.

"I know, boy," Raeburn murmured, patting his mount's neck. "The smell's getting to me too." He urged Tank forward, kicking his shins against the beast's flank. "Rem's counting on us. Let's move."

Tank shot forward, snout close to the ground, nose twitching as he traced the golem's scent amidst the gruesome mess of red, flesh, fur, and scattered organs. His own paws became crimson with fresh blood. Raeburn, seeking guidance, turned to the Souls, seeking confirmation if the Death Mage lay ahead or elsewhere. Their urgent response echoed just as a faint howling, tormented shriek pierced the air – the unmistakable sounds of suffering and a young girl's scream.

Tank, seemingly reading his master's mind, plunged forward into the dense vegetation, branches whipping against Raeburn as he clung on, ignoring the pain of sharp wood and leaves. They were heading towards the source of that chilling cry.

Emerging into a horrific clearing, Raeburn found himself amidst a battlefield of hundreds of reanimated skeletons, their frames stained with blood and adorned with the macabre trophies of their victims: organs ripped from their former hosts. Some stood inert, while others tore savagely at an enormous dog with bone-forged weapons and skeletal jaws.

A sigh escaped Raeburn, laced with grim resignation. That was an Ulgarm. Of course, they were the ones responsible for the curse and populating the forest. They were among the few creatures capable of such dark magic.

But something was off. These skeletal puppets, normally eager to attack him on sight, ignored his presence. In Pandemonium, such peace was unimaginable. It was unsettling, surreal, to walk past an army of death without a single bone shard launched in his direction.

Suddenly….

A wave of hate, unnatural and potent, surged through Raeburn. His hand instinctively flew to his club's handle, his knuckles white with barely suppressed rage.

Suffer.

The nearby Souls chanted, their whispers laced with malice, fueling the inferno within him. He fought the urge to rip loose, to slam his club into the nearest skeleton, to unleash the storm raging inside.

Tank, sensing his rider's turmoil, treaded silently, his massive paws barely making a sound on the dirt. The tension radiated from Raeburn, a tangible force in the air.

Then, the sight before him shattered his simmering rage. His eyes widened in shock, eclipsing even the inferno within him. "What in the...!?" He gasped, rearing back as Tank instinctively mirrored the movement, their momentum halting abruptly. "What the fuck is going on...?"

Before them lay a scene of devastation, an unnatural battlefield stretching for 200 meters. As if the earth itself had convulsed, the ground was warped and contorted, a grotesque monument to unimaginable power. Uprooted trees, half-buried in the disturbed earth, littered the landscape like fallen soldiers. And in the center, colossal and lifeless, lay a giant Ulgarm. Its sheer size, a testament to the stolen mana it had consumed, confirmed it as the likely source of the curse.

Hope flickered within him. "Please tell me it died after I left Rem," He pleaded, his voice taut with the weight of his unspoken fear.

Yes.

The Souls confirmed his suspicion with a chorus of affirmations. But something was eerily off. The creature bore no visible wounds, no marks of the Necro's usual handiwork – no ripped flesh, no severed limbs, not even a missing head. Yet, its pain was etched on its face in a permanent silent scream, hinting at an agonizing demise.

And then, a sound pierced the silence – a child's whimper, faint but unmistakable, emanating from behind the colossal corpse.

Ignoring the malicious chorus of the Souls, Raeburn dismounted Tank in a swift, silent movement. Club gripped tight, he cautiously rounded the massive Ulgarm, his wolf companion mirroring his movements. Together, they formed a coiled spring, ready to unleash their fury. Peering around the massive corpse, he braced for the brutality he expected to find.

And there it was. The Death Mage, a chilling tableau of cruelty. With a serrated bone knife, he tore open the front of a young girl's dress, exposing her pale skin to the biting air. Invisible forces held her arms wide, terror reflected in her bloodshot eyes. Blood dripped from a wound on her neck, forming a crimson puddle around her. The man's jaws were clamped on her-

"THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, NECROMANCER?!" Raeburn roared, his voice a thunderclap. Surging with fury, he launched himself around the Ulgarm, club raised high, aiming to send the Mage's head flying.

Incoming.

Coming in.

Dodge.

Behind.

Duck.

A black kukri materialized mid-air, hurtling towards his face. In a lightning-fast move, he redirected his strike, whirling around and froze the hand holding the weapon, shattering it into a million pieces. But another kukri followed, aimed to sever his head.

With inhuman speed, Raeburn swung his club, ignoring the momentum of his previous strike. The attacker's hand met the same fate as the first, exploding into a mist of red and steel. A third swing, swift and brutal, cleaved the enemy's torso in two, sending the lifeless remains crashing into a distant tree.

The ground shuddered beneath Raeburn's feet. He barely had time to register the source before the earth erupted. From behind the tree line, a tide of ivory surged forward, hundreds of skeletal claws and feet flattening the vegetation in their wake. The dead, their forms soaked crimson, swarmed the corpse with a ravenous hunger.

Their target? The lifeless husk of Elsa Granhiert, the assassin who had evaded even the likes of Reinhardt. Now, headless, handless, she lay sprawled on the blood-soaked earth.

Silence, thick and suffocating, descended upon the scene. No battle cries, no clash of weapons. Just the grotesque sounds of bone on bone, flesh tearing and squelching. The skeletons fought and clawed at each other, a frenzy driven by a singular desire – a piece of Elsa's flesh.

No swords or axes were needed, only their jagged jaws and claws. Her torso, split nineteen ways, became a battleground as they fought for each scrap of flesh. Limbs reduced to chunks, organs ripped out and fought over - the scene was a butcher's nightmare painted in shades of crimson.

The moonlight glinted off the spilled blood, turning the usually stark bone white into a chilling crimson canvas. Every crevice of the undead warriors was coated in the metallic scent, a gruesome adornment.

Raeburn had seen horrors before. Pandemonium had offered its share of gruesome sights, but this was different. There was no enemy to distract him, no reason to intervene. He stood frozen, a silent witness to the grotesque spectacle. Each severed limb, each scattered organ, branded itself onto his retinas. His gaze remained fixed on the carnage, unblinking even as a drop of Elsa's blood splattered his forehead. The only movement came from the tremor in his hands, gripping the club so tightly his knuckles turned white.

The child's agonized screams ripped through his daze, jolting him back to reality with the force of a lightning strike. He spun around, a whirlwind of wind whipping past him as he witnessed a new horrific development unfolding.

The Necro had released his bite from the child's neck, leaving behind bloody teeth marks. But instead of relief, her screams intensified as the serrated knife plunged into her belly, spilling her entrails in a gruesome display as he swept it downwards—

"NECRO, STOP!" Raeburn roared, dropping his club. He lunged, grabbing the man's bony shoulder and unleashing a brutal punch right into the Death Mage's seemingly impervious cheek. A sickening crack echoed as the jaw dislocated.

In that moment, a chilling realization flashed through Raeburn's mind – this was the first time he had ever landed a blow on the seemingly invincible Necro.

Before he could process this impossible feat, a white palm slammed into his chin, sending him reeling. Disoriented and barely able to keep his feet, he braced for another attack. A bony fist, imbued with unnatural power, shot towards his abdomen. The flesh threatened to tear open, but the blow miraculously shifted, the force coursing through his body, slamming him onto his back.

Groans and vicious barks echoed through the clearing, ending in a pained whimper and ominous silence. Disoriented, Raeburn struggled to piece together the events outside his fogged mind. He tasted blood from a bitten tongue, his head throbbed like a captured animal, and a phantom ache gnawed at his stomach. Which injury to prioritize, he couldn't decide.

Years of the Cult's experiments had rendered him impervious to most physical pain. Blades and clubs deflected, leaving bruises at worst. Exhaustion, not pain, slowed him down. But the Death Mage's blows were different. They delivered a searing agony, a glimpse into the vulnerability of others. This pain, this reminder of mortality, had shaped his fighting style: strike first, strike hard, and never be hit again.

Countless seconds, maybe minutes, blurred as he fought to regain his senses. Finally, he staggered to his feet, spitting blood from his cut tongue. His club became a crutch, his other hand clutching the phantom hole in his gut, a bruise blossoming beneath his tunic. His chin throbbed, his vision blurred with bloodshot eyes as they landed on the Necro.

The mage stood motionless, corpse-like, wispy green energy crackling around his fists, positioned before the child's horrifyingly disemboweled corpse, guarding it from Raeburn's approach.

Tank lay at his side, immobilized but seemingly unharmed. A paralyzing curse, the Souls whispered. Relief washed over Raeburn, momentarily forgotten in the face of the gruesome tableau before him.

The Necro's jaw snapped back into place with an audible click. His emerald eyes, glowing ominously under the moon, met Raeburn's. But instead of rage, they held a chilling condescension, as if looking at a wayward child. He seemed to pity Raeburn's naiveté, his outburst viewed as an ignorant tantrum.

This perceived pity, this patronizing dismissal of his anger, only fanned the fire within Raeburn.

He knew that fucking look. That infuriating, condescending look. It was the same one the Necro wore when Raeburn berated him for endangering allies and enemies alike. The same one he had while facing the grieving sister of a fallen warrior whose body he repurposed into a weapon instead of honoring his death. It was the same fucking look as he beheaded a dying child, using his Soul as a captive tool with the severed head as a vessel for a year, all with barely a flicker of emotion.

No sympathy.

No empathy.

No compassion.

No humanity.

The fire in Raeburn's gut, once fierce, turned to chilling ice. A numbness washed over him, heavier than any blow. How foolish he had been to hope for anything different. Why expect a flicker of humanity from this creature of darkness? Why even bother?

"How could you...?" Raeburn's voice cracked, the weight of his suffering threatening to consume him. Years of pain, in Pandemonium and beyond, all traced back to this white-haired figure in black robes. His shoulders slumped, defeated. "I thought...I thought you changed, Necro..."

A flicker of movement in the man's narrowed eyes was the only response.

"I had hope." Raeburn continued, his voice raw. "I held hope...the hope that you had been different, that you were no longer that bastard I've been with years ago...You've done...horrible things, Necro...! To me! To others! To Kids! You were a fucking MONSTER! If you didn't leave us that day, I would have killed you then, even if I end up going down with you!"

The Necro remained silent, his gaze unwavering.

"But I still held hope. The hope that despite everything you've done in Pandamunum, you had changed! In the years I was here, in the last 5 fucking years I've been here, I had hoped that you were different the moment you arrived! That you had grown! That urent u unsas befer!" He pointed a shaking finger towards the capital, his words veering into the tortured lingua franca of Pandemonium, fueled by his raw emotions. "Ergunt in Pandamunum numa! Itukyu aba change ut perspective! That you'd find something mu meaningful than truking everyone umet un screaming at me!"

Green eyes, ablaze within their shadows, narrowed further.

Raeburn fought to keep his composure, his words tumbling out as he tried not to regress to the old tongue. "YOU FED THE FUCKING SLUMS! YOU PROTECTED FELT AND ROM! YOU SAVED EMILIA! THE SOULS THEMSELVES SAID THAT YOU WIPED OUT EVERY SIN IN PANDAMUNUM! YOU...!"

His accusation hung heavy in the air, met only by the Necro's deepening scowl. The green eyes hardened, the condescension morphing into cold judgment. Behind the Necro, bony spikes rose from the ground, encasing the child's ravaged body in a macabre Venus flytrap. She will be carried away to a place to be violated in every way a Death Mage could think of.

Raeburn's voice sank, hollow and devoid of hope. He gripped his club tight, accepting the grim reality. "Did the time Emilia spent with you mean nothing at all? Did none of the experiences she shared, thanks to you saving her, change your outlook? Could you not use your power for good, for saving lives like you saved hers…?"

His club pulsed with magic, the embedded stones channeling swirling elements. The scent of ozone cut through the air, a storm brewing within Snakebite.

"I might no longer be Emilia's friend anymore when I come back...if I even get to survive this fight at all." He swung his club twice, sparks dancing around the hexagonal head like electrified serpents. "Even if I explain my reasons, she'd never accept it. Spirit Mages and their life to swear and promise...she owed you a debt for her life...now I'm not going to allow it..."

Despite the looming fight, the clash of ideals echoing countless similar battles before, the Necro remained unmoved. He didn't rush to attack, his focus solely on concealing the child's body. Unlike before, he didn't twitch, didn't even blink. In his eyes, Raeburn saw himself labelled: an immature, naïve fool blind to the truth.

Still being that hateful, coldhearted, and uncaring Necro from Pandemonium.

"You're cursed, Necro. You will always drive people away from you, because you do horrible things and you will never stop doing it, and barely anyone in the world will ever approve of it." Raeburn prepared his stance, spreading his legs and sliding one foot forward, set to fling himself to the enemy and attack, "This is the consequence, just like the ones before. This is just what it is. And this will be the last time—"

A deafening explosion interrupted him, a million bones scattering everywhere into the night. He instinctively braced himself, club ready, but the Necro remained unmoved. Not even a spell brewed from him. Rather, his attention was fixated behind Raeburn.

Murder.

Raeburn's blood ran cold. The Necro's face contorted into the murderous scowl he remembered from Pandemonium, the one he wore when he failed to save the children from the Greedspawns. A guttural howl echoed, the dead joining in a chilling symphony. The air crackled with corrupted mana, a sickly green haze emanating from the Necro's back.

The Necro is readying for battle, and Raeburn's not the target.

With a grimace, Raeburn swallowed his anger. His difference with the Necro was irrelevant now. He spun around, moving closer to Tank's paralyzed form.

The serial killer's ability to cheat death, as evidenced by the loot house incident and Puck's testimony, was already outrageous. But what stood before him now surpassed even that.

Atop a macabre mountain of bones, formed from the skeleton army that had ripped her apart, stood Elsa Granhiert. Her flesh, miraculously restored to its youthful peak, shone under the moonlight, her clothes pristine as if never worn.

The woman he thought defeated was reborn, her role reversed against the horde of bone. And the murderous intent in her eyes left no doubt about her next target.

Raeburn knelt, his touch on the Liger's side transferring the paralyzing curse from Tank's form to himself, which wilted immediately. The loyal beast stood tall, fangs bared and fur bristling, guarding him fiercely.

"You...!" Raeburn snarled, rage surging within him, fueled by the Souls' unbridled hatred. Compared to Roswaal, Elsa Granhiert ignited a collective fury from them. Every single one of them despised her, the embodiment of cruelty. He fought the urge to succumb entirely to his rage being twisted, his own self-control battling the Souls' bloodthirsty demands.

"Me," Elsa replied, her smile unsettlingly gentle.

Kill her!

Her calm demeanor only fueled the Souls' rage. Reinhardt's description of her cruelty paled in comparison. This woman deserved death, no trial, no mercy. Only oblivion could cleanse the stain she cast on life itself.

"You took care of my sister well," She commented, her voice laced with a strange sweetness.

Sister? Raeburn's mind reeled. Could this be the child the Necro had gutted? Was that the reason for the gruesome disembowelment? Guilt by association?

Raeburn fought back a scoff. Memories of the Necro's supposed redemption flooded his mind, only to be swept away by a surge of renewed anger. "Tough luck your sister crossed paths with that bastard," He spat. "Her only crime was having your blood, enough for him to open her up like a gutted fish, something you'd know a lot about, with your fucking moniker as the fucking Bowel Hunter."

Elsa's elegant eyebrow arched in feigned surprise, "Is that how you see it? If your rant has any clues, then clearly you aren't on the same page as him."

"The hell are you talking about?"

"Those children you wouldn't have ended up in such a state if it wasn't for her. She's the one who cut open the barrier, controlled all those witchbeasts and had them curse the little ones and one of your maids."

True.

The Souls' chilling chorus resonated in Raeburn's ears, each affirmation solidifying the dread in his gut. His eyes widened in disbelief, his mouth agape, and the electric hum of his club sputtered out. He glanced back, where the bone cocoon had vanished, dooming the child to the Necro's mercy.

"What...?" His voice cracked. "Are you serious? H-how is that…?"

"Are you truly surprised?" Elsa's voice, laced with a cold fury barely masked by feigned surprise, cut through his confusion. "You truly didn't suspect a child? Or perhaps the concept of a child capable of such cruelty was simply inconceivable, blinded by your idealistic notions of innocence?"

Raeburn felt trapped, cornered by both Elsa's words and the towering figure of the Death Mage's gaze searing into his back like a malevolent sun, the Necro's burning aura of hatred threatening to consume him.

A child? Responsible for all this? How...how could it be?

His mind reeled, desperately trying to escape the crushing weight of the truth. The chants of the Souls, echoing in support of the Necro's actions, suddenly felt justified. The child, a precious being he'd envisioned needing love and protection, now stood accused as the architect of this nightmare. His combat focus shattered, replaced by a desperate scramble to salvage the situation.

"No...no, no way..." he stammered, voice thick with denial. "It's not true...you could've set her up!"

"She did it," Elsa's voice remained neutral, yet held a steely certainty. "Planned, initiated, caused it all. A contract may bind her, but the will to commit such acts is hers alone. And she wouldn't hesitate to repeat them."

True!

The Souls roared their agreement, their pronouncements echoing in his mind like a chorus of condemnation. Each desperate denial from Raeburn was met with their unwavering insistence, echoing the Necro's verdict of the child's deserving fate. Rem's life threatened, children cursed - the Souls hungered for punishment, and she received Pandemonium's judgment as he earlier wished.

Their clamor intensified, their unified message ringing loud and clear: this was justice.

Panic clawed at Raeburn, his hardened warrior spirit fracturing under the weight of Elsa's revelation. "B-but what good would it do you by telling us?!" He stammered, years of combat experience failing to anchor him.

Elsa cut him off, her descent from the bone hill radiating an aura of lethal intent. "Because I can never return home. Mama will surely punish me for Meili's death." Her hands glinted with twin kukris, their moonlight reflection a chilling harbinger of disembowelment. "This day will not end with any of you alive. I will savor every second as I slit open your belly, watch as the entrails spill out, and compare the color of it to your silent companion once I do the same to him. And when I'm done, I'll decorate the tree line of the village with your intestines—"

The earth suddenly exploded before her, bone and soil erupting in a macabre floral display. A bone spike, launched with unseen speed, aimed for her heart. With a dancer's grace, she navigated the shrapnel, appearing before Raeburn in a blur of motion.

He saw this attack coming, his liger companion leaping out of harm's way. His club swung, a blur of metal aimed to smash her hand.

But Elsa was ready for it, retaliating with a deadly two-pronged assault – a kukri aimed for his club and redirecting from his parry towards his face, her other hand holding needles targeting his eyes. Raeburn's choices were grim: parry the blade and risk losing his vision, deflect the needles and risk a skull-splitting strike.

Before he could make a decision, a sudden and deafening CRACK split the air, bone against flesh. In a split second, Elsa vanished, her face a bloody mess as she was hurled into the bone pile. His head and eyes, moments ago threatened, were untouched.

Her body swelled, convulsed, and it violently exploded, a visceral bomb of blood and organs splattering everywhere.

The Death Mage stood where Raeburn had been, his bloodstained fist confirming the deed. He had shielded Raeburn from harm, his intervention as brutal as it was effective.

After the adrenaline wore off, it came crashing down on him.

Numbness couldn't shield him from the searing shame. Despite the Cult's curse, Raeburn had never felt so raw and exposed. Guilt gnawed at him, sharper than any physical pain. He couldn't remember ever feeling this...broken.

His life, both here and in Pandemonium, had been one of unwavering conviction. He never questioned his choices, ensuring he was never wrong, never burdened by regret. Right and wrong were absolutes, superseding laws and petty concerns. Now, doubt gnawed at the very foundation of his being.

He was wrong. Horribly wrong. He royally fucked it up.

"No…no…."

One impulsive act, fueled by self-righteous anger, had ruined everything. The chance to connect, to understand the Necro, was gone. Lost in the ashes of his self-proclaimed righteousness, the truth was stark: Raeburn Cursebane hadn't changed. He was still the man ripped from Pandemonium, his supposed growth a cruel illusion.

He'd shattered his own belief in the Necro's growth, the flicker of hope he'd nurtured in the face of the mage's acts of kindness and openness. He'd spoken of change, of second chances, of new beginnings. He'd even offered them to the Death Mage himself.

And he had dashed them all against the rocks, bastardizing his principles to the blind rage he ever carried near the Necro. He hadn't questioned, simply acted, fueled by the same impulsive fury that had plagued him before.

Raeburn has sinned. The weight of his actions crushed Raeburn. Pandemonium, it seemed, wasn't just a place; it was a curse he carried within him. The Death Mage wasn't the monster he'd assumed, but Raeburn himself, judging and attacking without understanding, fueled by the same prejudice that condemned all Death Mages as monsters. He had swung his club, fueled by prejudice and rage, fracturing the fragile bridge they'd built.

If there was ever a chance to truly see the Necro, exactly as he said and wanted to, it was gone, shattered by Raeburn's reckless blow. Raeburn, the supposed harbinger of change, had become the embodiment of his own flawed past.

"Necro...Emur...Emurdol..." He stammered, desperation lacing his voice. "I apologize! I didn't know..."

A single, coherent word from the Death Mage: "Quiet!"

The single word froze Raeburn in his tracks. Did the Death Mage just...speak?

His shock was short-lived. Before he could process, his body reacted on autopilot. The club flew to his hand, crackling with magic, and he hurled it like a lightning-infused axe, the wind magic empowering its flight to the speed of a bullet.

It flew with deadly intent, aiming not for the Necro, but for the newly resurrected Elsa. Her mangled face, miraculously healed, bore a mocking smirk as she casually dodged the weapon. It slammed into a tree behind her, blowing it asunder, sending splinters flying like shrapnel.

The Necro's response was swift and savage. With a guttural snarl, he levitated fragments of the bone pile, transforming them into a monstrous, serrated claw on his right arm. His focus, however, wasn't on Raeburn, but on Elsa. Rage burned in his eyes, a chilling counterpoint to the twisted miracle of her repeated revival.

The Necro's attack was a whirlwind of bone. His monstrous claw swept towards Elsa, the segmented fingers morphing into razor-sharp teeth that chased her like a macabre hail. She danced through the onslaught, her kukris flashing as she deflected each tooth. Closing the distance, she lunged, blades poised to strike towards his abdomen.

But a new threat emerged. Raeburn's club on the ground, seemingly flung by an unseen hand, flew at her head from behind. With a flick of her wrists, she parried it, abandoning her attack.

Seizing this opportunity, Raeburn bolted towards her and unleashed a devastating dropkick, launching her through the air with the bone-shattering force of a taut ballista. her scream cut short by a bone spike erupting from the ground, impaling her neck and beheading her from the momentum of her flight.

More spikes erupted, transforming the ground into a macabre cage, holding her broken body up in a gruesome display.

The Necro wasted no time, fury contorting his face as he descended upon Elsa's body, a wraith of black smoke. His regenerated claw sank into her back, tearing through flesh like butter. With a vengeful snarl, his right hand and eyes pulsed with malevolent green light.

Raeburn knew what was coming. He shielded his head as Elsa's body detonated in a deafening spray of gore. Chunks of flesh rained down, the metallic tang of blood filling the air. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the Necro's ragged breaths.

No bone fragments pierced his back. Raeburn straightened, his hand instinctively reaching to his shirt. Instead of ragged flesh, he encountered a strange sensation: a chaotic bundle of wires sprawled across his palm.

Turning, he saw Tank, his wolf companion, towering over him. The liger's massive body had shielded him from the explosion, "Tank?"

He rushed to the other side, checking for injuries. Blood splattered the liger's fur, but no bone fragments dug in. Relief washed over him.

"Damn it, Tank. Too reckless." He reached for Tank's collar, his fingers brushing against the embedded gemstone. Mana flowed through him, activating the intricate algorithms within the stone. The liger's fur, already formidable, hardened further, each strand now diamond-tough, a level of protection no natural beast could possess.

Raeburn patted the fur reassuringly, now feeling every strand, "Stay close," He commanded, recalling his club and approaching the Necro.

Meanwhile, the Necro stood silent, surveying the carnage. The once-sharp bone spikes were now broken stumps, surrounded by a macabre stain on the ground that mirrored the crimson splatters on his own form. With a flex of his clawed arm, the useless bones detached, morphing into ivory spears that hovered menacingly above his shoulders, ready to launch on his command.

"I'll cover this side." Raeburn declared, guilt and fear gnawing at his gut as he positioned himself opposite the Necro. Tank pressed against his back, a silent oath of loyalty. Yet, conflict raged within him. The man had mutilated a child, even if she was responsible for the chaos. But gutting her...a child...

He pushed the emotion down, aware the situation demanded focus, not moral dilemmas. "Tank and I'll distract, you deliver the final blow."

"Hm."

Did Raeburn imagine it, or had the mage actually acknowledged him?

A shrill whistle pierced the air. Adrenaline surged as Raeburn's body reacted instinctively. Razor-sharp darts aimed at his exposed flank shattered or veered off course as his club deflected them. Simultaneously, the Necro's bone spears launched at the needles' origin, exploding into shrapnel that ripped through trees and scorched the ground.

Elsa, resurrected once more, was a blur of movement, dodging the spears with impossible speed. Her swift form darted across the edge of the clearing, circling them six times before Raeburn could even track her movements. Raeburn, relying on instinct, swatted at darts and evaded the invisible threat, sight useless against her speed. The Necro stood still, bone fragments swirling around him like a protective shield, deflecting any darts aimed his way.

"Dusherm!" Raeburn roared, unleashing his weapon. His club, Snakebite, transformed into a blur of enchanted metal. The studded head, imbued with freezing magic, shot forward on its chains, propelled by wind magic, arcing towards Elsa's path like a hungry serpent.

Raeburn's attack left him exposed, but he gambled on his unnatural resilience. He braced for the impact of darts, but none came. Instead, the club's head slammed into the ground, freezing the mutated soil in a wide radius. The assassin, momentarily caught off guard, slipped but stabbed a kukri into the ground to regain balance.

Tank, unfazed by the icy terrain, bolted towards her, closing his jaws around her midsection in a brutal display of power. He ripped her open as he flung her towards Raeburn. Her blades, meant for Tank, bounced harmlessly off the magically-reinforced fur of his snout. Raeburn, seizing the opportunity, swung Snakebite's extended head upwards, shattering Elsa's upper half into frozen meat chunks.

Before the pieces could hit the ground, the Necro swooped in, snatched the remaining half of Elsa, and plunged his claw-arm into the frozen flesh. Another explosion ripped through the air, obliterating what remained of the assassin.

Raeburn, unlike before, stood his ground. He raised an arm to shield his face from the spray of blood, then lowered it and retracted Snakebite with a metallic clang. He returned to his position beside the Necro, their silence heavy with unspoken words and the aftermath of a brutal encounter.

"I doubt she'll fall for it twice." Raeburn muttered, his club crackling with electricity, "Let's see if she can keep up—"

"Here."

There was nothing. There was absolutely nothing when it happened until she was right there, her voice a chilling presence in his ear. Somehow, despite the Soul's warning mechanism, she'd snuck up on him. He felt no warning, no surge of bloodlust, not even a whisper from the Souls until the last split second, the kukri's tip digging into his kidney, did they scream.

He twisted instinctively, adrenaline surging, the blade scraping past his hip as his club slammed into her other arm, stopping the second kukri from slicing his shoulder. A red mist erupted from the blow, a crimson cloud replacing her forearm as the electricity tore through it. His return swing found her head, turning it into another cloud of mist.

He had been impossibly lucky. A hair's breadth closer, and he'd be impaled.

But it wasn't his reflexes that saved him. The Necro's hand had clamped down on Elsa's attacking arm, stopping it just before it pierced Raeburn's flesh. His clawed hand sunk into her side, tearing flesh with ease, before flinging her into the tree line.

For some reason, the Necro didn't obliterate her again.

Panic still thrummed in his veins. He clutched his wound, feeling the blood soak his tunic. It wasn't fatal, but it was deeper than any he'd felt before. "Holy shit…!" This blade, this power... it breached his defenses. "Th….thank you….! You saved me…!"

"Ssh."

The Necro's whisper, another impossible utterance, cut through his panic. Raeburn stared, shock replacing fear. The Necro pointed, his clawed finger directing his gaze. He turned, then snapped back to a combat stance, emotions whipping him like a storm.

Elsa's head and arm had regenerated, her body rising from the ground like a morbid puppet. And on her face, a chilling smile stretched wider.

Twice she'd fallen, twice she'd returned. And this time, she was still smiling.

Raeburn had never seen a sight so infuriating. With a roar, he and Tank charged. The liger darted sideways while Raeburn swung his club, electricity crackling as it met Elsa's kukris.

Metal met metal in a clash of sparks, followed by a dizzying flurry of parries, blocks, and counters.

Elsa, her movements fluid as water, anticipated his attacks. Her kukris danced around his club, deflecting the lightning strikes, even snaking closer to his flesh. Raeburn, used to dominating his opponents with his speed, found himself on the defensive, his worst suit. She had figured him out.

Any warrior would admire the speed and skill of their duel, but inside, Raeburn was spiraling. His superhuman speed meant nothing if she could force him faster, push him beyond his limits.

He saw it in her eyes – the predator savoring his fear, exploiting it to unleash a relentless storm of kukri strikes that bypassed his club's defenses, inching closer with each deflected blow. He desperately parried and blocked, his movements growing increasingly frantic.

Suddenly, a blur of black fur erupted behind Elsa. Tank, unnoticed by Elsa in her bloodthirsty focus, clamped down on her elbow with the ferocity of a bear trap. The snap of bone echoed in the clearing, the flurry of attacks ceasing. Before she could react, Raeburn's club, a blur of electrified fury, shattered her remaining arm.

He raised his club for the final blow…..

…..but his target area suddenly vanished.

In the blink of an eye, everything changed. The clamped arm, the destroyed limb, the face twisted in battle joy – all vanished. Where Elsa's head should have been, there was only empty air. Raeburn stared, shock replacing panic.

Before Raeburn could react, a crimson fountain erupted from Elsa's neck, spraying his face. He recoiled in panic, swinging his club blindly as he wiped away the blood and spat out the metallic tang.

His vision cleared to reveal Tank and the Necro engaged in a gruesome tug-of-war with Elsa's headless corpse. The liger clamped his jaws onto her elbow, while the Necro's clawed hand dug into her torso. The Necro's other hand, a lanky parody of a caress, lingered suggestively on her womb before Tank ripped her arm free with a brutal snap. The Necro hurled the body towards the trees, where it landed with a sickening thud. Tank finished the job, splitting the limb in two with a powerful bite.

Once again, the Necro didn't detonate her remains. The Necro's macabre restraint left Raeburn questioning.

Raeburn searched the ground for the severed head, only to hear the Souls declaring the woman's head…gone. Not simply severed, but erased from existence, as if it would never be found in the world, ever. The Necro's doing, most likely. Another morbid trick, one Raeburn had never witnessed before.

He looked back at the corpse, expecting it to be gone too. And it was. Just a bloody stain on the ground, the only evidence of her existence. Elsa had vanished, resurrected yet again, lurking in the shadows, preparing another attack fueled by blade and bloodlust.

Raeburn pursed his lips, not liking the prospect of it.

Raeburn's club transformed, its hexagonal head detaching and extending, chains trailing behind like glowing embers. Magical heat radiated from the metal, singeing nearby plants in an eerie orange and red glow that danced with the moonlight.

His confidence remained shaky. Elsa was a force to be reckoned with, and his usual tactics of 'swing the club and hope it works' wouldn't suffice. Finesse wouldn't save him either. He needed a new strategy, a newer way to gain an edge.

If only he was indoors….

Gritting his teeth, he kept a cautious distance from the Death Mage, the chains sizzling beside him. "I don't think fighting her forever is going to help. We need to figure out how to shut down whatever's keeping her alive."

Silence.

Then, a whisper.

"Not forever…." Raeburn's eyes widened as the Necro replied, his words echoing in the stillness. It wasn't just one word this time, but a string of them, raspy and guttural. "Not eternal….Weakening…..Wasting….Dying…."

"Dying?" Raeburn spun around, hope flickering in his eyes. "What do you mean? Are you saying you figured out how her resurrection operates?"

"Imperfect…..impertinent…..dying….." The Necro's lanky left hand rose, fingers curling into a fist. His voice, now a menacing growl, filled the air. "….one last death….!"

Understanding dawned on Raeburn. "Is that why you didn't blow her up the third and fourth time? It was on purpose? You were trying to get a read on it until you touched her where you needed to…are you saying you actually figured how to break it?"

"Hm."

"Is that so?" A voice, barely a whisper, sliced through the tense silence.

Before the first syllable faded, the Death Mage spun with unnatural speed, his robes whipping around him like a dark whirlwind. Raeburn, mirroring the movement at the second syllable, shifted his stance, his weapon crackling with heat. Tank snapped into attention at the direction of the threat, growling and positioning himself protectively between the two men.

Elsa stood a few meters away, her hot gaze directed at the Necro with a curious intensity, almost…affectionate? The kukris remained hidden behind her back, their points jutting out like black wings. But this wasn't the same Elsa they had fought before. Gone was the rigid, controlled posture. This Elsa was relaxed, almost carefree, as if walking into a dance rather than a battle.

"If so, then this is the day I'll truly die. It's plain as day." She spoke, her voice surprisingly gentle, almost resigned. The fire of battle seemed extinguished, replaced by a quiet acknowledgment of an imminent defeat. "I can't win against the both of you when I am not even close to prepared in dancing against two interesting partners at once."

Raeburn's scowl deepened. "Just like that? You'll just accept it? Can't be bothered to just run away and be prepared next time, even if the both of us would pursue you to the edge of this world?"

Elsa met his gaze, her voice surprisingly calm. "I would have…..but not anymore. I'm trapped."

Confusion etched Raeburn's brow. "Trapped?"

"Your friend..." She said, her eyes flickering to the Necro, "…he did something. I can no longer leave this clearing. If I try, my body… freezes. It feels like life itself is draining away, my vision blurring, my connection to my own form fading. Not even a fresh life can overcome it."

Raeburn's mind flashed back. The Necro's hand, lingering suggestively on Elsa's womb. It clicked. That must be the catalyst for this bizarre prison.

A memory flickered in Raeburn's mind. He remembered hunting in Vollachia with his saviors, targeting a beast marked for death. Once touched by them, the creature would freeze and tumble over after a dozen paces, allowing for a clean kill. A semi-common curse in Vollachia, used to prevent dishonorable escape in duels.

The Death Mage wielding such magic wasn't surprising. His kind practically invented such things in Pandemonium.

Raeburn dimmed his club's fiery glow, the heat simmering but his stance unwavering. A ludicrous idea, the dumbest he'd ever considered, bloomed in his mind. Conflicting emotions warred within him, his head a battlefield of doubts and fears. Yet, one thought persisted, gnawing at him: could it be possible?

Taking a deep breath, he spoke softly, prepared for rejection yet yearning for something unexpected. "….if you swear before me or any God you worship that you will never commit evil again and instead pursue virtue and goodness until the end of your days….then I will guarantee your safety and wellbeing."

Under the Necro's knee, that is. Raeburn added mentally.

If she accepted, Raeburn would readily hand her over to the Necro's judgement. A concession. A punishment, defined by the Necro's twisted mercy, would be far harsher than anything Raeburn could imagine.

Forgiveness for Elsa, a being so vile even the Souls recoiled, was out of the question. He couldn't forgive her, wouldn't forgive her. The hatred emanating from the Souls around her was palpable, a testament to her depravity. The Necro's cruelty would be the least she deserved.

"Hm." Elsa blinked, a flicker of warmth igniting in her purple eyes as she met Raeburn's gaze. "Your Soul…" she spoke softly, "….is patched with black and red, sins and regrets your daily companions, yet a spark of pearl shines within, just like now. If only we had met under different stars…."

Silence descended, punctuated only by Tank's low growls and Raeburn's ragged breaths. The Necro remained a stoic sentinel, and the Souls seemed expectant, as if waiting for a decision that would change everything.

Elsa's narrative unfolded, a tale of a childhood lost, weaving its way into her transformation into the notorious Bowel Hunter. As her voice resonated, the air grew thick with heat from Raeburn's crackling chains, but his awe had long dissipated, curdling into contempt.

"Warmth and happiness?" Raeburn scoffed. "If that's all you craved, then you should've fought for it! You should've looked for it somewhere good and meaningful instead of someone else's guts! No. Oh no, I can't expect that from you, can I!? Why? Because you are a fucking addict, a parasitic and gluttonous piece of wasted air who only knows how to take, take and take like a fucking parasite! You can't give back anything—you can't even give me a pathetic excuse! I don't know what the fuck I expected from you!"

"I'm not making excuses, and I do not expect understanding….." Elsa began, her voice trailing off as the Necro stirred and shifted in the shadows, which Raeburn caught at the corner of his vision. "Perhaps... my impending demise makes me sentimental, yearning for some semblance of acknowledgement before the curtain falls..."

Raeburn scoffed again. A shred of humanity lingered within this monstrous woman, it seemed. The very fact that she was human disgusted him. Why choose monstrosity when this world is already teemed with witchbeasts? Why couldn't enemies and allies be clear-cut, like in Pandemonium, where villainy wore no human disguise and anyone untainted by darkness was a potential comrade?

In the flickering moonlight, the Necro glided towards Elsa, his movements deliberate as he peeled back the upper half of his anti-light robes. The lower half remained secured by a bone belt, while the inky smoke billowing from his missing legs intensified, swallowing the clearing in a thick haze. Ribs and spine protruded beneath stretched skin, the only muscle visible on his back, shoulders, and arms. His ghostly white flesh reflected the moonlight, highlighting his grotesque skeletal form.

Despite the evident malnourishment, starved for several days, Raeburn's perception remained unchanged - the Necro was, without a doubt, the most dangerous presence there.

"Did you finally come to have this dance, handsome?" Elsa asked, her voice laced with a resigned lightness.

Raeburn sensed the resolution radiating from the Souls surrounding the Death Mage. He knew, with chilling certainty, that this night would mark Elsa's end. Even immortality couldn't defy a Necromagus' wrath. Pandemonium held no record of a Necromagus leaving a living enemy behind.

The Necro's next act surprised him. With a clear hand gesture, he ordered Raeburn to stay back – the first act of non-violence the Death Mage had ever shown him. Raeburn accepted it without hesitation. He inclined his head, retreated, and mounted Tank before fixing his gaze on the village path, the reins taught in his hands.

No more ceremonies, no more tiptoeing around the Necro's name. This man, capable of both child-saving and ruthless destruction, was no different from any other being - flawed, complex, and driven by his own motivations. Raeburn saw, with a pang of something akin to disappointment upon the reminder, that despite the years and maturity, none of it changed the reality: the Necro's methods remained absolute, brutal and ultimately unknowable.

Walking away, trusting the Necro instead of controlling the carnage like he did in Pandemonium, was the first step in Raeburn's personal battle: to humanize the being before him. It was a long road, one that began with a simple act - using the man's name.

"Better come back, Emurdol." He called over his shoulder, his voice surprisingly casual. "We really need that talk."

With that, Raeburn and Tank left the scene to its inevitable conclusion.

|||| « ҉ » ||||

Emurdol's assault was a torrent of Curses, stripping the fight bare of any semblance of ceremony Elsa had presumed to exist. His bare hands, imbued with a cruel darkness, brushed her form, each touch a brutal theft - sight, hearing, taste, sensation, even the weight of her own limbs. Blinded, deafened, numb, and disoriented. Even her fingers felt heavy, immovable.

No glorious duel, no desperate struggle. Just a brutal display of power, leaving Elsa utterly broken and humiliated, reduced to a whimpering husk, a pathetic shadow of the fearsome Bowel Hunter. The Curse Doll ritual that sustained her immortality was ripped from her before she even hit the ground, devoured in an instant.

She hadn't landed a single blow.

Lost in an abyss of silence and darkness, she couldn't tell if she stood, fell, or clutched her weapons. Her droning, wordless moans were the only response to the crushing fear that finally gripped her, and all the response Emurdol wanted. All her revelry, her love of physical pleasure – gone. She was nothing more than a large, helpless insect, begging to be crushed. And she could do nothing to stop it.

The Souls roared their approval, a chorus of hungry anticipation for the offering he had prepared. Every life she had taken, deserved or not, would be repaid in agonizing detail. She and the wretched child would be flayed on the same post, their screams a symphony of vengeance for every soul they had wronged.

And Emurdol, the instrument of their retribution, would have the honor of the first lash.

Elsa, stripped of sensation and balance, was oblivious as her tormentor ripped away her garments in a whirlwind of rage. His sharpened nails tore into her skin, leaving crimson trails under the moon's watchful gaze. Now exposed and defenseless, he turned her over on her front, unleashing the Souls' vengeful fury upon her bare skin.

His satisfaction and the Souls' satiation intertwined as he finally released her neck from his jaws. Her back was a canvas of raw bone and mangled muscle, ribs exposed like twisted fingers, organs spilling forth in a silent scream. The bite mark on her neck, the source of her bleeding demise, pooled a crimson expanse around her form.

Her soul, now, was at the mercy of those she'd wronged.

A wave of bitter triumph washed over him. He should have known it would be this easy back at the loot house. Against magic, against Curses, she was pathetically vulnerable, a paper doll against the whirlwind. No need for skeletons, no need for Mother's armor.

With a portion of his own blood coursing through her desecrated body, he commanded the bones to inter her into the earth just like the child's, awaiting the next step of the process.

He'll return to the Mansion momentarily, announce the threat as neutralized. If there was a reward waiting for him, it would be milked for all they were worth, a means to fuel his departure from this place.

This domain held no peace for him, not with Raeburn around. This was the boy's haven, not Emurdol's. He had to leave. It's the only answer. As long as he remained, peace was an impossible dream, not just for him, but for everyone. Their morals, their very being, clashed too violently.

Reaching into his bone belt, he traced the bulging segment of the spine and Mother's wand materialized into his hand. The once-empty Soul Gem pulsed with his newly acquired tenants. The assassin, the child….

…..but there was a third presence, a faint hum against his palm. Confusion gnawed at him. Two Souls were his due, not three. Who dared intrude upon his victory?

…..

….….….….

….….….….….….….….….

It's one of the maids.

He dissolved, a swirling black cloud hurtling towards the forest's edge at near supersonic speed. The emergency fires flickered through the trees, revealing the village houses and roads. His still-corporeal hands tore through the earth, erupting from the tree line as a plume of inky smoke.

He became a shadow, leaping from roof to roof, dislodging tiles with monstrous claws. In the village square, nearly every soul from the Mansion stood, their sorrow a palpable tempest.

There, in the center, lay the younger maid, lifeless in the elder's lap. Tears streamed down the elder's face, a tapestry of grief and despair. The Dear Girl stood nearby, her expression mirroring the elder's, guilt and self-loathing swirling in the air.

The beast maid, dressed only in a single cloth, her bare shoulder stark against the night, closed her eyes tightly, her face grim and bitter. The small Fae, held the most potent sorrow. No tears flowed, but the Souls whispered of a grief so profound it overshadowed all others.

Lastly, the Mace. The boy cried, his self-hatred so consuming, Emurdol thought he might implode under its sheer weight.

He landed his hands on the ground in a hard impact, materialized flesh replacing the smoke as his now-physical torso absorbed the force before he straightened himself, his legs remaining shrouded and immaterial under a plume of black.

He shielded himself from the swirling torrent of emotions, but the scene before him was etched in his now-physical brain:

A lifeless maid, a grieving sister, guilt-ridden members of the same house, a silent Fae burdened with sorrow, and a boy drowning in self-recrimination.

The village square, once a place of laughter and life, now pulsed with a heavy silence, punctuated only by the echo of his arrival and the choked sobs of a grieving boy.

Only Raeburn noticed his arrival.

"Necro….." For the first time, Emurdol met Raeburn's eyes, red and full of tears, the latter barely comprehensible from his sobs. "….I failed….we were too late. The thing that was eating her mana….it took too much…..it was greedy….it took so much from Rem….her horn couldn't even get enough mana to fight back….and when Emilia went to get Beatrice….it was already…..shit….damn it…..! I swore...….I fucking swore...swore that I'd never let anything happen to her ever again...….! Fuck! Fuck! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!"

Emurdol immediately figured out the cause.

That giant dog he killed earlier was gathering mana from an external source when it rent the earth open, and it wasn't from ambient mana either. By the nature of the curses that was inflicted on the children, the beast likely had planted a Life-Eater Curse on a living being and used the stolen energy to sustain its primal magic.

Drunk under the rage of seeing innocent children suffer, barely contained when the Mace talked to him before he left, caught under the red mist of brutalizing every single monster that came at him alongside his constructs, and now finding the cause of such harm, he made sure that the giant monster and its childish master knew only pain until the last of their lives is drained away.

The giant dog's stock of stolen energy, the very life force he had devoured… it was Rem's.

Emurdol had accidently eaten the maid's life force as he sucked the bastard dry of all its essence.

….

….….….

…..….….….….

Emurdol's stoic facade shattered, replaced by a grimace of dawning horror.

The Mace noticed his shift of emotions through the Souls, having never seen him wore such a collapsed expression.

He lifted the wand, the maid's Soul trapped within radiating contentment, a sense of completion as if a lifelong yearning had been fulfilled at her very demise. But why? What unfinished task could grant such peace in death?

He looked to the elder sister, expecting a shared joy. Instead, she drowned in despair, mirroring the grief etched on the faces of the others. This loss brought no solace, no anger, not even resignation – nothing. Just a gaping wound of grief.

Emurdol returned to the wand, his confusion deepening. Why did the younger maid find no sorrow in leaving her sister? No pity for the one soul who loved her unconditionally, now left alone, adrift in a world devoid of purpose?

The air grew thick and still. The world around him seemed to slow, the droning hum of life grinding to a halt. The Souls, consumed by their overwhelming grief, warped time itself, demanding answers from Emurdol. He surrendered his consciousness to the Soul Gem, plunging into the maid's presence, his voice echoing in the void: "Why?"

Why did the maidservant find contentment in her departure?

…..

…..….….

….….….….….….….

….….….….….….….….….….

For the first time, perhaps ever, the maid's answer ignited a fury that transcended his control. It wasn't a slow burn, but an inferno erupting within him. He yearned to lash out, to shatter this world that mirrored the truth he thought he'd escaped when he was ripped from Pandemonium: the ugliness of humanity's inherent stupidity.

This world, like Pandemonium, was a tapestry woven with stupidity and arrogance.

These villagers, the intelligent creatures of this world... they were all the same. Immature, foolish, entitled. No different from the teeming masses of that damned Hellhole.

Yet, unlike their Pandemonium counterparts, they were born pure. No ancestral sins burdened their souls, no Rapture condemned their forebears to eternal suffering. All their flaws were not inherited, but from a lack of experience. These creatures are just children.

They were born innocent, vulnerable, needing love, guidance, and the chance to grow into wisdom and virtue, to bloom into something better.

….….….….

….….….….….….….….….

Had Emurdol ever shown compassion, in Pandemonium or here, he had never deemed it significant to remember, each one a mere indulgence to whims. No longer, that is going to change. Not for the masses, but for this specific soul, this tragedy. This night, he would etch his next action onto his very soul.

Resurrecting a soul at the behest of the grieving, much less at the demands of the Souls, was taboo, bordering on heresy…..but his position as Priest of the Serpent allowed him certain liberties. The Dead were under his authority, just as he was bound to their will. A harmonious unity built on intelligence, understanding and wisdom, as Lady Sabbara had decreed. And his oath to her, an oath sworn with his very being, demanded putting this truth into action.

With a resolute glint in his eyes, he raised the wand to his bare chest, a single, deliberate motion.

A suffocating wave of inky black smoke exploded from Emurdol's legs, pushing everyone but the deceased maid's body far away.

His eyes blazed with emerald fire as he released the wand, letting it levitate before him. The smoke, now forming into sentient tendrils, held the little sister's body from below, lifting her alongside him as he levitated. The curtains concealing her form slipped off and disappeared into the smoky darkness on the ground.

Days of rest had replenished his mana reserves. He channeled it all into the smoke, leaving only enough to sustain consciousness.

With it, the cloud can become solid and effortlessly stop any interference from breaking this ritual, whether magical or physical, especially the elder sister maid and the Mace's hostile reaction to this exertion of power over the dead girl's body.

He had long since deciphered the secrets of this world's souls, their life force – the "Od" – serving as the vessel of their magical essence. With these new understandings, he had the discovered the means to wrest a soul from its rest and tether it back to the living.

Black tendrils of smoke writhed skyward, reaching for the Dragon's Eye, the moon, the celestial witness to his actions. Then, they turned to the empty vessel before him, the maid's lifeless form. With meticulous precision, they began to reshape it, crafting a new home for the Soul trapped within the wand.

Emurdol, blessed by Lady Sabarra with the rare gift of Life Giver, would not fail.

My life for you, your life be mine. May we ever be, in Longevity.

His emerald eyes pulsed with power, green mana outlining his arms and shoulders.

With a sweeping gesture, he channeled the surging smoke towards the body.