Repeat Advertisement: We have an ongoing series called STRANGER THAN FICTION published on Amazon under the name T.B. MARE. It's an Isekai fantasy incorporating LITRPG elements, lore and characters from Sumerian, Norse and Japanese mythology, bringing it all together in a nice little mythological carnival, with some really twisted turns thrown around. And, in our humble opinion, it just gets better with each book.
Currently, Book 1-3 are available on Amazon and Audible. If you love Monochrome, do give it a try.
Just check up GODSFALL - A LitRPG Adventure (Stranger Than Fiction Book 1) by T.B. Mare on Amazon or Audible.
...
Okay, done with the little plugging. Back to your regularly scheduled chapter update. Enjoy!
𝕸𝖔𝖓𝖔𝖈𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖒𝖊
Act IV - Skin In The Game
Chapter 8: Hope
The world is grayscale. He looks at it, and doesn't know what enrages him the most.
The fury is so intense that he can barely think through it, like being trapped in a dream. A nightmare. A haze of rage so thick that it is a surprise he hasn't destroyed the world itself.
He sees them. Bathed in shallow green, they are transient existences that pale before a flickering candle… Mighty, but hollow phantoms that belong in Being Not. No fear, no coldness, no warmth, no resentment or horror — no emotion, nothing. Crafted out of Magic, yet cut off from its source, just their existing is enough to earn his ire. Erase them. They are things that are Not, and in the Not do they belong. Yet this Chamber, and its endless power, beckons them with false lies, a promise of becoming Real.
They are not born. They do not die. They are cut off from Creation and Destruction, and thus, they are immortal.
Abominations.
He looks at the source,
That headpiece. A corroding influence, a spot of blight in this world that is bringing those abominations into existence. Its foul will is encroaching upon Reality, bringing the Not into the Real.
Within this Chamber, its power is endless. Within this Chamber, it cannot become Real. He has to keep it within this Chamber. He needs to exterminate it within this Chamber.
It will be devoured.
He notices the girl. Prey. Lost. Weak. Lashing out. So many emotions. Weak, pungent souls always taste lovely. She is overmatched, and yet, she pretends to stay strong. Her will is crushed, she is a tool, but her fury is strong. The stark dichotomy is exquisite.
He will savour this kill.
And this Chamber. The greatest blight of them all. Its power is more than he can absorb. It is twisting Reality, playing with the rules. Breaking them. An enchantment playing God. Bringing the Unreal close to the Real, separated by thin borders, ignorant that Oblivion can seep through those very cracks into Reality.
His role, threatened.
His powers, challenged.
His treasure, this Reality, distorted, rendered impure by this vile taint.
This cannot be allowed to stand.
He lifts his head, and howls. It is time for judgement.
The ephemerals hurl curses at him. There is dark humour in that. He laughs, but the sound makes one of them grab its head and explode.
Another one opens its face-gash. Blood erupts out of it.
He looks at it. It burns into dark flames.
Snap. Gulp.
Two more are gone.
Better. Much better.
The phantoms come from all directions. Useless. A petty tide trying to swallow the moon. They cast and curse, they tear and bite, they fly and scuttle.
It makes no difference. They all die at the first touch of his presence.
The Chamber is screaming. It considers him its enemy. He considers it an infection.
—"INCENDIO DIABOLICA" —
He recognizes those words. Rooted in the Abstract. Summoning from the Anima. Here where the borders are weakest, the connection is strong. Magnified. The Blight laughs, and draws the Abstract, wielding it as a weapon against him. The vermin does not know that it too is just a tool, moving on strings it never envisioned.
The Blight vanishes. Then vanishes again. And again. And again.
He howls in dark laughter. The poor thing thinks that it can twist this false-Reality to its advantage. He will teach it better. He will —
He stops. Something has changed. Something has entered this vile domain. It is—
It is—
IT IS —
He snarls in rage. It is no Blight, something very pure, and yet, a distortion like nothing else. Just her being present opened doors to the Anima, reaching through the mists to a world bygone. A world whose gods he had spat on. He would not let that door open again.
He reaches inside himself, casts aside all hesitation, and with an act of will he channels his will. Reality screams and from behind him, vast tendrils of arcane blackness begin to manifest, some elaborate beyond imagination, others twisted, and the rest deceptively simple.
And every single one of them is very, very good at killing.
He leaps to his foe, at the one entity that could bring him down and —
— And then that old wizard waves the Deathstick at his face.
…
…
It hurts.
He screams, agony and rage unleashed from the confines of his bestial self, acting on primal instinct. That wand within which lies a splinter of his true form, is acting against him. The power it draws from the Chamber is agonisingly great, directed in exact ways by the girl that is distortion manifest. She is an avatar of the Anima. Of the lost world of old gods. That wizard, he wields the Deathstick, the weapon that channels that which is Him — crafted by the hands of a forger using a power beyond his control. Together, their blows pierce him again and again, injuries pooling within him, injuries that would not heal. You cannot protect yourself from that which is yourself.
"Trap him, Headmaster," says the Avatar. "You have to bring him back."
He will endure. One step. Another step. The shadows fall off him. The mind of the Vessel is starting to awaken. His body is burning, but he will endure. Claw and rip and drag himself by the bloody nubs of his fingers to victory.
He. Would. Endure.
"You have to hold on, Headmaster. It will be over soon."
Yes, he thinks, pulling himself towards the wielder of the Deathstick. He will not allow it to possibly end like this.
Technically, they were both right.
A dozen ropes of shining metal rattled out of nowhere, strewing across the Chamber and all around him, spun rampantly, and ensnares him in a loud, metallic whiplash. He howls, his armour of shadows exploding, power roaring off him in a wave that destroys everything within its vicinity. The shadows starting to eat away at the Mithril ebbed away into a dull, uninspiring rust within seconds. The sheer force drops the wizard to his feet as the old man's face contorts into agony.
And through that agony, the old wizard smiles.
He has Him.
He didn't even noticed before this, but in that display, She had gotten next to Him—
When? How?
He does not know. All he knows is the feel of her palms on either side of his head.
A miracle happens….
….
….
….
Harry Potter felt into a whirling, gyrating sensation, and fell forward into a weird monochromatic fusion of blinding white and shadows. He screamed and fell on his knees, his entire body feeling like it was being crushed, and his vision momentarily went white from the strain. Breathing was a luxury and the only reason he was resting on his knees was because he knew the pain from moving his legs would surely kill him.
On the other hand, it was good news.
He hurt, and that meant he was alive. Meant that he was himself. Even if he was… wherever… this place was.
"Pathetic," snarled Ignotus Peverell, the hunchbacked, grey shadow of a man striding in front of him, his face twisted in absolute contempt. "Pathetic! Pathetic! Pathetic! Do you know what you've just done, Potter? You could have achieved your destiny, fulfilled your duty as the Peverell Vessel. Instead you proved exactly how weak you are!"
"Why?" He asked, despite the pain. "Because they stopped me from killing everything?"
Ignotus thrust his hand at him, and Harry tumbled back, only to realise that he wasn't feeling that pain any longer.
"Because you do not realise what is afoot, boy," snarled Ignotus. "You have absolutely no idea what game you have been pulled into. Your power, your nature, Death's vessel, is a central piece. No one knows about it, save for old tales and myths, but everyone wants to use it as their tool. The time to stand at the crossroads is about to end, and malevolent forces are abound. If you do not make a choice, it will be too late."
"Malevolent…." he slowly pushed himself up. "You're talking about Voldemort."
Ignotus threw his head back and let out a wicked cackle. "The sheer idea of some mortal harming the Death Incarnate is hilarious, boy. They are vermin at best. Ploys and weapons of the old gods, of nameless things. But at times, even the vermin can carry contagious plagues that destroy lands. But make no mistake, Harry Potter, none of them are your true nemeses."
"Then… then who is?"
Ignotus gave him a searching look. "Shall I show you the end of the curve? Show you what awaits the end of the path you have chosen? Reveal to you the catastrophe your actions will lead to? Then, look…."
And he thrust his forefinger at Harry's forehead.
The gates to his mind didn't just open, they shattered, and primordial chaos was unleashed. A burning, mind-bending, brilliant white light exploded from all directions and engulfed his entire existence. He thought he heard someone yell something furious. A strange babble at first, but it soon resolved into words he could hear in his own voice but did not understand. And with that came flashes, some he could understand, some he could even recognize, and some that were too terrifying for him to comprehend, lest he lost his sanity just by gazing at them.
Void.
Silent, colourless, empty.
And then there was light again.
It was difficult to describe. One moment there was nothing and the other —
— a massive chamber in ruins. A large stone archway, and billowing within it was a curtain that wasn't a curtain —
Curtain? That felt familiar. Like he had a connection to it.
— a box. Vibrating loudly. Afraid. Anxious. Exhilarated. Horrified. Skeletal, slender hands come and pick it up — but before he could see who —
— Lighting strikes on an ancient castle. A half-shattered Diadem falls to the floor. Dragons and phoenixes of brilliant blue flame scorch the world around it. Barriers fall. Wards crash. Enchantments that survived centuries shatter at a moment's touch. Thousands and thousands of dementors rush out, ready to devour the world and render it into a soulless husk —
The flashes went faster and faster.
— A single crack tears through an antiquated mithril statue. Three heads of a seven-headed runespoor fall off on a floor no longer white nor pristine —
He knew what it was. A hollow dread overcame him, the knowledge of what was beyond that sealed gateway. The forces it would unleash. The outcome it would entail….
— He sees Death, smiling, her eyes malevolent, her smile poisonous, as she prepares for war. Her laugh rings the end of the world. Sees Beasts screech, howl, and roar. Totems of ancient gods, magics sealed away are forced through the cracks of Reality.
This was Armageddon. This was how the world would end. Beyond any magic, beyond any muggle technology, this was the power of the Anima and the Beyond unleashed upon Reality, and in the end. A storm engulfed his mind, tearing at his perceptions, flooding them with random images and smells and sensations. It was like standing in a sandstorm, only instead of inflicting pain, every random grain was an experience, a vision so disjointed and intense and rapid that there was nothing to hold on to.
Except for that one thing in the end.
— He sees a graveyard. Himself kneeling on the floor. No, not himself, but someone like him. Not the demon, no, more and less than it. Bone shards taking on sudden coatings of shadowed flesh and snapping together, skin sloughing off black char to reveal dense, white skin-like texture. A humanoid form. Sheathe of darkness becomes armour. Its hair is black, skin unearthly pale. Its body, almost skeletal. On one hand, a familiar yew wand shines, its original crimson now covered with dense, black soot. In another hand, is a blade that once belonged to Gryffindor, now rendered into a weapon of purest murder.
It lifts its head and what lies within its reptile-like empty eyes is… Hatred.
"Welcome, Death," claims the cold voice of Lord Voldemort. "Say hello, to your Master."
….
Harry Potter fell to the ground with a scream and began to convulse with his hands clenched over his eyes as if to block that terrifying vision. Even with the vision gone, the memory of that thing laughing rang in his ears — a sound unlike anything in nature, a mechanical, formless, cold laugh that heralded the end of the last vestiges of humanity in Harry Potter, and the birth of a killing machine, the avatar of Death.
That thing wasn't him. It might have looked physically similar, maybe even had a similar power, but those were the barest and most unimportant details only. There was only one thing that mattered in determining who this truly was, and it was proven wrong very, very quickly.
For all the slaughterfest that had transpired within the Room of Requirement, he had instinctively known that they weren't real, just phantoms crafted out of imagination and magic. In real life, Harry Potter didn't want to truly kill anyone.
This thing? It wanted to do nothing else.
"What…" Harry choked. "What was that?"
"The future," said Ignotus simply. "One paved by Fate, and one that shall befall Reality so long as you stay as Fate's little pawn."
"I'm no one's pawn."
Ignotus cackled. "When have you been anything else?"
Harry clenched his teeth.
"Look around yourself, boy. So long you continue to embrace Magic, you will be ensnared and swept into the webs and whims of Destiny, leading to that cemetery. You, the eradicator of the poison that is Magic, shall become the weapon of Magic Most Evil. The knowledge you have been given has been for a reason, boy. Rise and accept your mantle, become Death's vessel, or end up the tool of that madman. There is no other way."
"Lies, all lies," he thought. Or it sounded like his thoughts, but the words somehow didn't match. It was like someone else's mind, exactly like his own, that was doing his thinking for him now that his own mind couldn't manage to string together a coherent sense anymore.
Fleur would scowl at him if she knew about that. Daphne would just laugh. He wasn't sure why he was thinking about those two at a time like this, but…
"Endless are the ways of Fate. Fire burns, but fire also purifies. Water quenches your thirst, but also smashes rocks. Nothing in this universe has a single purpose, a single facet, and neither do you."
Harry wanted to disagree. Memories of a child inside a cupboard floated in front of his eyes. The darkness, the fear, the knowledge that out there was a man with a belt that could lash him to death…
Images of reptilian eyes with nothing but cold hatred flashed again.
Empty.
Alone.
Like that cupboard.
He saw himself. Opening his eyes in the middle of the night after waking up from the nightmare. The silence of the empty cupboard was the only thing closest to a mother's voice.
He saw himself, peering through the door. The house was empty. The Dursleys were gone. They were enjoying their time as family. He was not part of it. Unwanted. Alone.
He saw himself. In that classroom. Sitting on the swings. Nobody wanted to come close to the freak that turned Mrs. Robinson's hair blue.
He saw himself in front of the Mirror of Erised. Reflections of James and Lily Potter smiled back at him. He looked at his side. There was no one.
He stared up at Slytherin's massive statue. The basilisk lay dead on the floor. He too, was dying, from its venom now running through his veins. Riddle was holding his wand, a curse ready on his lips….
I am the Vessel of Death, he told himself. So long as I stand on the crossroads, I shall forever be a tool. But if I embrace it then…. Then Daphne, Fleur, Sirius… they'll be safe. I can save them all. It is my burden, and I have to carry it alone.
His wand appeared in one hand, the crimson already beginning to be undone with a corruptive black hue. The sword of Gryffindor appeared in another. He remembered how he had channelled Death through it, wielded it with a familiarity that he did not possess.
This power…. This knowledge, I have been given this for a reason, he told himself. Only I can bear this, and I must bear it alone till the very end.
His eyes were closed now. In his mind, he was back in front of the Mirror of Erised, reaching out into the Mirror, feeling his parents reach out for him as well. He was apologising for failing them and they were forgiving him. All he needed to do was to step through and all would be….
….Over.
Or would it?
Instead, a strange thing happened. The images in his mind shifted, and new ones took their place.
The image of Ron Weasley calling him downstairs, wishing him a Merry Christmas. Mrs. Weasley had knitted him a Weasley sweater, like he was part of their family.
The image of Hermione Granger howling at the werewolf Lupin to save his life.
Sirius, standing next to the Whomping Willow, glancing at Hogwarts bathing under the full moon. He had asked him to come live with him.
The image of Ron, again, apologising after the First Task. The feeling of being reunited with his best friend.
Fleur. Beautiful yet flawed. Faithful yet monstrous. Staring at him with tearful eyes as she bared her soul to him, accepting whatever judgement he might pass on her.
Daphne. Strength and suffering. Dignity and cunningness. She had promised to even the odds for him.
Fleur again. A monster caring for a fellow monster. Him.
"I don't want to live with you," said Daphne, as they made love.
None of the images were concrete enough for him to latch onto, but they were incredibly vivid, and detailed and far, far more than he could even imagine himself for a Patronus memory. An explosion of crimson erupted deep within him, and Harry heard that voice again.
"You are not that child anymore. Neither are you empty. Or alone. And you are nothing like that monster."
Am I not? He asked.
"You are the Vessel of Death, yes, but that isn't all you are," whispered the voice. "Not just emptiness. Not just the Abyss. Remember who you are, Harry Potter. You are not alone. You do not have to do it alone."
Alone?
That stopped him.
Was he alone?
He was Death's Vessel, but he was more than that.
The son of James and Lily.
The godson of Sirius Black.
The partner of Fleur Delacour.
And the love of Daphne Greengrass.
He was Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. The symbol of the hopes and dreams of those that fought the good fight. The belief that lay in the heart of every soldier that fought against the dark, the faith they clenched in their hearts as they laid down their lives to protect their loved ones…. A hope that their sacrifice wouldn't go down in vain.
The nihilism from the terrifying visions wanted to swallow him whole. But they couldn't. For even if Death erased everything about him, even if he was destined to be its Vessel and bring forth the End, it didn't mean he had to stop trying. The dangers that Ignotus was forewarning him painted a toxic world that needed to be destroyed, but perhaps… just this once, that wasn't entirely true.
For not even this world could pierce through his hope for a better future.
The hope to be united with one's loved ones.
The hope that no matter how deep and impenetrable the darkness might appear, it would always tremble, it would always dissipate…
….IN THE LIGHT.
Harry looked up. Music was coming from somewhere, growing louder. Eerie, spine-tingling, unearthly, and it lifted the hair on his scalp and made his heart feel as though it was swelling to twice its normal size. He could feel it vibrating inside his own ribs, and knew right then what it was.
Phoenix song.
He couldn't help it. He grinned, somehow knowing what would happen right then.
"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"
Harry winced, a shock of pain and rage from Ignotus ripping through his mind. Around him, the serene sea of shadows began to swirl, arcs of crimson lightning roaring along it, centering at them. For a moment, Harry was afraid that the shadows would attack him, or at least Ignotus would, but instead, a line of flame, brilliantly crimson and warmer than the afternoon sun in winter exploded above them, and Ignotus backed away, screaming as the light hurt him. Fire manifested between them, its glittering golden tail and gleaming golden talons spread out, its jet black eyes staring Harry in the face, as the Fawkes let out a loud trill.
"A phoenix!" snarled Ignotus.
A new life surged through Harry's veins, pushing the coldness back into the pit it came from. From within his body, he felt a familiar flame burn, one that was just as bright, as Death was empty, one that radiated warmth in the same magnitude as Death emptied it, one that drew its existence from his hopes, his dreams, his defiance against the nihilism that Ignotus Peverell tried so hard to prevail within him. And somewhere far, far away, he thought he heard a bison rumble.
"You see, Pale Rider," said a cool voice that reminded Harry of the evening breeze in the summer. "But for all your sight, you do not really understand. The Prison of Possibilities thins the barrier between the Real and the Abstract. And just like Death can use its Vessel to drag itself out into the Real…."
"...So can Summer."
A single fiery feather flew out of Fawkes's golden tail, and merged into Harry's chest. Harry shuddered in a combination of pleasure and pain, something golden shining beneath his skin, flowing within his veins. The golden light intensified a thousand times over, becoming a beacon in the darkness, and light became FLAME, a pillar of coruscating power that had no heat but made the shadows recoil, the monochromatic world shivering and shrinking away from him.
And Harry Potter stepped forth.
"First Fate, now Fire," snarled Ignotus. "Are you my nemeses?" He glared at Harry. "You are Death's Vessel, boy."
"I am," said Harry, "but I am also Harry Potter. I am of Peverell, but I am also of Greengrass. I am of Death, but I am also of Life. I am a demon, but I am also a human. I am the foe of everything dark and corrupted, but I am also the beacon of the future."
He held out his left hand, and the blade of Gryffindor shone in them. That which was exuding flames as dark as the blackest night before this, was now resembling a shaft of liquid flame. His wand emerged from his right hand, the crimson hue completely overlapped by the dense shadowy fumes, that it appeared like a pitch-black rod, a black-hole that sucked in everything around it, even light. Flames rose out of him, only to meet their equal in the shadows that spread beneath his feet.
"Fire and shadow. Light and dark. Magic and Chaos. Life… and Death. It is not one or the other, Ignotus. It is about embracing the good and the bad, to keep striving until your last breaths for the right thing. That is what I choose to be. To be human."
"Fall!" Ignotus hissed. "You will Fall! And when that happens, the world will be doomed and it will all be your fault."
"Maybe you are right," said Harry Potter. "But even if that happens, you can be sure of one thing."
He smiled.
"I wouldn't be alone."
And with that, Harry Potter stepped into the light.
If you enjoyed the chapter and our stories, you can support us by giving us feedback as reviews, favorites, and follows. You can also support us on 𝒫𝒶𝓉𝓇𝑒𝑜𝓃 where you can read ahead and view our original works. If you want to talk to us directly, share feedback, or ask us questions, you may have you can join us on our Discord Server. We post six times a month. Every five days.
You can find links to all of our stories, our 𝒫𝒶𝓉𝓇𝑒𝑜𝓃, and our Discord at:
𝓁𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓉𝓇.𝑒𝑒/theblackstaffandnightmare
𝒫𝒶𝓉𝓇𝑒𝑜𝓃𝓈 can read up to 'TWELVE' chapters ahead of the current release.
Thanks once again, and we hope you continue to enjoy our stories.
~The BlackStaff and NightMarE~