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Chapter 122 - Open Palm, SC
🕑 Added 2024-10-12 23:13:29 +0000 UTCIt was like pulling out a weed with deep roots gripping the earth. The ghostly miasmic spirit of the clone’s appearance shifted the more Sunday pulled it away from the physical form. The ghostly features became more and more twisted, and its gaze seemed to lose all semblance of doll-like dullness. A scream shattered all other sounds, but whether it was everywhere all at once or only in his mind, was difficult to tell.
Sunday didn’t even flinch.
He didn’t let go.
It felt right. An open palm to take what he desired. And what he desired most at this moment was growth. Victory. The power to achieve it all. The strength to do as he pleased and to escape the constant twists he had been subject to since arriving at this place. No longer a beggar, a thief, and an orphan. All wanted him. All schemed to draw him in or learn more of who and what he was.
And Sunday detested it. Power would rid him of such annoyances, and as his mind focused on the ghost and his palm squeezed touching the otherwise intangible and foreign force, he knew this was it. The power that would allow him to change himself.
The mournful cries of his berserk bear spirit echoed along with all the other noises in the hall. He knew the rest of the bodies of the Divine incarnation were tearing his spell apart, and soon they would be upon him. The stone walls had cracked and the green miasma was ever thicker, but nothing mattered in this moment.
Sunday pulled once last time and he felt his soul space contract as many things happened all at once in the span of a short moment.
The physical body fell apart before him like a statue of fine dust under the weight of existence.
The ghost disappeared, turning into energy similar to essence.
The Yew Tree exploded with desire and breathed in. It inhaled all of the wrongness, all of the poison, and its fruit grew lustrous, while its leaves spread to blot out the sky. It was similar to what it did to the miasma, but on a different scale. Sunday’s spells grew quiet. He could feel them shudder before the power suddenly brimming inside him.
They were afraid. Even the Vision of the Berserk Moon, in all its dominance and the control it had exuded so far, made itself smaller. They could not handle this strange energy coursing through his veins. It was as if his soul was on fire, and the sensation was quickly spreading through his body. One cast of a spell at its full potential, and then it would be gone.
He knew this was what would happen with strange certainty.
Sunday bared his teeth as his whole body tensed. Despite its battle prowess, the mournful bear had lived but for a minute. Twisted and wrong, the bodies created by the incarnation of the lesser god moved toward Sunday, green miasma swirling around them. He would not sacrifice his hard-earned spells, but the power had to go somewhere. It was not his and would serve only to show him the way. A single nova of brilliance, that would inspire the birth of light. Thankfully, he had been given an outlet for this strength—one that wouldn’t break down as the spells would.
An open palm to conquer the world and alter reality. A slap, to put the mad in their place. Tools are unneeded, for the universe bows before your empty hand.
Sunday turned at the sound of the narrator. It had many voices today, but this one was like the first words he had heard back in the days of his rebirth. It seemed like an eternity had passed since he had crawled out of that soft earth... He felt the change as soon as his hand moved. All of the energy taken from the ghost of the divine was rushing through him and into the living world. It was no longer the same, having passed through the baptism of the Yew Tree.
The strength of a god, for a single moment, was his.
His palm moved, and the world awaited without breathing. Existence itself was resisting what was happening, and Sunday’s hand moved as if through water. The moment stretched infinitely. He could see the bodies coming for him in slow motion, and each step shed away their beauty and their grace, leaving only grotesque monsters in their place. Beauty and strength, was it?
Disgusting weakness.
His hand reached the end of its journey. His palm touched nothing but air, but something continued from it. It burned through dead veins, rattled his bones, and made the flesh beneath his gray skin feel as if it was being boiled by lava. An imprint. An invisible shockwave. A simple slap, but as if sent out by a giant.
The bodies tried to dodge but they were too slow. Sunday watched as the force slammed into them, shattering the physical vessels and pulling out the ghostly energy once again. It too suffered under the strength of this one palm, dissipating and rejoining the world of miasma covering the hall. The energy was not lost, it was simply no longer focused.
But a single slap to oppose a god…
Melodic laughter, that of a young man, sounded throughout each stone and each note of sound. Sunday smiled along, then felt himself lose his balance. Someone caught him, however. A hand clad in red…
Mera? Sunday tried to speak as he lifted his gaze, but he didn’t see Mera there. The undead face of Trust smiled at him as the undead lifted his other hand and sent out a massive fireball toward the giant body god the woman was still battling.
“Impressive stuff, my friend. Tell me, can you do that again?”
Sunday tried to answer. He concentrated and felt the miasma rush into him. It was quickly filtered by the Yew Tree, turning into fuel that brought him back to function. This new energy was very different than essence. It made him feel almost invincible as it spread throughout his whole body, but he knew there would be consequences in the end. Hopefully nothing more than a few days of slumber.
As his legs started obeying, Sunday pushed the red hand away. It was not Mesmer Steel making it appear so. Rather, a glove of blood covered the undead’s arm almost to the elbow. It was a strange-looking thing, and whatever its function was, it was sinister.
“I don’t know… Maybe if I can get enough of whatever this is…” Sunday finally answered.
Trust sent another fireball, then turned grinning. The Divine didn’t even turn to look as the explosion made it stumble once again. It seemed hellbent on crushing the wight woman before doing anything else. One would’ve thought Sunday would be a priority…
“It is divinity, my friend. You’re using the strength of the god against itself. Ah, I’ve read a lot of ancient texts, but nothing prepared me for the real thing. I wonder what makes you so special… Are you alright?”
There was a dangerous glint in Trust’s eye. Something Sunday didn’t quite like. Before he could speak he felt the change. His skin cracked like porcelain and something dark gleamed from in between the lines. Blood? But he was undead, he did not bleed. What was this, then?
Before Sunday could think things through the red hand of Trust grabbed him and the bloody glove wrapped around his body.
“Sorry about that. You’re very special, so I must simply see where this all is leading to.”
“What the—”
Before Sunday could resist, he was thrown toward the center of the room. For a moment he panicked thinking Trust was working with the Divine, but that was nonsense. The mage was fighting the lesser god alongside them? However, there was something else. It paled in comparison to the appearance of the Divine, but it was still the main reason all of the initial players had been gathered.
The swirling hole of void was moving ever so slowly, now. Sunday felt its craving as well as he could feel the trepidation of his very soul. He landed a little ways from it, rolling on the ground. Just on the other side, the woman in black had cut off the arms and legs of the lesser god, but they simply grew from mist again.
“It seems I miscalculated. Damned spell, gives me quite the throwing arm, but I can never hit the target,” Trust said beside him.
When did this fucker—
The red hand reached for Sunday again when a slew of Mesmer Steel slammed into Trust. The mage’s body was pierced and torn apart in a matter of seconds, like a sheet of stretched paper against hail.
“Are you alright, Sunday?” Mera asked. “Sorry, I took my time. I’m not sure what’s happening.”
“That makes two of us. Thank you,” Sunday said as he rose.
“Rude. So very rude,” the voice of Trust said.
He was whole again, a curtain of black essence rapidly healing his body. How was this possible? Even the undead had weaknesses.
“For a failed experiment, you sure know how to ruin a good time. Don’t think for a second I’ll show mercy because you’re a beautiful lady. I’ve observed you for a while, miss Me—ah, shit.”
A blade rammed into Trust’s skull, going through its handle and all. It struck the stone behind, then disappeared. There was a massive hole in the undead’s head, and the dark essence rushed to fix it. He stumbled and then fell to the ground, wiggling. How was he not dead?!
“I warned you, motherfucker! It’s personal now.”
The strange woman simply appeared much like Trust had done. No fanfare, no noise, no essence. Sunday sighed in relief before he remembered the lesser god she had just fought. The massive body was barreling toward them.
Once again a hand grabbed him, and he shuddered as the vice grip of the woman pulled at him. He saw Mera move but shook his head. She would die if she did anything.
“What’s—”
“I can’t kill it. I need you to use your special bullshit and make it happen. Can you do that?” the woman asked.
The massive body of the lesser god was approaching them, and the green miasma swirled around it. Sunday could feel it like a pulse, and it was growing. He didn’t know if he could repeat the previous use of his talent again. The cracks in his body worried him, and the black ichor slowly dripping from them was nothing short of terrifying. There was also no pain. Why was there no pain?
“What’s happening to me?” he asked instead.
The woman scowled and looked at him as if seeing his state for the first time.
“Shit. Fine then, we’ll do this the dumb way. Fuck me, I didn’t want to do this. I’ll guide it, then assist me to throw it into the cauldron. Whatever comes out of it, be sure to take it before that skeletal bastard does. He’s still alive, the fucking lich.”
Sunday opened his mouth, but she interrupted him by throwing a blade toward the wiggling form of the still-healing Trust. It pierced his spine this time, shattering it into two, before returning to her hand.
What cauldron? Does she mean the hole? And a lich?!?
“Listen—”
The lesser god was upon them in the next moment, and Sunday instantly fled from the fight that broke out. He still didn’t know the woman’s name, but as terrifying as she was to him, she was also trustworthy. How or why, he didn’t know. Just a silly and annoying feeling.
“We should run,” Mera whispered. “I can’t move through this green mist, but I can make us invisible.”
Sunday hesitated briefly, then shook his head. He forced his soul space to take in more of the miasma and waited for the Yew Tree’s Blessing to do its job. The process was slow, and the cracks on his body seemed to grow.
“I have a job to do. You need to leave if you can. I might need medical attention after all of this blows over… you know, go get some glue or something.”
Mera looked at him, then nodded. “Duty first, then. I’ll be around just in case.”
Sunday didn’t reply. He felt the energy build up. It was weaker than the one he had stolen from the clone for some reason.
One more slap, then we’ll all go home, get drunk, and have some good times. Come on, this is my moment to shine and see what being chosen is all about.
He stood to the side, gathering energy for a while longer, and as the woman and the lesser god stepped closer to the so-called cauldron, he saw his chance.
A single step brought him into the world of chaos. A billion pieces of him, swimming through a world of odd shapes and currents. He felt the energy coming out of the cauldron clearer than ever but paid it no heed. Its pull was unable to affect him any longer.
Sunday returned to the world close to the fight, and without waiting swung. The energy was less than before, but he hoped it was enough. He saw his hand almost fall apart as it completed the motion.
The skin flaked.
The flesh twisted.
And a massive barely visible palm struck the god square in the chest, sending it tumbling into the bubbling void.
Sunday smiled in triumph, then screamed as the miasma became solid fingers that wrapped around his outstretched arm, and pulled him in.
