LittleVixen
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[SEC] [Arc 1] Chapter 16 — The Wyrtweard’s Domain
🕑 Added 2025-03-24 02:46:52 +0000 UTC[Author Note: Soooo, I tried something new and I hope you'll like it~ If you want more like this in the future, tell me :3
For the CW: Horror, Gore, Body-Horror.
If you want to skip that part, well, you'll notice when it starts and then you have to scroll to the first horizontal line.]
Everything was black—then came light. A breeze, soft and fragrant, carried the scent of lilies of the valley. Birds chirped somewhere above, their song gentle, distant. And then, his eyes opened.
Richard, who had believed himself dead, lay beneath a wide oak tree in the midst of an endless meadow, awash in spring. The leaves above swayed with the wind, whispering softly. He stared up at them, their green a balm against the abyss he'd just escaped. There had been no time in that void, no form. Just... stillness. Silence. A prison without walls, without hope.
He remembered.
He had lost his friends. His title. His connection to the Goddess. His life.
Raising his hand, he turned it slowly from one side to the other. It wasn’t transparent, not quite—but it didn’t feel real either. His body was weightless, without resistance. Like fog trapped in a shape.
The Matriarch. No—the monster. Where had she gone? Was she here? Had his goddess saved him at the last moment?
No... this didn’t feel like salvation. It didn’t feel like heaven.
Richard sat up, scanning the field of flowers to his left—bright, untouched, peaceful. It looked serene. Too serene. A trick, most likely.
He turned his head right—and froze.
A girl sat slumped at the base of the tree, her body held upright only by the long, unadorned sword driven through her chest. Her coal-black hair just brushed her shoulders, and her simple white robe hung lifeless around her body. Her eyes were open but empty—long since drained of anything resembling life.
His gaze dropped to the sword. It looked plain—almost deliberately so. But he could feel it. It had been forged for purpose, not for show. And the aura it radiated was unmistakable. Divine. Far beyond even the relics wielded by the Church. Even the Pope or the Inquisitor had never emitted something so powerful. Richard couldn’t look away.
“It’s beautiful, no?” said a voice behind him—young, feminine, and disturbingly calm.
Startled, Richard scrambled to his feet and spun around.
The young girl who was before him didn’t match the voice.
She wore a long, flowing black dress, layered and heavy, with sharp accents of deep red lace curling along the hem and bodice. It wasn’t modern—it reminded him of ancient noble fashion, elegant and oppressive, like a relic from another time. Her long black hair cascaded down her back, and a black lace fascinator crowned her head, adorned with crimson roses and bows like blood blooming in shadow.
If he hadn’t known better, he might’ve assumed she was a noble’s daughter—or perhaps a vampire—on her way to some formal court gathering.
But she wasn’t. She was seated on a simple garden chair, sipping tea, staring at him with deep golden eyes that glowed faintly in the soft light.
“W-Who are you?” Richard asked, his voice hoarse.
She arched an eyebrow, tilting her head just slightly. “Shouldn’t the one who wandered into my garden be the one to introduce himself first?”
There was something disarming in her tone—graceful, polite—but not kind. Not really.
Richard hesitated, then straightened. “My name is Richard. Former High-Paladin of the Goddess of Light and Justice.”
“My, my… a High-Paladin?” She smiled slightly, her voice warm but mocking. “How fortunate. I didn’t know such a distinguished guest would be visiting my little abode. You may call me The Wyrtweard. I am... caretaker of this place.”
Richard blinked. “Wyrtweard? I can’t say I’ve heard that title before. Is it some kind of gardener?”
“If you like,” she replied with a faint smile. “Though most gardeners don’t tend to what I do.”
She gestured to a second chair. “Please, sit.”
There was a subtle weight to the offer. Not a threat, but something just beneath it. Richard obliged, choosing to meet the girl’s civility with his own.
A porcelain teacup appeared before him on the table. Its delicate gold trim shimmered as it filled itself with steaming liquid. The Wyrtweard's gaze lingered on the cup, urging him to drink.
He raised it to his lips—and nearly gagged.
The taste was foul. Sour, earthy, and pungent, like spoiled vegetables steeped in syrup. He grimaced and set the cup down quickly.
“Disgusting, isn’t it?” she said casually, sipping from her own cup again. “Mustard cucumber and woodruff. One of my... experiments.”
“It has a… unique taste,” Richard replied cautiously.
The girl laughed softly, covering her mouth with the back of her hand in a display of practiced nobility. “That’s a kind way to put it. I’ve tried for centuries to craft the perfect blend—something no one else could. Unfortunately, taste eludes me.”
She set her teacup down on the porcelain saucer. “So, Richard. What is a paladin doing uninvited in my garden?”
The paladin swallowed hard. “I... I woke up here. I don’t know how I ended up in this place. The last thing I remember is... dying. And then... nothing.”
The girl tilted her head, her golden eyes gleaming with a strange light. “I sense no lies on your tongue. Curious. It’s been ages since I last received a guest.”
A wave of cautious relief washed over him. He hadn’t expected her to believe him so easily, but perhaps fortune hadn't completely abandoned him. Still, questions burned inside him. Where was this place? Who was the woman impaled against the great tree?
He glanced—only briefly—at the motionless figure pinned to the trunk, but the Wyrtweard followed his gaze and smiled.
“You know her. Most do. Bedtime stories, cautionary tales, whispered warnings in the dark. She fought the Origin—and lost.”
The words struck him like a hammer. His thoughts twisted, scrambling to keep up with what he had just heard. His mouth opened, but only unintelligible syllables came out.
The girl waited patiently, sipping her dreadful tea like it was fine wine. She wanted blood, of course, but even this—this bitter thing—she would not waste. She had brewed it, after all.
Eventually, Richard managed to form a proper sentence. “H-How is this possible? This place... it’s supposed to be—”
He stopped. Now that he thought about it, the location of Eternal’s prison was never truly known. Only that it had been hidden, sealed away by divine hands.
But if it was hidden... then who was this girl who sipped tea beside the most feared enemy of their world?
“Are you—” he began, but the look she gave him—bored, mildly annoyed—cut him off before he could continue.
She sighed. “No, I am not one of your gods. I believe your kind calls me ‘the woman-who-first-awoke.’ Is that still the title you use?”
Richard stared, stunned. “B-But then you are ol—”
“—older than the divines?” she interrupted, the faintest smirk curling on her lips. “Perhaps. I wouldn’t know. I walked this world long before they ever claimed dominion. Before the Witch of the End. Before the Mother of Origin. Before Leviathan claimed the oceans. Before the Frist Dragon Emperor shattered the sky searching for his sister. Before the Cog-Queen drained her mind to kill the first Mana-Beast.”
Richard felt his body chill. Half the names meant nothing to him, but the rest?
Legends. Warnings. Heresies.
The Witch of the End—slain by the Witches’ High Council. The Mother of Origin—mythic creator of the fae and elementals. Leviathan—the slumbering terror deep in the harrowing abyss, a being so powerful even the gods dared not disturb her.
He had heard of them in scriptures and stores, but the other three? The Cog-Queen? The First Dragon Emperor? The first Mana-Beast? And... her?
No, not once had he heard or read about those names anywhere.
He swallowed hard, still trying to grasp what she had just said. “You walked this world... first?” The words stuck in his throat like splinters.
She didn’t respond right away.
She simply smiled—softly, serenely. But there was something behind that smile. Something ancient and exhausted. Something that had endured too much—and bent too far.
And behind her, the impaled body on the tree shifted. Just slightly.
Something deep and ancient stirred beneath the soil.
“Are you the One Evil?” he asked, slowly.
The girl looked mildly annoyed. “I am the Wyrtweard of this place. I tend to my garden. I protect it from insects and decay, trim the hedges, restore the order. They, on the other hand—” she tapped her finger against the table, sharply, once, twice, “—they cut down protected trees, ravaged the earth’s treasures, poisoned the air with smog and the waters with petroleum, tore open the crust with drills and machines, and destroyed the very world they were meant to live on.”
“H-Huh?” Richard blinked, completely lost. Half the words meant nothing to him—smog, petroleum, drills—they may as well have been spell components or names of long-dead devils. But the way she said them… it made his skin crawl.
Whatever she was describing, it sounded like blasphemy.
She sighed and leaned back slightly, her tone softening. “But I’m straying from the point. I’ve always protected the garden. Sometimes, when it grows wild, it needs a nudge—a little trimming here, a little cutting there. Redirection, so the fruits and flowers can thrive again. I need this garden... but even I require rest, from time to time.”
Her eyes narrowed. “So imagine my surprise when I returned to find it overgrown, blooming with strange new life—plants and forms I’d never seen before. I can’t just cut it all down. I have to study what’s new. Assess what belongs. What doesn’t. Only after that can I resume my work.”
Her smile returned, unreadable. “Right now, I’m wandering. Observing. Testing. Learning. And I am impressed by much of what has bloomed... but if it doesn’t serve the garden, it will have to go.”
Then, with a tilt of her head, she added, “So tell me, former High-Paladin Richard—does humanity deserve to remain in the garden?”
At the end of her question, her smile twisted. It pulled unnaturally wide, the flesh of her cheek splitting as though her skin were paper. Black ichor seeped from the torn edges, dripping thickly down her jaw. The grin no longer belonged to something human.
Richard felt something seize his chest. True fear. He tried to stand, but his body betrayed him. He squirmed in place, every fiber of his being screaming to flee, but he couldn’t move—couldn’t breathe.
His teacup, moments ago filled with warm liquid, had turned thick, red. It bubbled, grotesquely alive, and began to fill again on its own. It spilled over the rim, across the table, down its leg, onto the ground—never stopping, never ending.
The Wyrtweard laughed.
At first, it was her voice—but it changed. Grew. It tore across the silence, no longer a sound but a force. An eldritch thing. A pressure that made his bones tremble.
“Run~” it whispered—no, commanded. The word thundered in his skull, rupturing thought.
Richard obeyed.
He ran. He didn’t know where or how, but he ran.
Fast. Blind. Terrified.
But the voice followed.
The garden was gone. No birdsong. No breeze. The world around him had frozen. A backdrop without life, without air. Everything felt artificial—like a painted canvas pretending to be reality.
The dread grew with each step. A silent weight pressing on his empty lungs.
Then he saw it: a brook. Running water. No sound.
As he drew near, the crystal-clear water began to darken—slowly at first—shifting into a thick, ruby-red flow. It wasn’t blood. It was too clear. Too clean. No scent of iron. No warmth. And yet, it shimmered—unnaturally.
The light didn’t touch it. Darkness poured from it instead, thick and consuming. The blackness spilled from the banks, seeping into the surrounding grass.
The world slowly changed.
Trees rose from the ground—warped and twisted. Shrubs formed from nothing. Tangled roots erupted, building a mockery of a forest. The leaves rustled... but there was no wind. Richard saw the motion, but heard nothing. No life. Only the echo of that laughter, distant and wrong.
And then—stillness.
Silence reigned.
But beneath it, something began to bleed through. A muffled ripple—the stream.
It was subtle, but it pierced through everything else, giving the moment an unnatural pressure. The longer Richard remained, the more it felt like he was sinking—submerged too deep beneath invisible waters, pulled steadily into a sea of darkness with no surface in sight. It was the soundscape of a man drowning slowly... painfully aware of every passing second.
He didn’t belong here.
He knew that.
But it was too late. Reality already began to slip.
Colors lost their edge. Shapes bent and blurred, their meaning evaporating with each breath he took. The world twisted softly at first, then violently, until only the stream remained—an anchor in a place that no longer made sense.
All at once, the darkness surged over the banks—thick, writhing, alive. It poured outward with a hunger that was slow and deliberate, like ink bleeding into parchment, devouring the ground as it crept toward him.
Second by second, the landscape twisted. What little remained of form or familiarity collapsed beneath the advancing black. The air folded in on itself. Geometry shattered. Perspective broke. The world unraveled into a sickening tangle of colorless nonsense, a soup of thoughtless chaos that defied even the concept of space.
Shapes ceased to be shapes. Colors dulled, then vanished entirely. Even light itself seemed to forget how to behave. The only certainty was the advancing shadow—growing taller and taller until it loomed four heads above the fallen paladin, a towering pillar of twitching, roiling void.
And then—it did nothing.
It simply stood.
Staring. Watching.
Waiting.
Richard could not look away. His body trembled, paralyzed not by force but by the sheer wrongness of it.
Then the change began.
From the heaving core of the mass, arms sprouted—too many, bending at too many joints. Fingers like melted wax slithered out and coiled back into themselves. Veins pulsed through formless flesh as the shadow started building something that could almost be called a body.
Around it, the world responded.
The chaos receded, but not into sanity—into design.
Shapes began to reemerge. At first, rudimentary: squares, circles, simple lines. Flat and sterile, like a child’s drawing. Then, they evolved.
Structures twisted into unnatural arrangements—melting clocks, screaming flowers, eyeless faces bleeding color. The world began to resemble surrealist nightmares, familiar only in the way a half-forgotten dream clings to memory.
Next came the screaming.
Not from Richard—but from the world itself.
Walls, sky, and ground howled in silence as the entire environment shifted into a living rendition of the old-world painting The Scream. Buildings that weren’t here before appeared and instantly bent like rubber. Faces loomed from impossible distances, mouths agape in voiceless agony. The sky burned orange and bled downward, devouring the horizon.
And then—Dadaism.
The logic of form collapsed. Meaning fractured entirely. Nothing aligned. Nothing belonged. Broken statues of faceless men spun in the air like clocks without hands. Everything was ironic, disjointed, violently absurd—as if mocking the very idea of understanding.
And yet—he understood it all.
He shouldn’t have. He couldn’t have.
And yet—Richard knew.
He knew what surrealism was. What The Scream meant. What Dadaism represented.
The knowledge was forced into him—not taught, not explained, but inflicted. Like an infection of meaning crawling into Richard’s mind and carving space where none existed before. He didn’t just see it—he felt it, named it.
These things didn’t belong in this world. But the world had decided they would.
And the shadow—it wore them.
Each time the world changed, the creature changed with it—morphing into grotesque echoes of each style, each movement, each artistic trauma. It was no longer adapting.
It was becoming, but what?
And Richard could do nothing but watch.
The paladin could only stare.
Frozen.
And that was the mistake.
The being waited. It expected something—a code, a word, recognition. Something that would prove the real Richard was still within the flesh.
Yet Richard said nothing, too stunned, too afraid.
And so, the trap was sprung.
So Richard watched, watched as In the blink of an eye, it was upon him. Richard didn’t even register movement—just the sudden, violent crack as something tore through his shoulders.
With a wet, thunderous thud, both of his arms were ripped clean from their sockets.
“H-huh?” he gasped, eyes wide as he stared at the gaping stumps where his limbs had been. His brain lagged behind the moment—still searching for sensation—until the pain hit like a divine punishment.
The scream that escaped him was inhuman.
Raw. Broken. Endless.
And then—he watched.
Watched as the shadow—his dark twin—lurched forwards and sank its teeth into the severed limbs. It didn’t just bite—it tore, its jaws opening far too wide, splitting at the edges like torn leather. Flesh peeled in ragged strips, sinew snapping like overstretched cords. Bone splintered with a sound like wet stone cracking, sharp and final. Veins pulled taut, trembling like piano wire, before snapping with a whiplike recoil.
It chewed, lips smacking wetly. Each bite was deliberate, relishing the texture. Bits of muscle hung from its chin as it swallowed, gore coating its face in a glistening red mask.
And with every chunk consumed, its shape shifted. The shadow rippled, quivered, and thickened. Skin bubbled over darkness, patches of stolen flesh fusing to its frame. It twitched as if it were learning—becoming him. Each bite brought it closer to perfect imitation.
Richard tried to crawl, kicking frantically with blood-slicked heels, but he barely moved. His arms were gone. His breath came in broken gasps. Everything hurt beyond sanity. His vision blurred, the edges pulsing with dark spots, but his will clung to the edge—he had to get away. Had to warn someone. Anyone. The Wyrtweard couldn’t be allowed to roam this world unnoticed.
Then came the sound.
Thud.
Squelch.
Thud.
Heavy. Wet. Close.
The thing was coming.
“NO—NO, STAY AWAY!” Richard shrieked, throat ragged from screaming.
No reply.
Just footsteps. Slower now. Heavier.
And then—it stood before him.
His own face stared back at him. Pale. Soaked in blood. Grinning.
Then his dark self lunged.
It pounced on Richard like a beast starved of restraint. Its fingers plunged into his thigh—ripping, not slicing. His leg tore free at the socket with a sickening pop, the muscle still twitching as it was tossed aside.
The ribs went next. His chest was cracked open like a broken cage—ribs pried apart with bare hands until they snapped with a splintering crunch.
His organs spilled out in steaming ropes. The shadow grabbed them greedily, shoving them into its mouth, smearing blood across its face and its body in an endless hunger.
Richard screamed until his throat bled. And even then, he kept screaming.
But it wasn’t done.
It crawled up his broken frame and plunged its fingers into his eyes. Not fast—not merciful. It dug, twisting and pulling until the jelly-like globes came free with a wet unnerving sound. The paladins vision died, replaced by hot black.
When it finally tore his throat open, it took its time—ripping inch by inch, separating muscle, cartilage, and sinew like it was unraveling a gift, enjoying every second of it.
By the time the dark clone finished, there was no Richard left to scream.
There was only meat, scattered across the floor.
And yet... Richard stood.
He blinked.
He saw his own bloodied hands. His own face reflected in a nearby bloody puddle.
His mouth opened—and screamed. No, not from pain. But because he knew—he had devoured himself and loved it, reveled in it.
And Richard’s mind, unable to contain that horror, shattered.
________________________________________
Everything was black—then came light. A breeze, soft and fragrant, carried the scent of lilies of the valley. Birds chirped somewhere above, their song gentle, distant. And then, his eyes opened.
Richard, who had believed himself dead, lay beneath a wide oak tree in the midst of an endless meadow, awash in spring. The leaves above swayed with the wind, whispering softly. He stared up at them, their green a balm against the abyss he'd just escaped. There had been no time in that void, no form. Just... stillness. Silence. A prison without walls, without hope.
He remembered.
He had lost his friends. His title. His connection to the Goddess. His life.
Raising his hand, he turned it slowly from one side to the other. It wasn’t transparent, not quite—but it didn’t feel real either. His body was weightless, without resistance. Like fog trapped in a shape.
The Matriarch. No—the monster. Where had she gone? Was she here? Had his goddess saved him at the last moment?
No... this didn’t feel like salvation. It didn’t feel like heaven. Because it wasn’t. It was a hell, a cruel hell he would never remember. A place where he was trapped in an endless loop, doomed to forget the pain every time it began again.
________________________________________
________________________________________
I watched Richard through the large emerald crystal in my hand, confirming the loop still held.
This lingering devotion—his desperate need to flee and protect the world—was strong enough to support the other seals, at least for a little while, before his soul inevitably broke. I had no idea how much influence the System still held over him, but whatever remained had made this loop an ideal temporary fix.
I had a few weeks—maybe.
It wouldn’t hold forever. I doubted it could keep the System at bay for long either, and I’d likely suffer another relapse soon. But with this setup, the anchors wouldn’t collapse entirely... just leak now and then. Just enough.
That was all I needed. An interim solution. And if it failed?
I’d find another like him. Another soul filled with a powerful emotion—devotion, guilt, rage. It didn’t matter. The feeling just had to be strong enough.
“But devotion…” I whispered, “is beautifully inefficient.”
I raised my voice, “Oreia. Marikerai.”
They appeared before me, stepping out from the space between two worlds.
“Mistress,” the twin foxes said in unison, bowing low.
“Oreia,” I instructed, “take this to Ryu. Have him place it in the central socket of the anchor-point altar.”
The marble-furred artic fox nodded, took the crystal in her mouth, and vanished into the meadow’s deeper fold—toward the shadow warden.
“Marikerai,” I turned to the larger one, “the Commander’s chains are loosening again. Be a dear and remind her she still has boundaries. A little hope now and then won’t hurt her.”
He nodded and disappeared as well, the grass flattening beneath his massive, horse-sized frame. Crimson fur vanished into the shadows.
You might think they were mana-beasts. But no.
They were older, different—something deeper. The True Wyrtweards. Keeper of this cursed place that holds my pain, my failures, my shame, my memories. Each of my regrets made real.
I looked back at Eternal. Still motionless. Still sealed.
“Do you think the Commander would recognize you now?” I asked softly. “No... probably not. She was the one who destroyed you, after all.”
My voice dropped, almost wistful.
“Oh, how the machines wept. How they screamed the night they lost their silver liberator. Even in death, she regretted it. Cried, for what she had to do to you.”
I knelt beside the tree, cracks beginning to form along my own skin.
“Oh, dear Commander... always giving. Always loving. Always forgiving. That’s why you became the perfect seal.”
The cracks deepened. My time here was ending.
“Seems I’ve reached my limit. The System must be watching—fiddling with the body outside. But for this kind of magic to still hold so well…”
A grin tugged at my lips, even as my form began to unravel.
“...I may have just found a solution~”
