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Chapter 43 - To Take a Life
🕑 Added 2021-10-12 20:45:23 +0000 UTCChapter 43
To Take a Life
Though Sylas shout was loud and awakening, it was still too late. Just as his voice faded into the night, dozens of tents went up in flames, with yet another crescendo of arrows descending. He rushed into the tent, all the while screaming ‘FIRE, FIRE, FIRE’ like a madman, trying to wake up as many people as possible. It worked as, soon enough, more and more shouts came booming out.
Rousing his three tentmates from the sleep, he kicked them when they kept rolling about in their straw-made beds. The kick did its job as everyone immediately stood up, ready to fight. Once they got a glimpse of the situation, however, they immediately pulled their weapons and rushed out. Sylas deliberated for a moment before picking up the sword and rushing out as well. This loop was doomed anyway—he may as well test his skills and try and see just what the hell happened.
By the time he left the tent, fighting had already started. He was unclear from where they appeared, but, scattered about the entire campsite, he saw dozens of unfamiliar figures brandishing all manner of weapons—from rudimentary swords to spiked clubs of sorts. Skirmishes erupted all across the board, with the highest concentration being near the war tent, where Valen slept.
Just standing and staring at the flashing lights of the fire as it illuminated the battlefield, Sylas experienced it—for the first time since that first night he arrived here, he experienced war. But this time around, it wasn’t the undead trying to devour the living—it was humans against humans.
Corpses quickly began lining the campsite’s grounds, quite a few, in fact, stuck in crawling positions as they tried to run out of the flames that lit up their tents. It was the kind of horror that was much closer to Sylas’ heart; while the one he experienced staring at the figure in the sky was inexplicable, the ilk that shattered his mind, this one… was human.
Gnashing his teeth and brandishing the sword's handle, he rushed forward, beelining toward Valen’s tent. If he wanted to see who was behind this, he had the highest chance there as the Prince was the likeliest target.
Some forty yards from the tent, Sylas gasped and tossed himself to the side, barely dodging a wild swing of an ax. The man who attacked him slumped forward, the heavy ax’s momentum carrying him and even forcing him aground. Sylas stumbled onward, grasping at the wet ground—from blood, he realized as soon as he looked down—breathing heavily, trying to run away. He slipped, however, on the very same blood, flattening his face in it. It was… slimy. Sweet on his tongue.
Nearly puking, he turned around just in time to see the ax-wielding man descending toward him again. Yelling like a man who had gone insane, he stepped to the side and dodged the slow swing of an ax, brandishing his blade and using every single ounce of strength his arms' possessed, he stabbed forward. At that moment, something clicked—it clicked in his mind, it clicked in his fingers, in the way that he held the blade.
Not unlike the arrows that rained from the sky, the sword made the exact same sound as it pushed forth in a perfect trajectory—easily piercing through the few layers of clothing the man was wearing, boring into his heart. The ax-wielding man stopped in place, his eyes widening for a moment as he gasped for breath. Sylas, instinctively, pulled back and removed the sword from the body—letting the latter thud down and sprawl, dead.
Breathing heavily, it hadn't yet dawned on him that he'd killed another person. All he could see was another man coming for him, a sword wielder. Adrenaline pumping, his brain in overdrive, Sylas met him face-to-face, sliding sideways and dodging a downward swipe. The muscle memory that he had been building for so long finally came into play, his arms extending naturally to his side, directing the sword into a wide slash.
It was met by a hasty parry, and the man opposite of him stumbled to the side due to the force of impact, losing his footing. Taking the opportunity, Sylas stepped forward, inside the man’s blind arc. Rather than nicking away with the blade, he held it back in one hand while using the other to punch the man into the kidney. The latter yelped in pain, further losing his footing and stumbling back, whereupon Sylas took the opportunity and stabbed forward once more—directly into the heart again. Another one fell, wide-eyed, in disbelief.
Somehow, Sylas had made it to the war tent and saw the circular line of soldiers defending it from an ever-increasing number of attackers. This wasn't a hasty raid—it was a fully prepared battle. Their plans were leaked, Sylas had realized by then, remembering. There was another figure besides Dyn who opened the gates—at the time, Sylas dismissed it as Dyn shone ever so brightly, stealing away his attention. But the other man… the other man was already part of the castle. I can’t die until I figure out who it is, still letting the adrenaline carrying him forward, he began looking around madly, ignoring the war tent. He would reset it—this was too brutal to keep on, even if they won.
However, even with the burning fires all around, it was difficult to navigate the battlefield, let alone inspect the faces of the people involved. Who is it? Who is it?! WHO IS IT?!! He gnashed his teeth together till his gums bled, angry. He was angry. How could anyone so readily betray the people in the castle? Readily engage in such a battle that left both sides handicapped beyond repair? Even if they won, would it be worth it?
If Dyn wasn't evil, but a man driven to evil by circumstances and intentions, then the other man that night—the very same man who orchestrated what was happening at the moment—was evil. It wasn’t just the fact that they ambushed them—that was granted, with the element of surprise. But the plan… it was too rough. Too basic. Too juvenile. Just light some tents on fire and then engage in a melee where a whole lot of you would die? Wouldn’t it have been easier to prepare more traps? Kill even more people before engaging in direct combat?
“Sylas!! Come here!!” Tenner’s voice somehow managed to push past the sounds of the battlefield, the roaring flames, and the constant screams of agony and pain. “Get over here!!” before Sylas could say anything, he felt a strong arm grasp his and pull him back, directly through the defensive line and into the war tent.
Taking a closer look at Tenner, Sylas saw that the man’s entire garb was dyed crimson, his eyes remarkably reflecting the same color. Inside the tent, it was cold and dreadful—quite a few corpses lied about and, among them… was Valen. His eyes were still wide open, his lips agape.
“Fuck, what the hell happened?!!” Sylas asked.
“I… I don’t know. I’m not sure myself,” Tenner gnashed his teeth in despair. “By the time I heard your warning… the Prince, he… he was already…” If they killed the Prince already, what the hell is the point of all of this?! “I can’t believe… I can’t believe I let a Prince die on my watch. My head… my head won’t be enough—”
"Snap out of it," Sylas shouted at the captain. "Did you see anyone? Anything?! Anything that might give us a clue on who did it?!"
“What’s it matter now?! The Prince is dead! And we aren’t far off!”
“DID YOU SEE ANYTHING?!!” Sylas roared angrily, finally seeming to pull the Captain out.
“I… I’m not sure. Maybe? When I rushed out to see what happened, I saw someone walking away, nearby. I… I just figured it was another one of our men, seeing what was happening.”
“Anything stuck out about him?”
“Uh… cape? Maybe? I—I don’t know…”
“Captain, we’re getting overwhelmed!!” someone shouted from the outside. “Fuck, Dysder! Wake up! Dysder! Captain, we—AAAAAAAGGHHH!”
“They’re here,” Tenner took a deep breath. “Hide.”
“H-huh?”
“Hide!” Tenner shouted lowly. “I’ll hold them back for as long as I can. See… see if there’s an opportunity to run away. I already sent Ryne away—she should be somewhere nearby. If you two can make it… there’s hope for justice yet.”
“…” Sylas looked at the man’s determined gaze, not having the heart to tell him it was all pointless. The cape… the cape… odd cape… he repeated in his head as he headed deeper into the tent—not to hide, but to end his life and begin anew. It was little, but it wasn’t nothing. Besides, there were other ways of figuring out who it was—such as letting the two of them open the gates yet again, but figuring out who the man besides Dyn was.
Sighing, Sylas looked down at the sword and froze—there was blood everywhere. Having finally calmed down, memories surged back—he’d killed, not once but twice. He stabbed another person and watched them die. He’d killed someone with his own hands. At the realization, he began to shake, his fingers dropping the sword’s handle, the metal clanking against the stone. His face paled, lips quivering and parting slightly. He’d killed someone.
The feeling of stabbing the two men into their hearts and feeling it cease beating… it repeated like a lullaby in his mind, over and over, over and over, deeper and deeper. He saw their faces, pale, aghast, terrified, confused… they were weeping and laughing and taunting and pleading and jeering and begging. He passed out.
You have died.
Save point ‘Ignorant Awakening’ has been initialized.
