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384 - Phantom Winds of Fate Pt. Final [Sturmblitz]
🕑 Added 2024-12-08 03:04:27 +0000 UTCCompared to harvesting errant vestiges, claiming the vestige of someone she had slain in single combat was a touch more involved. She brought out the Sword Phantom Scripture, its pages unsheathing at a mere thought, encircling Leopold’s vestige, gradually separating a distinct “chain” connecting him to an unseen something inside the corpse — his actual soul, which had yet to pass on.
She recited the appropriate incantation, word for stilted, antiquated word.
“In accordance with the agreement of blood, you, whom I have bested in single combat, relinquish your warrior’s will to me and pass on to the tides of rebirth, so that we may meet in battle again in another life.”
With each word, the scripture’s bladed pages closed in on the chain, threatening to sever it. But they never did. A few seconds after Zefaris had made her demand, the chain simply cracked and fell to pieces. Without another moment’s hesitation, Zefaris initiated the completion ritual, drawing on her formation circle’s secondary purpose. Her Inner Phantom, ragged and riddled with death-scars, took shape, and with this hand she reached out, and took Leopold’s vestige unto herself. This vestige, which alone could form a mighty phantom, more than sufficed for her purpose.
All those with the eyes to see instantly knew what had just transpired. Even the lowliest of disciples, those children-of-farmers conscripted for labour under the guise of martial training, instantly knew, and a chill came over them. The instinct to submit, to retreat in the face of this reaper-in-human-skin, weighed heavy over all of them. Merely being within her general vicinity felt like an ice-cold gun held one’s temple.
And above her right shoulder, a skeletal, third arm hovered, in its grasp a great revolver, a ghostly reflection of the mirror-sheen deathbringer in her hand.
Zefaris felt the frost upon her lips, and pervasive cold stiffness all throughout her body. She was certain that she could summon every single phantom in her contingent at this moment, but she was also certain that it would lead to her death. But spiritual exhaustion was an inevitability, and not an issue as long as she managed to get out of here. The foundation had been laid. She was thankful for the foresight of the scripture’s author — the process had been set up so that the individual steps could be prepared for ahead of time and then finished quickly, specifically to account for the possibility of needing to do so after killing someone in a duel.
She glanced all around, calling back the twisting spear’s dragonsteel core as she spoke, projecting her voice as best as she could.
“You all stand as witnesses to what took place here today. Let you be bound by the word of your elder, and leave. The Newman Sect will return to this place in time. If you are not gone by then, you will be removed. At this moment, I plead with all of you: Heed my word. Don’t throw away what might be centuries of life for the sake of a sect that staked your lives on a glorified outpost. Go and cultivate somewhere else.”
She swept her gaze across the remaining disciples of the Stillwind Black Horse Sect, even as those who had observed from the balconies now emerged from within the sect building.
“If you don’t, I will personally kill you all. No glory. No clashing of swords. Just a bullet in the head.”
None dared to impede her on her way out of the sect compound, and none dared follow her as she made her way out of Stillwind.
The Newman Sect learned of what had transpired before the hour was out.
And, rather than return to the sect right away, Zefaris continued on her journey. This diversion was not reason enough to change her plans. From stillwind, she passed two other mountain towns, resting at Fir-grove and ignoring Stonefist. The former was known for the quality and straightness of its wood, which the inhabitants used to produce a kind of gigantic flute as tall as a grown man, with piercing sound that carried incredibly far. As for Stonefist, it was called that for a monument of a giant, stone fist at the roadside, formed from a solid boulder as a threat by a cultivator who had once wandered this land, stealing from the local lord’s taxmen to reimburse the poor. Such was the local mythology of the post-collapse dark ages.
Eventually, she reached her destination — a south-north pass through the Artat Mountains. Once a vital trading route, it now only served the occasional pilgrim.
Over a kilometer above sea level at its highest point, it was a road carved into solid bedrock, the walls lined with a mixture of reinforcing glyphs and travelers’ etchings.
In the middle of that road, just past the highest point, facing down the northward descent, there stood a man of stone in black armour.
The Knight of Stone. A knight from the Three Kings Era, who, according to legend, had simply happened to overhear a rumor, leading him to intercept an invading army from the north by pure coincidence.
All around him, the natural rock gave way to the unmistakable shade of blackstone, great spikes of the material protruding from every possible surface. To this day, the armour and bones of those he had slain still littered the mountain pass. The destruction wrought here made it seem as if this one man could have very well fought on even ground with Ubul.
As Zefaris made her way further in, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease. Despite all signs pointing to the pass being completely unused, she somehow felt a pervasive sense of unease.
The instant Zefaris came within his vicinity, with the sound of grinding stone, he turned to face her. As he moved, Zefaris noticed a stretch to his skin. He was not petrified at all, his body had simply been refined to such a degree that it surpassed even actual stone in durability, and simply refused to yield to the petty forces of decay even in the absence of life. The Knight of Stone had died guarding the pass, his armour holding him together far beyond the point of death.
She carved a formation circle in the air so that she could see the knight’s remnant without provoking him, and saw something she had a hard time believing — the chain. In one way or another, he was still inside his own corpse, as if he had only died minutes ago. Zefaris wasn’t sure how this could have happened, considering that the body was undeniably dead. This was unlike a draugr, it clearly did not involve the Revenant King’s immortal blood, yet it was also very similar in the end result. Nothing in the Phantom Scripture even remotely suggested this could be possible, meaning the author had either never encountered such a case or had intentionally not mentioned it.
Zefaris decided to proceed as she had planned. She had prepared a special scroll — one that was not a formation or a combat artifact of any sort. It was a scroll of bone slips, shaped by Victor’s hand, bearing his seal — a simple profile of Dawnwolf’s helmet. As she unrolled it, the words within it blazed with bonefire, which sprung out to create a massive projection in the air.
Exerting herself, Zefaris summoned her full phantom contingent into view behind herself.
“By the authority of Victor Khestun, Heir of Koschei the Undying, Second of the Triarchy, I release you of your charge and bestow upon you the highest of honours. Your flesh and bones shall be immortalized among his servitors, and your undying warrior’s spirit will forever safeguard Ikesia.”
She rolled up the scroll, and saluted the strange, undead knight.
“Rest, eternal warrior. Let the next in line carry your burden.”
For several seconds, the Knight of Stone embodied his name in stillness. Then, ever so slowly, he raised a hand in matching salute. And he came to a final halt at last, as Zefaris witnessed the knight’s soul depart.
Finally, a sense of peaceful stillness descended.
And even in true death, the Knight of Stone remained standing.
In painstakingly combining the Knight’s remnant with those of the soldiers he had slain, Zefaris completed her Inner Phantom’s Second Armament.
And though her journey was still far from done, at last, she returned to the sect.
Comments
Irish Not Sane
The truth of her power, giving the greatest of warriors rest, hell of a perfect way to end this section.
