C. Sebastian Nutt
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Chapter 189 - Insomnia
🕑 Added 2025-07-03 08:22:00 +0000 UTCIt is even worse the second time I see it. The city’s screams fade now into the sound of snapping lumber and cracking mortar, the dull moans of a creature suffering a beating, whimpering. I glide forward, riding the wind, my wings a curtain of black behind me. Never do my eyes leave the sight of the tree towering over the city. Eclipsing the crimson moon in the red sky, the tree’s shadow stretches across Danfalla like a dark and twisted hand of too many fingers. Points of fire sizzle in the shadow of the tree, small stars of light in the void of the darkness cast by it, a parody of the night sky written upon the ground.
Pain makes me spin, a gout of fire sprays from my hand, rushing over and scorching the brick of the building next to me. As the fire vanishes, becoming one with the hot air as color recedes, I pause, hovering there, staring at the black stain left on the brick turned crimson by the light overhead. An itch on the back of my hand pulls my attention down; a scrape mark stands out on the back of my hand, rapidly vanishing.
Ah, I just ran into the building; that makes sense. It takes constant effort to stop myself from drifting in the air. Belatedly, I remember my magical equipment, the Windglider’s Bracers. As if remembering it were the same as using it, the air beneath my feet takes on a solid quality. My whole weight sinks onto my knees, making me stumble a moment before catching myself in the air. So strange, I look down at my hand, the scrape against my hand already vanished, but more, my eye looks for the bracers that should be on my wrist, that lets me use the air like solid ground. It is gone, stolen somehow by the strange ability the throne of war granted me, both there and not at the same time.
The space behind my eyes turns painful, my vision vanishing into a wash of color, as I bring up the status window. Even when the world returns to normal, a keening whine tickles inside my ears, setting nerves in my stomach fluttering. Were I not supported by the sky magic infusing my wings, I surely would have fallen over. I close my eyes, waiting for the sensation to pass, only opening them again when I can be sure of myself.
Charlene Devardem
Human(Level 66)(Rank 2)
Emperor Conflux <Recovery Specialist>
Attributes
Vitality: 156(277)
Strength: 115(176)
Magic: 990(1496)
Defense: 140(328)
Magic Defense: 119(294)
Speed: 687(962)
Recovery: 1051(1576)
Perception: 114(125)
Healing Points: 2772
Mana: 14960
Stamina: 7994
I look over the numbers. Trapped inside the coffin, I managed to reinforce my soul twice through concentrated effort. I always knew such a thing was possible, just that it existed outside of the realm of what I can accomplish. I see it there, my effort put into reinforcing the energy pathways running through my body, connecting my soul directly to the channels, reinforcing the walls so that they can more potently circulate magic, reflected in points added to my recovery. While the numbers might not look like much on the surface, I managed to break the third threshold for the attribute. Somehow, that attracted Exeter’s attention, or perhaps it pushed my soul toward the Throne of Magic; the specifics remain hazy. In either case, just those two levels, twenty-three days spent in constant pain and isolation, led to my liberation. I wonder briefly if those two levels will be the most important in my life.
Shaking my head, my wandering mind settles back on the discrepancies once again. The increase to recovery is expected. Simple arithmetic, the easiest thing in the world to me now, places the third threshold for an attribute at around eighteen hundred once the multiplicative factor of my draconic eyes is accounted for. All my other attributes are so far away. Recovery, however, is not what captures my attention. Rather, it is the discrepancy in the defense and magic defense attributes.
I have never had exceptional stock in either of the attributes. For the abilities granted to me by my essentia, it was apparent from the outset that recovering from wounds and injuries would be my greatest strength, and so I decided to invest in my speed attribute to avoid the blows I didn’t wish to suffer. Rebuffing attacks, shrugging off blasts of powerful magic in the way that Dovik does has never been my approach. And yet, the numbers now sit significantly higher than they did before, even when all of my equipment is factored in, something I continue to benefit from despite all of the pieces existing in some kind of liminal space.
A thought strikes me, and my mageblade slips from the sheath on my hip through the pull of my magic. I catch the weapon on my hand, opening my palm, my light skin made red by the eerie night sky. The point of the blade touches the skin of my hand, nerve endings tensing reflexively as I push the blade against my hand. I run the blade back, moving it over my skin, marveling as the wicked dagger refuses to bite. I try again, pushing harder against my hand, and despite a line of dull pain running down the center of my palm, no cut forms. It isn’t until the third attempt, when I use a considerable amount of strength, that the blade finally bites, tearing open my skin.
The wound vanishes in seconds, my hand putting itself back together before more than two drops of blood can well on the surface of my skin. I stare at my hand a moment longer, enchanted by the display.
It isn’t as if a magician’s skin being able to resist damage is all that unique of a thing. Jess showed me before how tough her flesh is despite how soft it remains to the touch. The thing is, that has never been the case for me. All of my durability has always come from the equipment that I wear, the enchantments embedded in the material infusing my body with extra resilience. My eyes flick back to the status window again, looking over the two attributes–Defense and Magic Defense–as an idea comes to me. Perhaps, with their physical forms absent, the magic contained within infuses my body directly. More, perhaps, the sturdiness of the material itself is infused into me, the nature of the fabrics, leathers, and spidersilk made a direct part of my body.
The mageblade slides back into its sheath as I hold my hand up, staring at it as it eclipses the moon. “What is my body becoming?” I blink, trying to focus my mind once more. “How hard did I hit that building?”
A roar moves over the city like a concussive blast, a wave of dust breaking across the buildings in a progression I can see with my naked eyes. When the force passes over me, rippling my hair and clawing at the ballroom dress I wear, the source stands out to me. High on the hill, near to the base of the giant tree, a building collapses in a cloud of dust and smoke. Shadows, moving like whipping tentacles, writhe in the dust before vanishing toward the ground.
My feet touch the ground, and my shoulder settles against the brick of the building next to me, the sight of the high hill vanishing behind the rise of buildings stretching in front of me. I feel like I have seen something like that before, in my nightmares, a shifting demon put there to torment me while I lay crying inside my tomb. Could I still be there?
As I drift from the alleyway, I watch as packs of wild people run through the streets, some chasing, others fleeing. My hand begins to shake, and I clamp down on it hard with my other. Is this just another waking nightmare? Maybe I am still in the coffin. It doesn’t make much sense, does it, that the city should be ripping itself apart in this way. It was so hard to tell sometimes, the ache and exhaustion overrode it all. Walking through the streets, I listen. Doesn’t the pop and crackle of the fires sound like my heart beating? Aren’t these people fighting, beating, and sometimes killing one another under the spell of a creature I already know is dead? I’m so tired.
Would it be so bad to take a moment to rest my eyes, to stop them from aching? What is the worst thing that might happen? If I am in the coffin, I’ll just die. Would that be so bad, compared to the alternative, being trapped inside a nightmare, inside this hell, unable to know if anything is real or not?
But I can’t seem to do it. I remember the sensation of letting go, of that man in the room of stone holding me, telling me that it was alright for me to stop fighting. I remember the pain that followed as well as the sense of relief. I drift into the air, my aim directed vaguely toward the tree and the high district. No, I can’t allow myself to stop, can’t take the time to rest. If this is real, then my friends may be somewhere in this city. They might need my help.
I can rest my eyes for a bit, though, just while I go there, while I drift through the air.
Thonk! The dull hollow sound of wood falling and bouncing off my skull. My eyes flutter, dust and crushed roofing material stinging my eyes as I stare up. A painted ceiling, fairy creatures carrying harps and bugles through a field of posies and lilac, their music calling to a herd of wild mustangs, spreads out above me. A hole stands out, a patch of bloody sky shining down through the green field. Dust blows off of me as I exhale, a line of off-white building material sticking to my sweaty skin as I lift my head.
How comical. I lay amid broken benches and plush maroon seats, my wings splayed out to either side of me. As I shift, grabbing and breaking the arm of another bench as I haul my body forward, scattered furniture around me clattering with the movement. The floor I lie upon creaks as I move, groaning, and I realize that I sit on a balcony overlooking a huge stage.
“I’ve been here before,” I mutter, my eyes drifting toward a box set into the side of the expansive theatre. Smoke drifting through the air from a fire in the second row below creates a haze. Head swimming, I stumble forward, wooden benches tumbling aside, until my hands reach out to clench the brass rail running across the front of the balcony. There is a trilling laughter on the air that seems to echo from a stone mask set into the wall next to the stage, while the frowning mask beside it wails and wails.
I can’t stop myself from blinking, my head feeling swollen like my brain presses against my skull. The coolness of the brass in my hands holds me in place, stops me from swaying as I stand, the strange sound down below drawing my lazy attention. I find a nightmare down below on the stage, something familiar to my haunted dreams, yet twisted and novel.
Numb, I watch on, five men dressed in torn and ripped rags that were once proper clothing playfully shoving and laughing with one another as they fling blue and yellow paint with long-exhausted brushes. Their gaiety reminds me of boys let loose after church, shoving with one another as they race to the fishing poles they left at the creek. Their subject, two elven figures balancing at the top of a step ladder shake as the paint is thrown over them. The two a woman and her daughter by the looks of it, lower elves with blonde hair the same shade as two of the men, stand back to back at the top of the ladder, their hands tied with ropes behind them, pearls, silver chains, glittering stones on golden string, decorating their necks and torn finery. Another necklace, made of hemp rope, clings tight to their necks, the tail climbing high up into the rafters.
One of the men flings a glob of yellow paint up, splashing across the girl’s face, making her squeal in between her sobs while her mother stares blankly ahead: stoic or addled, it is impossible to tell. Another of the men kicks the ladder, laughing as it shakes, the women dancing to stay stable atop their perch.
I turn, looking to where I know it will be, toward the box I shared with Jor and my friends what feels like an eternity ago. It will be there, one of the three, sneering at me, showing me my impotence.
Only the box stands empty, just a vacant balcony of empty seats.
Below, the ladder rocks again, the woman slipping from it. The rope around her neck snaps taught, and she begins to dangle in the air, her body shaking. I look back at the box. So strange, the monster should be there, shouldn’t it?
The elven girl below screams, and the sound cuts through the fog. Then I am among them, delirious eyes turning toward me, mad and giggling faces puzzling at the sudden intruder in their midst. The nearest falls from the stage, his body landing in the orchestra pit below, as the palm of my hand strikes his chin. The remaining men come at me, paintbrushes flashing in their hands like daggers. I grab them, tossing them from the stage one by one, while my mageblade snakes up and severs the rope holding the woman. Her feet hit the floor of the stage, the rest of her buckling and falling sideways. She chokes after I pull the rope off her neck, throaty coughs shaking her entire body. The blank look persists in her eyes, even after the coughing ceases.
A cut from the hovering blade severs the second rope holding the girl to the ladder and cuts away the bonds on both of their hands. She looks down at me, far more emotion in her eyes, and takes a considerable amount of coaxing to get her down. All the while, her eyes stare at me from her paint-splattered face, flicking now and again toward my ears. Once she makes it to the stage, all care about me is abandoned. She runs to her mother’s side, shaking her shoulder, trying to get any response out of the woman. I watch, seeing this little girl push and prod at the older woman, begging to be heard.
“What’s your name?” I ask, kneeling next to her. From my vault, I pull a carton of cold cream out, handing it to her as water begins to condense on the outside of the container.
The girl takes the treat with absent fingers, looking at me with wide eyes. “Naella,” she says.
“How old are you, Naella?”
“Nine.”
“You’re such a brave girl. Let’s get you somewhere safe, okay.” At the girl’s nod, I move away, getting my hands underneath the woman and lifting her. She is so light.
Around the back of the stage, I find a large closet filled with cleaning supplies and stacked stage backgrounds leaning against one wall. It is a squeeze to get inside, and I need to dismiss the folded wings on my back into motes of magic to manage it. There is a tarp that I have the girl pull off a workbench to lay on the ground. Even after I lay the woman down, after I cover her with the blanket from my bed inside the vault, she still doesn’t stir.
“You are going to have to wait here, Naella,” I tell the girl. “Push these boards over the block the door after I leave.”
“Okay.” She nods. Still, there is fear lingering in her eyes. I can’t blame the child for it; she is holding up a lot better than I would have.
I spare the pair more food before leaving the closet, pulling the door shut behind me. I wait there just outside the door, listening for and eventually hearing the clatter as the stage backgrounds fall over to block entry.
If this is a nightmare, it is the first one that I have been able to change. The fog presses back into my mind, almost a month’s worth of sleepless nights trying to exact their revenge, and again I have to force it away. I just need to stay awake for another few hours. I managed it so long before, surely I can do it now. The thought of reaching for the power of the throne is tempting; it will keep me awake, I think, it did it before. But I hold off. When I finally relinquished the power, it took me nearly a half hour to climb from the tunnels beneath the city and make it back to the surface again, where I drifted, delirious. No, I need to focus, I need to hold myself steady. There will be a time to call upon that power again; I just need to wait for it.
It is just falling apart, all of it, everything. Jor’Mari’s eyes fall upon his sister as she fights the tide of demons crawling toward her. Even with bone protruding from her right arm, she fights on, swinging her polearm to sweep the creatures back. Behind her, the line of guardsmen steps forward, one after another, stabbing at those who get too close while trying to hold their perimeter.
Another one of the crawling demons scratches at him, its talons leaving a long line against his skin, not enough to break through, to draw blood, but the demon isn’t alone. Dozens of the dog-sized monsters pile atop him, biting and clawing, all of the power in his body turned toward defense as he is buried, the world becoming a void as light vanishes.
Something sharp sticks, a bleeding wound cut into his side as a claw tears him open. The demons swarm atop him, an unseen mass scratching at his side, trying to dig deeper into the wound as they smell the blood. The world of white and black is overtaken by the dark. Jor’Mari reaches out, his hand a point of contrast in the void, white color lined and defined by black lines.
He should be fighting, shouldn’t he? Crushing these creatures with his strength. Only, strength isn’t enough. A hand reaches into the swarm of monsters, a gargantuan gauntlet that grabs him tight by the throat. His face heats up as air vanishes, and he is dragged from the pile, the lesser monsters yielding before the towering figure.
Through the blood seeping into his eyes, Jor’Mari sees the form of the creature as it holds him aloft. It is a being of shadow to his eyes, indistinct darkness, power given room to change and shift.
He clutches at the goliath’s arm, blank hands outlined in harsh detail, scratching against an amorphous surface of shadow and smoke. Only the eyes of the hulking monster give its form any definition, pitiless and bottomless holes of white. It swings back its free arm, a blade of whipping bone formed like a scythe where its hand ought to be.
Jor’Mari’s struggles grow still, something in his blood calling his attention to the moment. He sees it, feels it in his being, the lesson taught in the contrast.
“Ah,” he thinks as the scythe swings forward. “You have to commit.”
The bone cuts forward, but it doesn’t bite. The formless spike of shadow is caught by a hand formed of shifting white vapor. The pressure around his throat begins to slacken as his body changes. The lesson, painful as it may be, was necessary. Jor’Mari feels thankful more than anything as his body begins to change, the soul cage buried in his chest spinning, cascading energy rippling from its metallic shell. He fully lets go, and his surrender is answered with power.
Comments
Andrew
Plus there is a huge lack of the main character's pov for the last 20 chapters, shes not feeling like a main character anymore
SecondBlahm
Please don't become an author that feel like piling on suffering on his protagonists as the only way to make them progress. Yes, struggle is good for the story, but for the last 20-30 chapters it seems to be only struggle and pain. It becomes a bit linear and unenjoyable despite the interesting story.
