Demon Core - Chapter 9

Chapter 9: The thing that gurgles

~ [Shaushka] ~

Elf, Female, Classless Location: The Scorched Forest LEVEL: 04

A day has passed.

Shaushka still sits there, the never-ending rain pouring down over her head.

The elf remains disturbed in the murky wet that fills the night that never seems to end. Water drips into her somewhat agape mouth as she stares towards the sky, waiting for something to come.

She doesn’t know what that thing is, exactly.

But it will be something.

It’s been a while now since the crow left her behind, and she has just remained exactly where it left her.

— Something flickers in the corner of her vision, magnified in the droplets of rain that streak down her open, unblinking eyes.

The elf slowly turns her head, staring at the oddity that is out of place in the gray, murky landscape.

In the forest sits a gray, overturned log, dead and hollow. It rests over there, beneath a decayed mound of rotting, freshly burnt wood in a twiggy, sharp-branched mound.

Inside of the nest, secure from the rain, is a little spark — a small fire.

“Ah…” mutters Shaushka, crawling through the mud on her hands and knees towards the thing.

She stares at the little fire that burns inside of the dead wood, protected from the rain inside of the hollow log that it eats away at, each second of its insatiable hunger bringing it closer to its own demise as it burns away its shelter, bit by bit.

Shaushka looks at the fire, dancing a beautiful dance inside of its home, and the fire looks at her, as fire is wont to do under normal circumstances. The two of them simply stare at each other — one of them sitting in the rain and one of them sitting in the dry.

The fire spins around a little now and then, as wind from the heavy storm encroaches in on its shelter. Shaushka, with full eyes and an empty head, observes and learns, as the flames creep up the length of the log, moving along in a snaking trail that her eyes follow, sparks flying out every which way like colorful seeds that are yet to blossom.

~ [Seaman Minani-ni] ~

Vildt (Feline), Male, Master Sailor Location: High-seas of the great eastern ocean, The Abigalia LEVEL: 76

“Foul weather,” says the crewman, standing next to him. Minani-ni walks inside, squeezing out the water from his ears as the boat rocks beneath their feet. “A storm that never stops.”

Minani-ni looks at the old man. “It’s putting wind in our sails,” replies the young man. “We’ll be there soon at this pace.”

The old seaman looks his way. “Boy. The sea has never helped us. The sea hates us,” he explains, his old, worn, leathery face marred by the passage of salt and wind. “She’ll never miss an opportunity to swallow you if she gets it.”

“Good thing it’s the wind helping us then and not the water,” replies Minani-ni, tapping his head.

“Pah, it’s not helping us,” says the old man, looking back down at his mug, which is as worn and used as he is. “We’re spiraling around a whirlpool,” says the man, looking at his sloshing drink. “We’re not being helped. We’re being pulled in,” he says, before taking a long drink and falling silent.

Minani-ni stares at him for a time and then nods, heading off to his bunk to rest for a few hours now that his watch has ended.

The ship rocks beneath their feet, the heavy-storm, now that he thinks about it, seeming almost too inviting as the armada surges towards the west.

~ [High King Mercator] ~

Human-Half-elf, Male, King Location: The Capital City, in the Distant North LEVEL: 100

“So it’s all tumbling down?” asks Mercator, sitting with his hands together as he looks at the map laid out over the table. It depicts the nation, precisely marking the birthing spot of the Demon-King. The courtiers responsible for it work vigorously with a team of advanced scryers to keep the map updated.

“It is, my lord,” replies a senior officer, pointing at the small figure of a cart atop the map. He runs a small rod along the way. The cart has begun in one of their most important primary nodes of trade and commerce and has now begun moving along the winding roads. Surrounding the little figure of a cart is a red thread, connected to a thin metal hoop, meant to influence the destructive radius of the Demon-King’s presence. “Even if we are to assume that the cart stays on the roads at all times,” says the man, as one of the artists comes over to widen the circle a little more, as the Demon-King apparently grows in strength in the distant south. The new edge of the ring bumps against a cluster of houses that had previously been just outside of it. “The destruction is catastrophic.”

The king thinks for a while and then looks over the map, following the direction the Demon-King is moving in.

“The Bishop sent word of a hero-candidate,” says the King. “What of her?”

A woman across the table flips through some notes. “Triple-S rank adventurer Ruhr the… river-sorceress seems to have garnered the gods’ favor,” she explains. “As far as we know, she went in immediate pursuit of the Demon-King.”

“Any news?” he asks.

“No,” replies the woman, one of his advisers. “There has been no word since they entered the castle, and there’s no sign of the carnival slowing down.”

“I see…” replies the king as his eyes wander over the map.

— The artist returns and widens the circle again another tiny bit by adding some more wire to it. A small model of a tower gets knocked down.

“Our neighbors to the east?”

She nods, looking at another document. “Their ships are already in movement,” replies the woman. “We might assume they’re here to fight the crisis, but…”

“But?” asks King Mercator.

“We can’t be certain,” she replies. “The scryers report a sizable number, a full armada. It’s enough to stage an invasion of the continent.”

Someone clears their throat, his adviser on foreign relations. “If I may, I hardly suspect the Vildt would invade us at a time like this,” he explains. “There was no sign of any such desire before this crisis.” The Vildt ambassador stands next to him. A man with canine ears.

The woman sets down her papers, placing her hands on the table. “Perhaps they subscribe to the philosophy of never letting a crisis go to waste?” she suggests. “My lord, I realize the threat of the Demon-King is immediate, but we must take measures to ensure the safety of the exterior as well.”

“Nonsense!” says the first man, as the carriage is pushed a few nudges forward along the map. “We must focus ALL of our immediate resources on the Demon-King,” he notes. “And if the Vildt are willing to also throw themselves into the meat-grinder, the better it is for us.”

“And if they aren’t?” asks the woman. “What if we move our forces to engage the carriage and leave the capital defenseless?”

The man points at the map. “The capital is already as good as defenseless against the Demon-King!” he argues. “The carriage is moving towards the north, towards us, and he’s gaining momentum, everyone can see that!” He turns his head, looking at the sitting king. “My lord! We must invest our full resources into stopping the Demon-King before he reaches the capital!” The Vildt ambassador next to him nods. He is permitted to be present but not allowed to speak.

“We can simply put up a barrier, like they did in the South,” argues the woman.

“As if he couldn’t break that!” argues the man. “The South only survived because he paid them no further notice.”

King Mercator shakes his head. “Enough.” He looks at the scryers. “Are we able to view the inside of the Demon-King’s castle yet?”

“No, my lord,” replies the chief scryer, still holding his freshly bandaged over eye. “His presence is too powerful for us to squeeze past.”

“And the ships?” he asks.

The scryer shakes his head. “The Vildt aren’t interrupting us from doing so. We have full view in and around the fleet,” explains the man. “They are flying flags of peace time.”

King Mercator thinks, staring out of the window at the storm that never stops.

It is true that every willing man and woman stepping up to help fight the Demon-King is a badly desired resource. But at the same time, letting the soldiers of a foreign nation set foothold on the soil in such a sizable number, even if to allegedly fight the one-hundred year crisis, will have repercussions.

What happens if they win?

What happens if the Demon-King is defeated?

Who is to say that the Vildt army will just pack up and head home again? They’re already here, after all, nested inside of the bosom of his weakened nation, having strolled in past every wall and armament with the roads paved for them to march all the way through.

“The storm persists at sea?” asks King Mercator.

“Yes, my lord,” replies the chief scryer.

King Mercator nods, seeing no other way. They need their help, but they also can’t allow an immaculate host of the enemy’s soldiers to just land on the continent in such numbers. A compromise has to be found.

He nods, rising to his feet as he looks at his military adviser. “Send out a team,” he instructs. “Sink half of them. Make it look like the storm’s work.”

“You can’t!” A commotion erupts at the table. “This is an act of war!” barks the ambassador, breaking his silence.

King Mercator nods his head, and a pair of guards walk in, dragging the ambassador away.

“When the rest of the ships arrive, welcome them with supplies and medical aid.” He looks back down to the table, watching as the artists adjust the map, moving the cart just a little further, just a little closer towards the greatest concentration of population in the nation — the capital. “Form a new regiment out of our highest leveled soldiers and send them to meet the Demon-King,” he orders. “Attach them to the Church’s crusade.”

He narrows his eyes, watching as the areas of the map where the Demon-King has already been become painted gray to signify the desolace left behind, the creeping blob that inches its way towards him, moment by moment.

~ [Ruhr, the River-Sorceress] ~

Human-Half-Elf, Female, Sorceress Rank: SSS Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Floor Eleven LEVEL: 95

Ruhr hides beneath a ‘small’ table with only room for two, as loud, thunderous steps reverberate through the floorboards outside. She clutches an old, ratty owl-doll to herself, hoping that she doesn’t get found.

The steps grow louder and louder, the old table almost rattling with every thud as he shuffles along, shambling down the corridor. There is a loud belching sound. The acrid smell of his breath, while not able to travel all the way down to her, is present enough in her memory that she can smell it nonetheless. It smells like vomit and burnt fabric.

— Its steps vanish away after a moment, and she quietly comes out of her hiding spot, creeping through the tiny kitchenette to carefully look down the corridor after him.

The creature is gone.

Ruhr looks down at herself.

She has no way to fight it off. All she can do is hide and run. But hiding doesn’t always work. The woman lifts her gaze, her ratty, unbrushed blue hair sticking to her body. Running doesn’t always work either. After all, where is she supposed to run to?

Their house is only this. There’s the corridor, the room, and the kitchenette.

— But for some reason, despite her not remembering it ever being there, there’s now a door across from the kitchen.

Heavy shadows linger in the room. Dusty particulate floats around the air, suspended in the gray, loveless light that comes in through the windows as if she and they were both trapped in time.

This is a memory of her childhood.

Sort of. She is still in her body, but everything has become giant. The tables, the doors, the cabinets. Every piece of furniture and every segment of the house has been unnaturally scaled up to match the proportions they once had back then.

“Psst…” says a voice from the side. Ruhr jumps, clutching her owl-doll as she looks at the voice. There’s another member of their group, a man. He’s hiding in the kitchen too. He looks out from behind a box. “Is it safe?” he whispers. Ruhr nods, and he comes out of hiding.

“Come on,” mutters Ruhr and runs out into the corridor, reaching up to grab the handle of the new door that was never there in the past. She rises up to the tips of her toes, just barely managing to grab it. The man gives her a boost, and she reaches out, pushing it open.

The mystery-door swings open with a quiet creaking, revealing… the exact same hallway that they’re in.

It is a long, straight corridor.

On the left is a door she doesn’t know. On the right is a small kitchenette. Straight ahead is the room. It’s the only room. Well… now there are two.

Ruhr looks behind herself, to the ‘front door’ of the house that leads to the hallway. It’s boarded up and locked.

She and the man run down quietly into the new corridor, looking around for a moment.

It’s the exact same as the corridor they just came from. The dust motes are one and alike. The grooves in the wood, the cobwebs above their heads – this corridor is an exact replica of the last.

He gives her another boost, and she grabs the door handle of the closed door on the left side of the corridor, pulling it open. Beyond is the very same corridor once again.

Everything is the same.

“What is this?” asks the man.

Ruhr shushes him, and they stand there, immersed in total silence for a while. But it isn’t the usual silence, which is present between two people when there is a lack of topics or such trivial things.

It is the heavy silence that rests below a hangman’s noose. It is the quiet that feels like it will suck the air out of your lungs if you even open your lips to let out a whisper.

She nods her head and runs ahead, holding her owl. The man runs after her, and they keep going.

“Hey!” whispers someone else. They stop, turning to look at the third kitchen, where someone else was hiding too. Another one of theirs. Ruhr motions for him to be quiet and then nods her head, as the three of them move to the next door.

They enter a new corridor, exactly the same as the last one and all of the ones before it.

There is a door, closed, to the left. There is a kitchenette to the right, and straight ahead is, beyond the darkness that resides there, the room.

— Something coughs and gurgles from the distant darkness. Ruhr tenses up and then runs to the kitchen. “Hide!” she hisses, crawling into her spot below the table.

Everyone scatters. The first man hides behind his box, as before, and the other one, looking around, searches for a place too. Ruhr pulls her legs in, holding herself and her owl as the steps come back down the corridor, together with the gurgling and the smell of smoke. The wood of the floor vibrates, shaking, as the creature trudges along.

The table shakes and the sound of gurgling and hacking fills her ears, as if someone were drowning in their own mucus, yet somehow still breathing at the same time.

She looks into the button eyes of her owl.

The other man finds a spot to hide.

From the shadows, Ruhr watches as the thing, the creature, stands in the middle of the corridor, having shambled its way out of the room once again. It stands there, perfectly still, as if it itself didn’t know what it was doing. It’s like an animal, sick with the biting-disease.

The creature turns its head, walking into the kitchen. Its features are present, but not so in any normally understood sense. It has eyes, but they are sunken in so deeply into its skull that there is nothing visible in them. It is more than a pair of hollow sockets, it is as if there was simply nothing there inside of the gaps but void. It has a nose that juts out of his face, red and fat, but it seems to have been broken so often that it turns and twists, almost winding back around in on itself. It has a mouth, but there is nothing in it except for a gullet, from which emanates the smells of vomit and smoke.

The creature shambles into the room, clutching itself against the doorways as if it couldn’t walk properly without being able to do so.

It slaps around with its two hands, as it always does, trying to find his way through the house. His ability to see in the dark is extremely poor, having been lost along the way with his age. It reaches towards a box in the room, pulling out a long, green glass bottle that it doesn’t bother uncorking. Instead, it lifts its head and begins to lodge the whole thing inside, neck first. But its mouth is much too small to fit any more than the neck of the bottle in.

— So, the creature, determined, simply shoves the bottle in further despite that. Flesh rips as it forces the glass inside, tearing its lips wide open. The forces of its spasming, writhing body that fights the pain and the hand holding the glass cause the bottle to shatter mid-way through, inside of its own esophagus.

Glass crunches and wet, stinking liquid splashes around the room.

And then it, with glass embedded in its face and once-toothless gums, shambles back off into the darkness of the corridor, covered in red.

Ruhr sits in perfect silence.

— She knows its game.

It isn’t gone yet. It’s standing there, pretending. It’s waiting for her to make a sound. But she doesn’t. She knows better. She doesn’t want to go to the room.

But the man behind the box doesn’t, and how could he? After all, this is her childhood memory.

He steps out of his hiding place, his little shoe stepping onto a piece of shattered glass.

It crunches.

— A streaky, gnarled face with an open mouth looks back around the door, smiling a glass-toothed smile as it sees him.

The man screams, and Ruhr looks away, staring into the eyes of her owl.

She can’t do anything about the sound, about the wet screams that come as the man is torn away, about the sound of his fingernails, scraping along the wood, grabbing pieces of glass to try and frantically stab himself free with, about his cries for help that she certainly isn’t going to answer, but she can avoid looking.

Ruhr sits there, her legs pulled in, as she looks at her stuffed owl, running her thumbs over its soft head.

The man, if there’s anything left of him, gets taken to the room by the creature, and everything is quiet again.

~ [The Demon-King] ~

~ [Achievement Unlocked] ~ ‘Oh. My Bad.’ Unlocked By: Making someone relive a horrific childhood trauma Reward: You and all of your monsters now do +2 DARK damage against children.

Swain sits on his throne, looking down at what has been presented to him.

“I… uh… I hope you like it,” says Byblos, the spirit-cook, nervously, as she showcases the fruits of her labor. The Demon-King looks down at the meal arranged beautifully before him on a cart. “I do not know much about food,” explains the Demon-King. Colors of many sorts lie placed in a neat arrangement. Playful shapes of dough, covered in smears of creams and pastes, sit in a neatly woven circle, with patterns of seasonings adorning well seared cuts of meat, dripping down their flanks in trickles of juice and butter. “But even I can see the wealth in this,” says Swain, rising from his throne for the first time in a while. “Thank you, Byblos.”

The Demon-King lifts his hand.

(Swain) has used: [Soul-Crafting {Table}]

{Unique}[{Masterwork}[Antique Table]]

A solid, heavy table made with some of the world’s finest craftsmanship. Its wood is from rare heartwood trees, and it is polished to a sheen so bright that it is almost as reflective as a mirror. Weight: 480 kg Value: 30,000 Obols

A massive table, the size of his own body and then some, materializes together from magic particulate, the ground dust of souls, in the palm of his hand. Despite its considerable weight, the Demon-King simply holds it there as the process finishes, and then sets it down to the side, down to the right of the throne, and next to the statues.

Level Up! ~ [The Demon-King] ~

You are now level {79}! Level: 79↗ Experience: 03/510000 Attribute: DARK Soul-Points: 158/158↗ Presence: 15.5 km ↗ Obols: 000 SOULS COLLECTED: 21,305 / 1,000,000

You have {28} free Ability Points to spend!

The Demon-King looks at the one statue with moving eyes and then nudges the table an inch closer, as if it were sitting at it. He finds some humor in this, letting out a single grunt in amusement, before looking back at Byblos.

“What?” asks the Demon-King, his many maws dripping and salivating with wet froth. He looks at the cook and then takes the plates from the cart, setting them on the table. “Your gifts deserve to be seen and experienced not only by me, but by the world,” says the Demon-King. “Cartouche. Abydos.”

The other two teleport in, assessing the situation before making some chairs and sitting down at the table.

“T- thank you,” says Byblos. “But I just… you know, it’s nothing special. I’m just a tavern cook.”

A hundred buzzing eyes turn her way, followed by the body of the Demon-King, twice her size. His red, muscular wrists alone are thicker than her torso. Cartouche and Abydos sit silently at the table.

Swain lifts a hand, placing as much of it that fits onto her shoulder.

“Byblos. Never lie to me again,” warns the Demon-King, his many maws opening wide. “This and you are so much more. Do not forget that.”

She quietly nods as he releases her and lumbers over to the table, finding a new seat awaiting him there. Swain waves the cook over to sit down herself.

“Man, I haven’t really eaten since this all started,” says Cartouche, looking around. “This looks great!”

“Agreed,” says Abydos, the painter, his shadow creeping along the table through the gaps between the plates.

Byblos rubs the back of her head and smiles a confused smile as everyone tries her food. Food that she had made not as a plateful of slop meant to feed a hungry traveler on a budget, but as an intricate, detailed experience that is meant to be as in-depth and rich as any opera or play in the world.

Judging by their expressions as they take their first bites, it seems to be a strong start.

~ [Ruhr, the River-Sorceress] ~

Human-Half-Elf, Female, Sorceress Rank: SSS Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Floor Eleven LEVEL: 95

She reaches up, pushing open the door.

It opens, revealing a corridor that is just like the last.

Except now, wine stains the scratched, wet floorboards, together with shards of broken glass — all of it leading a trail down the hallway towards the room.

“Ruhr?” whispers a voice.

Ruhr turns her head, looking at someone who comes out of the little kitchen. “It’s me, Zacarias,” says the unusually disheveled man. Ruhr lets out a sigh of relief and grabs him, holding onto him. “Okay. Let’s take it easy with the touching,” he says, pushing her away. “You already made this weird on floor nine.”

Ruhr lets go of him. “Me?!” she hisses, narrowing her eyes. “Who was it tha-”

— Something gurgles.

Ruhr falls silent and the three of them stare down the corridor towards the room. Despite being the one who had been talking, she shushes them and nods her head to the door on the left side of the corridor. The three of them open it, entering into the same exact hallway.

“It just keeps repeating,” whispers the man. “Ruhr, why are we in a giant house?” asks Zacarias, looking around at the out of scale room.

“Because the Demon-King is a dick, that’s why,” hisses Ruhr beneath her breath.

“Really?” asks Zacarias quietly, and for a second, she thinks he means her answer to his question. But she notices his gaze on her owl. “That thing again?”

Ruhr squeezes her owl, holding it tightly against herself. “Shut up, Zac!” she whispers. “It’ll hear us.”

The three of them creep onward, picking up more and more stragglers along the way. This is a problem.

Ruhr looks behind herself at the group of easily ten children. They’re too many. If he comes out of the room again, they won’t be able to hide. There are just not enough spots in one kitchen for all of them.

The group moves down through several corridors, sneaking in order to stay as quiet as possible. Even if the others don’t understand the reasoning, they do understand that there is a threat that they need to hide from.

After a while, Ruhr opens another door and…

— It’s exactly the same.

“This isn’t working,” says Zacarias quietly. “We need to try that way,” he explains, pointing down the long corridor.

“No!” hisses Ruhr, shutting him down right away. “We don’t go that way. That’s where the room is.”

“The what? Listen,” says Zacarias. “We’re running in circles here. We have to try something else.”

The river-sorceress leans in. “Zilch. This is my memory, so listen to me when I tell you this,” says Ruhr, leaning in to whisper into his ear. “Do. Not. Go. Into. The. Room,” she says plainly, stopping with each word for emphasis.

“How is this a memory?” he asks. “What the h-”

— A hacking, loud, slimy cough from the end of the corridor as something stirs in the distant darkness.

Ruhr freezes.

— Hide.

She has to hide.

The others they met break off, running into the kitchen and taking all the good spots. Ruhr grabs Zacarias by the wrist, tearing him to the door on the left. “Open it! Open it!” she pleads, and Zacarias stretches up, grabbing the handle as something gurgles and spits, before then coughing loudly.

Heavy steps emanate from the darkness as the smell intensifies.

A horrific shriek comes from the end of the corridor. Ruhr turns to look at the face that stares back at her from the shadows, wet mucus leaking out from its wide, torn opening, covered in serrated glass and blood from the broken bottle that had been violently shoved in before.

Zacarias opens the door and they run inside the new corridor.

Zacarias tears her after him, opening the next left-door, but then, instead of stepping inside, he yanks her owl-doll out of her hands and throws it down the new corridor. Ruhr yelps, but Zacarias quickly pulls her into the kitchen, and they hide.

— Wet, heavy steps come from behind them as the gurgling creature with glass teeth shambles down the new corridor that they’re in, towards the freshly opened door. It twitches, its head spinning around to look at the area, before it sees the owl-doll in the next corridor beyond.

It tilts its head, retching out a mouthful of mucus, before stepping into that next corridor with the owl-doll, presumably thinking that’s where they’ve gone.

It quietly closes the door behind itself.

“Asshole!” cries Ruhr. “That was my owl!” she says, hitting him.

“Really?” asks Zacarias. “That’s your problem here?” he asks. “We needed to get it off our trail.” He nods his head. “Come on, now’s our chance to go down the corridor.”

“ZAC!” she snaps.

“This isn’t real!” he barks at her. “Ruhr,” says Zacarias. “This is all fake. Demon-King, remember?” He gets up and pulls her out of the kitchen. “Come on!”

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Ruhr purses her lips, not having a good argument against that. Obviously, this is all some sort of illusion, cast by the Demon-King. There’s no other explanation for how she could be inhabiting her childhood body in her childhood home again. But… that doesn’t change the lessons she learned. Those are the kinds of teachings that stay with you for life.

The man holds her hand as they run down the corridor, this time not taking the door, but instead, going towards the room.

Why is she still afraid of this all? This was a long time ago. It’s all over with. It’s literally in the past, and this here, this isn’t even what really happened. This is some twisted manipulation of her memory. She can only assume the Demon-King made it to spite her personally.

They step through the shadows at the end of the hallway and open the door, peering inside. She doesn’t see anything odd at first and nods her head, taking a deep breath and regretting it immediately as the smell hits her. The entire room smells of him, of it. He might not be here, but his stench has permeated the walls and the wood, staining them forever.

As for the rest of the space’s features, well, it’s a room.

There are four walls, and there’s some furniture, a bed, and a window with a dresser beneath it. Blood cakes the old frame of the bed. The mattress is soaked in red, being fully permeated in blood, viscera and shards of glass like an old sponge. Zac lets out a disgusted noise.

On either side of the bed lie the halves of human bodies, torn in half straight from top to bottom.

— Something screams behind them.

This time, Ruhr pulls Zacarias. She knows that scream. It isn’t its. It’s the scream of somebody it has caught.

She yanks him down beneath the bed. The two of them crawl over blood and organs as they hide. Not having her owl, Ruhr instead holds onto Zacarias and he to her as the door slams closed. Screams and stomps fill the room, together with the crunching of glass and the sloshing of old meat as weight lands on top of the bed.

Blood leaks down through the mattress as the weight above them compresses it down, squeezing out the excess wet onto the two of them below, as new, fresh red is added from above.

Ruhr and Zacarias silently hold each other for as long as the screams above their heads continue.

— They do eventually stop.

And then, two more halves of a corpse land on either side of the bed, together with some old glass.

Something is lying there above them, gurgling.

~ [Shaushka] ~

Elf, Female, Classless Location: The Scorched Forest LEVEL: 04

Shaushka, down on her knees, spins on the spot in the middle of the forest, doing as she saw the fire doing. Leaves and mud compact beneath her legs.

After a minute, she looks back at the fire in the log.

“Ah!” she says, watching as it has finally eaten its way through the wood.

The rain pelts down from above, quenching it. Water runs down the inside of the hollow log through the new openings. The fire sizzles, hissing. Yet it continues its dance, not stopping until it has fully been washed away.

The forest is quiet.

…Now what?

The fire was her only guide.

The elf frowns, her ears drooping.

— A new glow catches her eyes in the distance.

“Ah?” The woman turns her head, staring into the dark forest. There, off through the trees and beyond the veil of pelting rain and heavy winds, glows a tiny light.

She gets up to her feet and ambles towards it, somewhat confused.

Here, not much further away, there is a little fire, dancing on some leaves that are nested beneath a rocky overhang.

The fire winks at her, which is somewhat untoward, and then it dies out.

Shaushka stands there, confused.

— Until a new fire, not much further away, catches her attention.

“Ah…” she says, realizing; and then, like a child chasing fireflies in the night, she runs off after the trail of flames that leads her to a place unknown.

~ [Ruhr, the River-Sorceress] ~

Human-Half-Elf, Female, Sorceress Rank: SSS Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Floor Eleven LEVEL: 95

It stomps out of the room.

Ruhr and Zacarias, soaked through to the bone, lay there quietly as the footsteps thunder off down the hallway, shambling to find someone new.

Ruhr pushes Zacarias away and then slides to the other side of the bed, smearing blood everywhere as she gets up and then pulls open the drawers on the dresser one by one, creating a staircase of sorts.

The river-sorceress climbs up the makeshift ladder, Zacarias coming up behind her as they head to the large window.

Zacarias looks at it. “How the hell are we going to open this?” he asks.

“Easy,” replies Ruhr. She presses against the frame, and it simply swings open. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

“The others,” interrupts Zacarias, grabbing her shoulder. Ruhr looks back at him.

“Zac,” she says, shaking her head.

He looks at her. “We can’t make it without them,” argues Zacarias.

Ruhr looks at him. “Zu-zu-beans, that’s a load of shit. We’re the only ones who are going to make it,” she says, shaking her head. “They’re dead weight and you know it.”

Zacarias looks at her. “I don’t leave people behind,” says the man. Ruhr looks at him and then over towards the corridor that lies beyond the door to the bedroom. She shakes her head.

“I do,” says Ruhr, and then turns to jump out of the window. Her legs swing out and her fingers grip the ledge as she looks down at the fog below, the only place that could be an escape from this nightmare. She leans forward and then looks back at the man. “Please don’t make me go by myself, Zac,” says Ruhr. “I’m scared,” she admits, before letting herself drop into the fog.

~ [The Demon-King] ~

Magnificent.

Simply magnificent.

Swain savors every piece of food, no matter which mouth it enters into. Each delicate crumble, each sour tinge, tells a story of intent and intense emotions.

More than pleased, the Demon-King looks at his table that is filling.

Ah.

What a beautiful sight.

It’s almost inspiring, this vision of his collection of people, of souls striving towards a single strand of promised hope. He thinks he’ll write a poem after this.

~ [Ruhr, the River-Sorceress] ~

Human-Half-Elf, Female, Sorceress Rank: SSS Location: The Demon-King’s Castle LEVEL: 95

It is an hour later.

Ruhr sits by herself in the cylindrical staircase that leads down through the Demon-King’s castle. The window was indeed the exit from floor eleven.

But Zacarias didn’t follow her.

Asshole.

After they had all of their moments and everything, he just let her go by herself, like a dick. Fucking Zac. That piece of shit.

The river-sorceress sits there, alone, staring at the ground, not sure what to do now. Is this it? Is this where she’s going to end up dying, before ever really getting to be the person she wanted to be?

— Why didn’t she use her magic?

She could have just used her magic to fight off the creature, right? It’s not like it was back then. She has magic now.

Why didn’t she use it?

Ruhr rubs her face in frustration, releasing a muffled scream into her hands, red smears still covering her from head to toe.

“Rough day?” asks a voice.

Ruhr jumps together, turning to look in vague hopefulness.

Her ears droop as some man, an elf, sits down next to her. “Oh, hey,” she says, recognizing the priest from their expedition. “You made it too?” asks Ruhr. The man nods. “Where are the others?” asks Ruhr. “Did you see Zacarias?!”

The man looks at her and then shakes his head.

“Oh…” says Ruhr. She looks back at the ground. “I guess we should just wait then…”

“We should keep moving,” advises the priest. “There’s only one direction for them to go, assuming they make it. They’ll catch up.” She listens to his words. They make sense in a way, but they also don’t. If they go ahead and wait for the others to catch up, that’s still the same timespan as if they had waited here for them here. She supposes that’s just him saying that they aren’t coming.

Ruhr purses her lips and gets up.

“I’m going back,” says the river-sorceress.

“Pardon?”

“FUCK!” yells the half-elf. “I said I’m going back!” repeats Ruhr, stomping past the priest and up the slant towards the exit of the previous floor.

— Something moves out of the darkness ahead of her, shambling.

Ruhr narrows her eyes and then lights up. “ZAC!” she says excitedly, seeing the man covered in blood walking her way all by himself, but with a very strained gait, using his shield as a crutch. It looks like he messed up his leg badly.

Zacarias shambles her way.

Ruhr excitedly runs over to meet him as he lifts a hand, reaching for her.

(Zacarias) has used: [Noble Barrier]

A light envelops her vision, and Ruhr stops, turning around to look at the priest who was sitting next to her.

He’s surrounded by a magical shield. Hundreds of long, protruding, sharp legs have burst out of his mouth, eyes and ears, tapping and feeling around the inside of the bubble that it is trapped inside of.

Ruhr lets out a terrified scream, lifting her hands.

(Ruhr) has used: [Aquatic Dragon]

A serpent made out of water crashes against the rocks of the wall of the castle, pressing itself against the bubble and then surging towards the precipice.

The creature that had taken over the priest’s body, trapped inside of the shield, hurdles down into the abyss.

Ruhr spins around, grabbing Zacarias.

“We were infiltrated,” says the man, as she helps him down against the wall.

“What happened, Zac?!” she asks. “I was coming back for you, I swear!” says Ruhr, looking at his leg.

“It changed,” says Zacarias, shaking his head.

Ruhr looks at him. “What?”

“When you left by yourself, the floor changed. The memory turned into somebody else’s,” he says, wincing as she pulls on his boot. “It wasn’t that bad, actually,” explains Zacarias. “Yours was way worse.” He leans his head back against the wall. “Always have to be the best at everything, huh?”

“You know it, Z-Bee,” says Ruhr, pulling off his boot and then washing off his bloody leg with water. She turns her head, looking back. “…Just us?” asks Ruhr.

It’s quiet for a moment.

“Just us,” replies Zacarias. Ruhr forces a sad smile, looking back at him, and the two of them stare. “Well?” asks the man. “Go on.”

“What?” she asks.

“I’m waiting for the ‘I told you so’,” he remarks.

“Please,” replies Ruhr. “As if I would stoop to such childish things.”

Zacarias rolls his eyes. “Right. Moving on. We’re just going to ignore what happened on floors nine and ten?”

— Ruhr pokes a finger into his hurt leg and the man sits upright, letting out a sharp gasp as his face goes pale.

“Woops!” says Ruhr. “Silly me.” She shakes off a hand, covered in old blood. Ruhr leans in, looking into his eyes. “I slipped.”

Zacarias sighs, leaning back against the wall. “Slip into the pit next time,” replies Zacarias. “Dick.”

“Asshole,” snaps Ruhr back at him.

“Nice owl, nerd.”

“Fuck you, Zac!” barks Ruhr. “My owl was awesome as shit!”

Zacarias looks around them. “Why does that thing keep following you? Must’ve been an important toy.”

Ruhr sighs. “Because, Zac,” she says. Ruhr turns her head around towards the chasm and cups her hand by her mouth, raising her voice. “THE DEMON-KING IS A FUCKING DICK!” screams the river-sorceress, her voice echoing down the chasm and into the darkness deep below the world.

“Welp,” says Zacarias.

“Right?” asks Ruhr. “Come on, shit-head. Ruhr, the river-sorceress isn’t dying until at least the final-boss. I have standards.”

Zacarias puts his boot back on and gets up, letting her help. “Good to know that I’m in professional hands,” replies the man, shaking his head as the two of them hobble off into the darkness.

~ [The Demon-King] ~

The Demon-King stares up towards the endless abyss, listening to the complaining voice echoing down all the way to his throne-room now that they have finished their meal.

“Well, that’s just rude,” says Cartouche, standing next to him. “Wow. Some people.”

“Right?” asks Byblos. She looks back at the table. “I hope it didn’t ruin the mood.”

Swain shakes his head, rising to his feet. “No. Thank you, Byblos,” he says. “It was excellent,” praises the Demon-King.

He walks away from the table, returning to his throne as ghosts swoop in to clear the mess.

Those words that the blue-haired woman had just said.

The crudeness of them.

The simplicity of them.

The clear, simple annoyance behind them.

All of those things…

…Ah…

The mouths on his body smile, the dozens of eyes glow in joy.

— It sounded just like something she would have said. That was the way she talked. He remembers now. She was crude and harsh, with teeth as sharp as her words. This memory entwines itself with the other sparse few hints he has of the woman he is in pursuit of, the creature that has set him on this course to begin with.

Swain rests on his throne.

Tomorrow, the Demon-King’s castle will be within reach of one of the largest cities in the nation. There will be much work to do. But perhaps, until then, a little fun is allowed.

He smiles.

— It’s a carnival, after all.

Swain reaches up, taking a new ability.

NEW – (DEMON KING) ABILITY

[Distant Production](Passive)

Sometimes what matters most is not where you’re doing something, but just that you’re doing it at all.

Effect: By writing a poem on your throne, allows you to exert your influence within your castle without physically carving a poem into specific locations.

There once was an elf with blue hair,

In the Demon-King’s castle,

She had quite the hassle,

And now finds herself unable to swear ~

~ [Ruhr, the River-Sorceress] ~

Human-Half-Elf, Female, Sorceress Rank: SSS Location: The Demon-King’s Castle LEVEL: 95

“FUDGE!” snaps Ruhr, kicking a rock to the side.

“What?” asks Zacarias, looking at her in confusion.

“….I dunno, Zac,” says Ruhr. “I just felt like saying it.”

Zacarias shrugs.

~ [The Demon-King] ~

There once was an elf with blue hair,

In the Demon-King’s castle,

She had quite the hassle,

And now finds herself unable to swear ~

Yet despite all her troubles,

In the digits, now doubles,

She finds a place to hide from despair,

After all, the Demon-King is nothing, but fair~

The pen scratches and then comes to a stop.

Swain nods as he hands the poem to a ghost to keep.

The blue-haired creature, wretched and vile as she is as a human, gave him something, a memory of her. So it is only right for him to give back.

Beauty lies in balance.

He would be a monster if he did not uphold that value.

New Area ~ [Dungeon] ~ Safe Room {Level 11B} A small, hidden safe room that is separate from the main powers of the dungeon. Adventurers are allowed to rest here, free from worries of assault and danger. All outside magical influences are negated.

~ [Ruhr, the River-Sorceress] ~

Human-Half-Elf, Female, Sorceress Rank: SSS Location: The Demon-King’s Castle, Floor Eleven LEVEL: 95

Ruhr and Zac walk down the staircase.

A waft of fresh air hits her, cutting through the heavy, dank miasma of the demon-core. It’s so strange and out of place that she almost feels startled by it. Ruhr turns her head, looking at a crack in the wall.

“Zac…” says Ruhr, narrowing her eyes and looking through the gap. It looks like a rip in the mortar, and behind it is something that looks as if it has been hidden. A dungeon safe-room.

Surely the Demon-King isn’t obliged to have these, like normal dungeons are, is he?

Ruhr breaks off a piece of rock with her hand and then blasts the rest of it away, making an opening to a small chamber on the other side. There, nested away from the horrors of the Demon-King’s castle, is a small, oddly white and pristinely clean space. The architecture and the design of the place is entirely other, compared to what lies outside. There is a basin of water and trays of food.

“We can’t trust this,” says Zacarias. “Let’s keep going,” says the man, hobbling forward another step.

Ruhr gracelessly yanks him back. “Like fiddlesticks you are,” snaps the river-sorceress, indifferent to his pained expression as he lands on his bad leg. “Get in here!” she orders, and tears the man into the safe-room.

~ [Shaushka] ~

Elf, Female, Classless Location: The Scorched Forest LEVEL: 04

Shaushka ambles through the woodland, chasing after flames.

She stares and watches the little fire, dancing beneath a pile of wood in a secret chamber, safe from the rain for now. The flame spins once and dies out with a bow, vanishing in a puff of smoke.

“Ah…” Shaushka reaches for it, but it vanishes.

The elf frowns and lowers her hand, staring around herself now through the storm for a sign of something new.

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But there is nothing.

Sadly, she sighs and lowers herself back down again.

Oh well.

Like always, something will be here soon to lead her to wherever she’s going.

Head empty. Eyes full.