The Wielder of Death Magic

Chapter 672: True Demonlord [3]

“Stand in line, vigilantes,” a ruffled crowd made for a sloppy interior of sterile scent. A day of fighting ended without satisfaction nor concrete achievement. In more ways than one, the task at hand was empty. Vacant walked the health care workers, vacant watched heroes from beyond a plastic sheet, and vacant were the lifeless gazes of the critically wounded. Report stood with 30 out of 50 injured, five of which fell into a comatose state. Nameless and faceless, they were the side characters, and everyone understood so, pawns, cogs of a better mechanism.

“Those who were affected by monster injuries, make way to the quarantine area.” A vague piece of technology in hand, a tag around the neck, and a quantified status of their physical and Sultrian abilities begot a very olden type of hierarchy. Tough times, tough decisions – a young adult, barely of age, arrived a few minutes prior with a leg missing. He bled profusely, the nurses ran alongside the boy to no avail, despite the help, naught could be done. The party beside him cried and mourned; add salt to injury, the current overseer of said establishment, dawning a white-lab coat and mask, strictly asked the guards to escort those members to the q-zone. The scent of the Aedric curse, the demonic energy encompassing the underworld, reeked off the boy.

Ones of the true sight gift saw the particle, evidently, so did the watchers. “-Have the zone be shut, we ought to have a thorough investigation.” The injured, tainted by Aedric energy, were handed a collar to brandish. They ordered with no questions asked. Heroes of the AHA scowled a few livelier characters, ‘-they sit and do nothing.’

Grouped by the severity of the curse, not injury, but curse density, tsked a foul taste in many mouths. The least tainted were treated first, opposed to the vice-versa in popular health care establishments. Whatever the treatment was and how cruel it seemed, a prior contract clearly stated the risks and obligations. Short as were, none would dare speak against the malpractice. Then again, a careful explanation said; ‘-Aedric curses have no cure. The hospice divides into two sectors, one for physical injuries and the other, curses. Priority is to the latter, for if it spreads, the whole town and continent might be at risk. Playing the blame game will bring nothing, stand firm and watch, pray for thy comrades and watch their fight. The invasion of monsters is a pest we must sooner or later defeat. Vigilantes set the questions aside and allow the professionals to do their jobs.’ Follow current s on novelenglish.net . Fɪre.net

A bland room kept the mortally wounded boy. The party(cleared for signs of monster afflictions) quietly waited nearby. The doctors worked earnestly – many o’ patients in the same situations ran down the hall. The unsavable were given painless deaths.

“What do you think?” asked a tinier lady in a fighter’s uniform.

“No chance he’ll make it,” said a pragmatic, oval-shaped face man, “-you weren’t there. Jonl and I saw him take a monster square on to save an unconscious fighter. I knew he ran on adrenaline but alas... he didn’t die, I killed him.”

.....

“Don’t be harsh on yourself,” said a kinder-looking man of somewhat stern build, “-things happened. We’re vigilantes, tis our duty.”

“No, I’m not talking about that. The boy was fast on his feet, a truly rare ability. He’s saved so many people, by all means, the alliance should have recognized his talents. Even if he recovers now, without a leg, I don’t think he’ll be able to accomplish his dreams.”

The short procedure ended, the doctor dowsed in blood, threw an apologetic nod, and headed to the next patient. Nurses behind arrived to break the news, “-we tried everything, the blood loss and overwhelming extent of the monster curse prevented any magical or otherwise, means of treatment. I’m sorry.” They bowed and left; a figure clocked in black leaned against the window directly opposite the door. He gestured boldly for the party to take a last visit.

“The undertakers,” whispered the pragmatic leader, “-you have to be strong to endure these emotions on a daily.” Inside laid the boy encased in a transparent barrier. His last moments were peaceful, or so said the expression. “-Come on guys,” they gathered at the foot of the bed, “-bid your farewells.” *doup,* a gentle tap broke the moment of silence. The boy watched palely through the cage, recognition in the eyes murmured into a ‘I-I-I’m sor,’ he bit and tore into his lips.

“-stand back!” cried the undertaker, “-may you rest in peace,” a press of a button exploded the boy’s head and neck. A swarm of greenish pests bickered against the cage, “-Purify,” two claps, “-I’m sorry you had to witness this.”

Traumatic expression burnt into the junior members, “-I understand,” tightly holding their shoulders, “-please take care of him for us.”

“I will, thank you for protecting us.” Mutual respect eased the pain of needless deaths. The smaller lady buried her face into her hands, the other kept a static, open-mouthed expression, at the ceiling. In a way, the audible senses heightened on the surrounding. Pain and suffering were abundant, “-he killed him without remorse.”

“No, he was already dead. The Undertaker did his job. I’ve seen my mentor died similarly. They didn’t wait twice and just killed him; the slight chance of the plague and tis death. We’re lucky the hospice came with the idea of the q-zone.”

“Is that why they wear the tags?”

“You’re new, I forgot,” tightly clasping her hand, “-here’s the reality of our continent. The plague, curses, monsters, it’s everywhere. The media never shows the dark side, there’s no cure, no way to fight back, nor a way to repulse the enemy. They respawn and continue without stop, meanwhile, the vigilante program is used to acquire Sultrians to be used as instruments of war. God has forsaken our land. The tags we wear are poisons, they activate the moment a trace of Aedric energy is felt running through the veins. The healthy are taken into custody to be used for tests, the wounded,” the face lowered slowly, “-you’ve witnessed it.”

A heart-tearing scream echoed across the hall, a lady around their age demography cried and yelled. A headless caged body slowly rolled for the morgue, she shouted and insulted the workers, ‘-damned monsters, my baby was alive, you could have saved him!’

“Jonl, why don’t you say anything?”

“Aptha...” they locked eyes, “-I can’t say anything, what is there to say. I came to Alphia in hopes of finding a future away from the battlefield, turns out, this place is on the way to becoming another infested nest.”

“I never heard your story.”

“Meza sir, my story isn’t much to be desired.” Nurses were stern in their glances.

“Let’s go outside,” said Meza, “-we’re in the way.”

“Meza sir?” they climbed on a flyover and watched towards the distant field. The geography altered, a sterner wall of bricks and magic hoisted against the invasion. Remnants of the day of evil lingered, a once clean asphalted road alongside which were old shops, cheerful people, and a homely feel, crumbled into debris and carnage.

“Tell us your story, it might take away the grief.”

“I guess if it helps,” he turned from the battlefield to the cleaner inner-town, “-I was born from a commoner family in Hidros. My father wasn’t exactly noble, he had status and money as a trader. Life was pretty nice, I guess, we got what we wanted and were able to enjoy the greater things in life. I had a privileged upbringing. Didn’t stop the fact and questions about my blood. Regardless, I stormed through the education system and found myself being admitted at Claireville Academy. This would have been a feat of greatness if it had been a decade or so earlier. To not bore with the details, I pursued Magiology and the ways of the fighter. Monsters are pesky things at the academy, we have classes solely for the understanding of their movements and actions. I was average in every way. There, I heard the legend and stories about a legendary man who started as nothing and became a king. You might have heard of him in Alphia too, he’s the founder of the Haggard dynasty, the man who carved a way through our rigid class system and allowed for us commoners to dream big. Most of the past is secrete, we know he played a crucial part in many conflicts. What drew me the most was the way he found and forged the legacy of Kniq, the adventuring team that everyone, and I mean, everyone at the academy wanted to follow. It didn’t matter if the top guilds were present or not, my father said, if ever a state-level crisis arose, Kniq, clad in their unique and recognizable uniform, would swoop onto the battle and change the course of the war. I know I’m getting off track, I love to talk about the one I aspire to be. In a way, I decided to follow his journey. Claireville academy, then Azure wall, and after, I made for the tower of Aria or Aris, I can’t remember. My rank of Tier-5 Ruby didn’t inspire much confidence. I soon found myself faced with reality, those who bear the name Haggard are bound to be great. I mean, Princess Eira, won the Inter magical tournament, Prince Julius, won it again, and lastly, Princess Lizzie, she’s hailed as a prodigy of the piano. Their name shouts of prestige and excellence, I can’t hope to compare. The more I walked, the larger became the distance, until I found myself lost inside the tower. I got cocky and ran. My party leader risked his life, lost an arm, but vehemently said to save myself. Some people have an energy about them, they care for others, care for themselves, they have a sense of purpose so strong it flattens doubts and misconceptions. Back to the tower, once rescued, my party dissolved and I was stranded. The weak are abandoned, and I had to face the truth, I’m weak. There, a lady grabbed my hand and said, “-if you want to become strong, harsh as it sounds, leave behind the people who died for you, leave it all behind, and only hold onto their will. Let the pain and frustration guide the will to be strong”. She had blond hair, was tall and beautiful, a member of the legendary Kniq, Viola. Beside her stood the only Platinum-ranked Adventurer in the whole of Hidros, Achilles. The chance encounter changed my life for the better, I began training under Viola, my body and fighting abilities heightened until I found my true calling, marksmanship. I worked for years until the rank of Tier-4 Bronze. I tried hard to break into the Tier-3 Silver realm... sadly, I was at my limit. Achilles recognized my hard work and allowed me to venture forth one last time. We climbed and climbed, fought, day and night, stayed for at least six-month. I faced death so much I viewed him as my companion. Age caught up to me, I reached my late twenties, my vision dwindled, and my guild suddenly said to retire for my own good. I didn’t accomplish much, I have a few boss kills under my belt, and it’s all. I returned home and expanded to Alphia, lot of money meant I could start a business, the time came to settle. Two years later, I heard the rumors of a phenom, the Devil of Glenda, a man who single-handedly slaughtered an army of seven thousand. One way or another, I felt close to him and decided to join the AHA. My bronze tag and rifles are the only possessions I need – one thing is for sure, Sultrian has no chance of pushing back the invasion. I wish I could have helped, well, that’s enough for me.”