Seventh
stared as the dying embers slowly ate through the wood in a
fireplace. The logs were almost all burnt to ash, barely held
together by the last vestiges of glowing wood.
The
fire would die out soon. Leaving the room in darkness.
Blinking
at the thought, Seventh looked around. He was sitting on a simple
wooden stool in a dark room dimly lit by the fireplace. He couldn't
see the walls, but the room felt constrained. Small.
The
floor was filthy. Dust was everywhere, and old pools of blood could
be seen on the splintered floorboards.
It
all felt... familiar, yet so distant.
He
wasn't supposed to be here.
Slowly
rising up, Seventh felt his wound ache. Warm, piercing pain pulsing
with a heartbeat. Not his, he didn’t feel anything on his chest.
Raising
his hand to hold the wound, Seventh saw his skin. Green, yellow, and
black. Rot and decay. Missing fingers and bone splinters tearing the
skin open.
The
room shuddered.
Seventh's
breath quickened.
Nononono!
This isn't... not... not again! Nononono—
His
other hand was the same. Slowly rotting away. Seventh could smell the
stench of his own decomposition.
A
familiar whistling wheeze broke above the rising tinnitus. The wound
on his throat was back.
With
a shuddering boom, the whole room tilted, throwing Seventh to a wall,
next to a window without glass. He could only see the darkness and
twisting purple haze outside.
Twisting
lightning lit the rising spires in the night.
His
head hurt, a splitting headache slammed into him as the wood and
stone started to crumble all around him. The roof snapped in half,
and a tidal wave of burnt-red roof tiles fell to the floor,
shattering into pieces.
The
wound throbbed faster and faster. An echo of a heartbeat he didn’t
have.
With
a final, snapping shudder, the wood below Seventh gave away to the
rot and abuse, plunging him into the darkness.
He
started to scream.
The
frightened wail continued without a breath all the way down to the
pile of writhing undead who surged forwards to grab him, and pull his
head below the surface of writhing heads and limbs.
He
was home, next to his heartless brethren.
The
scream continued to the real world as Seventh awakened on the mossy
forest floor, met by a cheesy stench of Fang-Knife's breath and a
raised arm readied for the next slap.
Seventh's
cheek pulsed in pain and heat. He squinted at his minion still
putting pressure on his wound by kneeling on him.
Fang's
eyes narrowed as he surveyed his groggy master. The Necromancer
clearly wasn’t fully in this world, so the ratkin gave him a quick,
crisp slap to the cheek.
”Fang...would
you kindly get your face off from mine?” Seventh asked with a croak
as the slap's echo slowly died down. He felt like he had been thrown
down a cliff straight to a smaller ravine, and rolled flat with
uneven rolling pins.
The
nursing ratkin squeaked happily, seeing his master alive and well.
Well...
at least live.
Seventh
saw Potion Toxicity had gone away, and drew a Healing Potion from his
belt.
”Good
job,” Seventh said before hungrily gulping the potion down, feeling
the liquid surge inside him, trying to mend his broken body back
together.
As
his general condition improved significantly, he noticed that the
Bleeding effect was still active and the arrow wound refused to
close.
Pulling
three more potions out of his inventory— two for him, one for Fang—
he slurped his potions down to get his flesh fully knitted together.
The wound started to close, pushing red bandages out, but stayed
open, keeping the effect active.
Now
that the Wizard-Killing Arrow didn't hinder his casting, Seventh
tried to cleanse the Bleeding away with the Mantle of Decay.
The
spell failed, and he kept bleeding.
A
cold sweat trickled down Seventh's brow.
With
only mild panic, he checked his LOG for answers and found a
displeasing one.
Seventh
slowly turned his head to look at the body next to him. The bandit
woman was peacefully looking up, eyes slowly glazing over. How many
times had they used the same tactic? Was she at Iron rank?
Focus,
that is not important now. How long does the Bleeding lasts? Can it
be stemmed? Situation, resources, action.
7.89%
success rate for survival per cast was a chance any dying man would
gladly take. Having enough mana for five casts, the success was
almost guaranteed in Seventh's mind.
After
five failed casts and a beginning headache after using all of his
mana, Seventh contemplated his math skills and muttered low curses.
Applying
pressure, the bleeding effect greyed in and out while the timer
continued ticking down, but every three seconds or so, Seventh lost a
percent of his health, meaning he would bleed out in three minutes or
so at full health, which he wasn't.
The
bleeding hadn't been nearly as fast during the fight. Seventh thought
that he must have done some additional damage when he pulled the
arrow out.
Rookie
mistake. Never hurt yourself more than needed, he thought as he
opened his Inventory Screen.
He
still had a grand total of eleven Healing Potions— yes, everyone
with a bottomless inventory Skill becomes a hoarder, especially with
potions and food— meaning he could heal himself fully almost three
times, but the Potion Toxicity would kick in after three potions or
so.
Seventh
hadn't actually tested how many Healing Potions he could drink, but
since his Mana Potion Tolerance was five, it would be around that.
If
only Mantle could clear out the Toxicity... I could just drink
potions without a care in the world!
Slapping
himself hard, Seventh forced himself to focus on the situation.
With
the bleeding effect running at over fifteen minutes... he was a dead
man many times over if he didn't figure something out.
“Fang,
check their pockets and belts. Bring me all the medical equipment and
potions they have.” Seventh ordered as he kept the pressure up and
slowly counted seconds go by as he dragged himself to lean on a
nearby tree.
He
had vain hopes that the change of position would help, but all it did
was to expend his dwindling energy. The short crawl had winded him
up, and all he could do was short, shallow breaths.
The
bandits had only a single expired healing kit and one Healing Potion
each. Useless junk for Seventh's predicament.
Health
and options slowly disintegrating, Seventh considered a more drastic
option, possession.
If
he chose to use his racial ability, he'd have to enter either one of
the bandits' bodies he had just killed, a rotting bear carcass, or
one of his minions' bodies.
Every
single option was worse than the other.
Who
knew what kind of psychological damage entering another human's body
and mind would do to Seventh, not to talk about a veltid mind.
Seventh shuddered, equally from the thought and the bloodloss. A
large pool had started to form under him.
Maybe
he could pray for God of Hunting, Monsters for help?
This
whole shebang was clearly in the loony god's territory. There was a
litter of monsters all around, and a hunt had been the accelerant for
the whole event chain.
But
no, Seventh wouldn't stoop to praying. There would be a price in
there somewhere. A price he refused to even look at.
The
Loon would demand two left feet or something equally stupid. I
refuse, thank you very much.
That
left the final, and honestly, the most obvious solution.
Medical
intervention.
“Fang,
other ratkin! Get me wood. Branches, twigs, and some kindling.
Quickly!”
Before
long, a small pile of flammables was in front of Seventh, and he
searched his satchel for a flint and steel. Quickly snapping the wood
into smaller pieces and piling them into a small teepee campfire,
Seventh handed the flint and steel to Fang.
Even
without an order, the ratkin promptly struck sparks to the dry wood.
He and Seventh both blew air into the smouldering pile until it
caught a flame, and a small campfire started to warm Seventh up. He
hadn't even noticed how cold he was and chugged down a potion. As a
small graze, Potion Toxicity didn't activate yet, giving Seventh just
a handful of moments more time.
Stoking
the fire, he ordered Fang to bring the last item he needed, the
archer's dagger. It was long and sleek, perfect for stabbing,
slicing, and cutting unsuspecting throats but not much else.
Seventh's own knife was a single-bladed utility knife equally as good
for chopping small woods or whittling kindling, and stabbing small
monsters.
Weighing
the pros and cons between the knives, Seventh plunged his own into
the fire. While he waited for it to gain some colour, he and Fang
laboriously undressed Seventh's upper half. He felt every small nudge
and shift in his posture, much more painful than during fighting. All
his adrenaline had drained up long ago, and now Seventh was running
on pure desperation and stubbornness.
Knife
starting to faintly glow red, Seventh positioned himself as well as
he could, making practice movements with his hands while Fang pressed
the wound.
Making
sure Fang knew the plan and everything was ready, Seventh drank the
fifth potion, ignoring the Toxicity icon popping in his vision.
He
had full health. He
hoped it was enough.
Making
deep and slow breaths, Seventh tried to find a happy little place for
his mind to wander, but all he had was a cosy little corner in a
Necromancer's guild hall.
It
would have to do.
The
dagger sliced his flesh easily, it had been kept sharp. Seventh
grunted between his teeth, sending spit flying, as he furiously
searched the bleeding vein. He couldn't just slap the heated knife on
his skin, the bleeding spot had to be cauterised, not just the
superficial wound.
He
felt blood squirting next to his fingers. He
would aim there.
After
a handful of quick, shallow breaths, Seventh grabbed his own knife
and plunged it in.
His
roar of pain echoed in the darkening forest, making a flock of birds
take flight as they scrambled to get away from the pained monster
within the Whispering Delta.
He
wasn't sure if he lost consciousness.
All
was pain and wiggly lines in his vision.
There
was a bright blue in front of him.
The
sky? His Heaven?
It
promised salvation with a word. He remembered the boiling healing of
potions. He accepted and croaked his salvation.
Rejuvenate.
Rejuvenate, Rejuvenate
Purple
was spreading in his vision—
A
triad of slaps woke him up yet again, and Fang was offering a Healing
Potion. Groggy, but not too much to check his icons, Seventh saw his
Potion Toxicity had been cleared and gladly accepted the potion.
Trying
to keep his eyes open was too hard, so he focused on his HUD. There
were... surprises in his LOG
Letting
out a mroan— a simultaneous groan and moan— Seventh squeezed his
eyes tightly closed in anger. That was four classes now, and half of
them were non-combat ones. Wasn't one hard-to-train class enough? Had
there had to be another one?
Don't
judge too hastily, Seventh. Rejuvenate has been good so far. A little
healing hasn't hurt anybody.
Saving
his judgment for later, the Bleeding Necromancer of the Dark Woods
checked his new class while he waited for the strength to return to
his limbs.
Cursed
be Caleb Garth and his brainwashing ways! That last one is clearly
some Fleshcrafter adjacent Skill!
Seventh
had been tricked, and quite possibly, bamboozled into some diluted
zombie crafting Path. At least the Skills were useful at this red
minute.
Holding
his left hand on his freshly burnt skin, Seventh chanted, “Numb.”
It
didn't feel pleasant, hot or cold. All Seventh could feel in the
Skill's area of effect was emptiness. It wasn't... bad, but the Skill
clearly wasn't for combat. It was more like for patching wounds after
a mass casualty event and keeping people alive until a proper healer
passed by.
Seventh
wasn't quite sure which one was worse: the stabbing pain or the
hollowness from Numb.
Lifting
his head up and daring to open one eye, Seventh looked at his
slightly burnt and charred wound. It was the culprit of the whole
Class Obtaining.
The
major problem with Numb was that it needed a willing target, meaning
that Seventh couldn't use it in a fight before he figured out how to
use it offensively. Ranking it up would be a chore.
Out
of the three new Skills, Material Recomposition: Organic was the most
interesting one. It had a similarly detached language as in Void of
Entropy, down to the coldly clinical indexing and the restrictions,
but here was one major difference: Recomposition wasn't restricted to
dead material.
Seventh
looked at his right hand, and its two short stubs for fingers. With
enough practice, he could grow his them back, have a better grip on
his weapons and...
Seventh
stopped the train of thought before it even started properly and
shook his stubbed hand.
He
needed that broken hand to remind him, to keep him reigned in, when
he was starting to feel cocky. He should probably have been watching
that hand today more, but hubris was dangerous.
He
should have gone back to the village to find a guide. He didn't.
He
should have turned back when he felt something odd in the forest. He
hadn't.
He
should have a party backing him up, not just a horde.
...well,
that would need some socialising. How is that going again?
“It's
going pretty bloody well, thanks for asking,” Seventh muttered out
loud, earning a questioning squeak from Fang, who offered him another
potion. Seventh refused it with a dismissive hand-wave.
“Thanks,
but I think we can save up with the potions.”
He
felt the System pushing inside his head, but he didn't want to look
at the messages and pushed them away. Seventh knew what they would
say, give him praise and shower him with progress.
It
all felt so hollow right now. He had wanted that to happen after
killing monsters, not... not like this.
The
bandit woman was lying still on the green moss. Her hand was still
holding her sliced open throat, painting her hand red. A tear had dug
a groove down her face, a single clean spot on her young face.
After
slowly getting himself up, Seventh found himself looking down at the
woman. Her mana was still there, beckoning to be used, whispering
about the great power an advanced undead born from a human corpse
would give.
Seventh's
hand rose as mana collected around his fingertips.
A
bear was a fine price, but nothing compared to trained killers. What
could an undead Berserker do? How about that Swordsman with earth
Skills? Untold terror and damage to Seventh's enemies.
Glory
and victory. Power.
Seventh
tapped his temple with his palm as the purple portal to somewhere
else sucked in the bandit's corpse.
He
had made a promise to her, no matter how hollow and meaningless, but
it was still his word. He didn't have much else, so morals were
something to hold on to.
Still,
the temptation was there even when Seventh stored the two other
bandits. He hadn't promised anything to them, but...
They
deserve something decent as a burial, I suppose.
He
wanted to do something. To cry, yell at the Heavens, kick and scream
until his voice went hoarse.
Something.
Instead,
all he felt was the tiredness and cold slowly creeping into his
hands, and loneliness. He hoped it was a normal reaction. There
wasn’t anybody to ask. Not anybody living, anyway.
Collecting
all his equipment, armour, and the bandit's dropped gear, Seventh
stumbled to the cavemouth. The stench wasn't as bad as he expected,
but it was... pungent. Something he could almost bite
into.
Most
of his horde was already gone, casting Raise Dead to the bear was
pleasantly cheap, and soon the undead bear sauntered out of the cave
for Seventh's assessment. He ignored the System trying to invade his
consciousness and focused on the new undead.
It
was Easily eight feet high when standing on its hind
legs, possibly weighing tons.
After
hanging a corpse lantern on the bear's neck, Seventh sent it to his
voidspace just to get some fresh air, but the cave still emanated a
strong reminder of Seventh's new furry undead's unpleasant passing.
Wrinkling
his nose, Seventh looked around in the forest. It was getting dark
quickly, and he wasn't nowhere near good shape enough to get away
from the possible umbrefel hunting grounds.
“Ehh,
balls. I have to sleep in there, don't I?” Seventh asked nobody in
particular, but nevertheless got an affirming nod from Fang.
Turning
to glare at his minion incredulously, Seventh asked, “How are you
so calm about going in there? What about your nose?”
Smiling
smugly, Fang pointed at his nose, pinched his fingers together, and
twisted while making a clicking sound.
“Now,
that's some royal bullshit. Why can't turn my nose off? I'm
an undead!”
Fang
crossed his arms and looked up at Seventh.
“...technically,”
he muttered in defeat. “Let's just check the cave out and decide
then. I'm too weak to argue or to find a new camping spot.”
Slowly
descending the sloped floor with shaking legs, Seventh found out the
obvious source of the stench: a large pool of dried, rotting blood.
The
simplest solution would be just to create a large sheet of Bone Wall
to block out the smell, but then there wouldn't be enough casts to
block the cave securely. Kneeling next to the blood, Seventh looked
over his new Skills. It wouldn't hurt to test one out. Worst-case
scenario, he would waste some mana. Best-case scenario, no more
smelly cave.
After
tentatively poking the blood with his finger, Seventh silently
chanted, “Reconstitute.”
His
vision was quickly bombarded with a wild collection of angry blue
boxes that hurt his tired eyes and mind. Most of them didn't even
make sense to Seventh. The boxes were filled with text and pictures
of organs, bones, and pieces of meat, all angrily telling him with
big red letters that he couldn't do that specific Reconstitute due to
his low mana.
Most
of the boxes were different transmutations from one material to
another, with varying costs. He started to click the boxes away until
he was left with only one:
There was a weird bar with a diamond shaped selector for Seventh to choose. He didn't recognise the symbols changing as he moved a slider to the far
right, the max amount.
When
he confirmed his selection, all of his mana flowed out of him, making
his weak knees give out, slamming him into a cursing heap.
His
dignity was wounded further by a quiet snicker from Fang.
From
his downed position, Seventh's displeasure quickly dissipated as he
saw his new Skill in action. The dry blood cracked open and started
to flow as a liquid into a single point, forming a perfect sphere of
stark-white flesh gleaming with crimson blood right in front of
Seventh's eyes.
Even
Fang seemed fascinated by the show and poked the quivering ball with
his finger after all the blood had condensed into flesh.
“Okay...
That was interesting,” Seventh said as he lifted the ball for examination.
It
was a heavy, solid mass of flesh and nothing else. The Necromancer
wondered if it would make a good steak.
Probably?
But it's made from... rotted blood. Yeah, hard pass.
Deciding
he would find something to do with a ball of bear meat on a later
date, Seventh dropped the ball in his inventory and raised Bone Walls
to block the cavemouth.
For
extra security, he meticulously created a dozen clear white balls of
light to shine light into every nook and cranny in the cave, making
it one hundred percent protected from umbrefels. He still had to cast
the spell the Wizardy way, the System hadn't granted him the skill,
but Seventh had a nagging suspicion that would change soon.
Safe
inside a lighted-up cave, Seventh let out a relaxed sigh, rolling his
shoulders. There was a lot of tension to be unwound there, but now...
he was too tired to even make dinner, not to mention a proper
stretching. He would do all that in the morning.
As
he started to gnaw a bar of dried meat and wheat freshly dropped from
his inventory, Seventh glanced at Fang. The entrepreneurial ratkin
had found bones from the cave and was happily whittling them into
whatever Fang always did with the bones and other monster pieces he
had picked up on the way.
“Fang,
catch!”
The
ratkin's eyes went huge when he saw the two Semner-cheese wheels
rolling towards him. He squeaked in joy and pounced on his prize,
meeting Seventh's gaze with eyes shimmering with excitement.
“Yeah,
both are for you. You did an excellent job keeping me alive. Thank
you.”
The
minion and his Necromancer stared at each other for a long while
before making simultaneous manly grunts and nods, both returning to
their own nighttime preparations.
Looking
over his battered armour, Seventh remembered his arm wound from the
Stone Spike and inspected the damage. The ripped open wound had
already scabbed all over, and the more serious wound on his chest
stole all the attention Seventh had for pain.
Healing
Potions hadn't done much for the wound. Those always tried to heal
the most serious injuries first, and had just stemmed the bleeding
when Seventh had slammed potion after potion to keep himself alive.
Now
that he had time and mana, Seventh focused on the information
trickling inside his head, teaching him the correct usage of
Rejuvenate.
It
turned out all he needed to do was think of the area he wanted the
magic to focus on and cast the spell. Additionally, the Spell could
also replace his lost blood.
“Rejuvenate.”
His
arm tingled as his body sped up the healing process and slowly shed
the dried blood and scab off his arm. Seventh had focused on his arm
specifically, and a pulsing green cross icon verified the spell
worked on his hand exclusively.
How
about a general one?
Even
though one spell was already active, a general Rejuvenate started to
work on all of the aches and pains all over Seventh's body. He didn't
feel a tingle, but he trusted something was happening. The pressure
increasing from the System's intruding scratching more or less
confirmed that.
Both
of the spells had a ten-minute timer, and the amount they healed
Seventh was quite lacking compared to the mana used. That, combined
with the slowness of the spell, made Rejuvenate a bad choice for
combat, cementing Seventh's assessment of the Class as a non-combat
one.
A
third cast started to replenish Seventh's parched blood vessels with
brand new blood. With three active healing spells, Seventh felt a
little smug. This was some great savings on Healing Potions.
And,
of course, he could use Rejuvenate on his minions!
After
slapping the same three Rejuvenates on Fang, there wasn't much for
Seventh to do except to drop his blanket and pillow to the floor and
find a good spot to crash out.
Curling
under a warm blanket, his mind wandered through the day. The mistakes
he had made. A possible outcome if he had been prepared.
What
if he had been with the West Wind? Or a similar team?
A
Ranger or Scout would have informed of the oddness of the forest, a
Leader would have made them move more carefully, and the bandits
would have probably run away in fear.
The
bear would have been found dead, and Seventh would have bitched and
moaned about lost fighting experience and Class rank-ups. Everybody
would have gone to bed happily and unharmed.
Maybe
there would have even been some light horseplay on Seventh's sour
mood.
But
no, that didn't happen.
Now,
Seventh was trying to find a good position with his aching body.
Rejuvenate had run out long ago, and Seventh was oddly hesitant to
cast it, feeling like he should still feel the pain. Make it matter.
“Fang?”
Seventh asked, looking at the lit roof. “Should we join a party?”
“Squeak?”
The ratkin's voice was full of surprise, and Seventh heard a
faint of a dropped cheese and a panicked scramble to pick
it up again.
Fang's
momentary panic made Seventh chuckle a little. “Shocking, I know.
We're not exactly the party material, but... today was close. Way too
close.”
Fang
grunted defiantly and loudly sniffed from his cheese and bone-filled
corner.
“Oh
yeah? Easy for you to say, I'm the one dying over here! Or I was,
Spells are awesome... How would you feel if you were the one bleeding
and dying? Actually, can you even bleed...? That doesn't matter— we
two are connected, remember?”
Seventh
waved his finger between himself and Fang.
“If
I go, you will probably too. Not immediately, sure, but you're not
like... me. You will stop ranking, and sometime in the future you'll
stumble on something too much to chew on.”
Like
today. Luck will always run out, it is a finite resource.
Silence
fell in the cave as Fang stopped his whittling and changed his
position. Seventh didn't see the ratkin's face, but he could feel the
stare.
“Let's
face it, we— have winged it this far, but if I get almost
killed every time we dip our toes into the deeper waters... We'll be
killing rats and slimes until our hair and fur turns grey— or we
die next week while over-extruding ourselves.”
Seventh
slowly lifted his head to meet Fang's stare. “I don't know about
you, but that doesn't sound like the adventuring I signed up to do.
The rat hunting and constant near-death experience, I mean. I want to
help people. help people”
He
slowly lowered his head, closing his tired eyes. “Can't do that if
you're dead... or eat cheese for that matter.”
Seventh
heard skittering and footsteps closing next to him. Upon lazily
opening his eye, he saw Fang-Knife inches away from his face.
The
ratkin's dark, beady eyes stared down at him, evaluating his
condition. Seeming his master fit, Fang flicked his finger painfully
straight in the middle of Seventh's forehead.
“What???”
Seventh asked, irritated. The flick had come with considerable
strength behind it.
Fang
pointed his gnarled finger at Seventh and then tapped his temple. He
shook his head and made a sleeping noise.
Slowly
piecing together the pantomime, Seventh nodded. “I'll still wanna
look into partying with other people tomorrow. This isn't just some
stress release talking.”
Fang
made a deadpan stare at Seventh.
“It
isn't!... not that much anyways.”
The
ratkin slumped his shoulder in defeat and slapped his face, letting
his hand slowly slide down.
A
worried expression rose to his fur-covered features as he signed by
tapping his finger on his head, explosion sign, Fang hitting
himself... tomorrow?
“I
don't follow. What?” Seventh asked with a puzzled expression.
Fang
stayed still for a long moment, wiggling his fingers and pondering
how he could convey his meaning. Instead, the ratkin just shrugged
and returned to his side of the cave.
“Hey!
What, Fang? What?” Seventh asked again with a rising annoyance, but
all he got as an answer was just a retching sound.
“Nevermind
then. Keep your secrets. I'm too tired to think anyway,” Seventh
said, almost spitting the words out. Who cared what a ratkin thought?
As
Seventh slowly slipped into unconsciousness, the System finally won
the prolonged mental tug-of-war, and a split second before Seventh
fell asleep, his mind was invaded by a swarm of blue boxes, slapping
his mind wide awake.
“For
fucks sake, can't a man sleep in here without any interruptions?!”
The
Annoyed Necromancer of the Cave continued to grumble as he looked the
boxes over.
Seventh made a weary chuckle.
The Soldier Class had popped like an overripe melon in a sweltering summer's heat— and Necromancer had taken a mighty leap towards Iron rank.
There wasn't any happiness from the rank-up. Just regret what had been the final push for Seventh's progress.
Three dead bandits, floating now somewhere in the Void of Entropy, waiting for a tomorrow, and an awkward conversation with the Watch or whoever took in the bandit bounties.
