Pride

Artur winced, his guts wrenching at the stench of rotting flesh.

The fading light of dusk cast an amber glow over what was once a battlefield. Once an expanse of emerald grass lazing in summer’s breeze. Now the skin of the earth was laid bare and raw, red stained mud seeping like puss from a sick wound. And one with this putrid soil were bodies, countless corpses half buried with jaws hanging ajar: the terror of their final moments forever carved into their lifeless faces. Shattered swords and splintered spears were scattered across the field, dug into the ground ,standing upright: gravestones marking the place of their wielder’s final rest. Beneath the white linen of his cloak, Artur caressed the hilt of his swords, taking solace in the abrasion of their worn leather handles. “I’m better,” he whispered. “Where others fall, I’ll succeed”

“For you, sis, I’d traverse through hell and back.”

Artur gulped back his fear, resolve galvanized by his mantra as he stepped forth into the mass grave, armored boots squelching in a soup somewhere between soil and flesh. Each step he took released fresh waffs of death’s odor. Buzzing insects assaulted him on all sides with the cacophony of their droning wig beats, driven mad by the fermenting of cadavers. Their countless numbers swelled and gathered like a looming miasma given life and purpose. Artur pushed forth through the living mist and paused, his eyes falling on a dark silhouette. It occupied the center of the field, something twisted and warped that stood on all fours, tendrils sprawling from its back; a gaping mouth burrowing into the swollen guts of a dead man’s torso.

The horrid sounds of crunching bone, of tearing meat and slurping of blood intruded on Artur’s ears. The wind howled and it was cold. A frigid bite nipping him in the spine. A gust swept up his cloak, exposing belts of throwing knives, hunting daggers and poison vials. Artur pulled back his hood, running a hand through his messy curls of blond, ensuring the binds keeping his hair tied into a ponytail were still tight. Glancing over his shoulder, his eyes settled on the treeline, finding the outline of a figure amongst the branches and leaves. Artur gestured a subtle nod, grinning as a way of settling his nerves, grateful he’d at least not be facing this thing alone.

This creature that books called a Graver. Artur wouldn’t say he shared his sister’s love for the lore of the word. But he did believe in knowing his enemy. Gravers were born of sin. Dead spirits breathed back into their bodies as an incarnation of their darkest wants: of lust, of wrath, of melancholy. Their existence reduced to a hunger driven rampage devoid of all humanity. The greater the sin, the greater the Gravers. Monsters in life twisted into something worse after death.

Artur observed the creature, watching it tear into the bodies of knights with claws cleaving plate metal like an axe through tree bark. He saw the sea of corpses surrounding it, noted the gashes across their torsos and necks: noticed how they all bared the same colors with not a single differencing banner or flag in sight. No skirmish between men happened here. Artur’s grin twitched at that realization. His chest tightening, his guts turning. His every instinct writhing beneath the skin, screaming. One mistake and it would be over before an instant could pass.

Again Artur gripped his swords. “I’m better,” he reminded himself again. “I’m better.” He closed his eyes and recalled flashes of a sky crying ash, of a girl weeping tears. The figments of a spoken promise rang vivid like reciting poetry unspoken. A breath left his parted lips, his body falling as calm and still as the dead he walked upon.

Whether indifferent or ignorant, the creature took no notice of his approach, engorging itself on mouthfuls of human meat. Artur could get a detailed look at the thing now, a sight he could have gone his life without seeing. That of withering flesh dyed black with rot as if its body were not made of blood and bone but of pure pustulating putridity. Its stomach was bloated and swollen, a ballooning mass its slender limbs were unable to lift off the ground. Instead it pulled itself across the earth, dragging its oversized gut from body to body. Bladed tendrils sprawled from its back, its skeletal fingers tipped with serrated claws. Its head wore a human skull like it was a mask, like it was clinging on to a last strand of what it once was. But there was no humanity in its eyes. No empathy or sympathy. Only hunger. Only black sockets baring slit pupils that glowed with a ghastly paleness. Its jaw hung ajar, mouths within its mouths spilling out like thrashing maggots desperate to borrow into another meal.

Artur fell on one knee, praying the Graver would not interrupt its feast to investigate the sound of metal scraping against leather as he drew a knife. He continued to watch the creature, hardly able to contain his heart as he carved a symbol into the skin of a dead man. The Graver paused and Artur froze. A moment passed before the ripping of corpses resumed. Artur never thought he’d be so grateful to hear such a sound. He repeated the act of carving symbols several times across several bodies before marching further into the Graver’s territory, until he could count the individual paces between him and it.

Artur breathed, drawing back his cloak and plucking vials from his belt. Housing liquids of various colors, he took to downing them. His hand sparked with an ethereal glow and symbols began to trail across the corners of his vision. [lesser Attack up]. [lesser Defense up]. [lesser Speed up]. [lesser Disease immunity]. One by one Artur poured the bitter contents of a potion bottle into his mouth, recoiling at the taste as he forced them down. His muscles tensing, joints loosening, pupils dilating as his senses heightened to regale the world with newfound detail despite the low light.

Artur consulted the back of his hand, eyes falling on the mark that branded it. The tattoo of intertwining runic glyphs he’d carried his entire life. A label that brought breaths of blessing and curse in equal measures. That which supposedly made him better than the men and women plastering the earth around him. The Hero mark. Its glow was soft, comforting like a bedside candle.

To this mark Artur whispered: “Hero skill: vital strike,” and it resonated with his words in a faint flash of silvery light.

The Graver responded in a screech from its many mouths, rearing its head in Artur’s direction. A whistle, a flicker of spinning metal: a throwing knife found itself buried deep in the monster’s eye socket. The inhuman screams that followed left a ringing in Artur’s ears.

“Hero skill: lesser accelera–,” the whipping lash of several tendrils assaulting Artur at once cut him short. His feet propelled him back, muscles snapping to action like uncoiling springs as a flurry of tentacles sliced at the space he just occupied. “Hero skill–,” again Artur attempted the skill chant. Again he faltered, under the assault of countless living whips. He drew his swords and took to parrying, deflecting the graver’s onslaught. “Hero skill: lesser acceleration!” At last he cried out, heart pounding, muscles surging, the world around him slowing as mortal flesh moved with haste beyond his mortal limits. The graver screamed and a thousand tendrils painted the amber sky black as they rained down. The ground shuddered under the shock of colliding forces, the air shivering in the wake of dancing swords.

“Hero skill: Blade Ballet!” echoed out in the rhythm of a thousand cuts, seeing every tentacle severed in an instant.

The graver shrieked. The world quaked as it pounded the earth in frustration. Ink colored ooze sprayed from its severed tentacles. Only for the flesh to warp, conjoined pustules of bloated skin and writhing muscle growing at the nubs. In an explosion of tainted blood, a clutch of new tendrils came bursting from its back. Its eyes fell on Artur, fixed on him with a maddened frenzy somewhere within their abyssal depths.

“That’s right,” Artur huffed, “Come get me!” With that he turned and ran for his life.

Artur sprinted towards the treeline, muscles sluggish, his joints tight. The fleeting effects of lesser acceleration already drained from his body, the waning effects of his potion buffs draining away. Artur glanced at his hero mark, seeing how its vibrant shine had already diminished. “One skill left.” He shook his head, freeing it of the tinge of doubt he could feel prickling the back of his mind, willing himself back into focus as he bared a peek over his shoulder at the horror chasing him.

The air shuddered with the graver’s screams as it dug a skeletal hand into the earth, pulling its swollen cadaver of a body forward. It was fast. Faster than Artur expected, far quicker than anything of its gluttonous weight had any right to be. Despite having to drag a gut half the size of a house, its spindly limbs were somehow able to move its oversized body with ease. Its tentacles surged forth, thrashing through the air, their taloned tips catching the twilight of the setting sun as they flickered in Artur’s direction.

“Give me a damn break will ya?”

Ducking, weaving, bringing his blades to bat the slicing tendrils away, Artur made all attempts to evade the torrent of lashes to little avail as tentacle after tentacle struck glancing blows against his body, drawing cut after cut. Slice after slice. One found his arm, lacerating so deep that he suddenly couldn’t feel the hand it was attached to. Artur gritted his teeth, desperately holding back a shriek of pain. There was a metallic clatter as one of his swords fell from his grasp but somehow Artur maintained his balance, maintained his pace, maintained his focus as he ran past a dead man with a rune carved into his chest.

“Now Draylen!” Artur shouted.

The moment he’d spoken those words an arrow emerged from the distant treeline. Artur watched as it sailed through the sky, flashing of Azur before splitting into several duplicates seeking a separate mark. Artur blinked, his head feeling as aloft and light as the arrows above. His eyes fluttering, he could so easily fall down and rest. Eyes closing, he looked through the dark and saw a young girl writing at a desk, saw her look up and bare a smile on her lips.

The vision jolted Artur awake, eyes snapping open to see a tentacle lunging for his face. The tilt of his head came mere fractions of a second before impact, a red line slicing open his cheek.

“F***.”

Artur fell back, catching the ground with his one good hand and springing, somersaulting back to his feet. Pointing his blade, the man stood ready to face the Graver head on, a smirk finding his lips as it came charging. Its bones snapped under the strain of its own frenzied movements, Its gut rupturing as it abraded with the ground. Its regeneration was healing it as fast as it was injuring itself, its near-human screams that of manic hysteria. It brought its claws down to shred Artur apart. Only to be interrupted by whistling arrows finding their marks.

“Catalyse magic…” echoed in the treeline. “Exploding brand!”

“Checkmate,” Artur saw fit to utter, bracing just before the world quaked under an ignition of flame. In the last glimmers of sundown, day-like radiance returned in thunderous fury. The air quivering, the ground buckling as a fiery flash engulfed the battlefield. Artur dug his sword into the earth, holding his limb arm with his mouth, biting down on the cuff of the sleeve, barely holding steady as the shock ripped through him, his ears popping to leave only the sound of ringing note and the muffled noise of the Graver’s screams.

The wind stabilized, the dust settled, debris of both rock and flesh rained from the sky. Yet Artur’s eyes widened in shock of what he saw. Of a torn and shredded body weaving itself back together. Of gash wounds as large as a man stitching themselves closed, of skin and muscle winding around reforming bones.

Artur hefted his blade over his head. “You’re really gonna make me use this, huh?”

In one final effort, bringing all his remaining strength to bear, he measured out his final skill chant. “Unique skill: Guillotine strike.”  Again the world trembled. Every trace of smoke and dust was scattered to the wind as the world itself split and a fissure was carved with the slashing of Artur’s blade. The charred remains of a graver stood before him. Its screeching silenced. Its slithering flesh still. A moment passed as Artur breathed, returning his blade to its sheath. Then the Graver fell apart into two split halves.

Artur fell to his knees, legs crumpling as more than just exhaustion set in. Another metallic clutter rang out as his other arm lost all feeling, leaving a battered and injured Artur to sit, struggling to catch his breathing amongst the scattered dead. His hero mark resonated, in a faint silvery flash its intertwining symbols shifted on his skin, peeling off completely. Floating into the air, glowing runes formed together before Artur’s eyes, creating letters and spelling words:

“That’s right… I’m better,” Artur pushed out between his rasps for air. Trying to soak in the satisfaction of victory.

Artur stared wide eyed as the numbers presented themselves, unblinking even as blood began to drip down his face.

The symbols began spelling a list of individual traits and skills with numbers ranking his every ability and talent. Strength [15], speed [16], intellect [14] even vitality [20]: the entirety of his capabilities abridged into numeric values. Such was the nature of this world, a reality where blood and death was designed to be fun and games. Where becoming a hero was part of everyone’s daily grind, where the valiant slaying of horrific monsters held no morality over personal gain. Their weapons were numbers attached to stats, their virtues a predetermined list of character traits and what good deeds any of them did came of no desire to do good, but rather to just be entertained by the spectacle of it all. Artur chuckled at that thought, his eyes looking over the dead that covered the field, wondering how entertaining this world was to them.

In the distance he heard the sound of boots hitting mud, someone was running towards him. “Artur!” a voice called out. “Artu—oh dear lord, that man is missing half his face…”

Artur cast a glance over his shoulder, eyes finding a man carrying a torch in one hand, a bow in the other. His emerald cloak was silk fashioned, his tunic laced with gold weave stitching. His boots alone would fetch a months’ worth of warm meals by Artur’s standards. He was a man better suited for a life of lavish social gatherings than quests ending in death and bloodshed. Draylen was his name, a feathered hat of nobility adoring his head, locks of brown hair framing a face contorted into something halfway between concern and disgust.

“My apologies, Artur, I don’t suppose you could come over here to me?” he spoke, standing at the edge of the mass grave.

“No problem,” Artur said,  the letters and numbers spelling his character stats shifting back into runes as they rearranged themselves to reform the hero mark on the back of his hand. His eyes caught a passing glance at one number just before it vanished. [HP: 10/1500] He took a single step and stumbled, as the world itself was pushing down on him. “Come on,” he muttered, trying to take another step, a bolt of pain causing his joints to flitch. Now even something as mundane as walking felt like it might kill him.

“S***,” he heard Draylen mutter, before the sound of squelching mud started up again. “I’ll come to you, just… try to stay awake.” He only just managed to push out those last words in between gags.

“Trivial injuries like these are nothing,” Artur lied, forcing a smile as he watched Draylen awkwardly navigate the field of dead towards him. This man who could hardly bear the sight of blood without spitting up his supper, who favored silk over steel and cotton over leather. Yet still he bore a Hero Level higher than Artur’s, for his birth was owed to a family blessed with coffers. Thus was the way of the world.

“I’m not even gonna ask about half the things I just stepped in–” Draylen paused as he drew closer. “Your arm… oh goddess I can see the bone,” he said before desecrating a nearby dead-man further with the contents of his stomach.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Artur lied. “A flesh wound.”

“Really now? Well, the last time I checked the skeleton was supposed to be something that stays under the skin.” Slinging his bow over his shoulder, Draylen plucked the feather from his hat and produced a pot of ink from one of his many pouches. “Hold still,” he said as he drew on Artur’s arm, surrounding the wound with runic symbols. Once finished he pointed his palm, the hero mark resonating beneath the black fabric of his gloves.

“Catalyze magic: healing brand.”

Artur watched as a faint light enveloped his injury, the air humming, reverberating a quiet howl as a warm breeze coiled around his lacerated arm. The pain dispelled as the flesh knitted itself together. Within a space of a few seconds Artur could feel his arm again, the wound closed completely with only a patch of warped skin to remain.

“I’m afraid that’s the best I can do until the spell’s done cooling down,” Draylen signed. “As for that… other arm.” His voice trailed off.

Artur looked to the limb he’d used to cast his unique skill. Guillotine strike, an attack that dealt damage no spell nor armor could defend against and inflicted wounds that could never heal. True damage, its singular drawback portrayed by the mangled and shredded thing that resembled an arm hanging limp at Artur’s side.

“You used that skill again didn’t you?”

“Didn’t have much choice.”

“That’s what you say every time,” Draylen said, his hand going into the innards of his cloak before producing a potion vial. “And every time the recoil of that attack gets worse. A finger, a hand, an arm, what’s next?”

Artur eyed the lesser potion of healing in his companions hand, knowing how little it would help. True damage didn’t heal. Still he took vial and attempted to down its contents, almost failing at doing so when his taste buds caught hold of the flavor. Now he was the one gaging, his mouth reeling over a taste he’d rate below horse piss as he forced himself to swallow. A fresh wave of numbness followed, the rest of his injuries feeling less of a burden.

“As always your health potions taste like s***,” Artur forced out a laugh, pulling his cloak over what was once his arm.

Draylen parted his lips only for no speech to follow, the concern on his face waning as if he already knew what answer his words would garner. His sigh was deep and heavy. “Consider that payback for dragging me out here,” he flashed a forced smile.

“Hardly my fault you have the constitution of a new-born,” Artur said, stifling a chuckle that became a fit of coughs.

“Next time I’m picking the quest, preferably something that doesn’t have us trudging out to a field saturated in guts and entrails that smells worse than your average shithole.”

“You’ll soon be employed cleaning shitholes if you think quests like those exist,” Artur said, turning to face the Graver’s corpse. “I take it you’re not gonna help me loot this thing.”

“Heavens no. I’d rather get caught going through Evelyn’s undergarment draw again.”

“Again?”

“It was a misunderstanding! A lady’s fashion sense is incredibly important to their social standing and I only wanted to make sure her choice of panties matched the seasonal trend. It’s quite common courtesy amongst the nobility, really.”

“Sure,” Artur chuckled, approaching the graver with a limp in his step. “Throw me that torch would you?”

“Seriously though, that maid of yours creeps me out,” Draylen said as he tossed the lit torch into Artur’s hand. “Sometimes I catch her just staring at me with this look in her eye.”

“I thought you enjoyed having girls eyeball you.” Artur brought the torch to bare, stabbing it into the graver’s flesh to give it purchase. With his one good hand he drew a knife and crouched before the monster’s head. Or at least one half of that head. His blade slipped into the swollen eye socket and started cutting.

“Oh that’s disgusting. At least wear a glove would you?” There was a moment of quiet, a somber silence kept at bay by only the crackling of torch fire and the slicing of flesh. “Don’t get me wrong,” Draylen continued, almost sounding conflicted, uncertain of what to say next. “A girl undressing me with her eyes is something I take as a compliment. But Evelyn’s gaze is different.”

With a delicate touch, Artur carefully extracted the graver eye. A black orb the size of an apple, a pale slit pupil running down its center. There wasn’t much on a graver that sold outside of its head’s use as a trophy. Its skin was rotten, its bones brittle, its blood bared the consistency of tar and was worthless in alchemy. Its constant regeneration was the only thing keeping its unnatural life together. Without that its body would be mostly dissolved within a day. “Maybe she’s just really into you,” Artur said as he set to work on the second eye.

“No, as irresistible as I am, Miss Evalyn seems quite immune to my infinite charms. Though I notice she glares at Avane the same way sometimes too.”

Artur paused. “I’ll speak to her.”

“How soon are we moving out, if I may ask? I would very much like to draw a bath as soon as we return home.”

“Tomorrow my friend,” Artur said, voice snapping back to his façade of forced optimism. “When my wounds have fully recovered of course. can’t let Avane see me looking like this.”

“Yes you do look like s***.”

“F*** you Draylen.”