Arcanist In Another World-Chapter 100: Back At It

Nomad blasted through the front gate, Heartstone thumping in his chest, the leathery handle of the sword scraping against his bony fingers. He ducked down as an arrow whizzed toward him, stretched a hand out, and caught it as it passed by over his head. He caught it hard in the palm of his hand and turned and stabbed its pointy tip into the Undead Soldier who came swinging a giant sword. Saw him stumbling back with a hand over the arrow, growling through a set of yellow teeth. Finished the deed with a swing of his sword and sent the bastard’s head rolling down to the cold, dead stone.

Up round the hall, a swarm of them waited for him. Warriors out in the front, archers in the back. The Chief would be waiting for him by the Gate, but for now, he had dealt with this sorry lot.

Good. He could use some distraction.

He lunged in as mana rushed toward his hands, through the broken tiles and into the squirming group of Undead. Lunged in with mad fury burning in his chest, and swung the sword round to give himself some space.

One of them was too late to step back. The sword squelched into his Heartstone and nicked a deep gash across it, sending him crashing into the side wall. Nomad was on him in no time, free hand clasping the nape of his skull and plastering it flat across the wall, bits of his stone splintering about in a sick rain.

He breathed the dying reek of the bastard.

There was nothing like the brutal rush of a battle to quieten the voices.

The lifestone had gone. Drained right after he stole the Void Riftshards. Gave him just enough time to fend off the Everfog of the Liches. Once out from the Legion’s City, he scrambled through one mountain after another, dead soil of the Underworld crunching under the heels of his feet, bones worn and falling off, with no time to think about it all.

He’d had a plan.

He would get inside the Castle Hide, deal with the lot manning it, catch the Bone Collector, and force him to work new skin over his bones. Then, he would go to the surface to find that stubborn Healer and have him prepare another stone like the one in his chest.

But time was of dwindling quality as of late, and the number of bastards was a touch more than he’d expected.

Didn’t matter. Killing don’t change as long as you have a sword in hand.

One came screaming toward him. A Level 100 Undead Soldier. He came at Nomad with fervor and eyes blazing with righteous fury, sword clasped painfully tight in his hands, trying to be an example for the others.

There was no need to fear this bastard, those eyes seemed to say. He was just another Soldier of the Legion. No need to fear him at all, even if he had managed to cross his First Trial.

Nomad stepped aside, letting the mad rush of the sorry fool end with a surprising yelp as his sword clanked harmlessly off the ground. Before he could haul the weapon back, Nomad stabbed him through the side, the edge of his weapon making a mess out of the Heartstone.

One final wheeze, then he was gone.

The hall went alive.

Dozens rushed at him. He ducked when he could, stabbed when he caught a chance, got battered and broken as he reaped one stone after another. It didn’t hurt. Pain was of little importance when the rush silenced the whispers inside.

Archers proved painfully weak. Snapping their bones sent a wave of insidious satisfaction down his knees. It almost felt wrong. Almost, but not quite. It wasn’t his fault this lot tried to stop him in his tracks. It wasn’t his fault at all.

By the time he cleared the first floor and started his climb through the stairs, the second team welcomed him. There were five floors in each border castle. A total of one hundred undead with a single Chief.

The work was monotonous and boring. Other than an occasional skirmish with the other Legions, there was scarcely an attempt at breaking the peace here. Which made the men weak and careless.

Notifications rained in as Nomad continued his path up the stairs. Left behind him a wreckage of bones and stones. In the chaos, it was silence. The clash of weapons and the screams of his foes were like music to his ears.

But it wasn’t enough.

Even here, in the heat of battle, he could feel pieces of his memory deserting his mind. Felt like grabbing at smoke trying to keep them intact. Felt like, slowly, he was losing his true self.

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The coward within him was trying to take control. Telling him to stop. To go back and dig the hole he’d buried the Riftshards in. All dozen of them. Saying that he should give them to the Ninth Legion and let them take him. He deserved a punishment. Surely they wouldn’t kill him.

This, though? He was definitely going to die if he kept at it. Liches would break his stone, but not before they hang him by the Endless Pit. Let him dangle through an eternity over that deep nothingness, staring out into the darkness below with only enough mana to keep him sane.

They wouldn’t let him lose his mind, no. They would make sure he was there for it all. He would scream and hear his own voice answering back to him. fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com

Perhaps he should listen to the coward. It was him who kept him alive this long.

Nomad growled as an undead shouldered him toward the wall, pressed him with strength, and worked a dagger up around his ribs. The tip scraped against his bones, inching toward his Heartstone, aiming for his core.

A voice echoed in the depths of his mind.

Nomad shook his head and pushed the bastard back, pushed him with the rest of the dozen who stood behind him. They couldn’t contain his strength even united as a team. He cornered them by the stairs, and one by one crushed them apart like one might crush a bag of dirty, mindless worms.

Onto the second floor, then came the third. The narrow passage of the stairs gave them no chance against him. At most, he was fighting two and three of them at a time while the rest stood silent at his sight, waiting for their turn, shivering without the Everfog to mute their minds.

How could anyone live like this? All for the Eternal War, against demons crawling from the bowels of the world. There was something about the start of it all in the corner of his mind. About some men who were behind this arrangement, who thought using the dead would be wise against this threat.

He blinked.

That memory was gone.

Perhaps he’d been mistaken.

Perhaps there was nothing as such in his mind.

Didn’t matter.

Work scarcely changed.

When he crept along the stairs and reached the final floor, he saw a little group with a fierce Undead out in the front. Looking mighty in his dark plates and that giant sword, edges jagged like some twisted saw fitted for the purpose.

And there round the corner, by the stone door hiding the Gate beyond, was the Bone Collector looking blankly at his face. They even gave him a spear, as if they thought, or hoped, by some twisted feat of luck, he could make that weapon sing against Nomad.

Good thing he was waiting in the back. Nomad would need him later.

“Traitor!” the Chief growled, the gaps of his skull flashing green with the remnants of a fog granted him by a Lich. He couldn’t command that fog, nor was he taken completely by it, but it still allowed him to mute the doubts and pain.

“I don’t have time for this,” Nomad said, sword over his shoulder. “Let me pass.”

“The Legion never sleeps!” the Chief growled. “The Legion demands nothing but respect. You have broken the Oaths! You will not pass me, traitor.”

“Hook was one bastard of a Chief,” Nomad said, glancing at his sword. “One cunny bastard of a Chief who knew there was something wrong with me. Couldn’t fool him, you see? He had that quality about him. Stared at places where the others didn’t. Caught the whiff of my scent in the air and followed me in.”

The Chief’s fingers tightened around the handle of the sword. He knew Hook. Who didn’t? One of Lord Zahul’s Chiefs, a menace on the battlefield with that giant mace. Storm of death swirling round in senseless killing, butchering, tearing apart.

“I killed him,” Nomad said, peering into the Chief’s face. “I will kill you, too. It’s that simple a matter. Try me, and you will see.”

“Get that damn traitor out of my face!” the Chief hissed with a snap of his fingers, glaring down upon his men. “Get him.”

“Come,” Nomad said, smiling through crooked teeth. His recently fitted skin was mostly gone, the teeth rotten and falling. “I’ll entertain your lot.”

He sucked in a breath of mana into his stone, then he was off, the cold walls around him flashing, the ground underneath his feet breaking. He stabbed like a mighty spear into their ranks, sent a couple of them scattering about in fear. Caught one who proved the fool. Caught him hard and flung him up over the others toward the Chief.

Then he was closing in on him, sword singing by the side, scraping a cry against the wall. There was a right way of doing this. A right way o’ making a point.

Already, the Chief was looking about him as his men fell one by one. Didn’t seem much confident anymore. Gone was that initial air of vengeance about him.

But then, you only showed your truth when there was no one else beside you.

Nomad swung the sword. It crushed into the bastard’s saw-like giant weapon, got caught in one of the jagged edges. The Chief reeled him in, and like a fish caught on a hook, Nomad stumbled toward him.

He tried to wrench the damn thing off from that edge, but there was strength behind it. Another jab was coming in. Coming in fast with crushing force. Nomad let the weapon go and stepped round the blow, and was on the bastard’s back before he realized it.

He wrapped his arms around his neck and pulled. The collarbone snapped, and the neck started giving in. He pulled more, the bones crunching, the Chief’s hold around the sword loosening, voices drilling in through his mind, telling him he was a coward and traitor both.

“I’ve told you,” he hissed to the ears of the Chief. “Being a coward is no sin. Lets you keep your head over these shoulders if you do it right. Lets you get away with things if you know your way round it. You didn’t, Chief. You’re one fool. A courageous fool, and now you’re going to die for it.”

He snapped his skull clean from his body, drove a kick through his stone. Bony fingers jutted outside of the Heartstone. The Chief was gone.

“Don’t try me,” Nomad said as he picked up his sword and glanced over to the Bone Collector shivering by the side. “Prepare a new set of skin. I want something normal. Not too eye-catching. A poor bastard’s face would be enough. After all, I’m going to Belgrave, the arse-hole of Melton.”

The Bone Collector went limp. Realization slowly crushed in as his eyes widened. He was a clever one. Understood right when Nomad told him where he was going that he wouldn’t be spared.

Good for him.

…….