Chapter 462 (1/2)

“That’s… not a Skill.” Rose said slowly, looking towards the strange carving that stood above the Dintan city, whose walls were now marred by its people’s blood. Drake continued to scratch his face, desperate to get rid of the dried vomit. “That’s… pure force of lungs.”

There was a laugh from the ground in front of them, and Drake looked down to see that although there was a large hole in her right chest, piercing her lung, Gemma/Zith still clung to life, her eyes bright and strangely happy.

Walking forward, Ace frowned and made a shooing motion towards her. “Your attempt at villainous timing is admirable, if only for its lack of understanding of true villainous arts. Please just breathe your last.”

“I have to thank you all…” The dying woman said, and then she began to cough, her chest wracked by spasms, so she curled up like a frying strip on the ground, rocking back and forth.

“She’s not going to say for freeing her,” Ace remarked professionally, shaking his head sadly. “Her twist is embarrassingly straightforward, I’m betting. She will say something like-”

“Because you have given me the greatest pleasure I can currently imagine!” Gemma said, forcibly suppressing her cough, almost as if she was threatened by Ace moving to steal her thunder. The dying woman’s eyes were bright and feverish, her gaze locked onto Alana. “Seeing the freak who murdered my beloved Rhaidon waste away, warped by the passage of time-”

An arrow cut her off, taking her in the forehead. She leaned back and collapsed, dead.

Annie made a pleased noise. “Wow, I didn’t expect a Level from a small fry like that. 49 now. How much of a grind is it up to 50, Alana?”

“It’s gonna be a bitch, especially after we leave this place,” Alana grunted, frowning towards the city, where the rumblings were growing louder. Then she turned and glanced behind her, where the Death Cultists stood. Her eyes narrowed, but she turned forward again, and most of the rest of the group followed her lead. They all moved, their strong melee fighters near the city, ready to meet whatever threat was heading their way.

“The Ghosthound hasn’t responded to the party chat in a while,” Thea whispered, the strange, spooky song of the beast perhaps getting to her. “Do you think-”

“He’s still in the party, however,” Rose said, giving Thea a sharp glance.

The group fell silent, just listening. Drake continued to stubbornly scratch for the vomit. The rumblings were nearer to them now, so much so that he could feel the tremors through his bone greaves. His tail flicked back and forth, an instinctive display of his growing anxiety.

They did not have long to wait. As the noise in front of them grew almost deafening, the gate in front of them was blasted open, and a monster walked out of the opening. Somehow, it managed to both throw off an air of regal importance, and of revolting decay.

The first thing Drake noticed was its huge, golden antlers. A 14-point, by the world before the System’s estimate, and these antlers were intricate and perfectly mirrored as if they had been sculpted, rather than grown naturally. Such was the size of the rack that a man could comfortably sit between the curving golden horns, as long as he avoided the dangerously sharp points.

It mostly had the body of a stag, with soft, white fur that across most of its body seemed incredibly soft. Next, Drake’s gaze locked onto the thing’s eyes, glowing a dull, deep red, like dried blood and rust.

As it walked further forward, Thea gasped. “That…. That’s the Wild Rider’s Soul-bonded animal!”

But Drake was scowling now, because the few steps it had taken forward past the rising dust from the destroyed gate revealed grey and withered pillars of flesh that appeared to be sewn onto its back, and were being dragged behind it, on the ground. At the site of the attachment, the flesh was red, and green ichor leaked out, staining the hide around the connection a strange brown-yellow as if this had been going on for some time, and the leaking fluid was becoming increasingly poisonous.

Next, to the point of connection, there was a bulbous mound, as if a cancerous growth had resulted from the combination, or as though the strange individual who had created this thing had too much extra flesh, and just wrapped it up in an awkward ball and placed it on the thing’s back.

It brayed again, and Drake could see how it had to start as a roar, and then worked up to its clarion call song, as if this is how the stag usually spoke, but a great wariness now suffused its body, and it had to struggle to get there. Finally, its chest began to vibrate too powerfully with the noise, and the black stitching began to spurt red and green fluid, and the monster began to cough, unable to withstand the strain.

“Did it always look like that?” Annie asked solemnly.

Thea shook her head slowly, tightening her grip on her hammer.

Alana opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything, Rose spun around. “Death Cultists are using a spell, targetting this Frankenstein!”

“Frankenstein is the doctor,” Clarissa retorted, more out of habit than anything else, but she looked too, lightning dancing across her fingers.