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Chapter 29: The Crimson City
Blood.
The word screamed in his mind, a primal alarm bell. It was blood. The coppery, metallic reek hit him like a physical blow, a thick, suffocating miasma that clung to the back of his throat. Adrenaline, sharp and cold, surged through his veins, forcing his lethargic body upright. His first frantic glance scanned the landscape, tracing the source of the slick, dark liquid pooling around his feet. But what came into view struck him with a far greater impact than any smell.
"What the hell is this?" he muttered inwardly, his hand flying to his mouth to stifle a gag.
Lying before him was a horrendous tapestry of death. Armored human bodies were strewn across the ground like broken toys, their forms stark and lifeless. They weren't just dead; they were dismantled. Some were torn open, their innards spilling out in glistening, purple-red coils. Others were missing limbs, their armor crushed and twisted as if by some immense, careless force. He saw a knight, his breastplate split open to reveal the stark white cage of his ribs, the cavity within hollowed out and empty. The sight was made more grotesque by the low, guttural sounds and the sight of great, black-feathered vultures, their heads buried deep in the carnage, feasting on the soft, exposed organs of the dead. Bloodied weapons—swords, axes, shattered shields—lay everywhere, some embedded in the earth, others resting beside their former owners as silent, grim testimonials.
Internally, his body was a symphony of panic. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of pure fear. It wasn't just the visceral horror of the sight before him—the sheer, wasteful carnage of it—that terrified him. What truly iced his veins was the unspoken question: what could have caused this? What kind of power, what kind of monster, could orchestrate such a thorough and brutal onslaught? He grasped his mouth tighter, his knuckles white, forcing his surging panic down, swallowing the low, pathetic weeps that threatened to escape. He had to survive. He had to. The mantra repeated in his head, a desperate prayer as he took huge, gulping breaths of the foul air.
Seems the Soul Tree had gone all out in crafting this particular damnation, he muttered darkly. The scene was so visceral, so drenched in sensory detail, that he was finding it hard to believe it was just an illusion. But it had to be. By the Soul Tree, of course.
Moving as silently as a ghost, he began to tip-toe across the blood-soaked battlefield. He slightly closed his eyes, unable to bear the sight of another eviscerated corpse. The last thing he needed was the sound or smell of his own puke to attract the attention of whatever creature was capable of this level of manslaughter.
He had to stay slick. As slick and silent as a snake.
Then he saw a wall. No, actually, a house. It had grey, crumbling walls and a deserted, hollow look. When he squinted, partly to block out the annoying, fat flies that buzzed lazily around the carnage, and to see further past the blurry mist that shrouded the area, he began to notice more. There weren't just one or two structures, but the faint, dark silhouettes of an entire settlement. Through the haze, he could make out the jagged outlines of rooftops, the skeletal remains of taller buildings that might have been towers, and the general, imposing shape of a city wall in the distance. The silhouettes were like charcoal smudges against a grey sky, promising shelter and danger in equal measure.
The temptation to use his heightened perception flickered in his mind. But he chided the thought away just as quickly. No way was he going to waste his wild card, not when some terrified monster of mass slaughter was likely still lurking around.
As he moved further into the city, the density of armored bodies began to lessen. But now, he started to notice others. Mixed in with the knights were the mangled bodies of common folk. A woman lay half-sprawled from a broken doorway, her simple dress stained a deep, ugly crimson. An old man was slumped against a cart, his sightless eyes staring at the smoky sky. The air was so thick with the stench of blood and voided bowels he wondered if the sheer concentration of it would be enough to kill a man. His visibility was slowly clearing, the fog reluctantly lifting. He was grateful for it, as more than once he had almost stumbled into a low wall or a broken, abandoned chariot. He began to take in more of his surroundings.
He stood lonely in a bloodied street, a slim figure amidst the epic bloodshed, his eyes flickering over the world around him. He could see the desolate cityscape clearly now: the cobblestones slick with gore, the shattered windows of storefronts gaping like empty eye sockets, torn awnings flapping limply in a faint, foul breeze, and personal belongings—a child's doll, a spilled market basket—scattered and trampled. A deep, unsettling feeling nagged at him. This city, though a charnel house, felt familiar. Like he'd been here before.
The only two cities he'd been to were Avalon and the ruined city of Eden. Judging by the fact he was still within his subconscious, it certainly wasn't Avalon. That left Eden. His eyes skimmed the ruins, searching for a landmark, a confirmation. And then he saw it. A familiar, tattered poster, half-torn and flapping from a splintered wall. It was for a desolate tavern, the one he had taken his name from.
The name "Xiall..." he read aloud, the sound a whisper in the silence.
But it wasn't the only word. There was more after it, a thesis, another name.
"Bifrost..." it read.
A tinge of realization hit him. So the entire name was actually Xiall Bifrost. It had a nice ring to it. Xiall Bifrost. He rolled the name silently in his mind. But that was that. His gaze shifted from the poster to the dark, gaping entrance of the tavern itself. He squinted, trying to pierce the interior gloom. Strangely, the tavern actually smelled… better. Not pleasant, but less odoriferous than the overwhelming stench outside. It seemed he had found his camp for the night.
Cautiously, he approached the entrance. There was no knowing if the terror that caused this slaughter was lurking in the shadows of the confines. Again, the temptation to use his heightened perception crossed his mind. That was going to be his absolute last resort. For now, he had to rely on his mortal, fallible sight.
He stepped inside, and his leg immediately crashed into a wooden stool left at the bar table. He cursed silently, a sharp pain shooting up his shin, while fervently hoping the noise hadn't carried. A single, dusty lantern flickered on a far wall, casting a dim, dancing light that illuminated snippets of the tavern's features: a long, scarred bar top, a few round tables overturned, a shelf behind the bar holding a few lonely, unbroken bottles, and a thick layer of dust coating everything.
First things first, lighting. From his quick deductions, the windows were shuttered or locked, as no outside light seeped in. So, moving with a slick, deliberate caution, he located a window, fumbled with the latch, and shoved it open. He ducked down immediately afterward, a purely defensive instinct. Maybe the monster was drawn to sudden light.
A bright, greyish light flooded into the room, cutting through the gloom and bathing everything in a radiance so strong that the flickering lantern's flame instantly dimmed into insignificance. The light illuminated swirling dust motes and highlighted the deep grime that had settled over the place. Yet, he waited. Seconds passed, then minutes. His knees began to ache from the crouch. His seemingly smart defensive act was now feeling like a dumb joke. Seeing no reaction, hearing no movement, he slowly stood up, casting a quick, surveying glance around the now-bright tavern. It seemed completely empty. The coast was clear.
Tired and utterly exhausted, both physically and mentally, he finally crashed onto one of the stools, heaving a deep sigh. Yet, internally, his mind was already crafting a plan. There was no time to waste, not when a bloodlusted fiend lurked in the same biome as he. Rest today, survey the area more thoroughly tomorrow. Of course, not without being vigilant.
His eyes landed on a half-emptied bottle he spotted on the bar table. He grabbed a dusty mug, wiped it clean with his sleeve, and poured himself a measure. A little drink wasn't bad. Thinking back, he realized he hadn't tasted any beverage since he'd walked into this world. So, this was a first time for everything, huh? Not that he wanted it to be in this nutjob of a place, but what could he do? Some stuff was just beyond his control.
The amber liquid danced on the edges of the mug. A thought struck him, derailing his focus. If this really was Eden, then why was it always tied to destruction? The last time, it was ruined by the Seven Glorious Halos and the Colossal Soul Tree. Now, it was an unknown, manslaughtering fiend. It was almost as if the city was meant to be ruined, a stage perpetually set for tragedy.
And he couldn't shake the feeling that unraveling the mystery of this place was intrinsically tied to his own purpose, to the reason he was here. But…
There would always be time for thoughts, or he could just watch it all play out. For now, he tilted the bottle back up and landed it on the bar table with a solid thud.
Or he could just drink it off.
Raising the mug towards his lips, he muttered a silent gesture to the non-existent bartender, a wry smirk twisting his features.
"Cheers," he whispered, before downing the contents in one go.