CHAPTER 32: The Infernal Redeemer
He moved on pure instinct. Ducking low, Xiall scrambled under the bartender's table, his shoulder scraping painfully against the solid wood. He spilled out onto the other side, his body hitting the cold, stone-slab floor with a jarring thud that sent a fresh spike of agony through his already bruised ribs. Damn, that's going to leave a mark.
But there was no time to think about pain. He had minutes, maybe less, before those disoriented, twitching undead pieces clawed their way back to a semblance of wholeness and came for him again. That meant he had only seconds to empty the entire shelf.
The first liquor bottle made a satisfying, explosive sound as it shattered against the stone floor. The sharp, clean scent of high-proof alcohol instantly cut through the tavern's fetid air. He didn't stop. He became a machine of destruction, his arms sweeping across the shelves. Bottle after bottle flew through the air, a chaotic symphony of shattering glass and splashing liquid. Amber whiskey, clear gin, and dark rum began to pool and spread, weaving rivulets through the grime and gore, transforming the floor into a treacherous, flammable moat.
The tavern was beginning to reek like a distillery, a welcome change from the stench of death, but he was running out of time. From the corner of his eye, he saw movement. A headless torso, its black ichor bubbling like hot tar, sprouted a grotesque, malformed stump of a neck. With an odd, sickening twist and a sound like dry twigs snapping, another corpse completed its regeneration, its milky eyes locking onto him. A jolt of pure panic surged through his veins. One of them, a hulking figure missing half its jaw, lurched from across the room with surprising speed, its arms outstretched.
Acting on reflex, Xiall hurled a full bottle of something strong and clear. It connected with the thing's head in a spray of glass and liquor. The effect was immediate and electrifying. The undead didn't just stagger back; it recoiled, letting out a guttural, pained shriek that was more than just mindless hunger. It was a sound of genuine distress. A wild, hopeful thought sparked in his mind.
He confirmed it with his next throw. As another creature, this one with a rusted knife still embedded in its chest, shambled towards him, he smashed a bottle against its chest, dousing it in liquor. It too winced, a full-body flinch, and withdrew with a harsh, rasping cry, clawing at its own skin as if the alcohol were acid.
A slow, sadistic smile spread across Xiall's face. Well, look at that. Even the dead have their own weak spot.. It wasn't a perfect subjugation, but it was a counter. A way to hurt them, to make them feel something akin to pain. And right now, that was the best news he'd had all night.
Using his Heightened Perception to track the shifting horde, he became a whirlwind of calculated throws. He wasn't just aiming to douse the room anymore; he was targeting the undead directly. A bottle arced through the air, drenching a cluster of three, sending them into a disoriented, shrieking dance. Another shattered at the feet of a group advancing from the doorway, creating a temporary barrier of sizzling liquid and pained moans. The tavern filled with the cinematic chaos of his makeshift arsenal—the whoosh of a thrown bottle, the crash of impact, and the ensuing chorus of unearthly wails.
He reached for another bottle and his hand closed on empty air. He threw his hands out in a frantic search. Nothing. The liquor was finished. Or so he thought. His eyes, scanning the dim space behind the bar, landed on a small, sturdy oak barrel. The faint, yeasty scent of ale teased his nostrils. The undead were still momentarily disoriented, wincing and stumbling in the alcohol-soaked areas. Seems the liquor had more than one use.
Grabbing his kidnapped blade, he drove the point into the barrel's side. A dark, rich ale began to gush out, pooling around his boots. He snatched a wooden mug from a hook, filled it to the brim, and brought it to his lips. The liquid was cool, slightly bitter, and impossibly refreshing. He let out a satisfied moan. "Now that's a fresh ale," he muttered to the empty air. Such quality was hard to come by.
After refilling his mug, he upended the heavy barrel with a grunt of effort, heaving it over the bar. It crashed onto the floor beyond with a resonant boom, a wave of ale washing across the entirety of the tavern, dousing the remaining undead and thoroughly soaking the wooden floorboards. The reaction was instantaneous and deafening. A unified, piercing wail of agony tore from the dozens of corpses, a sound so full of torment that for a single, fleeting instant, Xiall felt a tinge of pity for them. Poor blokes. But the sentiment vanished as quickly as it came. They wouldn't feel any for him. In fact, they didn't feel anything at all; this was just a programmed reaction to a harmful stimulus, like a worm writhing on a hook.
He hoisted himself up to sit on the bartender's table, a strangely peaceful perch amidst the hellscape. In one hand, he grasped the weak, flickering lantern, wondering why it hadn't been extinguished in the earlier fight. Guess Mother Luck is smiling tonight. His other hand held the filled mug of ale, the contents swirling gently in the rim. Then, he flashed a dark, sarcastic smile at the undead horde. The ones who still had heads gazed back at him, their milky eyes seeming to convey a confused dismay.
"So long, suckers," he muttered, the conned smile still plastered on his face.
He smashed the lantern onto the ale-and-liquor-soaked floor.
The world erupted in a roaring, whoosh of devouring flame. Fire raced across the spilled liquid, hungry and immediate, climbing up wooden stools and table legs, engulfing the undead where they stood. Their guttural moans transformed into screams of pure, unadulterated agony, a terrible chorus that was quickly swallowed by the inferno's roar. The fire spread with terrifying speed, licking up the walls, blackening the timber, and melting the few remaining glass windows into grotesque, weeping sculptures. The roof beams began to catch, painting the entire scene in a hellish, flickering orange.
Xiall's face was scanned by the terrifying heat, his features cast in sharp relief by the dancing light. Yet, instead of panic, an eerie peace settled over him. In that moment, as screams of terror and pain tore the air, he sat peacefully on the bartender's table, a silent king on a throne of imminent conflagration. His figure was silhouetted against the raging flames, an image of grim finality. In one hand, he held his mug of ale, tilted to his lips for a final, contemplative sip. In the other, he held the silvery, shining blade, its clean metal reflecting the fire, making it seem as if the sword itself was forged from the heart of the sun. He was the calm at the center of the storm he had created.
"Ach," he heaved, smashing the empty mug on the table. The fire was spreading fast; it wouldn't be long before it consumed him, too. He glanced at the window before him—his only exit. The doorway was a solid wall of flame. With a quick, decisive movement, he took two running steps along the length of the table and dove, shoulder-first, through the glass-paned window.
The world exploded into a cacophony of shattering wood and glass. He tumbled through the air, landing hard on the stone-slabbed street outside, the impact driving the air from his lungs. Behind him, the tavern was now fully enveloped in a roaring, collapsing pyre, the flames reaching for the starless sky and swallowing the last of the guttural wails from within.
He lay on the cold ground, relief pouring through him like a drug. A slick, uncontrollable chuckle escaped his lips. He brought his hands to his eyes, the flames from the tavern painting his skin with a fiery, dancing hue. The chuckle grew, building into a low, then manic laugh.
"Hahahahaha…" It was a sick, exhausted, triumphant sound. He had done it. He had survived. He closed his eyes, and as if on cue, the familiar Holographic sheet materialized before his mind's eye, this time with a soft, chime-like sound. The message was shorter, more direct.
DOMAIN:
SOUL
Sub Domain..
Souls Gained: 51
MEMORY
Sub Domain.
. Memories Claimed: 51
You Have Gained A New Title...
The Infernal Redeemer
Your Core Grows Boundless...
Then it ended. He heaved a great sigh. Well, he was going to have to process all that later; it was already making his head spin. He pushed himself to his feet, his body creaking in protest like an old ship. He consciously turned off his Heightened Senses. The immediate effect was a violent hiss of pain behind his eyes, his brain feeling as if it had been stretched on a rack. His bones ached, his ears winced at the sudden dullness of the world. A nasty side effect, that--it damaged his body and soul to push so hard. But he had to move.
From the surrounding darkness, new growls emerged. It was clear. The blazing beacon of the tavern had been a dinner bell for every other undead in the district. Should have thought of that earlier. Yet, it also meant that if most of them were drawn here, the other paths might be clearer. Not all things were fully bad. He just had to hurry out of here.
He needed to think about what he'd seen in the hologram. No, scratch that. First, a good night's rest. Yes. His bones creaked in agreement. "Ouch," he winced silently. He had to find somewhere close, and defensible.
As he made his way away from the burning tavern, the growls growing fainter and the light dimming to a glow at his back, he glanced up at the sky. It was a starless, oppressive blanket of black. The air felt damp and heavy; he could sense a downpour was coming. About time. I'm parched.
Then, as his eyes crept from the sky to his immediate surroundings, he saw them. Two fiery red orbs, hanging in the darkness high above. They weren't moons; they were like miniature suns, but they cast no light, only a sense of profound dread. What were those? He'd thought Eden only had that single, pale, scary moon he'd seen on his first voyage. If these were moons, they were the oddest, most terrifying ones he'd ever seen. But then again, everything in Eden was weird.
Blink.
The fiery orbs blinked. Then again.
Pure, unadulterated panic shot through him, a cold terror that seized his muscles and froze the sweat on his skin. There was no way moons blinked. Even by Eden's skewed standards, that was far beyond weird. They blinked a third time. And they were coming closer. Those weren't moons. In his purest, most primal sense, he knew--only living things blinked. And judging by their size, each orb was easily twice the height of a cathedral... It wasn't human.
It was something entirely different. And whatever it was, it was coming for him.