Chapter 33: The Pyre of a Martyr's Defiance
Xiall stumbled through the shadowed streets, his breath a ragged gasp, his left leg a traitor dragging uselessly behind him. The bone was shattered, a jagged agony pulsing through torn muscle, forcing him to lean on his silver sword. The blade, once a gleaming extension of his will, now scraped the cobblestones as a crutch, its metallic screech a mournful cry in the desolate night. His cloak, tattered and soaked with sweat and blood, flapped like a dying bird's wings as he pressed forward.
"Xiall, you gotta run…you have to," he muttered, his voice low, subconscious, laced with a modern polish that betrayed his fraying nerves. "Keep moving, mate. No stopping now." The cold wind blasted his face, sharp as a blade, as he limped faster, his heart pounding against ribs that felt one hit from crumbling. Ahead, the dim, fiery glow of the burning tavern painted the horizon, its flames dancing like a pyre for a forsaken world. But then the thought struck him, cold and brutal: he was running toward the undead. Those stinking, shambling corpses, their flesh rotting in strips, their hollow eyes glinting with ravenous hunger. He was fleeing one hell only to stumble into another, smaller but no less deadly. "Bloody brilliant," he growled. "I'd rather have neither."
The growls of the undead swelled, a guttural chorus rising from the earth like a curse. Their stench - decayed meat, sour ichor, and something fouler - choked the air, assaulting his senses as he staggered forward. Behind him, the ground quaked, a deep, bone-rattling rumble that splintered cobblestones and sent tremors through his battered frame. The Colossal Condemnation, as he'd named it, was closing in. A behemoth of shadow and malice, its massive form loomed through the haze, shrouded in black mist that writhed like living tendrils. Its footsteps were a thunderous requiem, each one shaking the world, its presence a weight that pressed against Xiall's soul, threatening to crush his resolve.
"Colossal Condemnation," he whispered, a wry smirk twitching his lips despite the pain. "Not bad, Xiall. Your naming game's getting sharp." The fleeting humor was a spark in the dark, quickly snuffed by the chaos around him. He groaned inwardly, his mind racing. "Focus, you muppet. You've got bigger fish to fry than stroking your ego."
The silhouettes of the undead hoard emerged from the flickering shadows, their forms grotesque and twisted. Some dragged broken limbs, their bones jutting through decayed flesh; others scuttled with unnatural speed, claw-like hands scraping the cobblestones. Their eyes glowed faintly, like embers in hollowed skulls, and their growls intensified, drawn by the quaking steps of the Colossal Condemnation and the desperate stumbling of their prey. Xiall's heart thudded, his leg screaming with each step, but he forced his mind to sharpen amidst the chaos - the roars, the quakes, the distant crackle of the tavern's flames.
"Upper ground," he muttered, his voice trembling but resolute. "Gotta get higher. These man-eating, rotting bastards can't climb worth a damn." The thought was a fragile lifeline, pulling him forward. His gaze swept the street, frantic, until it landed on a pile of wooden crates and barrels stacked high against a crumbling stone wall, just behind the approaching hoard. It was a precarious tower to the rooftops, his only shot at survival. But his body was broken, his leg a throbbing ruin. Could he make it? And how would he get past the hoard?
A wave of paranoia coursed through him, his hands shaking as they clutched the silver sword's hilt. His breath slowed, each inhale a deliberate act, as if his body had already chosen to fight before his mind caught up. "No choice, mate," he whispered, his modern tone grim but defiant. "You're doing this."
With a guttural yell, he rushed toward the horde, his limping gait a mockery of his usual swagger. The first undead lunged, its decayed jaw snapping inches from his face, its breath a fetid cloud. Xiall swung his sword in a weak arc, the blade biting into its shoulder with a wet crunch. Black ichor sprayed, splattering his bloodied tunic, and the creature howled, a sound that clawed at his ears. He drove his boot into its chest, the impact sending it sprawling, its brittle bones cracking against the cobblestones. Another came from the side, its skeletal fingers raking his arm, tearing through fabric and flesh. Xiall cursed, pain flaring as he twisted, slashing wildly. The blade caught the creature's neck, severing its head in a spray of gore that painted the ground black and red.
His fighting style was no longer the fluid dance of a seasoned warrior but a desperate, graceless struggle - all grit and survival, a weak grandeur born of necessity. He staggered toward the crates, each step a battle against his own body. His body slammed against the first crate, the impact jarring his injured leg, sending a jolt of agony through him. He clawed his way up, fingers digging into splintered wood, splinters piercing his palms. Another undead lunged, its gnarled hand grabbing his ankle. Infuriated, Xiall kicked out, his boot connecting with its rotting face, caving in its skull with a sickening squelch. He drove his sword into its head, ichor and blood spilling, soiling his clothes further. He spat in disgust, the taste of bile and copper thick in his mouth, and tore the blade free, kicking the corpse off.
Scrambling up the next crate, he felt the pile wobble beneath him, the undead's drunken climbing shaking it. The roof was close now, its ledge a hand's stretch away. He glanced back, dread coiling in his gut. The Colossal Condemnation was nearer, its massive form now visible through the haze - a towering monstrosity of jagged bone and writhing shadow, its crimson eyes blazing like twin furnaces. It moved slower now, as if savoring the hunt, but its presence was a suffocating weight.
The undead scrambled up the crates, their clumsy movements rocking the pile. Xiall cursed, his body swaying. With a painful leap, he lunged for the roof's ledge, his fingers scraping the stone. His grip held - barely. He heaved himself up, muscles screaming, and rolled onto the rooftop, gasping. For a moment, he lay there, chest heaving, staring at the moonlit sky. Then, with a crooked smile, he pushed himself to his knees and gazed at the undead fiends below. "Let's see you climb now, you rotters," he muttered. With a push from his good leg, he kicked the crate pile. It collapsed with a thunderous crash, a cacophony of splintering wood and snapping bones. The undead tumbled in a chaotic heap, their futile growls echoing as they writhed, trapped beneath the wreckage, their decayed limbs flailing in vain.
"Satisfying," Xiall said, clapping his hands, a belated grin splitting his bloodied face. "Now time to scarper from that Colossal Condem -"
A blinding light erupted behind him, casting his silhouette in stark relief against the rooftop. It was as if he stood between two suns, the radiance searing his vision, a divine fire that burned without heat. Fear, raw and primal, clawed at his mind, rewriting his thoughts with dread so intense it numbed his soul. His heart thundered, his breath caught. He didn't need to turn to know the Colossal Condemnation was there, its crimson eyes boring into him, its presence a malevolent tide that threatened to drown his very consciousness. The air grew thick, charged with an otherworldly malice that made his knees buckle.
"I'm dead," he whispered, his voice a fractured plea. "I'm dead, Xiall, you're so bloody dead -"
Before the thought could form, a force slammed into him with apocalyptic brutality. The impact was a cataclysm - his ribs shattered into fragments, his lungs collapsed in a burst of fire, his organs on his left side mangled into a pulpy ruin. Blood sprayed from his nose and mouth, a crimson fountain that painted the air, droplets catching the moonlight like rubies. His body hurtled across the street, the world a blur of motion and pain. The cool night wind kissed his skin, rustling his hair as he soared, his fading eyes catching the moon's pale glow. It was beautiful, wasn't it? A fleeting thought, absurd in its serenity, as his body crashed into the cathedral's stone wall.
The impact was a symphony of destruction - his spine splintered, his neck snapped with a sickening crack. A shriek tore from his throat, raw and primal, as he plummeted through the cathedral's wooden pews. The wood splintered, piercing his flesh like jagged teeth, carving bloody furrows across his back and sides. His body carved a shallow trench through the stone slab floor, grinding to a halt against the far wall. He slumped there, a broken marionette, his blood pooling in a dark, glistening halo, seeping into the cracks of the ancient stone.
His body was a pedestal of pain, numb and devoid of feeling. His eyes grew dim, his mind foggy, teetering on the edge of oblivion. The dim, fiery eyes of the Colossal Condemnation loomed closer, twin beacons of doom in the cathedral's shadowed sanctity. A cold resignation washed over him, like a tide pulling him toward rest. "So this is death," he muttered, his voice a faint echo of his usual bravado, tinged with a bitter laugh. "Wonder if I die here, what happens to me out there… not that I care anymore." A tear streaked through the blood and grime on his cheek, a silent elegy for a life unraveling.
His eyes went lucid for one final moment, then dimmed, his breath ceasing. Across the divine cathedral of the Holy Angel of Miracles, a bloodied, mangled figure sat, a martyr to a cruel illusion. His severance was a tableau of tragedy, his face cast downward as if bearing the weight of a thousand worlds. In the ghostly moonlight filtering through shattered stained glass, his form was a mere shell, a monument to pain and defiance, etched forever in the silence of death. The odd, ethereal light cast shadows that danced like specters, mourning the fallen in a cathedral that had once promised miracles but now cradled only despair.