Chương 189: The Walking Dead

Geral no longer engaged in idle conversations after that terrible event. Even after the blade relayed the news about who it was that had flung those miracles around so freely, it was met with an impassive silence. In fact, it took more than a day for its wielder to respond, and then it was with the simple words, "Hydonar and all who stand in my way will pay for Simone's and Oliven's lives with their own." It wasn't even said to the blade. It was more to himself.

The man wasn't as far gone as Var'Gar had been, but it was clear the pain of burning to death over and over again for the space of half an hour had damaged him permanently. He talked to himself sometimes, but only of topics related to revenge, and other times when the blade talked to him, he acted as if the blade's voice was just in his head and not a real thing.

"Why can't I hear her voice one more time instead of my sword's?" he asked himself sometimes in those moments. None of those things surprised the Ebon Blade. It liked Geral; he'd been a good man. He'd been a loving father, a good husband, and a brave warrior. He was even devout enough that he'd named his son after the mountain of the gods that they were walking toward now. If he'd been left alone, he would have made his world safe and died after having another child or two.

The blade wouldn't have sat idle then, but it wouldn't have necessarily gone to war with the gods. It might have found something more productive and interesting to do with its time. Those futures were gone now. Like everything else, they had been burned away, and only vengeance remained. Geral was in pain all the time now, too. The blade could feel that. He'd been healed so much and so quickly that the magic had worked imperfectly. Bones were twisted, flesh was warped, and his mind had been partially cooked.

Mentally and physically, the awfulness of the world clawed at him, but it did not limit his fighting. He was dead to the world now, and rather than dancing to the beat of battle, he trudged through, finishing each monster to cross his path in one or two decisive strikes. He didn't flinch at anything anymore, either. +1, 642 Life Force. +33 Monster Souls. +8 Lesser Monster Souls.

The swordsman's blows were powerful, but the lack of joy and exaltation diminished the weapon's enjoyment, and when they moved toward the valley's exit, the only thing it had been grateful for was the prospect that the taste of hell would soon be behind them. Its reserves were growing steadily, too. While it had burned all of its Monster Souls and most of the Human Souls it had received while the village died to keep him alive, those were easy enough to restock.

Just because men had fled the valley, and largely died in the attempt, didn't mean that monsters weren't still about, and Geral slew them with savage efficiency whenever they crossed his path. There were some people, too, but they fared better. In the wake of the chaos, some moved toward its wielder only to retreat from the blasted, misshapen man. That was smart; those who stayed clear of Geral lived, those who got too close died because he could no longer tell friend from foe. +2, 273 Life Force. +7 Human Souls.

+46 Monster Souls. +7 Lesser Monster Souls. The weapon didn't blame him. Everything he was and everything he owned had been blasted away by divine fire, and he barely looked human. Geral now wore only the crude skins of one of the first beastman he'd slain, and walked with the blade ever in hand. He didn't sleep anymore, and he barely ate, making him a grim, unmistakable figure. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

As soon as they reached the edge of the valley and found the blasted earth where the other would-be escapees had perished, they found something else the blade had been expecting: a new guard for the cage that this place was supposed to be. The gods would not allow hell's poison to spread. It respected that. The world would be diminished if everyone it ever killed tasted of damnation.

These men weren't anything compared to the dragon they'd already slain, or the fire they endured, but was Geral drew closer to them, the men in their glittering platemail formed up into two precise lines of halbards, with a woman behind them that it might have confused for a mage if it hadn't seen her glow brightly enough to outshine everyone else. She's another avatar, the blade whispered into its wielder's ear. Geral didn't respond.

It wasn't completely sure that its wielder knew what that word meant anymore, but when it made her dangerous glow visible to him, he seemed to get the hint. Rather than march toward the armed men anymore, he waited for them to approach him, then, when one of them, presumably their leader, opened their mouth, he struck.

"By order of the—" he started, before Geral flashed forward with Bolt, blowing through his chest with a single thrust, before using his momentum and surprise to sweep through the second rank in a blur of explosive slashes that sent them in all directions. +187 Life Force. -50 Life Force. +3 Human Souls. The blade didn't slice right through these men, but only because their bright armor was laced with enchantments. Still, that only slowed it down a little.

Even ensorcelled steel couldn't stand up to more than a glancing blow, and its thrust pierced right through it, letting it greedily drink the blood of men as soon as it pierced their flesh. It was the first flesh it had tasted in ages that didn't have a drop of poison. The weapon had forgotten how good things tasted without that. What happened then wasn't a fight; it was butchery, and when Geral was run through by the tip of a halberd more than once, he didn't so much as cry or flinch.

He just kept moving and let the blade handle that part.

"It's not human," one man whined, having second thoughts as he dropped his weapon to clutch the stump of the arm that had held it.

"It's a zombie, or—" He didn't get a chance to finish. Geral's next strike split his gorget, and he drowned in his own blood. It was his own fault, though. The Ebon Blade's wielder was lashing out at anything that drew its attention, and if you weren't in any shape to defend yourself, then you shouldn't be doing anything but staggering away. To the weapon, this felt like a fairly elite unit. The men were well-trained, well-armed, and didn't break immediately.

It queried one of their souls and learned that these were the temple guardians of the high temple to Lusitiverieian in Franizal, hundreds of miles from here, and well outside of the Inner Kingdoms. +993 Life Force. +15 Human Souls. -1500 Life Force. It got flashes of a foreign port city with a wide harbor and orange tile roofs, along with a gaudy whitewashed temple full of gardens and marble statues. It didn't care about any of that, though.

All it cared about was that this was the same goddess that had tried to scream its wielder to death not so long ago. It was a long, long time ago, as far as mortals are concerned, it reminded itself. Centuries had passed, but the weapon doubted that the woman had forgotten the defeat; she was a Goddess after all, or at least her Mistress was. Still, she did not engage immediately, and the way she watched the fight made the blade think she was studying its power more than its fighting style.

So, when Geral tried to pull at some of its more advanced abilities, it refused him. No, it whispered, not beneath her gaze. There's more at play here than we understand. In less than a minute, three-quarters of her honor guard was dead. Still, she did nothing to interfere until Geral moved toward her. As soon as he raised the Ebon Blade in her direction, she smiled and opened her mouth. The blade expected another sonic attack, but instead she said, "Quiet yourself, tortured soul. Cease your struggles.

I can see your suffering from here, and it hurts me." Geral advanced two steps as she spoke.

"Be at peace. All living things long for peace, even if the weapon you wield wants only war. I can grant you that much." The blade could see the magic of her words, but it was its wielder's body that felt them. It instantly started to go limp, falling to its knees of its own volition, a step or two away from her. The sword almost fell from Geral's hand in that motion, and only the desperation of both weapon and wielder was enough to hold it in place.

This wasn't mind control; the weapon could feel its wielder's rage straining against the bonds. It was something more sinister and subtle, like the despair that it had drowned in, in the oceans of despair. She was removing the body's ability to do anything at all.