Chương 47: Deals With Laughing Devils

Of the Twelve Paths, three were forbidden: the Seventh, Eighth, and Ninth. Agony, Rapture, and Dominion. Most people knew Agony and Dominion well. Both plagued the Hundred Worlds in more obvious fashions: blood cultists, blighted monsters, and corrupted Corpse Gods that drowned realms in war and horror. But Rapture? Rapture was the most insidious. It was a parasite of pure, unadulterated madness — the unavoidable promise of an eternity of extreme suffering and insanity at the capacious hands of a laughing god.

There wasn't a sane man across the Hundred Worlds who did not fear Rapture. But Alcyr wasn't sane. The only emotion he deemed worthy of feeling for the Eighth Path was hatred. His sword thrust glanced across Ural's neck. The shock trooper had barely dodged in time, his eyes wide.

"Woah! Since when were you this fast?! I could have sworn—" Alcyr didn't bother listening. He moved to press his advantage. Ural knew nothing of his growth. When facing Alcyr, the shock trooper probably expected nothing more than a Low Elite — an opponent he could easily match. Instead, he was now facing a Low Master with an Epic-rarity sword skill. Alcyr's movements were blistering fast, aggressive, and powerful. Ural quickly realised he was sorely outmatched. His hand desperately reached for his axe… …

and Alcyr's severing slash nearly sent it flying straight off, had he not immediately pulled back at the last second.

"Damn! Straight to mutilation?!" Ural shouted, more amused than shocked.

"You could at least show some hesitation!" Alcyr ignored his words. His next slash was a feint, forcing Ural into an awkward position where he could freely aim for the throat. Ural would not stop talking.

"Hmm. It seems this current form isn't doing much to garner sympathy. But what if I—" Alcyr thrust his sword for the neck. The strike was fatal and precise.

"—do this?" The sword thrust faltered. With a shimmer of silver light that barely lasted an eyeblink, Ural was gone, replaced by another figure. The form, face, and even voice of the creature were completely changed. Instead of the hulking shock trooper, Alcyr now faced the slender Regular, Ishmael. For reasons unknown to him, he diverted his sword thrust at the last second. Ural — Ishmael — dodged easily, laughing with glee.

"So you do have a weakness towards women!" She giggled.

"How nauseatingly gallant for a heartless Butcher! At least I know where your preferences lie now."

"That was dirty," Alcyr snarled, frustrated more at himself than the opponent.

"Oh? I thought you liked dirty tricks," the creature smiled coyly.

"Remember the assassin? Remember how I died for you there?"

"The woman is already dead," Alcyr said coldly.

"She was dead the moment you consumed her mind without her consent, abomination." Forcing himself to attack, Alcyr's fist then found Ishmael's collarbone. He still unconsciously held back, sending the Regular flying but with her bones intact. Ishmael hit the snow. Before she could get up, the silverite sword was already at her throat.

"Alright! I yield!" Roland shouted. The change was near instantaneous. In another flash of silver light, Ishmael was gone, replaced by the older Irregular, who had once been part of Alcyr's old squad. Rather than panic or even a slight showing of pain, the peasant soldier instead laughed, carefree and relaxed.

"By Saint's balls, you are already a Master? When the hells did that happen? And that swordplay… Where did you learn it? Because it's definitely not of Morwyn's origin."

"Do you recognise it?" Alcyr asked. Roland blinked. He then smiled knowingly.

"Ah, is this what this is about? Trying to plumb a bard's worldly mind for knowledge to activate the Epic? You know, you could have just asked nicely."

"I had tolerated your presence for a while because I had bigger problems to deal with. But that ends here, parasite." Alcyr pressed the sword deeper, but even though the silverite blade bit easily into his neck, Roland did not so much as flinch.

"Answer the question. Do you know the aria to activate it?" The form changed again. Ishmael hummed in thought.

"I said I knew the sword dance came from off-realm," she said.

"I didn't say I knew which realm. A little context would help. You were with the oracle this morning, right? What did the description say?" Alcyr hesitated, then decided it was safe to reveal at least that much.

"It said the skill originated from a world where 'the rain fell without end'." Ural blinked. Once more without warning, the creature had changed form again, leaving Alcyr whiplashed.

"Oh. Wow, that's… a very long way from here. How much do you understand about the Hundred Worlds? Really understand, I mean. Of the Hells, the Heavens, and this sorry kingdom's place in the greater universe?"

"Don't waste my time. This realm of the rains — is it a higher world or a lower one?"

"So you do know. Sheesh, I really need to stop being surprised when it comes to you. You're way too knowledgeable…" He inched the sword closer." Answer the question."

"Alright! Higher. It's closer to the Godless Heavens than it is to the Hells, or even our world, for that matter. But you are never going to get there — not within this century, at least. Given the ongoing wars and all the corrupted Corpse Gods rampaging about, the Hundred Worlds are a little too dangerous for travel right now." Higher was a problem. For most people, it was easier to fall to the Hells than it was to climb to the Godless Heavens. Not that I really plan to leave Morwyn just yet.

But knowing that the swordplay originates from a realm closer to Heavens is promising. It usually meant the skill had stronger ties to pure divinity rather than blighted divinity.

"Do you know the aria to activate the skill?" Alcyr asked. The creature's form flickered. Ishmael smiled coyishly up at him.

"You know, I might be willing to answer if you get the sword away from my neck first. Why don't we forget about this unpleasantness and head to the tavern? I'll buy the first round—" Alcyr pressed the sword deeper, drawing a hint of blood.

"Okay, okay! Don't damage the body!" Ishmael lifted her hands.

"Do you know how expensive it is to repair a body?! Favours to the Pale Grinner don't come cheap, you know!" Pale Grinner. A moniker for the Saint of Rapture. Alcyr stopped his blade.

"Do you know the words of the aria or not?"

"Well, um… No. I know of the world it came from, but I never had the displeasure of stepping foot there before. It's one of the worst places to travel to among the upper realms, you know? The storm lightning are sentient bastards that kill anything that moves, and the rain induces soul death to anyone who stands under it for too long." Alcyr's expression darkened.

"Then you are useless to me." Ishmael's smile widened.

"Don't be so hasty! You see, I have ways of learning things people like you shouldn't know about. I can find the information you need. But I need time to search for it." Time to search? Alcyr paused.

"You have access to the Wondering's Library. That means you aren't just a mere Follower of Rapture… What's your standing on the Path? Acolyte? Votary?" This time, Ishmael's smile faded.

"You… you even know of the Fae Realm owned by the Eighth Saint? Just who in the hells are you?"

"No one of consequence." Ishmael's form flickered. This time, a stranger took her place — a male barbarian he did not recognise.

"Ha! Seems I caught a big fish this time… You know I was feeding off Ragna's skein before you killed him? That boy had decent protagonist potential. Good bloodline, ambitious, and with the weight of future stories heavy on him, too. Really wasn't expecting a random foot soldier to just kill him out of nowhere and cut short his legacy. But then again, you aren't just a lowly foot soldier, are you?" Alcyr contemplated what to do as the creature flickered back to the form of the shock trooper, Ural.

He didn't necessarily need that aria, but Ural — or rather, the thing infesting inside Ural's mind — represented the fastest way to get it. If the world where the skill originated from indeed came from a much higher realm, then there was a chance the academy's libraries would not have it. Alcyr would be stuck with a crippled sword skill — albeit one that was still very powerful — for probably many years on end. But trusting a disciple of Rapture was dangerous — sheer stupidity, most would even say.

Alcyr wasn't just risking death when dealing with their kind. He was risking the destruction of his very mind — one of the few things the loop could not fix. Though relatively few in numbers compared to the other Paths, the disciples of Rapture were parasites upon civilisation. They do not feed on flesh or blood, nor use claws or fangs in their hunts. They did not even have a body to truly kill — not in the normal sense of the word.

Storywalkers, Moonspawns, Thought-Parasites, Jabberwocks, Brain Mimics, and other abstract abominations — those were the unholy manifestations of Rapture. Though the followers of that wretched Path might have once been ordinary humans before they embarked upon the Eighth Saint's steps, they were now preternatural monsters that existed outside the physical realm, capable of assimilating minds and taking over the bodies of sapient creatures without warning. Enjoying the story?

Show your support by reading it on the official site. Immune to death through magic or sword. And always hungry for stories. Such was the fate of those radically changed under the hand of the lunatic deity, the Saint of Rapture.

"You saw me on the field that day," Alcyr said.

"And that's when you took Roland's mind and started feeding off my'stories' instead." No wonder the Irregular's behaviour had utterly changed after the Battle of the Red Rime. The true Roland was already dead — his mind destroyed by this creature before Alcyr, slain without time for a whimper or plea for help."'Feed' is such an ugly word," Ural tsked.

"It's not like I'm actually harming you. For whatever reason, your skein seems inexhaustible, and every bite I take repairs itself anyway."

"But you did harm others. First Roland. The female Regular, Ishmael, or whatever her true name was. And then Ural, the true Ural, as well. If you have permission to access the Wondering's Library, then you must have walked the Path for quite some time. How many more lives have you stolen in your life? Hundreds? Thousands?"

"Ha! Are we to discuss morality now? Don't make me laugh. You don't care about other people, and why should you? Their lives don't matter; yours does. Do you have any idea how much heavier your skeins are compared to the Irregulars, or even the Regulars? Their pathetic insignificance in the eyes of fate is why I was able to consume their minds in the first place, and not, say, yours."

And that was the other reason why the disciples of Rapture were considered a threat on par with Agony or Dominion, despite causing less widespread destruction: There was simply no conventional defence against them. Killing the body they puppet was often worse than useless, since they could just jump to another host.

Capturing them and locking them in a cell where they could not kill themselves was the only viable means of containment, but even then, identifying one was not easy, since they steal the memories and skills of the host they infect as well. The only sure way to defend oneself was through having an unknown, esoteric quality in one's soul — the 'weight' of the skein; the relevance one's hold in the turning, cosmic eye of the universe.

"You are a monster," Alcyr said in disgust.

"And you're not? Shall I remind you of all those people you heartlessly sacrificed during the Battle of the Red Rime? Or poor 'Ishmael', who you used as bait for the assassin without a second thought? You still owe me a gold coin for that, by the way."

"I will not justify myself to you."

"Of course you won't. Justification is for the weak," Ural laughed.

"Are you weak, Alcyr Rivers?" Was he? Let's find out. Dealing with Rapture was dangerous, but if he was damned anyway, he might as well try to get something out of it.

"Here's my first and only offer to you," Alcyr said.

"I will let you follow me, spread your ridiculous stories, and feed off my skein. But only for my time here in the Morwyn's military. In return, you will get me the aria I need for my skill." Ural laughed.

"Absolutely not! You are already a Master. A low Master, maybe, but I doubt it will take longer than a month or two before you fulfill Faldren's condition and leave the 4th Regulars for good."

"I do not need an abomination shadowing my footsteps," Alcyr said bluntly.

"Find someone else to feast on."

"You do not have a choice. You can't kill me — not permanently, anyway — and besides, our relationship need not be so hostile. I spread your fame, your skein grows, and I feed better. We both benefit."

"I'm trying to lay low. You are hindering that."

"You give up many things by being anonymous, you know. Good things come with reputation — connections, gold, and doors that would otherwise remain closed. I know you like to tread alone, but even you must have realised by now that sticking to the lone wolf persona is doing more to hurt your goals than it does to progress it."

"You are assuming you know what my goals are. You know nothing." The creature's form flickered again.

"I know you like power." Roland shrugged.

"I can offer you that. Unobtainable secrets like the aria, for a start. And then there is the boost to your System's titles each time I bolster your reputation as well. How effective do you think your titles' effects will be without someone to spread their tales? They would become worthless! Not to mention each time I strengthen your skein, the chance of you gaining new titles increases." The strength of the skein decides the frequency of gaining titles? He hadn't known that.

No one really knew how the System governed the mechanic behind titles. There was a chance that what the creature was saying was a lie, but to Alcyr, his words made sense. The skein — sometimes otherwise referred to as Fate, Gravitas, or metaphysical significance, depending on how academic one felt — was a domain contested by two Saints: the Fourth, Tenebrosity, and the Eighth, Rapture.

It was not exactly an easily quantifiable substance, and studies into the conceptual phenomenon were often either contradictory or lacking in tangible proof. But Alcyr knew it correlated closely with reputation. Assuming the System could calculate its 'weight', then it might be rewarding positive growth with Titles, similar to how experience was rewarded with skills and levels.

"Tempted now, are we?" Roland noted.

"Come on, be smart about this. If your goal is to be powerful, then having me around can only help you."

"You must take me for an idiot if you think I'm going to agree on having Rapture's parasite cling to me like a leech, eating off the literal threads of my fate. No, there is only the deal I offer, and nothing else." The creature changed form once more.

"Well, you do not have a choice," Ural said mockingly.

"You cannot hurt me, Butcher! Not in any way that matters. You're never getting rid of me, no matter how strong you are. And the stronger you are, the better I'd feed." For a brief moment, Ural's eyes flicked pitch black, and his grin widened until it reached ear-to-ear, showing razor teeth and a moon-pale tongue. It was a horrifying sight, but the moment Alcyr blinked, it was gone. Abomination. However, if the monster had hoped to unnerve him with that trick, it was about to be sorely disappointed.

"I can't hurt you physically, but I know someone else who can." Alcyr said.

"Your Saint." Ural stiffened.

"You're bluffing."

"I'll speak her True Name aloud, here and now if you do not swear on my deal. What do you think will happen to you if the Laughing Saint looks upon us? Will your mind be able to withstand her gaze? Or will it unravel like all the skeins you ate?" There was a hint of hesitation in Ural's eyes now.

"You can't possibly know the Saint's real name. And even if, somehow, you do know it, you won't dare to speak it aloud. No one can be that stupid." Alcyr exhaled, bracing himself.

"I call upon you, Pale Grinner. You who wandered the Hundred Worlds in your wondering dreams; you who ate the nine moons that belonged to the Fey Folk and turned their twilight realm into your own." Around them, the world began to darken. Inexplicably, the sights of the horizon, the sun, or the town disappeared. There was only the snow beneath them, a circle of moonlight shining down… And, distantly, a manic laughter in the darkness, slowly coming closer. Ural was panicking now.

"Stop. Stop! Do you have any idea what she will do to us?! She's the Saint of madness and stories for a reason! You will beg for the hells before she gives you to them!" Alcyr ignored him.

"Madness and revelry dance under your lunar light, the skeins of fate yours to feast—""You're insane! You would risk eternal suffering just to get rid of me?!" Ural tried to move, but soon he couldn't. The singsong laughter had paralysed him. Whatever Arte or skill he wanted to use to kill Alcyr or himself, it would not work so long as the laughter persisted. He was trapped, and his horror intensified as Alcyr reached the end of his chant.

"I ask you to grace us with your presence. Shine upon us the mania of your cosmic visage, Saint of Rapture, A —" The creature finally broke.

"STOP! I ACCEPT! DEAL, DEAL!" Alcyr shut his mouth. The looming presence above them lingered, as well as the sounds of raucous laughter and the impossible scent of moonlight. Then, Alcyr felt something approach him from behind. He stiffened as he felt a hand touch the back of his neck, the palm pressed against his spine before slender fingers traced around and lightly tapped his throat — or more specifically, upon his larynx. A warning.

There was a brief kiss upon the top of his head — the sensation sending agonising spikes from the crown of his mind down to his spine. Then the unholy presence began fading. Seconds passed, each feeling like an eternity, before the moonlight dissipated. There was a final chuckle before the eldritch darkness receded. A notification — its hue in pure silver — appeared. [Warning: You have drawn the attention of a higher entity.] [The Saint of Rapture is charmed by your unhesitant plunge into insanity.] [New Arte: Last Laugh 1 (Rare)]"Thanks, I suppose," Alcyr said through gritted teeth. He spat out a glob of blood — the dark red tinged with specks of moon-silver glitter. His head was pounding with a vicious headache, and blood dribbled from his eyes and ears, but he was still alive and sane. A worthy achievement, considering he had just withstood the attention of one of the worst Saints in existence.

"You will give me the words of the aria for my skill," Alcyr said, forcing himself to speak despite the pain.

"After my service with the Regulars ends, you will leave me be and never feast upon my skeins again. Do you understand?" The creature mutely nodded. Alcyr blinked the blood from his eye. The pounding headache had distracted him before, but now that he was looking at the creature with clear eyes, it looked different. Rather than a face, he was greeted with a mask. The person wearing it was a young girl, barely into the throes of full adulthood. It was hard to tell her age, given how skinny and short she was.

Dressed in burlap rags and looking more like a street beggar than anything else, she looked up at him. The mask was moon-pale and smooth-featured, save for two holes in which the girl's wide and strange pink eyes stared through. Her messy, curled hair was strawberry-blonde, reaching to her neck. Alcyr cautiously stepped back, pulling the sword away from her neck. The creature — girl? — hesitantly sat up. Her dirty finger touched her mask. She seemed speechless, her body tense and afraid.

There was a certain vulnerability there that pricked at his conscience, but he ignored it. This could easily be another trick of the creature to draw sympathy from him.

"Do not speak of this to Lenore or anyone else," he said, turning to walk away.

"Remember our deal."

"... Have you dealt with one of my kind before?" Alcyr saw no reason to answer, but he did stop walking.

"I cannot remember the last time I was in my real body," the girl whispered fearfully.

"Hundreds of years? A thousand? I had taken so many minds and forms and stories that I can't find my own in that sea of madness. The Path wouldn't even let me remember my name…" Alcyr grimaced. When he saw the girl's pleading eyes — the only part of her face he could see through the mask — he decided to answer.

"The presence of your Saint shocked your body back to its original form. But it won't last; your Path won't let it last. You will be returned to madness soon enough."

"I don't want that! I… I never wanted to become this …" Her answer frustrated him.

"Then why would you choose the Eighth to follow? Were you simply an imbecile? Did you not understand the dangers of Rapture?"

"It was the only Path that the System gave me," she sobbed, her voice heartbroken.

"And I… I was so tired of living on the streets. I had no one. I just… didn't want to be alone or hungry anymore…" And now, bound to the Eighth, you will be alone and hungry forever. The irony was not lost on him.

"The madness is returning." Her voice was laced with dread.

"I'm going to forget my name again." Alcyr hesitated. He didn't want to get involved. The Saint of Rapture would definitely not take kindly to his intervention on helping one of her pets. Even so, the words tumbled out of his lips before he could stop them.

"Tell me your name." The masked girl looked at him.

"It doesn't work that way. Once I forget, the world will too. The Mask will make sure everyone forgets…"

"I won't. Just tell me your name before it slips your mind." The girl seemed to struggle for a moment. Her form began to flicker. Just when Alcyr thought it was too late, she forced herself to speak.

"Dinah." Her form shifted, revealing Ural once more, gasping for breath.

"I'll keep the name with me," Alcyr said.

"When we finish our deal, I'll return it to you."

"That name is not yours to remember," Ural said, breathless.

"Every record, every memory of it, the Saint erases. It is our curse."

"My memories are mine alone. The decision to keep or discard your name is thus mine to make." Ural laughed, slightly crazed.

"Your authority does not supersede a deity's, fool." Alcyr did not answer. Instead, he asked another question.

"One last thing: did you steal my dagger?"

"What? No, of course not. Why would I want your dagger?" Alcyr stared at him. Ural fidgeted, uncomfortable under his gaze. He appeared to be telling the truth. Alcyr sighed.

"Pity. It would have been easier if you had been the one who stole it." It had been partly why he had forced this confrontation in the first place, even though he knew it would be reckless. It seems I'll have to make do with what I have. Stabbing the heart of that damn frost wyrm was going to require a fair bit of ingenuity now…