Chương 22: James

James groaned and rolled over. The stone floor was cool against his naked body. He forced himself into a sitting position and rolled his shoulder. His body popped and moaned. The sharp, pleasant sensation woke him up from his stupor and his head cleared. He examined his flesh. It was a hodgepodge patchwork. A particular patch on his chest over his heart caught his eye. It had turned gray and was sickly with decay. His most recent grafting had been sloppy.

Not to mention the subpar materials taken from a burned corpse. He dug his fingers under the stitching of the gray skin and pulled it back. The muscle and sinew beneath had discolored. His skills kept his body from bleeding out as he discarded that patch. His [Surgeon] class allowed him to go without skin for a few hours before it became susceptible to outside infection or bleeding.

"Fucker tried to get me in the heart." James spat and stumbled over to the discarded mound of his possessions. The night of the merge he'd been out hunting, which had been unfortunate. All of his minions and supplies had been removed during the merging period. All James had was his cleaver, a flesh sack with sewing equipment, and burned up clothing. Not even his boots had survived the flames. That entire fight and James had only gained a single level. He sat at 55. He'd hoped to get a bit more but whatever.

He'd just need to kill more shit. Easy enough to accomplish. Poking his burned leathers with his cleaver, James scowled. Burned to smithereens. Useless as clothing but he'd still get what he could out of it. His cleaver sliced into what had once been a pant leg. It took only a few seconds for him to cut out a square of the tanned human leather. He slapped it on over his exposed skin and smiled at the cool pain that accompanied the patch of leather.

Far inferior to fresh human skin, but he'd make due with what was on hand. Removing his sewing needle, James stitched the leather over his heart. It was stiff and uncomfortable. Still, it would work for now. He had no doubt he'd find replacement material soon. He'd kill the fucker who'd done this to him. But first, he needed to reclaim his power. That meant hunting for new minions. Back on his feet, James tied his flesh sack around his thick neck and stuffed the handle of his cleaver in his mouth.

The sweet tang of bloody iron permeated his mouth as his tongue tapped against the cold, metal handle. He stepped up to the ladder and grabbed the lower rungs. He heaved his body up and pressed a palm against the bottom of the trap door. It didn't budge. He frowned. Then he shoved the full force of his weight and Strength attributes into the door. The rung under his feet snapped but not before he forced the trap door up a couple inches. As he lost his footing, he jammed his fingers into the opening.

The door's weight fell onto him, cracking his bones, but it remained wedged open, caught on his flesh. From that wedged opening, James pried open the door with his cleaver and stepped out into the burned out husk of a building. Much of Ventri had been built of stone but that hadn't stopped the support beams from burning. The few remaining buildings were more than empty stone shells. Most of the stony spires had collapsed and the streets were little more than charred wreckage and stones.

James popped his jaw and glanced up at the sky. It was daytime. Which meant he'd been unconscious for at least several hours. However, judging by the town's smoldering embers, he deemed it might have been an entire day and a half since his escape. The cellar he'd holed up in to rest was the only one of its kind in the city. There were other underground tunnels, to be sure, but they were all connected by a labyrinth of catacombs. His cellar had been specifically designed by the flesh ripper to stockpile victims.

There were cooling enchantments in place to keep the corpses fresh and preventive measures that kept the town's flames at bay. Similar safehouses were placed in most of the major towns of his biome. Unfortunately, after James had… dispatched his old teacher, he'd taken it upon himself to empty out these safehouses and gather all the resources into one location. The consolidation of resources helped him with his experiments at the time. Now though, it was a decision he regretted. James cupped his hands together.

"Hellooo," he called into the empty town.

"Anyone alive? I'm here to help you." Nothing. He hadn't expected much but thought the attempt it worth the minimal effort required. Every so often, a desperate villager would bite down on a lure like that. There was a minor risk a ghoul might overhear him, but at the moment he'd welcome flesh of all sorts. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Never mind all that.

He'd been unlucky with his encounters so far but that meant very little in the large scheme. He was alive. He had all his skills. What else would he need? He rubbed his bald scalp. Only it wasn't bald anymore. A bit of stubble had grown in, prickling his fingers.

"How long did I sleep?" he asked the dead town. No reply. It was daytime, which meant less undead. The constant oppressive black clouds during the day kept the town trapped in a somber and dark atmosphere, but daytime still chased many undead off into their caves and graves. He grunted and strolled off into town. A few burned corpses but even those had mostly been picked through by scavengers and carried off by undead. No flesh worth stitching. Which was annoying since it meant more time naked.

His flesh was harder to penetrate than most people's but still, nudity left him a great deal more exposed than wearing one of his flesh woven outfits. He found a razor in one of the ruined houses. He plucked it from the wreckage and got to work slicing through his head's stubble. Despite how poorly the dull, dry blade cut, it was better than if he attempted to shave with his cleaver. The announcer had said from the beginning that their biomes had all merged together.

The obvious thing to do was exit his biome's space and enter one of his new neighbors. He salivated at the thought of fresh flesh to stitch. A world of possibilities existed now that he was no longer confined to the creatures of his own biome. As he strolled across the dreary land, several zombies, a ghoul, and even two wraiths attempted to impede his travels. Even without most of his gear or minions, James was still in the high fifties and had the stats to show for it. They posed very little threat to him.

Undead flesh was shit, but since it was all he had to work with for the moment, James got to work melding and stitching some of it together to create a flesh golem. Nothing large, since he needed to keep moving. Just an abomination the size of his fist. It was several hours of travel before he found himself hiking over a bluff and staring down at a flat stretch of land. It was completely still. He jumped down the bluff and let his Resilience stats take the brunt of his fall.

At the border between his biome and this one was a wooden sign with two arrows. It was a ways off and took him a few minutes to walk to. The arrow pointing at him said 'Nightmare Biome,' and the one pointing at the badlands said 'Ken Sapo Bunker Biome.'

"Ken Sapo? What kind of name is that?" At least Nightmare Biome made sense. James strolled into the brown, lifeless patch of land. After wandering for a few minutes, he debated going back to his home biome. He needed skin for his class to be useful and there didn't seem to be anything alive over here. Just a large stretch of flat dirt. Still… a fellow experimentee must have survived here.

"Unless he blew it up with an atomic class." James chuckled. That would be quite the funny way to go out. As he stepped forward, his bare foot knocked against something solid. He wiped the dirt away with his foot and revealed a rusted, metallic hatch. Maybe his nuclear joke was onto something. It was a bunker biome, after all. Digging his fingers into the dirt, he traced the circular outline until he found a metal handle. He pulled up and the hatch unlatched. The interior reminded him of a sewage manhole.

A concrete hole that burrowed down with a rusty ladder. Leaving the hatch open, he descended. He found it rather amused that he'd woken up underground and already was returning. Lightbulbs flickered on as he touched down on the concrete floor. The light illuminated a square concrete hallway with the occasional metal door. It stretched on beyond the hundred or so feet of illuminated hall.

"Helloooo," he called out. His voice echoed back at him. No response. He didn't let it bother him. Instead, he rested his cleaver on his shoulder and hummed to himself as he strolled forward. The tune was from a childhood cartoon. One where a fox character chased a rabbit every episode. It had been his favorite as a kid. The fox would use all sorts of crazy contraptions to capture the speedy little rabbit. While the fox always failed in the end, James wasn't a fox. He was a [Flesh Weaver].

"Knock, knock!" he called out as he kicked open the first door. The rusty hinges snapped and the door fell in. Movement! James nearly jumped for joy at the sight. Two dog-like creatures leaped at him. They burrowed their teeth into his exposed arm and leg, but they lacked the jaw strength to clamp down and pierce more than his outer skin.

"What naughty little puppies," James chided them. Then he slammed the one latched onto his forearm into the other. They both whimpered and let go of his body. One of them tried again to bite him but James' cleaver severed a chunk of its nose and the beast recoiled. It shook its head and growled at him from across the room. James pressed a bare foot down on the subdued one and flung his cleaver at the other. The weapon flipped through the air, blade over hilt, until it buried itself in the dog-creature's neck.

The beast jerked on the impact, took a step forward, then collapsed to the concrete floor. James smiled as the kill notification appeared. He finally acquired a bit of useful flesh. The notification told him these creatures were known as 'rock hounds.' Leaning down, he pressed more of his weight up against the hound under his foot. It struggled, legs flailing about but unable to tear itself free of James's hold on it.

"My dad always taught me that bad dogs don't exist," James whispered to it.

"Just bad owners. It looks like I'll need to teach you to be a good doggie."