Chương 175: Colourless

Fresh blood coiled over cleaver-like claws in distinct, yet ever-changing forms. One moment, it saddled up to her with the loving embrace of a weed with all its branching roots. The next, a watery sea that washed up her arm with each wing-beat. Cuddly scraped away at the excess with her dagger. Unfortunately, it looked like the obsessive blood was learning of her efforts to separate them.

Instead of ignoring the blade as it had for everything besides Nyxala's flesh, the crimson now actively avoided the draining suction. Her tentacle moved fast enough that its evasiveness mattered not, but this adaption was worrying. What was she to do if even baths no longer cleansed her? Nyxala's mind slipped almost entirely out of her slaughter state with the distance she'd flown. Ezaltena had managed to run much further than expected. A replica of Lysyra stood in the hall, pointing to a large shutter door.

There was no need for a word. Nyxala rolled, throwing her tail through the thin tin sheet before continuing on unperturbed. Lysyra exploded into motes behind her. She found herself flying over a manufacturing line. It was inactive, but by the warm furnace connected to a conveyor belt, it couldn't have been abandoned for more than a week. Nyxala noticed the shackles and chains linked to the conveyor, but could not see any sign of the ritualist's passage. Ezaltena was rather good at hiding her tracks.

Unfortunately for her, Nyxala had already found her teeth. Nyxala crashed through another sealed gate and flew through a broken set of trolley tracks. The rails had curled in on themselves. They folded off the surface and coiled like a tightly wound spring. This had once been a transport hub, but no longer. Her target's eyes snapped to the loud intruder. Ezaltena was down on one knee. A ritual surrounding her foot sewed her bleeding achilles back together.

Seeing that Nyxala had caught up — and wasn't a pile of mincemeat after having faced Chaz — the Scripture immediately understood the danger she was in. The ritual at her feet fizzled out as her body shone. Swirling lines of red pierced her clothes, engulfing the woman's entire form. They spread. Runes flowed from the woman's arms and legs into the ground, carving a ritual with but a thought. Once again, a flowerbed spewed from her body, sucking away at all the colours of her surroundings.

A bloom erupted from her form. A single thorny bush that spilled through both ground and air alike. It snaked along the broken Worshipper rails, rising along its curve until a wall of grey flowers surrounded them. Just like that last time, Ezaltena tried to slink away. The garden grasped at her body. It pulled her down, trying to save her from her death. Nyxala wasn't going to let that happen twice. Pushy threw her rapier. Curious threw her dagger.

With all that Talent guidance she'd gained before the focus of her Talent shifted, there was no way she would miss. The pair of blades hit home. Her rapier pierced her chest, drilling a hole into the ground behind her and pinning her there. The knife sliced through a thicket in the crook of her neck — slicing through an artery while it was at it — before sailing into the garden. A flare of panic and desperation shot through the cultist's eyes.

She wasted no time trying to tear the blade from her chest as the flowers wove themselves back over her shoulder and pulled her down. But Nyxala had bought herself enough time. Spearing through the last distance between them, she crashed into Ezaltena, ripping her free of the clinging roses and her escape. Each claw pierced deep through the woman's chest, holding her in place so all of Nyxala's momentum could unleash upon her human brake. They scraped along the ground.

Thorns dug into Nyxala's shoulders, but absolutely shredded their creator. When they came to a stop, Nyxala clamped her claws. Squelch. If any of her organs had remained intact through all that, they were pulp now. Nyxala thought it was all over until she was struck with a wave of… fatigue? Weakness? She wasn't quite sure what to make of the sensation, but she suddenly felt hollow. Empty. Ezaltena raised her hand. It was weak.

The woman was barely able to hold up her own arm without shivering, yet Nyxala suddenly couldn't find the strength to stop her. Her quivering hand touched her chest, and a sudden blast threw Nyxala back. She landed on her back in the flowerbed, but there was no pain. Her chest wasn't even scratched. What Nyxala found instead, was that sickness spreading further. She was dizzy even raising her eyes to her opponent. Said opponent was still moving, albeit having lost the grasp of her flowers.

She pulled a thread that only moments ago had been a ritual line. The Scripture's hand fell. As if an invisible blade had sliced through her wrist, Ezaltena's hand severed. The instant the hand laced with burning runes touched the petal of a flower, it became subject of a feast. Pale white spread in an instant. Countless colour-voided petals swallowed the offered flesh, and immediately washed outwards. A ring of flowers surrounded Ezaltena, who had collapsed, unable to push through her injuries.

And yet, the low rhythmic murmur of a hymn rolled from the woman's tongue. From that tiny pond of white — empty — petals, three towering roots rose. They picked up the cultist. Cradled her like a precious jewel that would shatter at the slightest touch… and sliced open her chest. The woman's head lolled, barely conscious as the mass of plants dug into her chest. Nyxala tried to push through the dizziness. She could recognise a sacrifice when it was made.

Whatever the woman had called forth by giving up her arm, she needed to be ready for it. Tottering and swaying on her feet amidst such danger was only going to get her killed. But the void was still there. Like a part of her soul was gone, yet looking upon her name revealed no issue. Nyxala glanced down, and finally realised that the crimson was gone. Not the blood. That still twisted around her body as if nothing was wrong, but the colour defined by blood was gone. Her skin, tentacles and wings were all the same.

Colour had fled from existence even beyond the bounds of this flower field, it was nothing but hollow shades of black and white. Colour had been stolen from her. She didn't know why, but the concept was core enough to her being that its absence made her feel weak. Sluggish. Like she was already as empty as the world around her, and there was no point moving her colourless limbs to bother fighting back. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

But this was no depression. She didn't even feel bad. The sinister draining of her colour pulled something from her that was seemingly beyond mortal comprehension. It tugged at a concept that her mind could only register as colour. It was impossible for her to understand, but that was fine; the only thing she needed to understand was that the lack of this colour was comparable to a beast eating at her muscle or siphoning her bones. She couldn't stay in this flowerbed.

And yet as she looked upon the walls of roses between her and escape, she groaned at the perceived effort alone. Nyxala could do it. She knew she could. But why bother when she had the perfect solution nestled beneath her fingertips. Nyxala closed her eyes, calmed her breath, and found pink. Instantly, the weakness was gone. She didn't exactly feel any stronger than normal, but the all consuming sensation of pink overwhelmed the draining effect of the flowers without resistance.

She opened her eyes, and the world was no longer colourless. It was pink. At least it was a comprehensible pink rather than the endless swathes of overwhelming sensation that came from embracing meditation. Oddly enough, even the lines — which previously had no aspect of colour to them — were now pink. Standing, she checked herself over. Besides the small scratches from the thorns, she felt normal. The pink neither enhanced her sight nor improved her body. All it seemed to do was hold off the colourless flowers.

Nyxala looked up. Where her gaze landed, vibrancy returned. The pink of blood deepened until it was almost similar to it's natural crimson. The thorns and roots took on a shade, but it was dull. Nothing like the halls she saw beyond this garden. Only the flowers remained uncoloured. Grey. And the white petals that clung to Ezaltena's limp form. The garden tore into her chest, but it wasn't consuming her.

It scooped up the organs Nyxala's claws had left minced, tenderly lacing petals over the flesh until something semi-human, mostly-plant took its place. A heart, remade, was slipped into the woman's open torso. In seconds, flesh latched on, and it began to beat. Ezaltena looked dead. But for as lifeless as she seemed, words of ritual song fell from her mouth. An unconscious melody. It trilled at Nyxala's antennae with sharp, wispy tones. More organs were remade and set in place within the woman's chest.

This wasn't a ritual of self-sacrifice in some ill-considered vengeance on her killer. No, this was Ezaltena's desperate measure to keep herself alive. She sacrificed her hand — something prized beyond any other part of themselves except perhaps the brain itself — for this ritual. An irreplaceable tool for the Scriptures. All to cling to life. Nyxala was hardly about to allow the ritual to reach its conclusion. She flew forward, the grey roses doing nothing more than any mundane flower to stop her.

Only the towering roots were willing to offer her any resistance. One dropped its grasp on Ezaltena and turned towards her. The long tendril of roots split open, and from a thousand white petals, another flower bloomed. It's spiralling blossom grew larger than Nyxala. The draining siphon was back, ten times worse. Until… it wasn't. It was there for a second, but as she glared at the oversized flower, that sensation rapidly disappeared. Withered.

Nyxala soared past it, paying no mind to how the flower seemed to shrink back and wilt. The head was her target, but the last bundle of roots lifted their subject away from Nyxala's hedge shears. She was still in range of the woman's heart, so she took the open chest as a welcome and snapped her claws through the regrown innards. For a brief instant, the roots growing from the ring of white looked like they wanted to fight back.

The two still holding the Scripture let her fall back to the ground and raised up, ready to bloom. Except they did nothing of the sort. A shiver rippled down the first flower's roots as it shed every white flower and withered. The other two seemed to tremble in their partner's disappearance, before they curled in on themselves and slipped below the ring of petals. Gone from Coral. Ezaltena's whispered hymns continued even as her summon slunk away, failing to complete its part of the bargain.

Her lips and throat burned with runes. They kept her singing even as her body rapidly reached its end. Nyxala reached down as her claws retracted, and grabbed the woman by her still bleeding ankle. She tugged, and found the woman surprisingly light. Within a minute, she'd dragged the cultist from the ineffective garden and back onto unmarred ground. From there, it didn't take long to have her own hymn spelling the end of the Scripture's life. Ezaltena died singing the wrong song to her own sacrifice.

"She was getting too close to another group." Lysyra brushed past her shoulder to crouch besides the dry husk.

"I know you said you wanted to take them yourself, but I had to slow her down."

"Yeah, I figured," Nyxala said. Things were all still covered in a sheen of pink. She noticed Lysyra glance back at her tentatively.

"Thanks." She'd figured Lysyra was worried she'd annoyed her by acting on her own, but when Nyxala's reassuring appreciation did nothing to the girl's expression, she turned her focus fully on her. Lysyra was staring at her intently. Unsettled. Nyxala quirked a brow as she inspected the pink that filtered the girl's features. It seemed to shine most bright deep in her eyes.

"What is that?" Lysyra whispered.

"What?" Lysyra seemed to snap out of her immersion of Nyxala's own eyes.

"You don't realise you're doing it?" she asked.

"Your eyes, they're glowing. And not just the ones I can see." Nyxala raised her hand and found that, yes, the intensity of the pink deepened as she brought it closer to her head. Bowing her head, she glanced down, and the gem on her chest shone like a beacon. So too did all four of her eyes. And apparently, her concealer was completely ineffective on it. She blinked, and the pink disappeared. The world returned to the colours she remembered. Lysyra, for a second time, seemed to snap out of her fixation.

"That was…" she said, struggling to find words.

"It felt endless. Incomprehensible. Impossible." Lysyra finished by snapping her head off to the side with a scowl. So she could see that realm of pink through her eyes? Strange. It also cleared up that Nyxala wasn't actually seeing in pink, it was simply the torches of her eyes that had painted the world that colour.

"We should probably head back and clean up the bodies before anyone finds them, huh?" Nyxala said as she began to melt through the dried remains with her third eye. She crouched, and ripped a tiny mechanical badge from the inside a robe pocket.

"This is what we're after? It's a bit smaller than what the Technocult gave you."

"Probably safer too," Lysyra snapped, not taking her eye from one of the passages.

"We should get going."

"Is someone coming?" she asked.

"No." The answer came almost too quick.

"Just… someone might investigate the noise if we wait long." Investigate a noise? In Coral? There were source-less screams at all times of the day. Nobody was going to come for a bit of a scuffle echoing through the halls. Still, Nyxala decided it best to appease the girl.

"Sure, just let me make sure there's nothing left of the cultist to find." Lysyra clicked her tongue and gestured to the massive lingering flowerbed.

"Whoever finds this place are going to know what happened, corpse or not." Nyxala held her eye.

"I'd rather cover our tracks properly. A field of colour-draining flowers will tell them much less than a dried husk they'd immediately be able to find the identity of." She turned an eye down to the little mechanical cogwheel contraption she'd pulled from the corpse.

"I somehow doubt the Worshippers will leave this key enabled if the one it was given to is reported dead." With a huff, Lysyra vanished. She stared at the vacated space in confusion for a few moments until a voice bellowed from the tunnel she'd been looking down.

"You would be right, but even now that badge is useless to you," Tarchon's gruff voice echoed as he stepped into the open.

"It is not keyed to your blood." Ah. He was the reason for Lysyra's sudden shift in attitude. When she got time, Nyxala really needed to ask about that.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Again. Aren't you too important to the war to be running around after me?"

"Ta̽'Ș͑t̕r̊a͑ḷa̾͆n͙͂o̼͗v͐͐̿͝'r̝͇͎͓͜ sent me." He ignored her latter question.

"I'm here to hijack that." He pointed the the Worshipper mechanism and offered no more comment, but Nyxala didn't believe for a second that was the sole reason.