Chương 201: Counter Ethos

Lysyra's plan had gone perfectly. Nyxala could hardly believe it, but she'd slipped past the fifty cultists without so much as a single Fleshsmith giving the half-dead bear a second glance. They were suspicious, of course. Only that suspicion was directed outwards, not on the two slightly altered bodybags amongst the rest of the sacrificial cargo. The operation had gone perfectly, yet… Nyxala could not celebrate.

She couldn't even find it in herself to be enthusiastic about infiltrating the Fleshsmith Island and setting to the slaughter. Not when the taste of two innocent girls still lingered. Horrifically, they had been divine. Neither contained the sheer power in their names that any of the other people she'd consumed so far… and yet their taste was a delicacy Nyxala never could have imagined. It was a flavour so separated from their flesh that it was impossible to describe.

Where they lacked the intense power from the souls of the cultists, these two unevolved girls had made up for it in… well, Nyxala wasn't quite sure. All she knew was that her entire being responded very positively to their deaths, even if her mind was not so receptive. The act had been quick. Nyxala doubted the girls' dreams were so much as disturbed as they were killed. As soon as the lights went out and she slid inside the chest of the beast, Lysyra already had the two ready for her.

A single bite, and they were gone. An instant later, they were both hidden away. It didn't truly hit her what she'd done until the bliss finally abated. Even then, the flavour was slow to fade. She could taste them. An entire hour, and that taste clung to the fictitious tongue within her stomach, reminding her of what she'd done. They were sacrifices. Already in the clutches of the Fleshsmiths, they would have died regardless of whether Nyxala intervened or not.

Even had there not been a monumental ritual, then the Fleshsmiths would have killed them anyway. In some ritual or experiment. They were doomed the moment the Fleshsmiths designated them as sacrifices. But that didn't stop Nyxala feeling sick. She was to cull the cults and cleanse Coral of their influence. In revenge or as a task of those beyond understanding; it didn't matter. This was the act of a cultist.

It wasn't the act of killing a girl in such a similar position to her past that had her stomach churning, but rather that she had debased herself to the cultists' approach. But that understanding alone was enough to have her biting her lip again. Nyxala wasn't who she thought she was. She thought she would at least hesitate or care about the innocent she condemned to death for her own sake. But no; all that she'd focused on was how similar her actions were to that of a cultist's.

Nyxala couldn't even dismiss the girls she'd killed as bystanders to her own sacrifice. These two never could have done anything to help her, as they'd likely already been dead. Her lip was bleeding now. Severed without even the usual satisfaction she'd get from flesh cleaving between her razor-sharp rows of teeth. Her fists clenched until the chitin was on the verge of cracking.

Nyxala wanted to cut open this bodybag that clung far too tight and go on a butchering spree if for no other reason than to clear her mind of these tenacious thoughts. But she couldn't. She wanted to slice open throats and bite out hearts, yet she was forced to hold her body limp over this uncomfortable ribcage cradle and ruminate on what she'd done. On what her own mind set aside as less important. She didn't want to become like the cultists.

She didn't want to become the sort of person that thought nothing of sacrificing an innocent. But she wasn't naive. There was no need for her to be told there would be more innocent deaths — both collateral and by her own hand — so long as she continued to pursue the downfall of the cults. But what was the point of knocking down the putrid pillars if she had to build one herself? Revenge?

They all deserved to die, sure, but if — in her efforts to topple the established towers — she employed the same rotten methods, her spire would be no different from what came before. Even if she knocked her own tower down amongst the rest of the rubble… the survivors would not change. Without building upwards with the materials she considered proper, those that come after would only repeat the tainted methods when they eventually built their own towers.

The only way to kill the cults for good, was to undermine their very way of life. She needed to offer the innocents a different path to follow. She needed to craft an ideology that fundamentally counteracted the cults' dogma. If that couldn't be achieved… then collective annihilation might be necessary. The bear jerked, and suddenly Nyxala was weightless. The hulking beast reached the bottom of its fall with a deafening crash, and she was tossed into the nearest sacrifice. They whimpered.

Despite the pitiful sound, it was impossible to tell if they remained in their disturbed unconsciousness or had awoken. Nyxala decided not to think about it. If they were awake and didn't even try to fight their restraints, then it reminded her too much of her worst mental state. She didn't want to think they'd given up. But try as she might, it was impossible not to focus on the sacrifices she shared this enthralled creature's stomach with.

They were lucky not to be in Nyxala's, like their previous two neighbouring captives. Through the plastic of their containing bags, she made out the chattering of teeth and the clenching of fingernails. Forced to hold still, she could do nothing but watch the involuntary motions of terror that wracked the three to-be sacrifices. The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. It was easy to claim she would follow her own ethos, but to put it into practice…?

These three — and the six more in the bear in front of them — sat right before her. It wouldn't be her own actions that would kill them, unlike the first two. Nyxala wouldn't be indistinguishable from a cultist if she were to leave them to their already determined fate. But was that the sort of principle she wanted to set? Saving them would be too dangerous. Honestly, this whole plan of entry was too risky.

If their presence was discovered before the ritual began, it was likely to be put on hold until they were dealt with. Nyxala would have much rather chanced the outer defences. But backing out now was impossible. Despite the way they revived old traumatic memories, Nyxala knew she would let each of these sacrifices die to achieve her goal. And that unsettled her. To help them would be to sabotage her own mission.

She understood that, and didn't particularly care about the lives of people she'd never met, but if she was serious about forging a doctrine to subvert the cults, then she knew leaving unaffiliated people to their unfortunate fates was not something it could allow. A cult was fundamentally focused on itself. Its members were insular. To counter that — and not become like the inactive bystanders of her death — then her philosophy must involve the assistance of those who cannot help themselves…

even if she thought it was inefficient and more likely to cause damage. The more she thought about it, the more sure it was a direction she had to go… and simultaneously one she couldn't dare risk. An Ideology designed entirely to flip a cult's doctrine was hardly going to be simple. If she focused entirely on that point. Isolation. Then twisting it meant she should be open and share her secrets with everyone. For obvious reasons, she couldn't do that. She didn't have the power to protect herself.

So that was the problem. Nyxala needed the strength to impose her way of things upon others, but if she were to ignore those policies herself as she grew, then there was no way to know if they held merit, or simply worked on the back of her individual strength. If they didn't stand as an effective measure against cult methods, then people would simply return to the way things were when she ceased being. That was not something she could stand. Now, back to the problem of the sacrifices.

Should she do what she believed was best and let the Fleshsmiths sacrifice these unevolved captives… or follow her burgeoning doctrine and try — at great risk — to save them? With less resolve than she figured the choice probably deserved, she set herself to at least trying to save the sacrifices before the ritual reached the point where their death was demanded. Though, getting them out might be a task. A wicked screech sliced through the air, dragging even the stronger of cultists to a halt.

It trilled across her tendrils, carrying sounds she never could have perceived with normal ears. A million birds trilling at once, backed by a deep unnatural undertone that sent even the ribs of the oversized bear quivering. Silence followed. All the idle chatter and minor arguments between the cultists died as their eyes fell back through the tunnels. The red pendant around her neck swayed left and right, proud. The chorus of unnatural growls, bleating and roars grew rapidly as the cultists listened.

"Move," one of the Fleshsmiths ordered and the convoy was quick to get back into motion.

"Zan'Ja̧̬rr͈̐is, take your squad and find out what's coming. Cut it down if you can." A group of six left without wasting a word. While they didn't speak, the other cultists around Nyxala's cage weren't so withheld.

"I knew things were going too smoothly," grunted one.

"Been in half a dozen of these sacrifice transports — none this important — and they've always gone to shit."

"At least we're almost at the bridge. I'd hate to get pinned down nearer the war; the Bodytwisters have been extra aggressive the past few days." He scoffed, as if insulted by his own insinuation that he was worried.

"When this ritual is complete, they'll wish they'd prostrated themselves earlier." Nyxala went to bite her lip, only to realise it was already gone. She wished she'd not thrown her little pouch of bullets along with the rest of the items that might get her caught as… unfitting. Despite the bone-trembling screech, these cultists acted unbothered. Would the horde of amalgamations really be something they can deal with, or was it simply arrogance?

They were a little early, but it wasn't exactly like Nyxala had any control over how long it took for the creatures to climb from her blood. And with how much corruption was in the area, it was no wonder they appeared so soon.

"Zan'Ja̧̬rr͈̐is is dead." The announcement startled even Nyxala. The voice was ethereal, and seemed to lack any physical presence to it. It tingled at her tendrils, yet she wasn't sure she actually heard the words. Not really.

"What?" the same commanding voice from only minutes ago demanded.

"Already? What happened?"

"Twisted forms. Never distinct, nor whole. Amalgamations. Thousands of them swarmed before we had the chance to run." So one of them survived? No. This was a soulsinger ability; able to cling to some semblance of his living cohesion even in death. Only his soul had returned. The commanding voice growled, and there was a sudden shearing snap that reverberated off her name sense. She didn't know exactly what he'd done, but it certainly wasn't healthy for the soulsinger that came back to warn his fellow cultists.

Nyxala momentarily wondered if that was why the other Fleshsmiths — likely soulsingers themselves — didn't return with him.

"Pick up the pace," he snapped to the rest.

"Once we reach the bridge, they can deal with whatever follows us." As the bears were sent into a lumbering charge, Nyxala noticed the semi-animalistic chorus behind them only ever grew. There were… a lot of Amalgamations. Her ears were rather good at picking out distinct sources from a whole, and from what she heard, there were more than she'd summoned in the Dark Star. So many more. She hadn't just unleashed an infection upon Coral, had she?

Soon, they reached the heavily fortified bridge and despite all her internal concerns that they would be discovered, Lysyra's plan worked out exactly as she said. It was almost grating. An onomastician stopped to check the sacrifices of the first bear, but as soon as the wall of disorderly flesh, fang and claw barrelled towards their defences, they were waved through. It was only when they passed the tens of thousands of cultists and reached the well protected interior, did she dare to peek through her bodybag.

Nyxala had resolved herself to at least try to save the nine remaining sacrifices when the ritual began. Now, that might as well be impossible. Not with what she saw through the ribs of the beast carrying her. She didn't have nine sacrifices to save. She had a hundred. A hundred people that didn't deserve to be there, yet she did not value over her own life. Over her own revenge. The new doctrine wasn't worth the risk.