40. The Battle of Mount Saint Helens (III)

He'd never known such rage.

Ignition.

Combustion.

Eruption.

Undying Flame.

Zane howled, and he felt them all at once. Something within him caught fire. And he saw the truth of the world—the feeling that was the core of all fires. A crack ran through his mind, and as he peered through it, he saw the essence of a flame. He knew its hateful heart. He knew its powers of destruction.

𝕃𝕒𝕨 ℂ𝕠𝕞𝕡𝕣𝕖𝕙𝕖𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕕!

𝕄𝕒𝕛𝕠𝕣 𝕃𝕒𝕨 𝕠𝕗 𝕊𝕔𝕠𝕣𝕔𝕙𝕖𝕕 𝕎𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕙 (𝔼𝕝𝕖𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕒𝕝 𝕃𝕒𝕨 𝕠𝕗 𝔽𝕚𝕣𝕖)

The Legion poured into the cavern, still gleeful, still oblivious, still utterly unaware of what they were running into.

Zane's Cyclone changed colors.

That behemoth of flame, burning so white it looked like staring at the sun, went blacker than night. And a new fire broke into the world, a fire risen as though from the depths of hell. Zane's fury made real in monstrous form.

The barbarian Lieutenant waded in just as it changed, his massive steel cudgel swinging. Metal laws crusted his skin. He wore a greedy, ugly smile.

Then the flames struck him, and he screamed.

Each black fleck burned a cattle brand on his skin. He stared at his arms and legs in disbelief—why wasn't his Laws protecting him? Then the fire got in his face, and Zane heard its furious roar as it took hold. The barbarian screamed, bent over, clutching at his eyes, trying to get it out. All he did was wipe away melting skin.

Zane's Axe flashed at his face. Somehow the man managed to throw up a cudgel, a feeble try at blocking. The two weapons met. There was an explosion of fire—not any explosion. This explosion flashed darkness, not light.

And Zane's Axe cleaved the cudgel in two. Both halves blasted off in opposite directions; he saw the steel crumble to ash mid-air. That weapon was dust before it hit the ground. The Axe didn't even slow.

It went through the barbarian's neck like there was nothing there.

The head went flying. Shock flickered across the man's face. The next moment it was gone, smoking away, the flesh, the skin, the bone, all crumbling black. The water in the eyes evaporated. The hair was made smoke. Ashes scattered into the storm.

The rest of the man's body slumped after, crumbling too. The fire was a hate that knew no end. It devoured until you were nothing. And even then, it danced on the ashes.

A line of grunts came running behind him, saw what happened to their leader, tried desperately slowing, turning away—too late. The winds tore them off their feet, sent them flying, screaming into the bloody grinder. Once the flares on those Cyclone winds caught hold of them, they were helpless. One turn in that hellish merry-go-round and the Axes barely had to work. They were nothing, and nothing, and nothing. Bodies dissolved to ash, and ash made swirling essence—it all came pouring into Zane, a river of brilliant light.

He roared.

Only then did the rest of them realize they'd made a terrible mistake.

The back line of grunts was scrambling away, scrambling to the tunnel mouth, shoving over each other to get through, shouting in mindless panic. There were so many crammed so tight they clogged it up. The Lieutenants tried to back out too, but they were too close. It was too late. The Cyclone dragged them in kicking and screaming. The Archer stuck his bow into the ground, stumbling, trying to hold, but the winds yanked him out and tore him away. The swordsman held firm, feet planted for all of a second. Then he went over, tumbling head-over-heels. The Level 71 General had thrown up a shield of warped shadows but even that trembled, flickering, barely holding. None of them could get out.

They were trapped in here with him.

He was so furious when he saw a small body hurtling toward him he almost burned it too. Then he realized it was Avery, limp, unconscious. He shunted her far behind, out of reach.

And he went to work on the rest of them.

The Archer first, tumbling toward him, flailing, catching nothing. The Axes were too merciful for this one. Instead, Zane sucked him into the inner layers of the Cyclone, where the fire burned thickest. He watched as the man thrashed and screamed, watched the fear in his face turn to horror, then droop as skin and muscle melted off of the bone.

All the while, Zane held him there, looked him dead in the eyes as he thrashed, saw the animal fear in them; he saw them watering in pain, in horror, drank it all in until the eyes dulled and saw nothing, and burned away until the body crumbled to dust.

And Zane fulfilled his promise to the man.

The swordsman was heavier and braver. He managed to find his footing. Even as the fires tore through his limbs, he roared a battle cry and ran at Zane. Usually Zane would throw the Axe at the neck or the joints, an easy weakness. But the sheer brute raw strength of his Axes meant that man's whole body was a weakness. The Axe found him at a shoulder, carved a brutal line down to the hip, and exited there. He looked surprised as his bottom half dropped out from under him. He opened his mouth, tried roaring something. Then the flames got in his throat and he choked. The rest of him went up in smoke.

Then there was the Divine Emissary, the Last Lieutenant struggling at the edge of the Cyclone, still trying to make for the tunnel. Trying to get away. He caught Zane's eyes, and he panicked. He was babbling, screaming something, pleading for mercy, maybe. Zane sent an Axe after him. It left no corpse as it came back.

And like that, he stood in a cavern of ashes. The soldiers were made nothing, the Lieutenants made nothing.

Zane was still seething with rage, heaving with it.

But though his feelings still burned bright, his body was starting to fail on him. He was running out of essence. But the job wasn't done.

There was still one to go.

He turned to the last man standing, the General.

The man cut a sorry figure. Half his body smoldered with burns. His skin was waxy, slightly melted. Black holes pitted his body. He hid under a shadowy shield, which was serving him about as well as an umbrella in a hurricane. He licked his cracked, dry lips nervously. He mouthed something Zane couldn't hear. He screamed it again. Nothing. The man wore a trembling, oily smile—like a boy with his hand in the cookie jar, feigning remorse. Like he thought he could still talk his way out of this.

Zane brought both Axes down on his head.

But the moment before it hit, the General vanished. His body dissolved in shadow.

And it reappeared right in Zane's face. Gone was that remorseful smile. Instead he wore a smug, triumphant grin.

Then a dark knife slid into Zane's chest, and he felt an awful energy tear through him. He choked.

But Zane grabbed the wrist as it went in.

𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘: ℂ𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕝 𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕝𝕥𝕙!

𝕊𝕒𝕧𝕒𝕘𝕖 𝕓𝕠𝕕𝕪 𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕧𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕕!

𝕊𝕥𝕣𝕖𝕟𝕘𝕥𝕙 𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝟝𝟘%

𝕍𝕚𝕥𝕒𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝟝𝟘%

𝕊𝕡𝕖𝕖𝕕 𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝟝𝟘%

The last of his essence rushed through his hands, into that wrist, up the General's body. And his face went from smug to horrified in an instant.

The little rat-faced man thrashed and kicked and yelled. He tried yanking out the knife, but Zane held him firm. Another knife materialized in the man's free hand. He thrust at Zane's throat lightning-quick, and Zane barely caught it. Then the General was well and truly stuck.

All Zane's hate poured into him.

The fire burned the General inside out. At first, it was like nothing was happening—like the General was squealing for no reason, spasming for no reason, twitching, eyelids fluttering, for no reason. Zane wished in that moment he had telepathy so he could peer in and see just how much the man was suffering, and savor it truly.

At last the man stilled. His skin crumbled away, showing the hollowed-out husk beneath. Like wildfire eating through a dead tree, leaving only the trunk behind. The General crumbled to dust. To nothing.

And Zane sank to his knees. He blinked down at his chest. Where the blade struck, a black rot ran deep—straight into his heart. Darkness fringed his vision; an immense weakness took hold of his limbs. His eyes started rolling back. He was dead.

𝕃𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕝 𝕦𝕡!

𝔼𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕟𝕔𝕖 𝕃𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕝 𝟞𝟛 -> 𝟞𝟜

𝕃𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕝 𝕦𝕡!

𝔼𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕟𝕔𝕖 𝕃𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕝 𝟞𝟜 -> 𝟞𝟝

The Cyclone faded away. There was a strange silence—it sounded like a graveyard, not a battlefield.

Zane opened his mouth and let out a choked scream. A scream of agony and triumph all at once. He wasn't joyful like he usually was after fights. But burning those men alive…

That satisfied him in a way he'd never felt before.

He'd gotten his vengeance.

He knelt there, head tilted to the sky, as though to heaven. He knelt there and basked.

Then he froze. He remembered. Avery!

He turned and searched her out—her body was still unmoving, splayed against a rock column. He dashed to her and shook her. Her face was pale, her lips blue. Her arm felt far too cold.

Why hadn't she leveled from all essence? Shouldn't she have gotten some too?

She had to be living. She was still here. There was still a chance. There, by her side--the bag of holding. He rifled through it but found nothing to heal her.

The corruption had swallowed up her chest. She was breathing so shallowly it was like she wasn't breathing at all. That blackness was up to the base of her neck now. It was spreading visibly. It would soon be at her throat, her head… He had to get her to a Healer! But where? There just wasn't time—

Wait. Safe Zones granted a regeneration buff to their Faction members!

He sprinted through the tunnel, up the steps, lunging for the center of the mini-map. So help him God if he met any straggler legion soldiers on the way—but he didn't. Once they saw their leaders go down, it seemed they all fled.

The Beacon lay near an essence spring. He claimed it for the Luminous Faction, then sprinted back down. By the time he got there, he found the spread had slowed to a crawl.

But it was still crawling on.

Fuck.

The Beacon wasn't strong enough. He needed a real Healer.

He grabbed Avery and ran for it.

***

He ran for half a day straight, never stopping. He dashed past safe zone after safe zone, all empty. After what felt like dozens of tries, he finally came upon a settled zone—' Starlit Glade', a sparsely wooded zone scattered with ancient, thin, tall trees curled up with faintly glowing vines. Their town square was a crescent of wood huts. He burst up the middle of it, and the dozen or so people there all froze, staring at him. Mostly twenties, a few older folk, all dressed in plain cloth, all baffled-looking.

"…Sir Zane?" someone gasped.

"I need a Healer!" He roared. All at once they scrambled to obey.

The town Healer was a squat, middle-aged lady named Evelyn Hart, who seemed quite frazzled to be in his presence; she kept shaking and stumbling over her words. The lady was only in the low Level 20s—she hadn't even gotten her second class yet. All she could do for Avery was send in a constant stream of healing. She kept apologizing as she did.

They needed someone stronger to get rid of the corruption for good. And the best Healer they had was still Reina. "I could send a message back to base camp, sir," said Evelyn. "But Miss Reina—I'm not meant to call her, sir, she's very busy. It might be a while—"

"Do it," said Zane. "Tell her Zane needs her, now. She'll come."

An hour later, Reina arrived, flushed and gasping, like she'd sprinted all the way here in one go. Zane had been pouring resources into her lately. She was up to Level 38.

"I came as soon as I got the message," she said. "Where is she?"

Zane took her to the Healer's cabin, where Evelyn was still struggling to keep Avery breathing. The rot was nearly all the way up her neck now. Then Reina got to work.

She threw up a Blessing that instantly boosted Avery out of critical territory. The main Faction beacon was still E-grade; it hadn't unlocked the higher-level shops, the ones that had healing treasures. But Reina still had salves and bandages she could pair with her buffs. And she'd called help. Soon after she came and stabilized Avery for good, Healers came pouring in from all the nearby neighborhoods.

They just had to get Avery conscious again. Then she could draw in essence from stones on her own and heal herself.

Zane never left Avery's bedside as they worked. When Reina asked who she was, all he said was, "A friend." She could tell he wasn't in the mood to say more.

Now it seemed Avery would be alright, he had some space to think about the last few hours.

That was the most fear he'd felt in a long, long time. Maybe ever. And he'd been held there that whole run back… he hated that feeling. It was like he'd discovered some crucial chink in his armor he never knew he had.

Friends. He'd always been aloof with people. He'd had 'friends you gamed with,' 'friends you spoke to in class, once in a while,' 'friends' he might've known for years. Compared to this, they weren't friends at all. He felt for the first time he had true friends, friends you could die for.

And they exposed him to negative feelings at an intensity that he did not enjoy, fear and rage like he'd never known. He'd only ever felt rage at a 3, maybe a 4 at most. Then suddenly he'd leaped to a 9, a 10. It shocked him. Hurt him, and he shrugged it off pretty easily. Hurt his friends, and he seemed to react like how most people treat attacks on themselves. It was… troublesome. Worrying.

It had only been this way with family before. And Sophie, once. He hadn't felt this way in years.

He didn't regret being friends with Avery. Yet he realized from now on that he should be very careful who he chose as a friend. He decided he'd keep a small circle. He was friendly with folk like Cale, but he was not a true friend. Before today, Zane had only counted Reina.

Now there was Avery.