A fainting Noble

All that remained to show for the work of the abomination was clear skin—not marred by the weight of battle or the events from moments before. The stale air originally thick with the scent of blood and underlying rot was now charged with the acrid scent of ashes. The ground beneath Krael's feet was marked with the shadowy remnants of the previous scuffle.

But how was that possible?...

Anyone present, if there had been any, would have sworn that they saw those monstrous jaws tear into his flesh with brutal carnage. They would testify to the snapping of some bones. Yet in a single moment, the abomination had crumbled to ashes after imploding upon itself, leaving no evidence of the catastrophic scene before.

Krael had come out on top in this scuffle, barely breaking a sweat. His serene and slightly arrogant features hid the unyielding pain that raged within his body—pain just as monstrous as the force behind that bite.

Flawless was the outside, broken and wounded was the inside. Bearing no wounds to tell the tale of the pain and invisible scars he bore. His spirit was battered and broken beyond what many would handle, but he stood short nonetheless. His waning pride bore the weight of his ego and arrogance.

Maybe if he had just stayed in the manor, then maybe he would not have to feel this pathetic in the first place. 

The only proof of the earlier conflict was the shredded pieces of his robe scattered on the ground.

Before he could catch his breath, another monstrosity lunged at him, only to meet the same fate as its predecessor.

Muscles bulged, organs strained, and soon came the sickening sound of cracking bones within it, followed by the maddeningly hollow yet resilient screams. Then, as if consumed by some unseen force or law, the creature burst into ashes, carried away by the heavy wind. The cause and logic behind the strange phenomena would remain a mystery.

Strangely enough, all this creature did was sink its claws into his flesh, yet the result was all the same.

Was it because they tasted his flesh? Or was there another force at play? The answers were oddly elusive, even to the observer in the rain.

The abominations, even after witnessing the death of their kin, continued to lunge at him in relentless waves. For they were helpless too.

They had no choice in the matter.

'Do what you were born for, no matter the price.

Were the words engraved into their very core, just like the chains they inherited from their fathers before them—a ruinous legacy that has haunted generations and generations of abominations.

They were driven by instincts hardwired into their souls that demanded they die rather than flee in defeat.

In what could be considered a twisted sense of pride.

Her motives were unknown. 

And so they repeated the cycle. As many as they came, as many tasted his flesh, as many scattered into the wind.

Just as often he healed, returning to new in a matter of seconds.

And with each tear, bite, or flesh opening that he got, a fresh torent of agony would surge through him, searing like molten gold coursing down his insides and rolling with his noble veins.

Eventually, an opening appeared. Krael moved, his blades flashing in darkness. His movements were sharp and precise, an elegant rhythm dance, fluid like the blood flowing on the cobbled streets. Masterful, like aged wine, and swift as the wind.

Each movement was a deadly dance of steel. Each slash and strike was executed with skill befitting of the noble that he was.

Deadly combat given art, proof of the countless 'trainings' he did. Yet..... contrary to all expectations, there was no flying of limbs, no tearing of abomination flesh, no spilling of ichor so dark it could drown shadows.

Instead, it was all like his flowery moves were just for show; there was no strength behind his cuts or attacks. And it wasn't that the monsters had steel-like skin; well, in part they did.

It wasn't a feint on his part either; there was simply no force behind all his masterful moves.

His blades sliced through the air, cutting cleanly, yet there was no lasting mark.

Unlike his disappointing performance though, the monstrous claws always hit home, driving so deep into his flesh that some of it was pulled off, only for it all to disperse into ashes.

Many of the monsters turned into ashes for the sin of touching his flesh.

All that was left for his moves was the defense they provided him. Lessening the would-be pain he would have received otherwise.

The battle raged on—a desperate clash of finesse against overwhelming feral savagery. The rain poured harder and heavier, snarls grew louder, and the darkness thickened. But Krael stood firm; the pain had reached a point where his eyes saw nothing but black. Blinding him to the world around him.

His eyes, overwhelmed by the stimulus, shut themselves off.

But his pride would not allow him to cry, nor would his knees buckle under the onslaught of a monstrous savagery.

He refused to allow himself to be at the mercy of anyone, and so he would not yield.

He fought relentlessly, each swing of his blades a testimony of his noble artistry. But no matter how sharp his strikes were or how fluid he danced, he couldn't master the power to make them count.

Every blow failed to cause them any major harm; instead, it seemed to ignite a fury in them, as though he mocked them with his futile attacks. The madness escalated.

Claws lashed out, and rows of teeth snapped dangerously close to his skin. but they all turned to ashes in the end.

The pain was unbearable, searing through his body with vengeance, flowing like flames in his body, replacing the very sensation of blood within him. His nerves were fried, yet his skin remained unblemished—soft even—a cruel enigma that mocked him.

Shame churned and boiled in his chest, boiling over into deep-seated frustration that had no output.

Yet his body failed him. 

His arms trembled under the strain and exhaustion. The act of running alone left him breathless.

His face twisted into indignation at his helplessness; at the anger brought on by shame, he sought to scream out to the Diearchs that saw it fit, to play him as entertainment. Giving him so much potential and yet no strength to unearth it out.

But he would rather be buried right here and now than to accept that he would have to beg them in the end.

"I would rather die..." His voice was snarky and venomous. 

He wouldn't let his pride crumble.

His eyes, blind from pain, glazed like those of the dead, his body moving on willpower alone.

So he fought in silence, his ego a fragile pillar keeping him upright as his body faltered beneath him. Every breath, every step was agony, but he moved. He refused to fall.

The monsters grew smarter. They no longer bit him; instead, they used brute force, pounding and slamming into him. It proved more effective as they no longer faced instant death.

Though Krael appeared unscathed, his movements grew weaker, and the satisfaction it brought was all these abominations needed.

Unknown to him yet, was that as he struggled, another presence had entered the fray, blending into the chaos of blades and fists.

From within the veil, this figure struck with precision, backed up by a force that shook the streets, striking down monstrosities in sickening crunches and slashes. One by one, they succumbed to his blade and power.

The pressure on Krael lessened as their numbers waned. 

At first, he didn't notice. Blinded by pain and anger, his mind could not register the shift.

The figure moved with ease, unburdened by the darkness, dispatching foes with ruthless efficiency. Flesh tore from bone, ichor blending into the heavy rain, flooding the cobbled streets.

Soon, only two monsters remained. Krael, exhausted, couldn't continue.

His blades slipped from his trembling hands, clattering to the ground. The world tilted, and he staggered.

The shame burned hotter than the pain.

He was weak.

He couldn't even finish a fight.....

His pride, once a blazing star, flickered dangerously, nearly extinguished.

But with a defiant roar from deep within, it reignited, brighter than ever.

A blazing will was born, if only for this little moment in time.

He was proud, and he would not falter.

But man dreams, and the gods opposed.

His world blacked out. His body gave out, falling headfirst—until a pair of arms caught him.

"You cause me too much pain, young master." A soothing voice murmured, laced with an alarming amount of concern and pain.

"How I wish you'd let me help you..."

Krael heard these words just before he succumbed to the peace of his inner mind—the world drowning in overwhelming silence.

--------

The year of the surge had come to an end, and the County of Maesta would welcome a new year.

Strangely enough, no matter how hard you looked, you would never find a single corpse.

Young Count Krael Maesta had likely chewed off more than he could swallow with his actions of the just concluding year, and he would soon realize the severity of the situation.

Though the 'Veil of Sorrow and despair' hung thick, they had rid the town of the blighted curse. And soon they would welcome the coming of First Dawn and the beginning of New Light; this darkness would remain a dark memory as it should.