chapter 26: Definition of aura

The battle erupted in a whirlwind of steel and blood. One of Kallavan's men, a warrior with fierce eyes and a grim set to his jaw, thrust his spear downwards with brutal force. The spearhead pierced through the gap created by a sword blade that had already penetrated the helmet of one of the Duke's guards. The point shattered the man's teeth, hidden behind his sealed lips, before continuing its descent into his throat. The knight choked and sputtered, his struggles growing weaker with each passing second until he finally fell still.

The Grimstone warrior, his spear now firmly embedded in the dead man's throat, noticed a trickle of blood leaking from the helmet, dripping onto the polished floor like water from a faulty tap. As one such drop fell, it disturbed the stagnant air, revealing a subtle movement on one of the ornate chandeliers hanging above. The golden snake, part of the chandelier's intricate design, was no longer still. It moved with a disturbing stealth, its golden scales gleaming in the dim light.

The snake struck with astonishing speed, uncoiling from the chandelier and extending its body downwards, baring its fangs. The Grimstone warrior, reacting instantly, swung his spear upwards, both to repel the serpent and to dislodge the dead knight's corpse. The body was flung from the spear, arcing through the air and landing squarely in the snake's open jaws.

As the snake attempted to swallow its unexpected meal, the warrior used the leverage of the impaled corpse to drive the spear downwards, impaling the snake onto the polished floor. The spear tip protruded from the snake's belly, pinning it in place.

The warrior then met the snake's gaze. Its eyes were cold and reptilian, and as he stared into them, a strange sensation washed over him. It was as if the room began to grow darker, the light dimming imperceptibly. The sounds of battle, the clash of steel and the cries of men, seemed to fade, becoming muffled and distant.

Suddenly, a sharp pain erupted in his neck. One of the Duke's guards, having managed to flank him in the chaos, had beheaded him. From the dying warrior's perspective, the world began to dim, the light fading rapidly. His vision tilted downwards, the last thing he saw being the snake's cold, unblinking eyes before darkness consumed him.

The chaos of the battle provided a fleeting opportunity. One of Kallavan's men, a wiry warrior with quick reflexes, saw his chance. While the other Grimstone warriors were engaged in fierce combat with the Duke's guards, this man seized the moment. He darted away from the fray, weaving between the struggling figures, his eyes fixed on the exit.

He sprinted across the polished floor, his boots clicking against the smooth stone. He passed the fallen bodies, the pools of blood reflecting the flickering light of the chandeliers. Then, he reached them: the intricate magic circles etched into the floor and the ominous crimson line that marked their boundary.

He didn't hesitate. With a burst of speed, he leaped across the crimson line, his momentum carrying him past the final circle. For a moment, nothing happened. He landed lightly on the other side, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He glanced back at the swirling chaos of the battle, a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He had made it. He was free.

But then, the air around him began to shimmer and distort. The polished floor beneath his feet seemed to ripple like water. A low hum filled the air, growing steadily louder. The man felt a strange pressure building within him, as if his very being was being compressed and stretched simultaneously.

He cried out in alarm, clutching at his head. His vision blurred, the room around him twisting and turning. The sounds of battle became a distorted cacophony, echoing in his ears. He stumbled, his legs giving way beneath him, and he collapsed onto the floor, his body contorting in unnatural ways.

From the perspective of those still fighting within the marked area, it appeared as if the fleeing warrior simply tripped and fell. But to the man himself, his reality was being torn apart. He saw flashes of impossible landscapes, heard whispers in languages he didn't understand, and felt sensations that defied description. His body was being subjected to forces beyond his comprehension, and his mind was rapidly unraveling.

The last thing he perceived before his consciousness shattered completely was a single, piercingly clear image: a vast, swirling vortex of colors and shapes, consuming everything in its path. Then, there was only nothingness.

From the perspective of those still engaged in the fight within the marked area, the fleeing warrior's escape took a gruesome turn. He didn't simply fall; his body began to distort and elongate, stretching into thin, grotesque strands of flesh, as if his very being was being pulled apart. It was a horrifying spectacle, a visible manifestation of his soul being torn asunder. Then, these strands of flesh, this grotesque amalgamation, shot towards the Duke, flowing like viscous liquid and disappearing into the wound in his shoulder, sealing it shut.

The Grimstone warriors, hardened by years of brutal combat, were unfazed by the gruesome display. One of them, whose helmet was shaped like a lion's skull, thought to himself with a sneer, "A fool. He was always a coward." He then swung his sword in a wide arc. The Duke's guard he was fighting managed to block the blow, but the force of the impact was immense. The shockwave reverberated through the guard's body, shattering his sword and leaving a deep dent in his armor. In that brief moment of vulnerability, the Grimstone warrior threw the broken hilt of his sword. It pierced the guard's shoulder and, with horrifying precision, exited through the open maw of the lion skull helmet, impaling the man's head.

Kallavan's man still held his ground, swinging his greatsword down towards the earth, causing a massive upheaval of rubble and debris. As the armored guard, momentarily blinded by the dust cloud, tried to clear his vision, another sword, seemingly from nowhere, plunged into his heart. He looked towards the Duke, his eyes widening in shock and pain.

The Duke's shoulder, where the rod had pierced him and the flesh had been torn apart, was now sealed, but the healing was far from natural. The flesh around the wound bubbled and writhed, becoming grotesquely out of shape and disfigured, as if afflicted by some dark disease or curse. It was dark, almost black, and covered in boils and swollen veins. Black blood seemed to boil beneath the surface.

The Duke, despite the horrific sight of his own wound, smiled weakly. "Just as I expected," he murmured. "But to be sure…"

The guard who had been impaled by the sword was still struggling, desperately trying to pull the blade free. The Grimstone warrior who had delivered the blow raised his sword again, preparing to strike the killing blow. The dying man, his voice filled with terror and desperation, cried out, "No! No, please!"

The Grimstone warrior, with a grunt of exertion, kicked the dying guard, sending him flying backwards, out of the magic circle. As the man's body landed beyond the crimson line, a similar amalgamation of flesh, like a displaced soul, shot towards the Duke's body, entering the now-sealed wound.

The Duke screamed, the renewed agony sending him lurching back against his throne. The flesh of his shoulder began to boil and swell once more, steam rising from the grotesque wound. The swelling continued to increase until, with a sickening burst, it erupted, spraying blood across the chamber.

The blood splattered everywhere: on the polished floor, the ornate walls, the fighting warriors. But the most striking splatter was the one that landed on the back of the Duke's throne, against the wall. The blood formed a distinct pattern: a perfect, crimson maple leaf.Ares, the Grimstone warrior with the lion skull helmet, his gaze falling upon the crimson maple leaf imprinted on the wall behind the throne, grinned. He turned his head slightly towards Kallavan, still engaged in fierce combat, and said, "Boss, you know what that means."

Kallavan, his long hair now cropped short and practical for battle, parried a blow from one of the four guards he was facing, a wide smile spreading across his face. "Aye," he replied, his voice laced with grim satisfaction.

The Duke, Gregorus Martinelli, slumped against his throne, his eyes rolling back in his head, his breath coming in ragged gasps. That bastard, he thought, a wave of despair washing over him. Kallavan knew about the spell. He scraped away parts of the magic circles… but how? How could he have known? The realization struck him like a physical blow. I was overconfident.

He mentally reviewed the spell, the intricate web of runes and circles designed to protect the throne and its occupant. The crimson line, the final boundary, was crucial. Anyone who spilled the blood of the one seated upon the throne was meant to pay with their life. The spell was designed to instantly drain their life force, ensuring swift retribution. But now…

The mana flow… it's short-circuited, he realized, his thoughts racing. The scraping of the circles, especially where they intersected with the crimson line… it must have corrupted the spell. It's incomplete. The intended effect had been twisted, warped. Instead of claiming the lives of those who spilled blood, the spell was now absorbing the very essence of those who fell within its influence, pulling them towards the throne, towards him. It wasn't taking their life force; it was taking something… more.

The pain in his shoulder intensified, the grotesque wound continuing to writhe and bubble. He felt a strange sensation, a mingling of foreign presences within him, their thoughts and emotions swirling within his own mind, a strong sense of fear, desperation, and rage.

Then, with a sudden surge of strength fueled by desperation and impending death, the Duke raised a hand and bellowed, his voice thick with pain and tinged with a drunken quality, "Stop!"

An unnatural stillness fell over the chamber he did it in a similar pose recreating the scene of king Baldwin IV. It felt as if the very mana in the room had solidified, making movement incredibly difficult. Each step felt like wading through thick sand, every breath a labored effort.

From all parts of the tower, spirits began to converge, drawn by the sudden, intense concentration of mana. They swirled and drifted towards the throne room, eager to partake in the energy. But as they entered the confines of the magic circles, they recoiled in horror. The Grimstone warriors and the Duke himself were shrouded in a thick, palpable miasma, a dark aura that spoke of corruption and death. The spirits, sensing this taint, fled in terror, desperate to escape the encroaching darkness.

But the corrupted spell had other plans. It reached out, pulling the fleeing spirits back towards the throne. They were drawn into the Duke's outstretched arms, their ethereal forms merging with his. As they were absorbed, their pale essence seemed to revitalize the Duke, healing his wounds. But this healing came at a terrible cost. His skin took on an unnatural pallor, his fingers turning black, and dark markings, like grotesque eye bags, appeared beneath his now completely white, dull eyes.

At the same time, the warriors and guards still within the circle began to feel an agonizing pull, as if their very souls were being ripped from their bodies. One by one, they collapsed, their life force draining away, fueling the Duke's grotesque recovery.

The Duke, now standing, though he looked gaunt and sickly, reached down and retrieved the metallic mask from his throne. He placed it upon his face, the cold metal clicking into place. As he took his first step, the polished floor beneath his feet began to crack and darken, the corruption spreading outwards from the throne like a stain.

Ares, the Grimstone warrior with the lion skull helmet, finally managed to take stock of the situation. He looked around the chamber, his eyes widening in disbelief. All of his comrades, save for Kallavan, were dead, their bodies lying still on the corrupted floor. All of the Duke's guards were also dead, except for one knight who was slowly, deliberately sheathing his sword.

The simple act of sheathing his sword, a motion that should have been effortless, became a monumental struggle for the knight. It was as if the very act of containing the blade, of withholding its potential for violence, caused the suppressed energy to erupt in other ways. Invisible slashes of energy ruptured and flowed through the air, manifesting as invisible wounds on any opponent nearby, a phantom echo of the violence the sword was being denied.