Fork This Life!

Side Story 1: Hermenegild

There were a people who lived deep underground, far from the touch of sunlight, the wind and the rain. When they first entered those depths, many generations before, they were halflings, short and gentle folk who could be mistaken for human children from a distance.

Now, with milky white skin and overly large eyes, their surface-dwelling cousins referred to them as deep halflings - not from fear, but merely from recognition of the fact that the two peoples were no longer the same.

Among them were two enchanters of exceptional skill, even for the deep halflings. As these things often happened, the two, man and woman, developed feelings for one another, married, and had a child.

The couple named him Hermenegild, which meant ‘immense treasure’, for they felt he was considerably more valuable to them than even their significant wealth. Before long, it became apparent that he was extraordinary.

Hermenegild’s tiny, pale hand held a piece of charcoal, drawing patterns on the cave floor half-seen from his parents’ notes. The cave was poorly lit, so it was with some difficulty that he crudely drew what parts of it he could remember.

Standing up to view his work, his gaze was drawn to a particular pattern, more complete than the others. Sitting back down in front of it, he again put his charcoal to use, joining incomplete lines together. He didn’t understand enough at the time to know exactly why he drew those lines as he did, but the pattern had a high degree of symmetry, something his young mind had evidently picked up on and used to deduce the complete pattern.

Even though the pattern was completed, Hermenegild still felt that something was missing. He felt something shift within him, and he instinctively guided the feeling towards the pattern on the ground, causing it to emit a dim light.

That day he simultaneously completed his first enchantment and used mana for the first time.

By the time his parents found him, Hermenegild, buoyed by his first success, had somehow managed to complete another pattern, and was watching in rapture a tiny wisp of flame twisting above it.

He was barely a year old.

At four years of age, Hermenegild enchanted tools to have greater strength and durability, showing no sign of the crudeness of his first attempts.

His parents would catalyse his enchantments with their own mana, significantly stronger in the arcane arts as they were.

They were hesitant at first to teach him at so young an age, but he seemed to have little interest in anything else and he had such a voracious appetite for knowledge that they almost felt it was wrong not to.

That appetite, two experienced and knowledgeable teachers and an almost supernatural talent for the craft meant that he advanced extremely quickly.

Another four years passed, and Hermenegild did not relax in his studies.

Seeking knowledge not contained within his own community, he spent time learning from the gnomes and even one of the more friendly factions of the drow (albeit under heavy guard).

By the time he returned home, he had touched upon nearly every branch and variation of magic. He had not yet had the time to venture too deeply into them, but he had learned enough to be useful.

At this point his enchanting knowledge and skill was almost equal to that of his parents, and his knowledge of magic as a whole even surpassed them.

Another two years passed, and Hermenegild’s skill had again increased, but not at the same breakneck pace as before.

His parents, fearing for his social life, had pushed him to join in more with the community, which he had previously been ignoring in favour of his studies.

They introduced him to the blacksmith who supplied them with tools, the baker, the seamsters, the farmers and a dozen other people of various professions.

Thereafter, whenever the family was running low on anything, Hermenegild would be the one to go and purchase more and bring it home.

At first, he resented the distraction. Why, all the time spent fetching materials or food was time he could have been using to study enchanting, and therefore time wasted.

But then he noticed a few things.

For starters, the other boys his age were very happy doing… Whatever it was they were doing with that sphere. He was sure it wasn’t enchanting - his parents would have mentioned if there were such a strange method, or he would have come across some record of it.

Interest piqued, he inquired as to the objective of their apparent sphere-kicking and was quickly drafted into the game. He was absolutely terrible at it, but that didn’t stop him.

The next day he returned wearing enchanted equipment which enhanced his speed and strength. For the first half hour he kept stumbling over himself even worse than the previous day, over judging how much strength he needed to put into movements because of the sudden increase.

After he got used to it… Well, despite his newfound physical advantage, the other boys were still considerably more skilled at the game, and out-manoeuvred him at every turn. He soon decided that as enchantments could not give him a conclusive advantage, he would just have to practice instead. After that, he would go down there nearly every day.

His parents were quite delighted.

He also found that freshly baked bread released a tantalisingly delicious smell that led almost without exception to him purchasing a loaf for himself - and when he couldn’t finish it himself, the other boys - to eat.

Through this he made another discovery - the baker’s daughter was really quite pretty.

Of course, being young, the attempts he made to impress her more often led to him embarrassing himself, but he always managed to at least make her laugh, and that was reason enough for him to keep trying.

The deep halflings were not unlike their surface-dwelling cousins in their distaste for conflict, but unlike the halflings, so secluded and away from the rest of the world, the deep halflings were not alone underground, and their neighbours did not always have the best of intentions.

There were the arachne, beings that were part man, part spider, powerful and more than willing to kill and eat anything and anyone that crossed their path. Still, apart from what was dubbed ‘silk season’ by the seamsters and ‘hell season’ by everyone else, they kept to their own parts of the underground.

More dangerous were the drow, dark cousins of surface-dwelling elves that preferred not to be likened to their ‘lesser’ relatives. Sly and ambitious, the only thing that stopped them from warring with other races more than they already did was internal conflict between drow factions.

In order to protect themselves from the drow, the deep halflings allied themselves with the last prominent race in their section of the underground: the gnomes.

The gnomes had been down there for a long time before the halflings, and had had to survive on their own against the physically superior drow and arachne. They did this with a fusion of magic and scientific technologies, creating weapons and equipment which would grant great fighting power to whomever used them.

In return for the use of the deep halflings’ enchanting prowess, the gnomes would defend them in their times of need.

Three years later, Hermenegild was thirteen, and the best enchanter among the deep halflings by a considerable margin, designing and creating marvels of enchanting which awed the other enchanters in the town.

He still went out with the other boys to play, visited the bakery and tried to make the baker’s daughter smile and laugh, but at the same time his works were in high demand among the halflings and gnomes alike.

Things were going well, to say the least.

...Of course, if things continued that way it wouldn’t be much of a story, and the world today might be a very different place.

Hermenegild’s parents woke him from sleep one night with grim expressions and brought him along to the town hall. As they walked, he idly wondered what the toll of the bell echoing through the caves meant.

It wasn’t just them and the town head there, either. Before long, nearly everyone worthy of note in the town was there - the butcher, the baker, the seamsters, the head of the guard - who defended the town against more mundane threats like monsters or a stray arachne - to mention a few.

Every one of them were at least a decade older than himself, so Hermenegild was feeling very out of place, standing there in silence as the town head checked that everyone who was meant to be there, was.

Finally, he sighed. “Everyone’s here, so I’ll get started. Ceris, who was gathering intelligence among the drow, sent us a message.” He held up a notebook.

Hermenegild recognised it as one of a pair, enchanted with sympathetic magic to mimic what was written in its twin, and vice versa. A simple enough enchantment and very useful, although weaker enchantments would have debilitating limitations on range.

“The drow are planning to mount another attack on us.” The town head said.

A few people gasped, although the head of the guard was unfazed. “What’s the problem? We got intel early this time. Contact the gnomes, and they should have plenty of time to prepare a defence.”

A few people nodded, Hermenegild included. It was hell season, so the drow would have to wait until it ended to mount their assault. At least, that’s what the history books Hermenegild had read said. There hadn’t been an attack in his lifetime.

“Unfortunately, the situation is worse than you think.” The town head shook his head. “Ceris says they have some way to avoid the arachne. We don’t have a couple of months, we have a week, at best. And the gnomes can’t help us.”

The room became deathly quiet.

“You mean… We’re on our own?” The head guard asked, his face paling to an almost ghostly white.

The town head nodded tiredly. “How many fighting men do we have?”

“Eleven.” The head of the guard gulped. “I was there at the last battle with the drow. Our boys won’t be able to defeat a drow in single combat, even with enchanted equipment. And there’ll be hundreds of them.”

There was no sign of surprise in the town head’s face. He had been told exactly what he expected to hear. “If anyone has any suggestions, I’m open to hearing them.”

“We could collapse the entrance tunnels and caves.” Someone suggested bleakly.

“I doubt it will do much more than delay them, but at this point I’ll take what I can get. Anything else?” He asked again.

“Could we enchant the area they go through to go up in flames when they go over it?” Someone else asked dubiously.

They looked to Hermenegild and his parents.

Hermenegild was still in shock over what was happening, so his parents answered. “It could be done, yes. But it would require quite a bit of mana… We would probably only be able to activate it a few times, and only if everyone were to supply mana to it.”

“Better than nothing.” The town head sighed. “Make it happen.”

A few other methods were discussed, but none of them were able to come up with anything powerful or ingenious enough to save them.

Hermenegild and his parents returned to their home with gloomy faces. After arriving, they sat at the table, none of them feeling like returning to sleep after what they had learned.

After a minute of silence, Hermenegild asked quietly, “Are we going to die? All of us?”

His parents didn’t say anything, their silence telling him what he didn’t want to hear.

“I’m going to go to the workshop. See if I can think of anything.”

His parents watched him leave, still silent.

“Can you think of anything?” The father asked his wife. “Because I’m drawing a blank.”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

He nodded sadly. “Do you think he’ll be able to think of anything?”

“If he can’t, then I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do.” She replied, looking towards the workshop.

He sighed, something that was all too common that night. “We should get some rest. We have that enchantment to do in the morning.”

In the morning, Hermenegild’s bed was still empty, so his parents went to the workshop to check on him.

They found him sitting on a chair sobbing into his arms with stacks of paper and tomes strewn about the desk in front of him.

Immediately, they went to embrace him. “It’s alright…” His mother comforted him. “We have some time, you’ll think of something.”

“I already have.” Hermenegild sobs. “But it’s hardly any better than letting the drow kill us.” He waved at the paper in front of him, an intricate lattice of designs and formulas.

His parents look at the paper, and then at each other. Apart from a few of the components, they couldn’t understand what it did or how it worked whatsoever.

“What does it do?” His father asked.

“It’s based loosely on drow magic, but I improved the design significantly, so it’s much more efficient than anything they could create.” He explained, a little bit of light returning to his eyes before they dimmed again. “It… If you put it on a weapon, and use it to... To stab someone in the heart and activate the enchantment, then it will… Drain the victim’s strength and channel it into the user.”

His mother shook her head. “A temporary enhancement, even if it stacked, wouldn’t be enough to overcome an army.”

“It’s permanent.” Hermenegild said hoarsely. “And you still don’t understand. I modified the enchantment so that it will have greater effect if the victim is willing.”

“Willing? But the drow…” Puzzled his mother.

His father’s face hardened. “Not the drow.”

Hermenegild nodded. “The only way I could possibly conceive of us winning was for someone to use this to… Kill some of the townsfolk and create a warrior capable of fighting an army by himself.”

“What!?” His mother gasped, before seeming to cool down abruptly. “How… How many people would it take?”

“I don’t know!” Hermenegild cried in distress. “A quarter of us, a half, maybe even the whole town wouldn’t be enough! Like I said, it’s almost better to just let them kill us all.”

“Calm down, Hermen.” His father soothed him. “Have some rest, then try and think of something else. We’ll inform the town head that we have this… At least as a last resort. This isn’t a decision we can make ourselves.”

“Alright…” Hermenegild got up and traipsed out to his room.

“We may not have a choice but to use it, if he doesn’t come up with something better.” The town head said after hearing their explanation. “We’ve lost contact with Ceris - the notebook melted into acrid goop early this morning. See me again at the end of the day. If there’s nothing new, I’ll put it to a vote.”

Hermenegild’s parents, along with the other enchanters, made good progress during the day enchanting the ground of the cave the drow would have to cross to enter the town.

They returned home in the evening to find Hermenegild in the workshop with dozens of balled up papers strewn around the floor.

Hearing their footsteps, he turned his head towards them. “Nothing.” He croaked. “I wasn’t able to come up with anything else.”

His parents embraced him, murmuring meaningless assurances.

After a while his father stood up. “Come on. We need to let the town head know. He’s going to put it to a vote, whether we should use that enchantment or not.”

“Nothing?” The town head asked.

“Nothing.” Hermenegild’s father replied.

The town head sighed heavily and signed to a man waiting just nearby.

Moments later a bell began to toll, different to the one the previous night. This one called a congregation of not just the town’s most prominent members, but of its entire population.

It took almost an hour for them to congregate, a milling crowd of perhaps a thousand people with a constant whisper of conversation audible throughout it.

The town head stood at the front at a raised podium. Once he was satisfied everyone was there, the town head began to speak, raising a cone enchanted to amplify sound that passed through it to his mouth. “Thank you, everyone, for coming. Most of you are already aware, but the drow will be mounting an assault on the town within a matter of days.” The statement was met by silence. “The drow,” he continued, “have discovered some means of travelling during hell season, an ability that our allies, the gnomes, do not possess themselves. For this fight, we are alone.”

Some people began to sob.

“Naturally, we are doing what we can to prepare defences, but to be perfectly honest… We can delay them, we can hurt them, but we don’t have even the slightest hope of beating them.”

More sobs.

“Young Hermenegild has… Come up with something that… You know what, he can probably explain it a great deal better than me.” The town head said, beckoning to Hermenegild.

Hermenegild was completely taken aback; he had not been told about this!

“What do I say!?” He whispered furiously to his parents.

“Just… Tell them why nothing else would work, then tell them what it does. After that, it’s up to them.” His mother whispered back.

Hermenegild nodded and headed up to the podium. The town head handed the speaker cone to him and stepped down from the podium.

Hermenegild looked at it numbly, his mind panicked from having the gazes of everyone he knew fixed on him, all at once. He knew its workings. Heck, he might have been the one who enchanted this particular one. He checked the rim for the signature he engraved in every tool he made; instead, he found his mother’s.

A small smile flickered onto his face for the first time that day, and his mind calmed. He stepped up to the podium, raised the cone and began to speak. “Initially, I thought of creating a weapon, ranged, easy to use but deadly. I found the design to be feasible. If everyone in town had one of those weapons, it would be impossible for the drow to breach our defences.”

The townspeople began to look excited, but their faces fell at his next words.

“I scrapped that idea. With the time and resources we have, we would only be able to make one or two dozen, not enough to make a significant difference.”

A few of the other enchanters in the crowd nodded. Even the simplest enchantments took time, and there simply wasn’t enough of it.

“Then I thought of designing a single weapon, powerful enough to destroy their entire army. I discarded that idea part way through the design process for the same reasons. It would be too complex to complete within the time we have.”

By now, the townspeople were listening silently. It was clear to them already that whatever he ended his speech on, it wouldn’t be a miracle solution.

“Armour, equipment - the same. If we were to try something as large scale as collapsing a cave on top of their army, it would also take too long to prepare, and after all that they would be likely to notice it and find a way to circumvent it.”

Hermenegild looked at the town, and a sea of glum faces stared back at him.

“I was on the verge of frustration when I had the worst best idea I’ve ever had: create a warrior capable of defeating the entire drow army by himself.”

A few people gasped in surprise, but most of them were sceptical.

“Naturally, it’s not that easy to make someone that powerful. There’s always a price. Normally it would just be in the materials or mana, but in this case it’s a lot worse. I took a drow sacrificial ritual, simplified it, improved it and miniaturised it, adding a few extra restrictions to reduce the normally exorbitant mana cost…”

Several hundred people’s eyes glazed over.

“I wish I had never created it. Personally, I hope it never sees the light of day.” Hermenegild took a deep breath. “The enchantment, placed upon a suitable weapon, allows one to permanently absorb the strength of anyone they killed with it, should the victim be willing. The drow… Won’t be willing. The only way to create a warrior strong enough is that some of us, perhaps many of us, are sacrificed.”

Hermenegild hung his head.

The town head stepped up with a second speaker cone. “I’m going to put whether we use this enchantment or not to a vote, but before that, I’d like to ask a few questions for clarification. How much strength is transferred?”

Hermenegild shook his head. “I can’t be sure. It’s never been tested, and I have no practical experience in this. Theoretically it could be as much as twenty, twenty-two percent, but realistically it may be less.”

“How many might have to be… Sacrificed?” The town head gulped.

“I don’t know.” Hermenegild admitted. “At least a few hundred, perhaps more. It might not be enough even if all of us are sacrificed.”

The town head nodded stiffly. “Alright, I think everybody has heard everything they want to know. Before we vote, I’m just going to say my part. I know this isn’t a good solution, not by a longshot, but it’s the only one we’ve got. This gives us a chance to survive.”

“Now, if you agree with using this, please move to my right,” the town head motions with his free hand, “otherwise to my left.”

There was a great shuffle as people moved to their preferred side. Once everything settled down, the results were clear: they would use the enchantment.

“It seems the people have decided. Hermenegild, get onto creating that weapon as fast as possible. Everyone else, get some sleep. I’ll call another meeting when it’s ready.”

Hermenegild and his parents were just about to enter the house to start work when someone caught up with them.

“Town head said you could use this.” He said, handing them a dark bluish-grey dagger of a length that would be a bit long for a halfling but short for a human. The shape of the knife itself was nondescript; it was something that any weaponsmith would make hundreds of during their lifetime. “It’s of gnome make, one of their experimental alloys. They say it’s even tougher than mithril, and still conducts mana just as well.”

They took the dagger and thanked him.

Inside the workshop, Hermenegild’s father took a sword - steel, also made by the gnomes - and slashed it down, edge on edge, onto the dagger.

The sword came out with a deep notch in its edge while the dagger had nary a scratch. “It’s quality stuff, alright.” Hermenegild’s father nodded. “We’ll have to use our best tools.”

The three of them spent the whole night and the better part of the next day etching the design onto the blade. Not only was the hardness of the blade making the work much tougher than normal, but Hermenegild’s design was incredibly intricate, and the whole thing had to fit onto the blade of the dagger. Add onto that the pressure of the entire town depending on them, and the effort involved was incredible.

They worked through a magnifying glass of similar quality to a jeweller’s loupe, their hands moving with as much careful precision as a surgeon’s. Wiping the sweat from their brows was a constant occurrence, and even a single small mistake would render their efforts thus far worthless… But eventually it was completed successfully.

Breathing heavy sighs of relief, they etched a thin line down from the design to the handle of the dagger - it would be through this that the user would supply mana to the enchantment.

Once this was done, they went to work with files and sandpaper, smoothing down the rough edges of their etching and readying it for the next step, which was to pour a highly mana conductive substance into the pattern and leave it to set.

Then they had to sand down any spillage and make it level with the surface of the blade… All in all, it was a long and arduous process.

Finally, it was done. This was an enchantment that had to be activated, rather than one that was permanently active, so Hermenegild’s father picked up the dagger and ran his mana through it to test it.

He frowned, and ran it through again.

Nothing.

Hermenegild looked at the etched pattern for what felt like the hundredth time, then compared it to his original design. They were completely identical, without mistake or blemish. He pored over the design once again, and broke out into a cold sweat.

He had made a mistake. Moreover, it wasn’t a small one. It was a great, big, catastrophic mistake. To fully understand the enormity of this mistake, one must know some basic facts about enchantments. Namely, enchantments were designed in such a way that anyone could use them. Anyone. Even the enchantments that had to be activated were designed in such a way that all you had to do was put enough mana in and it would work.

In his frustration, stress and lack of sleep when designing it, Hermenegild had forgotten this single, crucial element of enchanting… He had, as he said, simplified and improved it, but it was still, in essence, a spell formation.

“I forgot to include a mana guidance component.” Hermenegild breathed.

“What!?” Both of his parents yelped.

“It… It should still work. Let me see…” Hermenegild picked up the dagger and began to infuse it with his mana, guiding it through the patterns in a particular order and with certain timings. After a few moments, the dagger began to radiate a dull black aura. “It’s alright… I, I can teach them how to cast it. It should be fine…”

To incorporate mana guidance, as an enchantment of this type should have, would require him to redesign the enchantment from the ground up and repeat the entire process again. It had taken around two days in total to design and produce it the first time, but they were completely burnt out, not to mention there wasn’t a second dagger of comparable quality for them to use.

Even with the benefit of already being familiar with the design elements, it would take them at least another two days to make another. And it wasn’t as if sacrificing possible hundreds of people and acclimatising to the explosive increase of power that would entail would take only an instant, either. They would need as much time as they could get.

“I hope so,” His father said worriedly, “otherwise the only one able to use this dagger will be you, Hermen.”

“I… I, I,” Hermenegild stuttered, unable to process the thought, “I need to go teach them now. No time. No time.”

Hermenegild snatched up the dagger and ran out the door. His parents hurried after him.

“You what?” The town head gasped as Hermenegild explained what had happened. “And you want to teach the person using it how to use the magic instead? But… The head guard is terrible at magic.”

“Isn’t there anyone else? One of the other guards?” Hermenegild asked desperately.

“Maybe.” The town head said, motioning someone over and saying to them, “Bring the head guard, quick.”

A few minutes later, the head guard came running along. “What’s the matter?” He asked.

“Besides everything?” The town head replied with a sigh, before quickly explaining the situation. “Is there anyone among the guard who has any skill in magic?”

“There’s one. I’ll bring him.” The head guard dashed off again, shortly returning with another man.

“Alright Hermenegild, you have two hours to teach him. After that we’ll have no choice but for you to do it instead.” The town head warned.

Hermenegild shuddered. “Yes. I’ll need some paper and charcoal for writing.”

“You’ll get it shortly.”

Hermenegild quickly explained things to the guard, who began to tremble. Once the supplies he asked for arrived, Hermenegild quickly sketched up the enchantment’s design - at this point it was practically seared into his memory - and began to explain how it worked and, more importantly, how to activate it properly.

It quickly became apparent to him that the guard had little of his own knowledge of magic, despite appearing to be more than twice his age. As time passed, Hermenegild’s hands began to shake, and he even began to cry.

It was obvious that it wouldn’t be this guard who would be using the dagger to sacrifice the people of the town and then defend it against the drow, but him, and it terrified him to no end.

Still, he pressed on teaching. Not because he hoped it would succeed, but because it gave him something to distract himself from the inevitable truth.

When an hour passed and the town head came to check on progress, Hermenegild had managed to calm down somewhat.

“I’m confident he can activate two of the components of the enchantment sufficiently well.” Hermenegild reported.

The town head paused. “How many are there?”

“Thirteen.” Hermenegild grimaced.

“...So, it’s up to you.” The town head sighed.

“Yes.” Hermenegild replied sadly.

The town head shook his head. “I’m sorry it came to this, Hermenegild. It shouldn’t be on you to bear the weight of the town. It should be on us.”

“It’s not your fault.” Hermenegild bowed his head.

“It’s not anyone’s fault. Nothing more we could do.” The town head looked to the roof of the cave, and Hermenegild was shocked to see tears flowing down his face. “I’m going to call for volunteers. You should… Prepare yourself.”

The town head returned carrying an elderly man. He laid the man carefully on the ground and beckoned Hermenegild over.

The man was severely emaciated, appearing to be little more than a sack of skin stretched over a skeleton.

“Are… Are you sure?” Hermenegild asked.

A fit of coughing wracked the man, his mouth dribbling blood as he gasped for air. He nodded weakly and, with great difficulty, moved a hand to tap at a gap between two ribs: the place where his heart was.

Hermenegild steadied his shaking hands and grasped the dagger. He began to lower it before his heart skipped a beat and he broke out into a cold sweat; in the heat of the moment he had almost forgotten to activate the spell.

Doing so, he lowered the dagger, plunging it into the elderly man’s chest with disturbing ease. The elderly man sucked in a deep breath and his eyes opened wide.

Hermenegild faintly felt something rush into him, and a flash of white crossed his vision for a brief instant, so brief that he thought he had imagined it. He could tell that his physical strength, and even his mana, had increased, not by a substantial amount, but at least by a noticeable amount.

“Did it work?” The town head asked with bated breath.

“Yes… I think so.” Hermenegild replied absentmindedly, staring down at the now deceased elderly man, the dagger still embedded in his chest.

The town head breathed a sigh of relief. “First piece of good news I’ve had all day.” He motioned to someone. “Start sending in the volunteers, and get people ready to bury the bodies.”

Hermenegild pulled the knife free from the corpse and looked at the blood in a daze. The town head clapped him on the shoulder, causing him to jump a bit.

“Keep yourself together, Hermenegild. We’ve only just started.”

Hermenegild abruptly leaned over and regurgitated the contents of his stomach onto the ground.

The first dozen or so were halflings too old or sick to live much longer. Then there were another couple dozen with disabilities - lost limbs, senses - who feared they would be useless in the coming ordeal, and wanted to make a difference in perhaps the only way they could.

Widows. Widowers. Even a few orphans, understanding the enormity of the situation, came to sacrifice themselves in hopes of saving the town.

Hermenegild took their lives and strength one by one with tears streaming down his face. Each time he felt the increase in strength less and less, not because they weren’t having as much affect but because the amount he was gaining was less and less each time in comparison to what he already had. Every time he saw that flash of white, lingering just a little bit longer every time, now too long to be dismissed as just a trick of the light or his imagination.

The volunteers stopped after around eighty were sacrificed. “Is it enough?” The town head asked.

Hermenegild stared down at his hands, stained completely red by the blood they had been covered in time and time again. They felt… Different. Stronger, tougher, yes, but they no longer felt like his hands. He realised that his entire body felt different. Strange, alien, as if it wasn’t his body at all.

Lifting the dagger, he tapped its point onto the ground - or at least, that’s what he tried to do - and it got driven into the hard stone a couple of centimetres.

He knew that it was something impossible for him to do with his full strength just a short while ago, and here he was doing it with a casual move. But he didn’t feel excited, or proud. Just numb. Numb and sad.

Pushing harder, it drove in another couple of centimetres before he hit something hard and couldn’t get any further. He pulled it out and looked up at the town head. “I don’t think it is…”

He looked back down to his hands, but heard the town head walk away very clearly with his newly enhanced senses. The bell for a town meeting soon tolled again.

Hermenegild heard the town head speaking to the town in the distance, informing them that if nobody else were to volunteer, he would have to start picking people. Shortly after this, another group of volunteers came towards him.

These people were mostly parents. Some of them he knew only by face, but some of them he knew by name, and knew quite well. He shuddered and looked away.

Every time, he tried to be as careful and do as little damage as he could, but with so little experience in his strength and it constantly increasing, he often failed, crushing chests and rupturing organs whenever he used just a bit too much force.

The bodies were carried away silently to be buried, every time, and he wept to see the damage he had wrought on the bodies of people he knew and loved.

When it was over, the town head again asked, “Is it enough?”

Hermenegild simply replied, “Get me a sword.”

After a moment of hesitation, the town head had someone fetch a sword, and presented it to Hermenegild.

Very, very carefully, Hermenegild drew the edge of the blade over his skin, opening a shallow wound. He shed more tears, but not because of the pain. “It’s not enough.”

More came, this time picked at random from among the townsfolk. Of course, children were excluded, along with their parents, if it could be helped.

Hermenegild got stronger and stronger, and the flashes of white stayed longer and longer, until eventually he opened his eyes and it didn’t go away. He looked around and saw another world - or so it seemed. The townsfolk were there, dimly shining white, and so were the caves, barely visible but there all the same.

The area around Hermenegild himself shone bright white, wisps of otherworldly light slowly fading away in every direction.

This world had no name, for no living being had ever set eyes on it before… But Hermenegild recognised it for what it was: the world of spirits, of souls. A world that only the dead realised they occupied.

Hermenegild was shocked by the realisation, but calmed down when he realised he could see the world of the living as he had before - he was still alive. The two worlds were superimposed over each other in his vision, as if looking through glass to see the world beyond but also seeing the world behind in its reflection.

The next in line stepped forth and once again, with a word of apology, Hermenegild plunged the dagger into their heart.

A small part of him was intrigued to see that the dagger still had its black aura in the spirit world, but that interest was quickly wiped away as he observed what happened next. The dagger tore a hole in the woman’s spirit. Some of her substance was channelled through the blade into Hermenegild himself, some of it drifted into the air as if blood from a wound, and the rest -

Hermenegild felt an enormous presence appear before him, so great that it seemed to encompass the entire world. He fell backward and stared as the being took the hand of the spirit, its wounds sealing up in an instant. The being paused, and turned its head to regard Hermenegild silently.

Hermenegild looked back at it, torrents of sweat rolling down his body.

It seemed to contemplate something, but then shook its head. Opening its mouth, it spoke three simple words that reverberated within Hermenegild’s very soul: “See you soon.”

Then it was gone, along with the woman’s spirit.

Hermenegild let out a sharp breath, only then realising he had been holding it. He waved away the concerned town head. “I’m fine. It… I’m fine. Keep going.”

They continued, with Hermenegild testing his arm with the sword every now and again. Each time it was a little harder for him to break the skin and the wound healed just a little faster.

He kept an eye out, but the being did not return. The spirits of the people that he sacrificed, however, would simply disappear after a moment.

He was worried about where they had gone and what was happening to them, but he already had too much to worry about with the living without worrying for the dead, too.

Finally, he pressed the sword to his arm once more, and instead of cutting his skin, the edge of the sword blunted. Bracing himself, he held the sword by the middle of the blade and drove it into his stomach. The sword bowed, and the tip snapped off.

“It’s enough…” Hermenegild sighed in relief.

The ground around him was coated in blood, and so was he, drenched in blood practically from head to toe.

The relieved townsfolk who were next in line were dismissed. The town head hesitantly approached Hermenegild. “Are… You, okay?”

“No.” He replied, looking to the ceiling of the cave. The light enchantments were dimmed to almost pitch blackness - night, the same as it had been when they started. “That took less time than I expected. How, how many did I…” He couldn’t complete the sentence.

“It took the whole day, Hermenegild.” The town head replied. “Don’t you remember? It got quicker towards the end, but at the start we always had to wait for you to regain your mana.”

“I’m trying not to remember. How many?” He repeated.

The town head’s eyes were haunted. “About… About four hundred and twenty.” He finished in little more than a whisper, but Hermenegild could hear him as clear as day.

Hermenegild slammed his fist onto the ground, smashing the stone and causing cracks to radiate outwards for almost a meter. “How did this happen?” He cried. “Four days, it only took four days for all our lives to descend into madness!”

“Yes. And you’re the only hope we have of surviving.” The town head replied. “So please, please… Pull yourself together.”

Hermenegild’s face screwed up, and for a moment the town head thought he was about to get hit. Instead, Hermenegild just stared at his hands, speechless.

The town head was suddenly reminded that despite everything that had happened in the past few days, despite everything that he did, he was still just a kid. Moving slowly towards Hermenegild, the town head attempted to embrace him.

“Don’t.” Hermenegild said, still staring at his hands. “I can’t control my strength. I make one wrong move and you could be pulverised.”

The town head stopped, and carefully stepped back.

“How much time do we have? I need to familiarise myself with this strength.” Hermenegild said.

Fishing out a notebook from his pocket, the town head opened it and flipped it to the latest entry. “They’re breaking through the cave-ins as we speak. We have a couple of hours at best.”

“It’s enough. It has to be enough.” Hermenegild said. “I’m going to the experiment caves to train until they come. Send someone for me… Or just toll the bell. I’ll hear it.”

“Alright. Good luck, Hermenegild.”

The experiment caves were empty caves, intended to be used when someone was developing new magic or enchantments that had the potential to be dangerous. They weren’t used particularly often.

That day Hermenegild used them as his training grounds. He sought to find the limits of his power and to control it. He was unsuccessful on both accounts.

First, he tested his speed, simply by attempting to run as fast as he could to the other end of the cave. In just a couple of seconds he crashed headlong into the stone wall of the cave at the other end, an oddly delayed ‘boom’ echoing throughout the cave from what seemed to be behind him.

Fearing for his life, Hermenegild checked himself over but found only a few scrapes which were already closing up.

He next attempted to test his strength by punching the wall as hard as he could. His fist became embedded into the rock, and the cave shuddered ominously around him, fragments of rock falling from the cave ceiling.

He then thought to attempt to test his magical strength, but quickly realised that because he formerly had only the mana of an average deep halfling, his knowledge of magic was focused on being as efficient and effective with as little mana as possible - he didn’t know any powerful, mana-heavy spells!

After that, he figured he would tone the test down a little and try and get a handle on his speed. There was about half an hour where he repetitively crashed into walls. It was as if Hermenegild only had two speeds: walk and goodbye.

As what little time he had left wore on, Hermenegild began to feel an uncomfortable sensation, but different from anything he had ever felt before. It was like an itch, but not, and everywhere, but nowhere. He could not determine what it was or what was causing it, and it worried him.

Then the bells rang.

Hermenegild ran as fast as he could, crashing into things at every corner. In just over minute he was at the entrance to the town, a string of buildings with the imprint of a young halfling in them laid out behind him. On his belt was the enchanted dagger, sheathed, and in his hand was a mithril great sword longer than he was tall.

The gnomes had sent it over to be enchanted just before hell season, but Hermenegild hadn’t managed it in time, so it had just sat there waiting for time to pass so it could be delivered. It was originally intended to be used by gnomish mechanical warriors, but he figured he was strong enough to use it himself.

There were a few narrow misses on the way over there where he nearly killed himself with it, and now he wasn’t so sure.

He saw many of the town’s remaining men and some of the women standing around fearfully wearing a variety of arms and armour behind a makeshift wooden palisade. With his extremely sharp ocular capacity, he instantly spotted the town head and the head guard standing atop the single lookout tower.

Hermenegild sighed. How was he going to make his way through the crowd? He’d be more likely to send someone flying by accident.

But as soon as he approached, the crowd quickly split before him. He was confused, but them remembered that he was still covered in blood. After slowly walking through the crowd, he very slowly and carefully climbed up the ladder.

“How is it looking?” He asked grimly, seeing exactly what was happening at the other end of the huge cave but unable to understand much of what was happening besides the fact that there were a lot of them.

“They’re not even bothering to form into battle formations.” The head guard grimaced. “They know they have us outmatched.”

The town head shook his head. “We have the ground over there enchanted with fire and it’s charged with mana. There’s not as many uses in it as we expected because of… Well, we’re just waiting until they get as many people as possible on it before we let loose.”

“Are you strong enough to pick up the slack after that, Hermenegild?” The head guard asked.

“Strong enough?” Hermenegild responded. “Definitely. But I don’t have any control over that strength. It’s all or nothing. I’m barely able to stand on this tower without collapsing it by accident.”

“No need to hold back against them.” The head guard with a smile, before stiffening. “...But could you please go back down to the ground?”

He shrugged and stepped off the edge, falling to the ground flat on his face. He stood up without a scratch on him. “Ow.” He muttered, more out of reflex than actual pain. For about a minute he stood there just listening to the sounds of the approaching army.

“NOW!” The town head yelled out. A few seconds later, Hermenegild saw light blossom on the ceiling on the far side of the cavern and heard screaming.

The people around him rejoiced, but only Hermenegild could hear the town head mutter, “Crap.” A moment later the town head yelled out, “Turn it off and open the gate! Hermenegild, it’s your turn!”

“Don’t bother opening the gate.” Said Hermenegild. “Just stand back.”

Taking a step forward, he bent his knees and jumped clear over the wall. He faintly heard the town head behind him whispering, “Good luck.” Then he crashed into the roof and fell to the ground in a heap, once again barely avoiding skewering himself on his sword. He got up and quickly dusted himself off.

This time he heard the town head reassuring everyone that he was alright.

He looked ahead and grimaced. The fire hadn’t obliterated a large swathe of their troops as he had imagined. Many of them had significant burns, but it was apparent that most of them had managed to escape the area of the fire and put themselves out.

The sight of the hundreds of angry drow charging towards him terrified him. The thought that he had to defeat every single one of them made him want to crawl back into bed.

But he was their only hope. Their one chance for survival. He had the power. He had to do it.

So, he gritted his teeth, held the sword tightly with both hands and charged.

At his speed, the scenery would be little more than a nauseating blur to most people. Hermenegild saw everything clearly, but even that didn’t let him stop in time. He bowled into half a dozen drow and only barely managed to keep himself upright.

Steadying himself, he slashed in a wide horizontal arc and cleaved three drow in half.

The other drow surrounding him looked on in shock and horror. Then one of them splashed acid magic onto his face.

Hermenegild screamed in pain. His skin was largely unaffected, but the stuff had gotten into his eyes, and was burning its way through everything it could. He was blind in moments.

The drow seemed almost surprised that this extremely powerful halfling was disabled so easily. Almost contemptuously, one of them thrust his spear at Hermenegild.

Clutching at his eyes, Hermenegild stepped to one side, and the spear missed.

The drow, confused, thrust his spear again.

This time, Hermenegild caught it, snapped off the tip and thrust it back towards the drow, hard. Impaled on the blunt end of his own weapon, the drow spent his last moments staring uncomprehendingly at the Hermenegild’s half-melted eyes.

Hermenegild was now blind, yes. But it was not through his eyes that he could see spirits, and so it was that while the mortal world fell away from his eyes, he could see the world beyond clearer than ever. A sight that could not be tricked or deceived, that only saw things as they truly were.

He reached for his sword, dropped when he was splashed with acid, only to find that it had been stolen by one of the drow.

“Not so tough without your fancy weapon, huh?” The drow taunted.

Hermenegild glared with ruined eyes at the man and pushed off the ground with one foot. He caught hold of the man as he rocketed past. The man was already dead from whiplash, but Hermenegild didn’t realise or didn’t care, and ripped the man’s head off, tossing both it and the man’s torso heavily into the midst of the army below.

Still in mid-air, Hermenegild winced. His sword was now lost somewhere among the drow behind him. It would be practically impossible to find it and get it back. He could use the dagger, but it wasn’t a very effective weapon, and losing that to the drow could very well be the worst possible outcome.

Not that they could use it. It was designed to be most effective on willing participants. Conversely, on unwilling participants it would show almost no effect, perhaps siphoning a tenth or even a hundredth of a percent of the victim’s strength.

This was part of the reason Hermenegild didn’t use it as a weapon.

He fell back into the midst of the drow. Now without a weapon, Hermenegild simply tore, ripped and punched anything within range, dyeing himself even further red.

What few attacks he could dodge, he dodged, and the rest he simply let land on his body. Even he himself, using a weapon superior to theirs and strength far beyond theirs, could not pierce his skin, so what could they possibly do?

As it turned out, quite a bit. One would think that the drow would avoid actions that could hurt their own, but they ignored the fates of the drow in the immediate vicinity of Hermenegild as they poured torrents of magic down onto him. Fire, ice, acid and poison fell on and all around him.

As he expected, they were unable to pierce his skin, but the smoke made him cough and then everything went into his mouth, his nose, his eyes and ears. He wanted to scream from the pain, but he couldn’t breathe.

He jumped, finding momentary relief as blood, poison and acid streamed from his body. Shaking his head, he coughed, trying to get it all out of him. Moments later he retched, vomiting out the contents of his stomach. The resulting acrid spray killed several drow and wounded several others.

Despite still being in immense pain, Hermenegild calmed down somewhat after he did this, and looked towards the entrance the drow were coming from. There were still more streaming through the narrow entrance.

The moment he landed, he was again bombarded with magic, but this time there weren’t any drow around him to get caught up in it. Cursing, Hermenegild took a deep breath and closed his eyes. If even his sight was stronger than it used to be, then perhaps he could hold his breath for longer, too.

He could. Hermenegild felt almost no need to take in another breath. This left only his nose and ears exposed. His nose wasn’t a particular problem so long as he wasn’t breathing through it, as in general things could only get into it from below, and the drow were decidedly taller than him.

His ears, however, were an issue. He had no way of covering them, and turning his head to avoid the magic simply wasn’t a choice when it came from every direction.

So, in absence of a better choice, Hermenegild simply ploughed into the drow army, charging at random and punching through anyone in his way. His speed made him almost impossible to target, so apart from the occasional lucky shot he was rarely hit.

Feeling an odd breeze, he looked down. To nobody’s surprise but his, his clothes were nowhere near as durable as he was and had disintegrated into nothingness almost before the battle had started. He was clothed only in his own blood and the blood of his enemies.

“No…” He gasped, almost catching a blast of acid again. Even his belt had disintegrated - the belt that had his dagger on it. Now it too was lost somewhere amidst the chaos.

He shook his head. It wasn’t the time for idle thoughts. He could look for it after the battle.

Shooting off into the drow once again, he resumed his slaughter.

Time passed. Five minutes, perhaps? Hermenegild couldn’t tell. He had killed tens of drow, perhaps over a hundred. His eyes had regrown, but he kept them closed to protect them from the sprays of acid, fire and poison that still occasionally came his way.

Despite his exertions this far, he wasn’t feeling any particular fatigue, so he was starting to feel good about his chances.

Then he heard some screams in the distance that sounded decidedly un-drow like.

He jumped up into the air to get a better view, and his heart grew cold. While he had killed more than a hundred, there were hundreds more, and not all of them were focusing on him.

A significant portion of the drow army had broken off and was assaulting the meagre halfling defences to devastating effect.

Hermenegild suddenly felt that he wasn’t falling fast enough, but there was nothing he could do to speed up. He was forced to watch for those handful of seconds as the wooden palisade burned and the watchtower toppled to the ground.

Thankfully, his sharp eyesight allowed him to discern that there was nobody in the tower when it fell.

Once he landed, Hermenegild charged straight through the drow back towards town. It took him several seconds to reach the fallen palisade, but those seconds felt the longest of his life. By the time he reached them, there were already a few dozen small bodies lying on the cold stone.

Hermenegild went berserk, killing every drow he laid eyes on… But there was only one of him, and hundreds of them. Every time he went to save someone, it was like putting out a fire by scooping water with his hands. Put out fire in one place, and it would be blazing in ten others. Go to put out another fire, and the fire you just put out catches ablaze again.

Despite his best efforts, it didn’t take the drow long to decimate the defenders. The head guard fell early, only just managing to kill the drow he was fighting in exchange for his own life. The town head coughed up mouthfuls of blood as acid ate a hole in his chest.

The baker’s stocky arms overpowered by a battle-hardened drow that grinned as he moved onto his next victim.

Hermenegild’s own parents, bedazzled with enough enchanted items to make a king weep but without skill or experience enough to use them, assailed by a pack of greedy drow who then picked at their corpses and fought over the spoils.

Once practically everyone Hermenegild knew was dead, the drow turned towards the gate to town.

Seeing this, Hermenegild dashed forward and stood in front of the gate to defend it.

But the gate was large, and Hermenegild was quite small. He could not defend it by himself, and it soon collapsed under the drow bombardment. Though he tore apart every drow within reach, his reach was not long, and the drow avoided him like the plague.

They streamed through to the town itself, and there was simply nothing he could do about it. He slumped to the ground in despair.

A few drow attempted to use this opportunity to kill him, but passed by in fear when they found that all their attacks were ineffectual.

Hermenegild wept as he heard the screams of the women and children still in town as they died, one by one.

Then, worse, came silence.

Standing up, Hermenegild wiped tears and blood off his face; there was no longer any reason for him to stay there. He would… What would he do?

He looked at one of the drow, and the drow shrieked in horror, frantically fleeing from his gaze. An idea started to sprout in his head.

He may not be able to stop the drow, but they weren’t able to stop him, either. Just as they walked in and destroyed his home with impunity, so too could he do the same to them.

Thinking of getting a better view of the situation, Hermenegild jumped high into the air again. The drow had stopped coming out of the tunnel, and the majority of their army was around where he was. The rest were probably in the town.

After landing, he started walking towards the exit. The drow parted before him, too afraid of him to risk him attacking them, if he wasn’t already.

Most of them, at least. One of them jeered, said something about Hermenegild’s mother, or something. He wasn’t exactly sure because he caved in the man’s chest before he finished his sentence.

Hermenegild felt like his heart was beating extraordinarily loudly, and had that strange feeling gotten stronger? He didn’t care. Not now, when everything he knew had just been destroyed. He ignored it.

Before long, he reached the tunnel. He paused. It didn’t look like he remembered it, it was much smaller. The drow must have only cleared out just enough for them to pass through. Hermenegild could almost reach both sides of the tunnel when he stretched out his arms…

He smiled darkly and sat in the entrance of the tunnel, facing back towards the drow army.

It took a few hours for the drow to collect everything, but after a couple of hours the drow army, laden with gold and all manner of enchanted items, came back to the tunnel to leave while talking excitedly of their new riches.

One of the drow in front looked forwards and froze. He nudged his neighbours frantically. “Bloody devil!”

Everyone around him froze, and soon the entire front of the army was silently staring at Hermenegild.

He waved. “Nice day, isn’t it?” He said innocently.

None of the drow smiled.

“I just thought I’d remind you that this is the only exit. And if you want to make another way out, then…” He shrugged. “It’d be a shame if it caved in, or you happened on one of the natural gas pockets around here, wouldn’t it?”

“...Can you please move?” One of the drow asked awkwardly.

Hermenegild shrugged. “Can you bring all my people back to life?” He held up a hand to stop their response. “Don’t bother answering that, they’re gone. It was rhetorical.”

He could almost swear his heart was beating more loudly, now. It was like someone hammering a drum inside his chest. That strange feeling was almost infuriating in how it demanded his attention.

“Well, come on then. Is the big drow army scared of a single halfling kid?” Hermenegild had had enough of waiting.

A wave of magic poured towards him, but he simply opened his arms, closed his eyes and accepted it. Standing in the entrance to the tunnel, even his ears were protected. He had nothing to fear from them. And so it was: the magic ate into the very stone around him, but it was barely able to cause a few transient scratches on his skin.

“Maybe weapons would work better?” He laughed. “Has one of you found my sword? That thing might even be able to hurt me a bit!”

Naturally, he wasn’t just exposing a way to harm himself on a whim. As soon as he spotted the drow wielding his sword, he would dash out, slay the man and take it back.

The man holding it did not appear immediately, but the drow, seeing how wholly ineffective their magic was, began to attack Hermenegild in waves. It was simple enough for him to withstand their attacks, then grab their outstretched weapons or arms.

At that point, they were practically already dead. His grip was crushing; the only way they possibly had to escape would be to sever their own limbs, and few were so decisive. He would pull them towards him then break their neck or punch in their chest, then hurl the body back into the crowd of drow to further incite them.

And so, the bloodbath began.

This went on for a while, perhaps another hour. Piles of bodies had accumulated and been moved several times during the course of the slaughter. Then, eventually, the drow broke up and fled in all directions, now possessing a fraction of their original numbers.

Hermenegild stood in the entrance of the tunnel, blood dripping from his hands and a vague look of confusion on his face.

He couldn’t understand why they had run. There was no point to it. There was nowhere for them to go. At the same time, he couldn’t go after them or risk some of them escaping. But he could wait. Even after ignoring his parents’ words and not sleeping since it all began, on top of not eating for the past day or two, he didn’t feel tired, or hungry.

But should he wait? He was going to destroy the drow city at some point, right? Why not now?

He nodded to himself and waited for the drow to escape from his line of sight - there was no harm in making them think he would wait, after all - and turned around.

Then his arms, legs, every single joint and muscle in his body, simultaneously locked up. He splashed to the ground in pools of blood. To his horror, he couldn’t even breathe. The heartbeat that had been pounding in his chest for the past hour was getting ominously quieter and slower.

Hermenegild reached for his magic, but found that after a moment it, too stopped responding to him. His sense of smell, previously almost overwhelmed by the stench of death, was gone. His hearing, which just moments ago could detect the subtle sounds of blood running over the stone - gone. Even his eyes were quickly dimming.

All that was left was that overwhelming, omni-present feeling of discomfort… And his view of the other side.

Surrounding him and all throughout the cave were countless fragments of spirits, remnants of over a thousand deaths, many of them at his own hand.

Hermenegild ‘looked’ at himself for the first time. His spirit was almost blindingly bright, but at the same time its surface was undulating wildly. It seemed like it would break apart at any moment.

‘Of course.’ Hermenegild thought. ‘How could it be possible for someone to gain so much power so quickly without repercussion? I only wish I could have more time, so that I could destroy them. Bring justice for my people.’

His spirit’s undulations continued to accelerate. Even thinking was beginning to become hard.

‘Then again, I killed almost as many of my people as they did, and hundreds of theirs besides. Ironic that the one with the most blood on their hands ended up being me. A halfling enchanter. A boy. So many dead. So much… Death…’

The undulations of his spirit accelerated and amplified to an extreme peak for a single moment. Then it exploded into innumerable tiny fragments of spirit.

A true death, without any hope of resurrection or reincarnation.

He was only thirteen.

Webs stretched across the dark corners and edges of the caves and tunnels that were once part of the halfling town. It had only been just over a week, but already the arachne were starting to claim the place as their own.

A few groups of drow scoured the battlefield for any valuables that might have been dropped during the conflict. Even though they knew they were safe, they still habitually avoided the pale webs.

One group, finished filling their bags, started to leave. As they reached the entrance to the tunnel, one of them kicks at a corpse covered in a carapace of solidified blood. Some of it cracks and flakes off, but the body doesn’t move. “Why hasn’t someone gotten rid of this thing? Creeps me the hell out.”

“Nobody wants to touch it. That’s the bloody devil.” Another one murmured.

The first drow looks at it askance. “It’s just a corpse. What, are you scared?”

The others shuffle restlessly. “You weren’t there.” One of them shakes his head. “That thing tore us apart like wet paper. Swords, magic… Nothing worked. We could only run and hope it didn’t catch us.”

“How the hell did you manage to kill it, then?” The first drow scoffed.

“We didn’t. Nobody knows how it died. Hell, some of us aren’t sure it even is dead. Why do you think there’s so few people here?”

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me this earlier!?” The first drow moved away from the corpse.

“Look, I don’t want to think about it. You find anything good out there?”

“Now that you mention it…” The first drow’s frown turned into a smile in an instant. He pulled out a small dagger from his pack. “This thing seems to be made out of some strange metal. It’s harder than steel. Should be worth a fair amount.”

“Enchanted?” One asked, noting the intricate designs along the blade.

“It looks like it, but I think it’s just decoration. Nothing happens when I put mana into it.” He said with a sigh. “It’s a damn shame. Why put so much effort into a useless engraving… Guys?”

The faces of his companions paled in an instant. One of them fainted, and the others immediately turned and sprinted into the tunnel as if their lives depended on it.

He turned around fearfully, and briefly felt a crushing grip on his leg before his life faded.

Above his dead body stood Hermenegild, his eyes glowing a ghostly white, as if to match the colour of his skin. His body was clean, completely stripped of the layers of blood that had covered it, and he stared in wonder at his own two hands.

For he was very much alive.

When last he checked, he died.

Before he had time to contemplate further, a figure stepped forth from the darkness…