Chapter 71

  Now, all alone I remain (Part 2)

  In the Theocracy, every action corresponded to a specific ritual. Every moment of a believer's life was consumed by devotion to the deities. It wasn't abnormal for those who had been accustomed to the cause since their first cries.

  They called it the cause, from the most insignificant village preachers to the bishops of the great cities. What was the cause? Clementine had never fully understood.

  What she had understood, however, was how every single aspect of a Theocracy citizen's life was sacrificed in its name. Prayer and faith intertwined with daily life, influencing every life from dawn to evening.

  Before they could even walk, she and her brother had been instructed in the doctrine. There were psalms and prayers for every occasion, and extremely complicated customs and ceremonies to learn by heart and replicate in any circumstance, even the most abstruse.

  When their parents left for a mission, the nannies would invite her and Quaiesse to light a candle for their safety. When they returned, they would take their children to the Cathedrals of Silksuntecks, so all together could give thanks for the immense gift that was another day together as a family.

  At that time, her parents were always covered in the smell of blood. It wasn't their own blood, as its origin was difficult to trace. The Quintia were spotless and clean, without stains or other marks, but that pungent and persistent smell clung to them for days, sometimes even for months.

  "What is it, mom?" Clementine had asked once, no more than five years old.

  "This is our faith," the woman had answered, hugging her tenderly. Since then, for the future Windstride, the smell of blood was confused with the scent of her mother. "When you're older, it will be yours too..." And then she would plant a tender kiss on her cheeks, so that the sweet aroma would cling to her as well.

  Little Clementine, who shied away from physical contact even from her closest family, was quite happy to indulge her parents in a long hug if it meant they could pass on their faith to her.

  And so, while it might be conceivable to thank the Gods for the food they ate or for a day ending without tragedy, it became even more difficult to find a rationalizing meaning for the long walks they took in the middle of the city, in procession, to pay homage.

  Until it was difficult to imagine why they didn't offer sacrifices for the shit they produced, or the death they inflicted. If everything had to be celebrated, then obscenities, filth, and grime should also be the subject of angelic choirs.

  It became difficult to justify why, in the middle of the most sweltering summers, they wore extremely heavy habits, to let sweat expel every worldly impurity from the body; or why, in the coldest winters, the fireplaces had to remain unlit for as long as possible, so that their bones could get used to the chill of death.

  In the Theocracy, every custom originated from tradition, and tradition, in turn, originated from legend. There were so many of them, concerning the Six and their first direct descendants, that keeping them all in mind was a challenge even for those who spent their entire lives studying, re-elaborating, and publishing them. The doctrine fed on new thoughts, innovative enough not to become stale, yet sufficiently controlled so as not to end up being subversive.

  So, when Clementine woke up that morning, she followed protocol. The ninth seat joined the other members of the Scriptures in a circle and prayed. She took Rinaldo's hand, wondering why the paladin didn't look at her lustfully, as many other men did. She was always looking for a flaw in her companions, something she could leverage to prove that her abnormality was not a flaw in the system, but the most genuine result of it, the only true masterpiece of Slaine.

  The Theocracy produced obscene monsters; Clementine was simply the only one who admitted it with ease.

  After being disappointed again, she grabbed the sweaty palm of Aradia, too busy letting out yawns to even notice how much drool was coming from her lips. At least, in her clumsiness and imprecision, Infinite Magic was somewhat of fun compared to the other members of the Black, who flaunted pompous and arrogant manners, without a single quality that made them stand out, other than their ability to kill.

  Clementine was the best when it came to that. Not because she was necessarily the strongest. She was simply the only one who appreciated the nuances, who went out of her way to elevate the art to something more than simple slaughter, to make pain a symphony, and agony a pleasure. For her, at least.

  "Let us pray," the half-elf led the way. They had knelt on the ground, the hard floor brushing against their skin. "The disciples one day asked the Gods what differentiated them from other races. 'Nothing,' Surshana told them. Because when the fatal moment arrived, he came for every being into whom Alah Alaf had breathed life."

  Lady Fouche began to recite a verse of the Book of Death, the irony of the situation completely lost to her.

  Antilene Heran Fouche, the being closest to God. If anyone else had even dared to think of defining themselves that way, the infinite punishments and torments that the Cardinals would inflict would have been so atrocious, so aberrant, that even Surshana would have objected to their actions. Using Clementine's own blade as an instrument of justice.

  Once, Clementine remembered, a preacher had the audacity to define himself as Alah Alaf reborn. The penalty for such blasphemy was simple: a complete cycle of reconversion. No corporal punishment, no flaying or stoning. In the Theocracy, there was no capital punishment, not for humans, unless for the greatest sin: betrayal.

  For the other races… The beauty of law was its fairness, its equality…

  The man was taken, stripped, but his most intimate parts were strenuously covered. He was treated with all honor and reverence before the trial.

  Then he was left in the middle of the capital's square, so that he could show 'miracles worthy of the God he claimed to be'. No mistakes could be made. There was a real, albeit infinitesimal, possibility that the God of Light had returned. For that reason, the Cardinals of the time certainly couldn't risk falling into his wrath.

  For days, the preacher did nothing worth of note, but was strictly monitored. Officials brought him food and water, washed him, and provided for his bodily needs. If he were truly the god he said he was, even touching him or meeting his gaze was unthinkable for the citizens of the Theocracy, who were too accustomed to reverence for statues, let alone the real article in flesh and blood. Conversely, if he was an impostor, there was no need to waste time with his nonsense.

  He remained there for a month before he recanted. "I am not the true Alah Alaf," he had rectified, unable to perform any miracle that could justify his proclamations.

  He was taken away, and no one heard from him again. His story was erased. His family forgot about him. His friends claimed to have never met him.

  Clementine saw the same preacher years later, in one of the prisons of the Cathedral of Darkness, almost by chance. He asked her if she would be able to free him from the infinite torment to which they had subjected him.

  What was the torment? Nothing out of the ordinary. Every day a priest came to hear his confession, letting him vent all his sins, starting from his childhood to adult age. After months, there was nothing left to atone for. But the priest would not leave him until he had expressed a fault, real or imaginary. The man was forced to invent some, to craft lies just to be left in peace.

  In the beginning, nothing too elaborate. A shove given to a playmate. A stolen kiss from a girl already taken. Insignificant things.

  Then, confessions of murders. Grudges fabricated to weave imaginary stories. Bestialities and obscenities that satisfied a forgotten perversion. Of all the evils of the world, there was not one that had escaped the preacher's hand.

  In the end, he convinced himself that he was the monster the Theocracy wanted him to be, until his punishment was nothing more than living with what he hadn't even committed. A life condemned for something he had never done, an existence of sin.

  That had been one of the few men Clementine had ever spared.

  If you defined yourself as a God, it didn't mean you really were one. But if others defined you as a monster, you would reach the point where you would be convinced of it.

  But the half-elf was an exception. Of Clementine they said she was a monster, and she didn't need to hear it to consider herself one. Of Antilene they said she was close to the Gods, but she didn't need to be told that to consider it untrue.

  Where Windstride scoffed at what others thought of her, challenging them to prove she was far worse than anything they could conceive, Beyond Life and Death was utterly unconcerned, to the point of letting her actions, and her actions alone, define her.

  Her modesty was nauseating, almost as much as her strength.

  "Windstride, when the demihumans arrive, I want you to be ready."

  They had finished the moment, and each one was about to take their position, completing their preparations. The half-elf took a moment to consult with each member of the team, and in the end, she was left alone with Clementine.

  "I'm always ready when it comes to carrying out my mission," she hid the meaning of that last word behind a false smile. When the Extra Seat spoke to the Blacks, the only thing to do was smile and nod.

  "We both know there's only one thing that stirs you up, and it's not the old parables."

  Old Fouche wasn't just a challenge to reason regarding martial prowess. Clementine could admire the older colleague's extreme affinity for extermination; nonetheless, her skin would crawl whenever she shed the mask of violence to wear that of a friend, of a mentor.

  It was in those moments when she tried to be more than what she really was—a treacherous and dangerous monster—that Clementine truly felt fear. The half-elf tried to place a hand on her shoulder as if she hadn't used it earlier to break her jaw and every bone in her body, to invite her to calm down in the presence of someone who had introduced her to the meaning of terror.

  "And what is it about?"

  Fouche stared at her intensely, and the victory, for once, was Clementine's. Would she have the audacity to go all the way with her?

  "The massacre."

  She did, and Clementine lost all the control she had foolishly believed she'd gained and which, instead, had been nothing more than an illusion.

  "I am not the monster you think I am."

  'I'm worse,' she thought.

  "No. You're much worse. When you kill, you don't feel the weight that such an act carries. This makes you more abnormal than me."

  'What, out there, is more abnormal than you?'

  What did Antilene know about abnormality? Clementine had carved their first meeting into her memory, and she had treasured it since then. The ninth seat could still clearly remember the expressionless face with which she had been greeted, there in the most obscure and forgotten part of the holy sanctuary.

  "No... You're wrong. You remain more abnormal than me, Lady Fouche."

  Throughout her life, Clementine had seen millions of different faces, each with as many emotions crossing them on the most sparse of occasions. She had seen faces contorted by pain and by pleasure. Grimaces of ecstasy in reaching climax and cries of anguish for unspeakable atrocities inflicted and committed. Every element of the face would reshuffle and squeeze into ever different patterns, each of them speaking their truths.

  The creature named Windstride had always found joy in observing those differences, in seeing how far she could make two seemingly similar individuals different, who went through similar experiences, who suffered similar anguish, to trace the lines of demarcation, to scrutinize the soul.

  A face, after all, was nothing more than the mirror of the soul. And what did she see there?

  "I don't understand you. You're afraid of me, like the others. You show me respect, like the others. You envy me, like all the others. But there's also something darker that I can't quite put together."

  Did she really not understand? Or was it simply a way to test her? Clementine stiffened, going back to the day they had first met.

  'The sun shone, that morning.'

  "Don't you remember? Don't you remember what you told me that day?"

  Antilene took a questioning countenance, truly lost about the insinuations.

  While the creature called Clementine Hazeia Quintia had been named by her parents the day of her conception, the one called Windstride had been baptised in that fateful encounter.

  Knowing about the existence of Godkins was not the same as being aware of their extraordinary nature. The young Clementine had foolishly believed that the awakening would one day bless her too. That the young Aeneas would have a companion by his side, and that the Scriptures and the Cardinals would hail a second coming in their generation.

  Because, from a young age, Clementine had been strong. Her talent in fighting, in killing, was top-notch, second to none.

  Then, when she finally received the rank of hero, the then vice-cardinal Raymond led her into the presence of the half-elf. That so jealously guarded secret was the greatest and most feared pride within the Slaine Theocracy.

  The first time she scrutinized her, there was nothing exceptional about Antilene Heran Fouche. Not because she underestimated her. On the contrary, even in the excitement of youth and the height of arrogance, Clementine had immediately understood that the gap between the two girls would be unbridgeable, that where she was a genius, the other was something that went beyond such an ordinary definition.

  "All you have to do is engage in a fighting trial against her," Raymond had explained to Clementine, while Antilene remained completely indifferent, more focused on one of those strange toys that came from the treasury than the newcomer.

  "Can I kill her?" Clementine had asked, and when she realized that the man's impassivity was just a shield to hold back his hilarity, she couldn't help but feel offended.

  "You can try, if you want..."

  As mentioned, Clementine had immediately understood that she was at a disadvantage. But being stronger didn't necessarily translate into being more skilled at killing. In a sense, that strength that made one so confident was a disadvantage, a weakness to be exploited.

  And the half-elf... The way she was completely detached from the matter drove her into a fury.

  "Is she the new arrival?" Antilene had addressed Raymond almost as if only the two of them existed, and Clementine was nothing more than a ghostly presence hovering over them.

  "Yes," the man had replied laconically, reciting a script he had performed thousands of times before. "Don't be too hard on her. She has talent."

  The half-elf then went back to focusing on the strange toy, only giving a fleeting glance to Clementine, muttering something too softly to be distinguished even in the silence.

  Taking her time, she put the contraption she had on the floor away only when she was satisfied, without Raymond even daring to urge her to begin. Abusing their time, she who had so much of it available and still couldn't figure out what to do with it, like an old man who had accumulated immense wealth for all his existence, without finding a suitable way to spend it all in the fading of his life.

  Then, at that point, she finally delivered her verdict. "The ones like her die young."

  The rest were just confused memories. Clementine throwing herself into the attack, the world turning upside down, and Antilene on top of her, pummeling the youngest with punches while looking at her with no expression whatsoever.

  Only one thing remained imprinted on Windstride's mind, and it was the half-elf's visage. For Clementine, who had learned to read every movement of a face with extreme ease, every fluctuation born of instinct and reason, the combination of every element of that fossil yielded no result.

  A blank slate, on which nothing was written. Neither pleasure nor pity. As Antilene's knuckles rained down on her, Clementine, on the verge of losing consciousness from the pain, could only think one thing: 'Beautiful'. And it was in the midst of that beauty that Windstride had borne: the nine seat was to die young, as the extra seat had said.

  "That day," she said to the half-elf, returning to the present. "That day you told me that people like me die young." Now, on the threshold of her thirties, those words didn't sound like a warning, but a prediction.

  No matter how hard she had searched, she had never managed to find that beautiful void in others. No matter how deep Clementine dug, she could always discover something: anyone, when placed near Surshana's touch, showed who they were deep down. A revolting ugliness, and yet one that was worthy of being brought into the light of day, just to make that doomed world a little more real.

  Clementine's art was an art of truth. It was the throwing away of the mask.

  "If I really said that, you can only do one thing. Prove me wrong."

  Antilene, however, had no masks. Behind the definition of demigod, behind the definition of weapon, queen, and companion, there was absolutely nothing else.

  It was the most absolute void. The sublime nothingness of everything.

  It was death in its purest sense.

  And now that death would rain down on thousands of individuals. The demihumans would clash with that emissary of their end, and they would meet what Clementine so longed for.

  Each country developed its own doctrine of war. As much as one might pretend otherwise, military assets were one of the pillars of every nation. Indeed, of every even remotely organized group of individuals. Before thinking about internal management, it was essential to find a fundamental way to repel any invaders, or acquire new resources.

  In the Slaine Theocracy, this philosophy found its foundation in preemptive action. Kill before others became strong enough to kill you. It was a very simple reasoning, at its core.

  Making it effective in practice, however, was a completely different matter. Humans were weak. Compared to other races, they didn't have swift, gigantic bodies. They didn't possess innate magical abilities, nor resistance to the most impervious elements.

  When humans fought other humans, the doctrine was highly linear. Harass enemies during a siege. Place traps at critical points. Starve them out. To know yourself meant to know your opponent.

  But when that opponent could resist for days without eating, or could appropriate the corpses of the very fallen they collected, what was the point of trying to starve them out? Why hole up behind thick walls, if magical artillery didn't need large machinery to break through, and the great demihuman heroes could tear any defense to shreds? Traps were sniffed out with just a nose, and ambushes were easily turned on their heads in territories that, in most cases, favored those who could best resist rain, tides, or other natural calamities.

  It was a simple evolutionary fact: humans were hairless monkeys with little at their disposal. Even insignificant goblins had sight predisposed for the dark.

  Therefore, the Theocracy, which had made the extermination of the different its mantra, had placed a simple criterion at the base of its military discipline: that of adaptability.

  Clementine had studied the principles to exhaustion, ever since she had first started to associate meanings with words.

  "We win again today!" Was what her father used to repeat to her, before tucking her into bed. "We hold on again today! Do you know why, princess?"

  Clementine had never felt like one. Princesses didn't go to war. Even if her father called her that, it didn't change the fact that he had placed a knife in her hand, not a crown. In the Theocracy, the only crowns that existed were not exactly ones a little girl could aspire to.

  "Why, daddy?" Those moments, when they talked about death and the art, were the only ones when she felt a glimmer of affection for her parents. A closeness difficult to explain. After all, there was no bond stronger than blood. It didn't necessarily have to be her own.

  "We resist the storms, and we resist everything, except for death. We create spells that cover our scent, so the monsters don't smell us in the darkness. If they resist fire, we hit them with ice. Where they are an indistinct mass, we are few. Chosen. Chosen by whom, you might ask. The Gods? The Gods don't choose, child. Men choose. We can only hope that our choices are in line with their will," then he would plant a kiss on her forehead, to wish her good night, something Clementine hated with all her heart. Before leaving, he would always ask her the same question: "What will you choose?"

  What had she chosen?

  Clementine had known for a long time.

  It was said that when he first trained the first Scriptures, the first holy warriors, the God of Earth, Imirduo, had imparted more than one lesson to them. Among these, one of the most important was a simple teaching: 'Quality triumphs over quantity.'

  A small, well-organized, chosen unit could get the better of a disorganized army that didn't know its own weaknesses. During her time in the Scriptures, Windstride had seen entire armies mowed down by that demon called organization.

  Now that the Draconic Kingdom was preparing for the final battle with Bhaal Geesi's demihumans, one could witness the last vestige of an outdated world.

  The demihumans had gathered their forces, dividing them into various squads. Enchanters specialized in terrain modification, sorcerers who prepared spells for breaking through defenses, aerial reconnaissance by means of beastmen like owlin and aarakocka with their beautiful wings. Tabaxi served as scouts to sniff out and expose the traps dug by the humans. Zoastia patrolled the flanks, to prevent any cavalry from breaking through.

  The bulk of the advance was formed by the nevayuu, who also led the other squads. Specialization meant flexibility. The sorties of the adventurers, once so effective, were beginning to show the limit between ingenuity and natural predispositions.

  Some humans, Clementine had noted, were prey to an unfounded conviction. That humanity could prosper thanks to their own worth alone. That where other races had been gifted with strength, men had been granted cunning and good judgment. Where muscles could not reach, intellect could make its way.

  A foolish notion, of course.

  That battle was proving only one thing. The Slaine Theocracy was right. It had always been right.

  From the distance of her position, seeing the strenuous defenses of the humans simply knocked down and reduced even more to the slightest resistance, Clementine howled with laughter.

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  Worn to the bone, crushed by adversity, the demihumans had still been able to evolve, to exceed all expectations. Undoubtedly, they had been united by a skilled leader to achieve those goals. Nevertheless, the truth remained unchanged.

  Humans were weak. They remained weak, and they would stay weak.

  "Isn't it amazing? All of this?"

  Rinaldo did not share her good humor. "The demihumans have smashed all the defenses mounted before the advance. The adventurers led by the Crystal Tear tried to break through before the fighting began and were repelled. The sky is covered in ash, the moats around the fortress are overflowing with water from the druids and elementals. The world is turning gray, and the night of the undead is advancing. Tell me, Windstride, what do you find so funny?"

  There was nothing worse than a man who had no sense of humor. "Everything you said, in that precise order."

  "Leave her alone, Holy Sword. That's just how Windstride is, you know her." Aradia remained sprawled on her magical armchair, a woman so indolent that she would delve deep into laziness even when the whole world called for action. Perhaps, it was her most lovable quality. "I just don't understand why we can't intervene. Left to themselves, the Draconic Kingdom's troops won't last long."

  "That's what you don't understand, Infinite Magic," Clementine said. "They must be desperate when salvation arrives. They must be on the edge of the abyss, on the verge of falling, before a hand lifts them up. Only then will they understand what gratitude is."

  And that gratitude would take the name of their queen: Draudillon Oriculus. Or, at least, that was the plan of their half-elf.

  "The world is changing. Soon it won't be the way we were taught to see it anymore."

  Clementine shrugged. "The world is always changing, even if we don't realize it. War is innovation. Progress is paved on the road of massacre."

  Weren't healing miracles a result of being able to ward off plagues cast by enemies? Weren't engineering feats born to allow troops to challenge the most impervious terrains?

  If there was equality, it was born from conflict. Every race hated the others, and the only reason they sought to progress was not to be caught off guard, not to be vulnerable to the whims of those who claimed to be friends.

  "It's a brutal way to explain historical movements," the paladin countered. "Perhaps even a limited one."

  "It's an honest way," Clementine snapped. "Soon you'll realize it too."

  There was no need to add anything else. The wind had stopped howling. A turmoil was presaged. Even the demihumans, almost as if their instinct was warning them of danger, stopped.

  There was something different. The world held its breath.

  Clementine leapt down from the walls.

  "Where are you going?" Infinite Magic yelled at her, but she was already far away. She certainly wouldn't want to miss the scene just to play lookout.

  She could simply walk on the battlefield. Her shadow was just one among many. Not because she was particularly concealed, nor because she moved with the intent of escaping all attention.

  A shiver ran down Clementine's spine, an ecstasy born of horror. The only sin was not being on stage, but having to settle for a spectator's seat. They had reached the point where even heroes were nothing more than pawns, moved on a chessboard that couldn't contain all those pieces.

  In the beauty that left no escape, envy grew, fueled by awareness. Clementine could plunge one of her trusted stilettos into a horuner's back, savoring the metal severing the flesh, the nerve connections being cut by her touch, the sweet taste of life being abandoned. She could repeat that same action hundreds upon hundreds of times, each and every time basking in the unexpected pleas of those who didn't want to die.

  Even demihumans had expressions. Even their faces, before the end, contorted into those rotten grimaces. Even they, like humans, in the last moment when all was lost, begged and kicked. They pleaded for a better destiny. For a more generous fate. And every single time, moved by their laments, Clementine denied them.

  And every time, every single time, Clementine saw something. She saw fear, she saw history, she saw awareness. But she didn't see the void. She didn't see the nothingness, as she had seen that day, the day of her baptism.

  Did she perhaps have to die to be able to bathe in that feeling again? Impossible!

  'The ones like her die young.'

  And yet she was still there. Alive. It was Clementine who killed. It was Clementine who made her choice. And her choice was massacre. But her massacre was nothing compared to the half-elf's. Where Windstride's was precise and lethal, delicate and intimate, the half-elf's was messy, chaotic. A tide that engulfed everything it crossed.

  The undead cast their shroud of clouds over them, making the sky as black as pitch. And yet, even theirs was simply part of the game.

  Fouche was made of black and white. Of life and death. And she went beyond both.

  Clementine followed the trail of destruction, trying to keep pace. She followed the War Goddess, trying to imitate her, to reach and even surpass her.

  Wasn't it pathetic how weak human beings were?

  If she had been an awakened one, how would the world have welcomed her? Clementine couldn't help but wonder if, with roles reversed, they would have called her a Goddess too. And what kind of Goddess would she have been? Goddess of death? Goddess of war too? Or maybe she would have been something else entirely. Or just nothing at all. She would have been nothing but Clementine, finally. Not Windstride, not the ninth seat, not Quintia.

  Just her. Clementine Hazeia Quintia would have been Clementine in the same way Antilene Heran Fouche was Antilene.

  She approached a dying zoastia.

  At that point, the great mass of demihumans that had threatened the Draconic Kingdom, which had inflicted terror and despair for decades, was nothing more than an infinite expanse, completely lacking in substance. It was impossible to discern differences in the mass; all their individuality was torn away with cold indifference.

  Clementine knelt to plunge a stiletto into the beastman's neck. He was still breathing, with difficulty. For some strange reason, the demihuman had been mangled in such a way as to continue to survive for a few more minutes, in a symphony of suffering.

  And they called her cruel.

  Just as she was about to insert her needle, to administer her medicine, she noticed something. That wasn't the only survivor. The zoastia were one of the most infamous demihuman races. Even non-combatants could be tough opponents for orichalcum-ranked adventurers by simple virtue of their natural gifts.

  And now, entire rows upon rows of those creatures lay semi-dying on the battlefield. Each of them left there, unable to defend themselves. And like them, all the other demihumans who had been overwhelmed by Fouche's charge. A great playground, all for her.

  Clementine licked her lips, already savoring what she was about to bestow. Was it a gift? No, there was a very precise design, which she had deliberately ignored. The ninth seat resumed her work. She raised her arm with the weapon, a thrill of excitement running from the top of her head to her heels.

  She was forced to stop again.

  "What?"

  The chosen one had changed. The zoastia had stopped breathing, finally. It had not been, however, a simple process explainable by reason alone. It wasn't the wounds inflicted on him that had caused his demise.

  Clementine took his face in her hands, analyzing every element. On the surface, nothing anomalous. The fur tickled her skin, and the large size made it difficult to maintain a full grip. Nothing strange about that. The face... The face was as it should have been.

  The eyes were closed, the lips sealed. Clementine read his expression, and she couldn't read anything. She didn't read the rest of those who could pass to the other side. The last moments were for leaving an imprint. Be it a grimace of resentment, or a cry of satisfaction.

  The creature called Windstride read the last fatal showers of her victims in the very seconds they ceased to be such. Entire stories and aspirations, summarized in a few seconds.

  Everything was erased. When the heart ceased its beating, something remained behind, whether a simple memory or a trace of a consumed past. Now, the components of the face had abandoned harmony, avoiding mixing into a uniform whole. Personality had been torn away, and an infinite void had been imposed on those poor demihumans.

  It wasn't death; it was something more. It wasn't oblivion; it was something less. How could a soul be tortured? Pain was always transmitted through the physical plane. The surges of agony flowed through the synapses of the mind and the nerves of the body. What had been done had a completely different connotation. The symbiosis had been broken, and a new way to inflict torment had been discovered, a lasting echo the only remaining trace for those who were sensible.

  And Clementine felt jealousy. Envy corroded her, causing her to feel an excitement and rancor she had never known. She clenched her fists; already aware that she was small, she had discovered that her place was even more insignificant.

  'They did it, in the end,' the Theocracy had forged a weapon, amidst disaster. That was another triumph. A triumph of Slaine. What was the price? Nothing.

  Clementine whirled around, pointing her grim gaze at the fortress. The dragon had been awakened. While the God was intent on inflicting his punishment, the dragon could finally soar into the sky.

  Where had the philosophy of supremacy gone? Humans were weak, which is why they had to turn to cohesion, to numbers. Instead, those who were supposed to be protected continued to crawl like worms in the holes and burrows they dug, relying on the intervention of what they despised. An undead, an elf and now a dragon. Those were humanity's protectors!

  The Cardinals' ideals were nothing more than a lure, a sweet lie for the masses they controlled and who, in turn, begged to be controlled. The much-vaunted humanity was nothing but a three-copper whore, and the high-ranking officials of the Theocracy its best customers.

  Finally, the cause her parents talked so much about became clear. Finally, the creature named Clementine could surrender to the beauty of that world, to the decay that wore the cloth of holiness.

  She moved with impetus, wanting to be quick, heading to the center of the fighting.

  Antilene continued to advance, inexorably, through the ranks of the demihumans. Many had started to run, to scatter. But once the undead had also arrived, it was like being between two fires. One that consumed slowly, another that burned everything until it was extinguished in a puff of wind.

  Clementine had hated Antilene from the very first moment. She had hated the half-elf ever since she first saw her, with that fucking melancholic air of hers, and the expression of indifference toward everything she didn't consider up to par. Clementine had hated Antilene's selflessness, her faith. Clementine had despised the way Antilene avoided judging her, the compassion with which she broke her face, that inner torture she masked with coldness.

  She was so strong, dear Antilene. And yet she fled from her strength, she fled from what placed her above law and morality, ethics and compassion. She could have stepped out of the role imposed on her, broken the chains of her seat. No longer the creature of the Theocracy, the disciple of the Guardian Deity. Antilene could be whatever she wanted, and she had chosen to be a slave.

  A slave to Rufus. A slave to the Cardinals. A slave to the laws of the Theocracy. A slave to human morality. A slave to chivalric codes, to ancient poems and glorious deeds. A slave to her hubris, and to her person.

  But, most of all, a slave to the Gods.

  Pitiful.

  The ground beneath her trembled. Some adventurers sought refuge in the middle of the confusion. Labored breath, wretched equipment, blood on their bodies. Remnants of the Draconic Kingdom's vanguard.

  They were mumbling, caught in an undefinable emotion.

  "What was that hurricane?" Asked one of them. From the weapon he wielded, a swordsman. "It was over. We had lost even before we started. And then... Then nothing made sense anymore. Are we winning?"

  Winning? Who cared about that anymore?

  The one who answered was a woman covered from head to toe in thick armor. She had lost an eye, while the sane one struggled to remain open. "When the undead arrived, I thought it was over. It all happened so fast. I've fought demihumans and monsters for years, and I had never seen such a crowd of different creatures. We holed up in these walls to withstand the numerical difference, but we wouldn't have lasted long anyway. If Cerabrate..."

  "Cerabrate was defeated. I saw it with my own eyes," explained what seemed to be the leader, a man in his thirties with a long robe of a cleric consecrated to some minor deity, and a now-blunted mace at his side. "When the Crystal Tear was put to flight, years earlier, I knew I should have abandoned this shitty place. When it was put to flight for the second time, just a little while ago, I had abandoned all hope and started reciting every prayer. And, I swear by the gods, for the first time... They answered."

  Clementine crept up and used Sin-Eater, the sword of the Gods, to pierce the man's chest. His prayers had truly been answered, in a way.

  "What!?"

  The two survivors shouted in unison, not caught off guard.

  The second victim was the woman: Clementine pierced her head before she could even move to protect her companion. The swordsman had time to get close to Windstride and try to react with a slash.

  Clementine parried without much difficulty. The hope of having made it, the ecstasy of having escaped disaster, having dodged defeat, even if only for a moment. This whole stream of different and joyful emotions was cut clean, with such ease.

  Now, Clementine saw it. The face of the last survivor transforming, asking a million questions in the blink of an eye. Who was this woman? And how was it possible that after demihumans and undead, it was a human who put an end to their story?

  All these questions were destined to remain unanswered, as she had already struck the remaining adventurer's heart, letting Sin-Eater penetrate him with the roughness of a not-so-gentle lover. Together, man and woman reached the peak. The peak of sensations, and the peak of their lack thereof.

  After the third one also collapsed to the ground, with no more trace of awareness flowing in him, Clementine searched him for his belongings: she wasn't interested in potions or ointments. There was only one thing she wanted: his adventurer's plate.

  "Mythril..." A meager haul. Even though their skills weren't all that different from the platinum rank. Desperate times demanded that even the mediocre made a career.

  In any case, loot was loot. She took that plate and put it in a small pocket. Then she resumed her pleasant walk. The clouds above her covered the morning light, and the sweet singing of the undead made stretching her legs even more enjoyable.

  "Ah, there they are."

  The horde was now clearly visible to Clementine. Zombies of various ranks, skeletal vultures, even bone hounds, ghouls, and crawling worms. Then rivers and rivers of skeletal soldiers, archers, and enchanters.

  An infernal gurgle, structured and impervious like a thousand strangled, suffocated throats. The miasma rising from every forgotten pore, and the icy shroud of breaths that had lost all warmth.

  In a word, home.

  Clementine imitated Antilene. She lacked the half-elf's mastery, her pure brute force. Fouche was a hurricane. Fouche was the gravity that pulled everything to herself. Fouche was Fouche, and as such, she swept away all logic, all comparison.

  The last cry of a desperate humanity, six hundred years ago, had summoned six beings from the sky. If they were here now, it was because that cry had been heard from afar. Now, the cries mingled with terror and desperation. What was alive was no longer so, and that design had been drawn by hands that, heedless of all that was pure and sacred, aspired to a project of death.

  Death was the key word. It was always what stimulated everything. The primordial force. The idea of Surshana. Devoted to it, the creature that was the ninth seat of black mocked it, consecrating her every instinct to such purity, stripping herself of everything that was not her adoration.

  This was her prayer. A prayer of blood. A prayer of destruction. A prayer of death.

  Wasn't it wonderful?

  Clementine flailed in the crowd. She felt the mashed bones and flesh clinging to her hands. When she slashed, what animated those creatures exuded, making her jump from the contact, a last hug before the end. Windstride's art was based on precision, on finding weak points. Joints and ligaments. Eyes, neck, heart, stomach.

  In her mind, she wove a large spiderweb from which no prey could escape. It took one blow, just one blow, to sever what was most dear. To make what was alive fragile.

  The undead were her nemesis because they required something more brutal. They had to be mangled, disintegrated, reduced to dust. Even if you cut off an arm, they kept advancing. She would sever a head clean off, and the remainder would continue trying to scratch her. Without legs, they would crawl to grab or bite her.

  Formless masses of limbs and guts rose from the ground like a wave preparing to engulf the shore. Face to face, without fear, Clementine ran, dodging and dancing through every smallest crevice through which a thread of air passed, creating paths where there were none in those walls of flesh and bone.

  Heedless of their own kind, the sorcerers bombed from afar, the archers made the sky even darker. If there was no need to worry about the safety of allies, any blow was allowed. Clementine could jump as much as she wanted, trampling heads and challenging the air to a test of endurance for as long as her breath allowed her.

  She had arranged to charge the stilettos with Fireball and other fiery spells suitable for that clash. At every opportune moment, she chose what seemed like a commander, a lich or a soldier with the most elaborate armor, and cast her blessing on the chosen one.

  Explosions rumbled, gracing the eardrums with their delicate ruthlessness. A spectacle that left a girl with her mouth agape.

  All of them could say anything they wanted about Clementine, but they couldn't say she wasn't a romantic.

  "Need a hand?"

  A beam of light. Yellowed particles in a column of splendor that tore through the shadows. Rinaldo had come to her aid, in time with her stride.

  Clementine spat, a lump of sweat and blood that fouled her throat.

  "Took you long enough... Idiots."

  Some men found a perverse pleasure in her insults. The paladin, unfortunately, was not one of them.

  "I'll take that as a thank you." A flash of lightning shot from his immense greatsword, exorcising lines of enemies on the spot. Then, with great calm, he placed a hand on her shoulder.

  "I don't need your coddling."

  "Cordial as ever. Take it as a thank you for opening the way for us."

  "Where are the others?"

  "Oracle has her mission. Strongest Human found someone interesting. Infinite Magic..."

  A howl nearby. Above them, some sorcerers invoked the power of the elements, sucking all the color out of the air in energy bursts. A chilling sensation, until many began to fall, hit by fire and flames.

  Aradia sat in her armchair, her large hat tracing seals in the stratosphere according to her will, defying every lesson taught about mana consumption. In a magical fight, casting speed, the intensity of the chosen spell, the elemental combination were all factors that influenced who would emerge victorious, and who, instead, would know defeat.

  That damned woman didn't have the decency to get off her ass even in the middle of a battle. More than Infinite Magic, her moniker should have been The Infinite Armchair. If she hadn't been so effective, Clementine would have left her to the mercy of the enemies at the first opportunity.

  "Don't tell me she had my back from the start..."

  "More or less... She wanted to give you a few minutes' head start. If you died, she said, we would resurrect you without a care, and you would learn a good lesson in humility."

  When Antilene wasn't around, Aradia knew how to have a sharp tongue. It was almost admirable. Almost...

  In any case, Clementine had to be grateful to her. And this sent her into a fury.

  "Did you notice? Are they retreating?"

  Rinaldo's eyes widened. For a paladin of his caliber, with the Gods' panoply even tens of thousands of undead of that low level were certainly nothing to worry about. And yet... There was a vein of stress on his forehead, which brought agitation to his usual inscrutable face.

  "No... It's more accurate to say they're gathering. Their objective is the center of everything, a few meters from here..."

  "You mean where..."

  The paladin nodded. "We have to go."

  "Do you really think she needs us?"

  "No. But we can't allow that possibility to arise."

  'The ones like you die young.' "If we're forced to be bait, forget about anyone recovering our bodies."

  "I am not afraid of death. I have served our cause for as long as I can remember. Everything I have done so far will be judged impartially. What about you?"

  That certainty, that fearlessness, even in the face of the possibility of not seeing dawn again. Everyone in the Black Scripture carried it with them. A personal pride that made them believe they were above even something so impartial.

  Disgusting.

  "I certainly won't die here."

  Rinaldo was smiling at her. For what? "Of course. Not that I ever doubted it."

  Then, before he could hear what Clementine had to counter with, he walked away. Windstride was forced to follow him. Around them, everything took on the features of something in stark contrast to a battlefield. There was a surreal peace and a silence that communicated more than a hundred screams.

  Had they perhaps arrived at an oasis? When the abyss had opened, what had come out of it?

  "Oh, you're here. Just in time."

  Antilene was leaning on her scythe, a reaper gauging the greatness of her harvest, pleased with her work. She had made so much blood flow that the flowers born on that land would sprout crimson for centuries. Every deity would be grateful to their new herald, because thanks to her even the forgotten gods had been invoked in endless pleas that demanded mercy or just a quick end.

  If there had been a general, he would have thrown every treatise on war, every consideration on strategy, to the wind. If there had been a poet, he would have dipped his pen in what remained at the half-elf's feet, so that his future masterpieces would be etched in red. If there had been an historian, his only worry would have been how to convince the future generations that what was witnessed that day truly happened.

  If there had been Clementine, as there was, she would have had only one thought.

  'Beautiful!'

  Without visible signs, the half-elf walked in the chaos she had forged; only an used book with her, which she leafed through drowsily, giving no weight to the pain she had inflicted.

  For Clementine, every life had a price, and it was that great value that gave her a thrill, that made the theft she authored so satisfying. For Antilene, on the contrary, life had a symbolic, metaphysical value. She recognized that treasure on a purely philosophical level, but she couldn't make that concept transmute into intent. She trampled it because it was in her way. She took no pleasure from it, nor vexation.

  It just was.

  There was almost no one left. Out of the corner of her eye, the ninth seat scrutinized a swordsman who kept his distance, remaining completely still. Friend or foe, he did not exude hostility, so for the moment, she decided to ignore him.

  "The rest of the undead are surrounding us," Rinaldo said, bowing his head in a sign of respect. The paladin had not knelt, but he still showed reverence to a superior, despite Antilene's insistence on calling each other companion.

  "The insignificant ones are not a problem... You two take care of them," and she cast a look of indifference towards Clementine, as if to make her understand that she had everything under control. "Now, why don't the others come out in the open?"

  The ranks opened, and from three different sides came creatures of the night.

  From the west, a skeletal presence made his way on a large steed, emanating a disturbing aura. The mount was also a being that had forsaken life. That a Night Lich would ride a Soul Eater, the same aberration that had silenced one of the beastmen cities on the continent, had an ironic feel to it.

  "We don't want to fight with you, half-elf..." The undead's equipment was a mine of precious items. Inconspicuous, but emanating a great power that chilled the bones. The only weapon he wielded was a scythe, but unlike Antilene's. It had a single blade and, although one could gauge its exquisite craftsmanship even from a distance, it was little more than a rusted toy when compared to the dark luster of Charon's Guidance.

  That was, in any case, an opponent that Clementine and Rinaldo could never have beaten, no matter how much they committed or what strategy they adopted. For Antilene, who scrutinized him like any other insignificant thing, he was simply a bigger pebble on the road.

  "Why did you come here, then?"

  "No choice... Our will was taken from us a long time ago. She simply wanted to study you, to see you at work..."

  From the east, the second Night Lich arrived. Fragrant robes, of silks and flashy velvet, that were more in keeping with an ostentatious idea of vanity than practicality, in stark contrast to his companion. Clementine recognized him as the lich she had met last time.

  "You..."

  "Do you know each other?" Antilene was curious.

  "Oh, the woman from the other time. I'm pleased to note that such a graceful girl is still alive," he eyed Clementine with the same lustfulness of many men, with that desire to possess her and make her his property, that idiots harbored the moment they smelled the scent of pussy. From his single scarlet eye came nothing but that imitation of lust, that trying to hold on to a vestige of humanity that he had thrown away, and which he desperately sought. "We didn't introduce ourselves last time. I am Krunui Log Entesh Na, court wizard and imperial duke. Once, my name was known in these places. Known and revered."

  "Go fuck yourself!"

  It wasn't the half-elf's mere presence that made Clementine so unpleasant. The lich wasn't really attracted to female forms, not that it flattered her. His desire to bend her to his will was born from a twisted idea of humanity that did not surrender to sagging skin and bones that could resist if exposed to the outside, devoid of flesh coverings.

  "The kitty has claws... If I had been a few centuries younger I would have liked to tame you."

  "Why don't you try to tame me?" Antilene's offer went unheard.

  Krunui became serious again. "If it were up to me, I would flee this instant. I've never been very interested in violence... Some of us would have wanted to avenge Kunivela... But I suppose there's no opportunity for that. We don't want to add another revenge to the list, do we?"

  "Right. So why don't you just get wrecked and let go of your grip on both kingdoms? That of men and that of demihumans."

  If she hadn't known her well, Clementine could have almost believed that the extra seat was also interested in the safety of non-humans. Those same non-humans that she had taken it upon herself to erase.

  Before Krunui could say anything else, from the north the last of their group chimed in.

  "We cannot do that... Our mistress wants the dragon that sleeps here..."

  "Our mistress will devour the dragon that sleeps here..."

  Two monstrous heads; one completely skeletal, from which nothing could be distinguished but a visceral hatred for all that lived, while the other was deformed, with remnants of flesh attached to its face. That symmetry followed the rest of the body, as imposing as a giant and with six arms covered in magical objects that radiated a marvelous power.

  An abyss of pure magic, acting as a guardian to the border between darkness and light.

  If there were no hopes with the other undead, that was a whole other level. In all likelihood, he was the leader. Indeed, definitely, seeing that every instinct, in other circumstances, would have warned Clementine to flee as quickly as possible, before being swept away by a mere whim.

  Antilene, however, was calm, and following her example came naturally.

  "Are you the leader of this coalition?"

  "Banajieri Anchass, the only Abyss of Magic," he introduced himself, lowering both heads, giving the half-elf an unexpected honor. "I am the founder, but every member of our group sits as an equal at our table."

  "I limit myself—I limited myself—to acting as a guide..."

  So many nice words to say that even if he wasn't the leader, he was still the one making all the decisions.

  "Is the lady in white also part of your group?"

  "I am not obligated to share that information."

  "If you want to find out, you'll have to give us something in return..."

  "I'll take what I need by myself, thanks."

  So much cordiality was almost out of place, but understandable given that one of the parties knew they had nothing to lose, while the other preferred to stall.

  Antilene placed everything she had in one of her pockets and pointed the scythe towards that peculiar undead.

  "So, will you all attack me together? Or do I have to come get you one by one?"

  Banajieri continued to remain motionless.

  "As I said, we don't want to fight."

  "We know we can't win..."

  Antilene laughed: a sharp laugh that left Clementine stunned. Usually, it was she who got carried away with hilarity when they begged for mercy.

  "No, but you want the queen of this country. That's why you want to take time, until the rest of you losers can kidnap her... That's why you brought so many troops. You throw your numbers at me, hoping to stop me..."

  In fact, each of the three Night Liches was not alone. And the undead that accompanied them were all high-level, especially compared to the disorganized mass from a little while ago.

  One of Banajieri's heads tilted slightly to the side, while the second remained silent.

  Antilene whispered something as she got into position. "Windstride, Holy Sword, cover me. I'll try to be quick..." Then, raising the tone of her voice, she issued the warning to the leader of the undead. "Today I will wash away the decay of this world. Even if you don't speak, let me just say you have committed a grave error."

  "And what would that be?" Krunui had started to hover in the air, probably to get away at the first opportunity. That being was a cluster of cowardice from every point of view.

  "You underestimated me... And, most of all, you underestimated Draudillon Oriculus."

  A rumble was heard in the distance; something had started near the fortress. It would have been amazing, and Clementine would certainly have been drawn to it, if she hadn't concentrated all her attention on the half-elf, who had snapped into action the very instant she decided to stop talking.

  What followed was not fireworks. Bursts of light blinded Clementine, who, putting herself on guard, struggled to follow Antilene's run with her eyes. The earth shattered, and the traps set by the liches were triggered with a simple touch.

  A futile effort, since the half-elf barely touched the ground, closing the distance in the blink of an eye, while the ignition of magic sparkled all around her, but without grazing the now-shallow figure.

  Banajieri was the only one who had managed to react in time. So to speak. All six of his arms had risen, tracing spells in the air.

  A blasphemous chorus rose in the background, as spectral souls scattered, howling and wailing, silencing every sound with their crawling, ready to engulf even Antilene in their song.

  Lightning bolts tore through the clouds, agglomerating into an elongated, draconian form, sharper than any spear, cast to devour the half-elf.

  Hell had opened its gates, and the flames lying within were unleashed in a cursed brazier, tracing a fiery circle around the enchanter, to protect him from any assault.

  The ground soured, spitting poison and corrosive substances, which consumed every form of sanity, rotting the little green that remained, until it became acrid and arid.

  All this happened in the same instant. In that ephemeral moment when Antilene had attacked, and Banajieri had defended himself.

  "『Three Steps in Lightness - Decrescendo』."

  Clementine had been renamed Windstride for her speed and her affinity for wind. The way Antilene moved was first instantaneous, so rapid and ethereal as to suggest that her presence had been a simple mirage, an illusion, from the very beginning. Then, to her great surprise, it became slow.

  No, slow wasn't the right word for it. It had become so extreme that it left an image, a projection behind it. What Clementine could register was the memory of the action, the simple result that her mind associated with a very precise, unmistakable meaning.

  And so, when Antilene danced on that stage, the only actress whose performance was reserved for a select few, not for the masses, she did it with perfect composure. The ballet was a few steps, each indispensable. When the half-elf had reached the undead, everything had already been unleashed as planned, and the final act, the effects of that performance, had already been consumed.

  The abyss had been gashed in two, even before it could be freed completely. That cruel symmetry was traced only by Antilene.