Jenkins must have been the very image of a legendary hero.
He stood alone, with no companions, hemmed in by the narrow walls of the alley. A strange, gray snow fell heavily, a stark backdrop for the hordes of undead closing in from all sides. Before him stood an unknown enemy, and at his back lay an eerie weapon. But unlike the heroes in tales of chivalry, this protagonist had a cat perched on his shoulder.
Jenkins let out a cry of awe. Waking from the terrifying vision, his first instinct was to reach for the fearsome sword beside him. If it was this powerful, he reasoned, he should at least try to master it. He had great confidence in his own capabilities.
But before his palm could even graze the hilt, a piercing pain shot through him, forcing him to snatch his hand back.
The earth where the blade was buried had turned a deep, inky black, and a soul-shaking pressure emanated from it, making Jenkins instinctively avert his gaze from the blade itself.
And yet, he had to admit it was magnificent. Jenkins had never laid eyes on a weapon so perfectly suited to his tastes. From its form to its power, the sword was a perfect match for his aesthetics and his needs.
With that thought, Jenkins reached out his hand once more...
Jenkins explained to his cat, but his hand still couldn't make contact with the sword.
Gray and black streams of energy swirled and coiled around the blade. Terrifying faces would occasionally surface within the currents, their mouths open in silent wails. Looking closer with his Eye of Reality, Jenkins saw countless miserable souls crushed and held captive around the sword—a horrifyingly vast collection of imprisoned trophies.
To touch the sword, Jenkins would first have to push past the obstruction of these souls.
"That's my weapon! It chose me!"
Wilcawang shouted from a distance, retreating at a rapid pace. He was clearly afraid of facing Jenkins head-on.
"I'm the chosen one! And as long as I live, no one can take it from me!"
Perhaps because he believed he had reached a safe distance, his voice gained a new confidence. He wanted to mock Jenkins's greed, but a shred of reason remained, reminding him of what he needed to do.
"Oh, follower of the Lying God, there's really no need for us to be enemies! Look, I'm just a simple necromancy enthusiast. Tell me what you want, and besides that sword, I'll give you anything!"
He was actively trying to placate him, and his fear was genuine. In his time in the city, Wilcawang had learned just how troublesome these people could be. If a truce was possible, it would be for the best.
"If I said I was protecting this city, would you believe me?"
Jenkins narrowed his eyes at the terrifying undead closing in around him, ignoring the gray snow that was beginning to coat his shoulders. Chocolate, however, was not so indifferent. The cat had never liked the cold, icy sensation. With a gentle flick of its tail, the falling snowflakes strangely parted around it, leaving a small, dry patch on Jenkins's right shoulder.
"So you're determined to be my enemy?"
Wilcawang muttered, then clapped his hands. Instantly, the undead creatures surrounding Jenkins lunged at him.
Flames erupted around Jenkins, melting the falling snow and driving back the first wave of attackers. The intense heat sent steam rising into the air, creating a strange, shimmering distortion.
This time, Jenkins didn't activate Cat's Grace. Instead, he let the Inexhaustible Fire engulf his body. He recalled the furious grief from the day he'd mistakenly thought Chocolate was dead, and in that rage, he merged with the flames once more. Transformed into a spirit of fire, he crashed through the horde of undead.
He charged toward the distant Wilcawang. As he retreated, Wilcawang drew the terrible sword from thin air once more. A ghostly, gray-blue soulfire blazed along the blade. He swung the weapon forward, unleashing a tornado of flames and wailing souls that tore toward Jenkins.
"Choco—Vanilla, watch out!"
He shouted the warning, almost calling out the wrong name. His running body suddenly pitched forward. Planting his hands on the ground like an agile cat, he narrowly dodged the tornado of gray-blue flame.
The posture was anything but graceful, but it was far better than the fate of the undead pursuing him, whose bodies were melted away by the fiery vortex.
A few scattered sparks landed on Jenkins's clothes and hair, some even passing through his flaming form. The curse and the soulfire tried to devour him, but they were swiftly assimilated, absorbed by the other flame that cloaked him.
Frowning, Jenkins rose to his feet and retracted his own flames. He patted out the largest flicker of fire on his cuff with his right hand before turning his gaze to the sword-wielding Wilcawang. Follow current novels on Nov3lFɪre.ɴet
"A very powerful sword. That's A-12-1-0044, the Skull Sword of the Departed Soul, isn't it?"
Wilcawang neither confirmed nor denied it, simply leveling the sword at Jenkins.
At his command, the very air behind him seemed to warp and twist. A tide of terrifying specters from every era imaginable poured forth from Wilcawang's back. The alley became a riverbed, and the flood of spirits surged down it, aiming to tear Jenkins to shreds.
The tide of souls was so dense it was visible to the naked eye. A gray, spectral mist flooded the alley, but only the spirits at the forefront of the wave could hear the prayer Jenkins began to recite:
"Praise to the Sage, praise to the Goddess. May your brilliance light the path of humankind."
Until he found a way to draw divine power by praying to himself, praying to the Sage was his safest bet.
The spiritual tide was barely a meter from Jenkins when a dazzling golden light erupted from him. Like a lone island in a raging river, it cleaved the spectral flood in two.
A three-foot radius around him glowed with golden light, while beyond that small sanctum, the tide of spirits surged on, completely submerging the alley.
He shone like a sun in the heart of the gray mist. A dozen paces away, Wilcawang radiated the black aura characteristic of a Mysterious Object, making him look like a black hole absorbing all light. The terrible sword in his hand seemed to laugh, eager to slay the powerful foe before it.
This was perhaps the most Jenkins had ever resembled a Saint Son. The sacred, golden radiance lent him a solemn air. Bit by bit, the light began to eat away at the seemingly endless tide of souls, slowly but surely suppressing the power of the sword across from him.
Seeing that he still couldn't overwhelm his opponent, Wilcawang swung the Skull Sword of the Departed Soul a third time. Black lightning arced across the sky above them. He began to rise, ascending slowly, to look down from on high at the golden sphere of light engulfed by the tide of souls.