Chapter 83 - Hunter's Fury (Patreon)

Sunday’s essence was an endless wave of power that fueled his newfound desire for blood. The moths delivered it with enthusiasm. They were bloodlust incarnated and knew no peace. Two-thirds of them were white, brimming with vitality – those headed for the vampires who were still busy attacking the hound with their weapons.

Their teamwork was giving results, and the hound was struggling to disengage. It fell apart into darkness a few times, but the hallway was not wide enough for it to do much with its magical mobility. For a moment Sunday wondered why it was not leaving; he was certain it could do it.

The screaming began as the first life moth landed on a vampire – the woman who had first reacted to the coming of the hound. It clung to her and she yelled and cursed as her flesh started burning. Sunday felt his control over the moths slip again, but he didn’t care that much. He wanted the vampires to suffer.

The death moths went for the hound instead, melting its hide – albeit very slowly. It was like burning something moist, and the air became filled with an unpleasant smell and dark smoke. Whatever the strange coating of darkness was, it was protecting the beast. He heard some of the prisoners cough and retch but held his own breath. They could deal. He was doing enough by removing their captors from the equation.

The memory of the room full of vampires came to Sunday, and he poured even more essence into his spells. There was no time. If more bloodsuckers came, he would be screwed. He had greatly underestimated them, but fear was the farthest thing from his mind. Something quiet and ethereal in his very soul reveled at the challenge and wanted him to face even worse odds.

After all, growth was done through adversity.

His moths soon took over the fight and the feud between the seemingly immortal vampires and the stubborn hound was put to the side, although the beast seemed quite pissed at them. He watched with wonder how three to four months at a time burned the vampires, and yet their flesh returned to normal in mere moments. He didn’t know what such a healing factor cost them. It couldn’t be limitless.

“YOU!” Lord Versum yelled. Four white moths were burning him, attacking and dodging his attacks with nimbleness faster than Sunday’s thoughts. The red glow covering them was quickly replacing the white light of life.

The vampire Lord ignored them as his blazing eyes stopped on Sunday, despite the apparent agony they were causing him. He rushed forward. Phantasmal Fall made him stumble only for a moment, before another flash of white burst right before Sunday, bathing the vampire in life essence.

It only slowed him down a second more as he screamed in pain. Sunday scrambled to the side, entering one of the unlocked rooms and closing the door. He put his weight against it but the vampire took only a few seconds to pull it out of the hinges and throw it to the side. He was little more than a melted humanoid candle of blood and hanging flesh at this point, but the regeneration was doing its part very quickly.

His eyes remained dark and filled with anger as he slowly stepped inside, ignoring the scared human woman who had huddled in the corner. He had eyes only for Sunday.

“Even the Mesmer won’t save you. Your backing means nothing! NOTHING! I am in service of the Baron, and you have attacked his land, killed his servants, slaughtered our blood slaves, and broken the treaty with the Arcanum by praying to the wicked gods and unleashing this divine beast upon us,” the vampire slowly said. His voice was calmer than it was supposed to be, which spelled trouble.

Sunday’s eyes widened. He had greatly underestimated the scumminess of the bastards. Was that the alibi if it came to it? Was he already scheming how he would justify murdering Sunday?

“I haven’t killed anyone,” he said. Yet. “And I don’t worship shit. That thing out there is here out of its own free will.”

The vampire came closer and closer and the moths were almost fully red at this point. Sunday had no way to take back control. The loss of their life aura also made the damage they were capable of lessen. They had no use other than the essence. Perhaps if they were summons that could fight the red aura would’ve made then go berserk and exhibit further strength. However, moths were moths. They flew, landed on things, and died.

A blood-red moon appeared behind Sunday’s head and the vampire paused. The moths flew in droves and returned to it, abandoning their targets.

Sunday felt some essence return, but it was a minuscule amount. He still had plenty left thought. His reserves seemed to have almost quadrupled with the rank up.

“You hold the blood moon? What is that spell?” The vampire asked. He seemed even calmer now, and his face slowly shifted as bones and skin grew into place. Handsome and sleazy was the way to describe him. All traces of anger were gone.

“A gift from the Mesmer.”

“I see. A most peculiar choice. Perhaps she has decided to wage war before her powers fully left her? I’d do the same if I was an abomination incapable of growth and betterment.”

You are one you fucking prick.

The frame of the door burst apart as jaws from hell descended on the now calm vampire and found only air. The Lord had dodged easily, and his three proteges all returned to battling the exhausted-looking hound.

This is not good. Without the hound, he was one lone mage against many vampires. Things seemed pretty dire. However, the intoxicating feeling of confidence didn’t seem to leave him. Was it a result of the recent breakthrough, or a mental breakdown?

For a moment Sunday wondered if he was subconsciously seeking his death as a form of rejection of the world. He laughed and the vampire Lord glimpsed at him before a thin blade appeared in his hand. It moved fast toward the hound, but for some reason, it seemed… wrong. Sunday frowned.

His own hand grabbed the hilt of his neglected sword and pulled it out slowly. It felt different in his right hand now. Its weight was like an old friend, rejoicing to be reunited after a long absence.

What is this? So many strange things are happening. For a moment, a field of torn-apart ghouls flashed before his eyes. Hundreds more were covering the forest and watching vigilantly with their yellow eyes. Then all was back to normal.

The hound snarled and raged, and the shadowy tendrils coming off its skin bisected and stabbed at the vampires, but they always came back. Slowly the beast was brought to the ground. Each time it tried to disintegrate into shadows, something stopped the process. A disruption or simple exhaustin, it was unknown. Perhaps it was a disruption caused by the multitudes of lightning-fast attacks, or perhaps one of the vampires held a talent. It was a terrible thought. The vampires were worse than the nightmarish beast in their savagery, continuing their onslaught. And the hide of darkness was quickly being chipped away.

Sunday wasn’t sure what to do. The hound still enacted terror in his being, but not as strong as the first one had. Now that he had slain one it was just another obstacle. However, the vampires were actually more problematic…

The hound became a cloud of darkness one last time and Sunday watched as the bloody maw tried to close unto his head in a desperate attempt to fulfill its purpose. He easily dodged and the whole of the hound materialized and crashed into the poor woman who was hiding in the corner of the room-like cell. There was a short scream and a nasty crunch, and she was no more.

Sunday cringed, but another thought wormed its way into his mind, making him dizzy.

Should I… help it? The thought came and went and before he knew it, he rushed forward. Lord Versum simply watched from the side, frozen in expectation. Something had changed after he had seen the blood moon above Sunday. Hopefully for the better.

Two white moths sprung up into existence and rushed toward the fallen hound. They burst into healing essence that closed their wounds and brought back some of their vigor.

“You’re healing it?”

A sword strike aimed at his belly came as fast as lightning, and before Sunday knew it his sword flew to meet the vampire’s own. There was surprise in Versum’s eyes. Shock and offense.

“A swordmaster too?”

Sunday shook his head. The vampire attacked again, and for some reason, Sunday knew just what to do. It was an instinct stronger than thought. As if his muscles had done that a thousand times before. And yet, there was discomfort in the movement, like trying to recall a hazy memory.

The Lord seemed to be slowing down his attacks with no purpose though, which only made the shame inside Sunday blaze. They were still just a bit faster than Sunday’s own, but he managed to block them somehow – a pure instinct led by some strange force. Perhaps a connection to something.

It all ended as a voice echoed all around and even the vampire froze. Sunday felt a surge of panic. Could the vampires hear the narrator?

The prey heals the predator... Humiliation and indignity. The hunter’s lodge trembles from the fury of the one whose hands had brought it to existence. In the depths of its deepest corners, in the cold darkness, the hunter’s heart yet beats. His blood yet runs through veins of steel. His breath still fogs up the lands and brings winter.

Who are you, to show pity?

Others have dared to ruin the hunt. Soulless monsters unfit to exist in the realms. For those only eternal oblivion awaits. No chase. No game. No prideful and worthy death.

Drink to mourn the Hunt and the hound that has been wronged.

And behold the coldness of a Hunter.

The words trembled with unbridled rage hidden deep beneath them. Each stabbed at Sunday like a knife meant to tear his soul apart.

The primal fear that had plagued him in the city of stone, in the face of the sea of darkness, came back again. He forgot about his current enemy and grabbed his sword tighter. This was… not good.

The vampire lord retreated and his pupils dilated. The other three in the room seemed to look around. Sunday too, looked around. There was a change in the air, but what had brought it remained a mystery.

He looked toward the hound. It was doing much better but it stood in the corner covered in the blood and flesh of the innocent woman it had turned into paste. It was cold, indifferent, and frozen. The glass on the lamp by the bet suddenly started frosting over, and Sunday gritted his teeth. Silently praying for Chaotic Step to do its thing didn’t seem to work.

“We need to work together for what’s to come, or all of us will die,” Sunday quietly said.

The vampire Lord snapped to attention at his voice, but quickly looked away. He didn’t refute Sunday, nor did he accuse him of yet another scheme. Instead, he waited silently.

The shadows suddenly grew and then leaped. Like an inevitable face-off against the ground after jumping off a cliff, the darkness slammed into the three vampires near the doors. Grotesque screams filled the hallway and the room as monsters very different from the hounds tore at the vampires taking their flesh and gulping it down.

They were formless, gnarly, and brutal. There was nothing left to heal when they were done and the three vampires were no more than blood on the floor. For a moment Sunday wondered if they could regenerate through a drop of blood, but the thought was quickly chased away as the monsters melted back into the wall.

Then, they leaped at him and the vampire Lord.