Savage Awakening 254. Third Floor's End (II) (Patreon)

Steelheart Conclave 

The Barbarian Sage crushed his ale tankard in one quivering fist. 

“What in the Nine Hells is this?! Half-step Ascendant?!”

He looked like he wanted to reach through the projection and strangle the System with his bare hands. 

“System, you creaky old bastard! Are you blind as well as deaf?!” 

The Scouts around him winced. They knew the System was an unthinking machine. That was what all the theory books said, anyway. But some still clung to an old superstition, that it had a soul—that it was some kind of deity. They tried not to profane it.

The Sage was well past the point of caring. He let out a colorful string of curses. 

The Monster advanced on Zane. A Monster with powers that belonged nowhere near this floor. A Monster so powerful its host body would expire in hours—you could see its very presence destabilizing reality, shivering where the creature tread… 

It had a half-domain—not a full one. But even a half-domain made a world of difference. Zane’s body had an immense vitality—as much as any Nascent creature the Sage had ever seen. A vitality surpassing a good chunk of Ascendants. It had to be from his Primordial Nascent Soul. 

Even still, they could all see him heaving, working hard to shuck off those Laws. Laws that descended on them like a thousand freezing grasping fingers, trying to dig their way under the skin….

The Sage gritted his teeth. But there was nothing he could do.

The System was a very old machine. It long predated the Dragonspire Galaxy. It didn’t only govern this Galaxy. Or the Celestial Imperium that contained it. It governed the whole of the Universe. The Laws it was written in—according to the high seers of the Nameless King—were nearing the Universal Laws. 

No one alive could understand them. Much less change them. 

Zane and his friends were truly on their own. 

“I'll tell you this,” gritted the Sage. “If anything happens to him… I’ll go through that dungeon, and take my pound of flesh off that sniveling worm myself!” 

The Head Scout paled. The sniveling worm, of course, was Gilgoroth. None of the Scouts there quite knew what to make of that—the consequences of such an act… but the Barbarian Sage looked deadly serious. 

“You show them what you’re made of, Zane,” said the Sage. “Hold that head high! Don’t you let them bully you!” 

*** 

Zane felt the demon coming.

But he still couldn’t stop it. 

His punches shot out like a piston now. He was not slow. 

But that demon moved like everyone else was underwater, and it strode on land. Like they occupied two different realities. 

It left bleak shadowy after-images as it moved—even the way it fell, always a little faster than it should, like gravity pulled on it different. That dark field about it seemed to grant it its own preferred reality. 

 And yet as it closed in on Zane, claws descending, as Zane’s arm rose to meet it—he could feel viscerally the gap between intent and action. His will, and when his body executed it.

In that window, that little gap of time. It struck.

He watched his fist rise, feeling in slow motion, shooting out—still rising as four black claws sank deep into Zane’s chest. Raking all the way across in one smooth motion. Screeching as they carved through skin—and ripped into the muscle underneath. 

Zane’s flesh blackened at just a touch. Gave way beneath an enormous shearing force—beneath Laws that tore through any essence, any Law that got in its path. It was a cold unlike anything Zane had ever felt. A cold so vicious it had his body screaming. The way the body screams, goes into a sudden panic when you put your hand on a stove—only with the temperatures reversed. 

Zane grunted. 

He could only trust his body then. The skin took the worst of the Law, that big blast of it on contact—those claws raked down his muscles. And halted there. Ripping the fibers. Drawing spurts of blood… but the thickness of him, the robustness, the iron-like quality—all that essence burning through him, pumping those fibers full of life, stretching them tight—it stopped the blow from sinking straight into his heart.

Blood fountained out of him. 

The Monster slashed again. The other way. Carved a bloody black X deep down his torso. 

Only then did Zane’s fist arrive, flaring white-hot even as he bellowed. 

But the demon was gone the next instant. Blown away on a gust of shrill wind, and he struck nothing.

Then the aftershock hit Zane in full. A brilliant shock of pain ripped up and down his chest… he hissed. But he could take this pain. Pain had never crippled him.

The damage was less easy to brush off. 

His flesh was deadening all along those cuts, and quick. In an instant more than a tenth of his Health instantly vanished. And worse. Those Frostbite Laws stayed behind, festering in the wounds, running rampant over all his essence, his Stormfire, even—spreading visibly, some supernatural rot—

He felt a vicious intent coming his way. Wheeled around—too slow. Felt a third huge spike of pain ripping up his side, bellowed furiously, hammered out a fist. But the demon had flitted away. Was gone. A hundred strides off, cocking its head at Zane. Inspecting its handiwork.

Zane looked down.

In three quick strokes it had shredded him chest-to-waist. 

An icy pain stabbed deep through him. And it wasn't stopping—it was growing, if anything, some awful poison bent on swallowing him whole, creeping rot over hale flesh, trying to make of him a frozen shriveled corpse. He felt his own Stormfire fighting within at the tiniest of levels, burning against that dark tide—but this Law… 

It was of a different grade. 

And worse—standing in the demon’s field was like being trapped in a blizzard. Zane’s healing flames flickered in that wind; his body only chilled. The cold sank into him only grew stronger. He saw it crackling over his skin, freezing him over, snatching away sensation inch by painful inch— 

Then Zane’s essence, his blood, raged through him.

Reinforcements crashing against the wounds driving them back, fighting them to a standstill—and there he felt the power of a soul merged deeply with flesh. Throwing every last ounce of him into the effort. Fighting a war within, even as he turned to face the enemy without. 

Just fighting off the wounds wasted heaps of essence. He was already starting to feel woozy—and that was just the opening blow…

Then Zane felt himself lightening. 

Warming—felt a new soul connecting to his own, a soul overflowing with worry, with care. It was Reina, pouring in her own support—stemming the bleeding. Easing the strain on his essence reserves.

She let out a sharp breath just behind him, fighting hard to keep the wounds from spreading. But she managed it. “Come on, Zane!” she urged. 

There was the demon. Eyeing him with that same hollow curiosity. Like it was taking in every aspect of him with those blank pale eyes, unblinking.

It smiled too-wide. 

And struck again.

Zane snarled. Struck right back. 

This time he tried timing it as it came for him. He came closer. 

Not close enough. 

He came out of that exchange with three more deep gashes lighting up his torso. It would have been five—then he saw Avery crying out, saw the air warbling in front of him, barely turning aside the last few blows. It had her bent double, hacking blood. 

Still—

Warning!

Health under 75%

This thing hit very, very hard.

Zane heaved in a breath. He was already bleeding bad—his blood was turning black, freezing up, dying as it poured out of him and into that awful chilling field—his Vitality being overpowered as it left his body… 

Only with Reina’s support, with his heart, his massive essence stores burning constantly—could he resist.

And even still he could feel the weight of the wounds already… when he punched, he moved a little slower. Huge swathes of his chest muscles had deadened. Were deadening with each blow it landed.

The Monster licked its lips.

Zane clenched his teeth. 

They had sent a bird to kill him. 

It was already starting to piss him off. His heart was hammering fast, an immense strength coursing through his limbs—yet he could not do anything with it. 

If he could get his hands on it—if he could just sink his fists into it, sink a hammer he was certain he could make his power felt. He might not match it in the level of Law. He knew he would still overwhelm it with his physicality. 

Still… he bit back a growl.

He had fought birds before. Chasing had led him nowhere—he just ended up being carved up.

There was still a lot of flesh still left on him. But as the demon wheeled back for a third go at him, he knew he would only weaken as things went. And it would only strengthen. 

As much as he wished to… there was no time to waste chasing stupidly. 

“Evan,” Zane grunted. Gaze fixed on the smiling Monster. 

“Mhm!” said Evan, who had charged up a blast and was trying his best to aim—but couldn’t quite seem to find an opening. The thing was too fast, too dart-y. 

“Listen,” said Zane. 

*** 

“I’ll bet that thing’s never struck a Nascent quite like that, has it?” said the Barbarian Sage. “That’s Primordial Grade for you! It’ll take more than a few scratches to bring Zane down!”

It was mostly bluster. He was gripping his throne so hard it was denting the steel. 

Everyone in the Observatory knew just how wide the gap between a full Fusion and a mid-Fusion was… it was not one you ought to be able to bridge. Especially not while ceding nearly a full cultivation stage worth of Levels.

But none of them had seen a caliber of Nascent Soul like Zane’s either.

The Scouts and the Sage all watched, breathless, as a woman healed the big man as best she could. A girl in a hoodie tried to throw off as much damage as she could, yelling defiantly. The boy with the big sword stood there quivering, eyes squeezed shut…

“It should be enough!” growled the Sage. He cursed again as he saw Zane stagger, take two more vicious slices—and now one of his full pecs had been severed down the middle. Blood gushed indiscriminately. He was heaving in deep breaths, bleeding from a dozen gaping black scars running all across him. By the set of his jaw, by the fury he was fighting with, you would have thought he’d taken a mere flesh wound.

“It ought to be enough—if they didn’t send a damned fly at him!”

Zane kept groping for it. But he was clearly slowing; every try he came across clumsier. Stumbling a little now. His latest effort went wide left—he bellowed, fist flailing, blasting Stormfire wildly. They could all see it was way off. The demon grinned wider, darted the other way—

“Now!” roared Zane. 

The boy’s eyes snapped open. His hair began to glow a brilliant gold, the gold of the rising sun. His sword glowed too. His face was all scrunched up in determination, his bright blue eyes honed straight on the demon. He let out a cry. 

All the essence he’d been charging up unleashed at once.

Wide right—straight into the demon’s path. A path it had been herded straight into.  

The Monster hadn’t even been looking at the boy. It had been looking at Zane, at Zane’s wild shot. The beam caught it straight in the chest.

Its eyes bulged. It let out a screech, went tumbling. Landed in a crouch. Smoking. Hacking.

A shallow blackened hole sank into its chest. Dripping black blood. The boy held up his trembling sword—“Don’t you hurt my friend!” he cried.

Now both sides had drawn blood.

*** 

Sage Burnwater was not a man given to fear. 

He had been first through the breach at the Floor of Graves during the last major Jailbreak. Back in his days as an Azure general, he had faced down hundreds of Ascendant Monster hordes unflinching. 

He felt fear now looking at Sage Noughtfire’s face. 

Noughtfire did not rant and rave when he got angry. But you could tell something was deeply wrong. Feel it in the brightness in his eyes, in the subtle stillness, the absolute control he exerted on his aura then. Like it all might explode at any moment. 

A bead of sweat dripped down Burnwater’s temple. If Noughtfire let loose it might wipe out a quarter of the galaxy. 

“Lan Arandor,” he breathed, eyes flashing. “You dare?!” 

“Err—” said Burnwater. 

“Good. Very good! So this is the game you’d like to play.” The old man flicked his sleeves. “Then let me be your opponent.” 

Noughtfire was a mysterious, esoteric figure. Mostly keeping to himself. But those who knew—mostly Patriarchs and Ancestors—knew not to get on his bad side. 

There were old legends told of Noughtfire’s wrath, long lost to history. This was a man who could hold grudges for ten thousand years. 

Though most of his grudges ended far faster than that. And in fashions that made Burnwater wince just to remember.

“Fetch me my staff,” snarled Noughtfire. “This Junior is about to learn that he is not the only one who knows how to wield the System.”