Chapter 48: The Songbird's Final Eclipse
"Tiffany..."
Flashes of her indifferent face emerged within the constraints of his mind—the same auburn hair as that kid's, and perhaps the most striking similarity was the unique amber eyes flecked with emerald shades. They both possessed it, although Tiffany's eyes bore a cold, calculative glint, one that sent goosebumps rippling across his skin. The kid's name—as he had gleaned through a peer into Alwyn's memories—was Ruby, his kid sister, one he harbored an absurd sister complex about... call it love or whatever. And they were from Eden, unlike Tiffany, who was from... from... His face contorted as he tried to pinpoint the exact city she had mentioned. Something like Land... Land... Landsbrough... yes, Landsbrough. Was it a lie? Was she actually Ruby before changing her name to Tiffany? Because it connected—Ruby, the blonde knight, and Alwyn, of course, were planning on escaping to Avalon. Could Ruby have succeeded in escaping, maybe with Mennyx, but obviously not Alwyn, for he possessed his soul, which meant he had died? Had Ruby escaped to Avalon, changing her identity and origin there? Was this her past, the one that made her so gloomy? His brain rapidly deduced different assumptions.
If this really was her past, then he totally understood how she ended up as the cold, detached woman—one who allotted degrading titles like "lecher," "reeking man," "glutton" as compliments to people... well, mostly to him, though. He didn't know if she behaved that way with others; he never got to see her interact much with them.
But... a new thought lodged in his mind. Maybe he was overthinking it. His brain always had a tendency to overthink things—one he was grateful for, of course—but that didn't mean it was always right. After all, he had overthought a theory that ended up a disaster, one he was trapped in, one he was losing himself in...
A wave of nostalgia washed through him. Ironic, right? He could feel nostalgia but not even a touch of the windy air. Anyway... he sighed.
Chide those thoughts, Xiall. These things always lead to more loops of mysteries, ones he was getting tired of.
He had the Soul Tree to thank for that.
Stop derailing, Xiall...
From the reason he was here: to witness the final act of Auria Vernys and maybe retain a third of his fragmented self... along with her identity. And again, a wave of nostalgia washed through him.
He had really come to like the female knight. Really had.
But speaking of her...
His eyes wandered from the speeding horse to the Condemnation, which now had its blazing glare fixed on the flashes of silver slightly visible in the dark mist. He squinted; he still couldn't see thoroughly through the mist. He had to trigger...
"Heightened perception."
His eyes exploded in an otherworldly silver blaze, his senses sharpening to absorb every nuance of the battlefield. The thunderous hoofbeats of fleeing horses echoed across Eden's ruins, each impact vibrating through the earth like distant war drums. Undead growls reverberated in guttural choruses, a symphony of decay—low rumbles from bloated throats, high-pitched hisses from withered lungs. Droplets of viscous saliva pattered onto the cracked stone like intermittent rain, mingling with the metallic tang of blood that hung heavy in the air. From Lysander's injured arm, crimson droplets trailed in erratic arcs, flung by the wind into misty spirals that evaporated before hitting the ground. The soft drag of saddles creaked rhythmically against leather, underscoring Auria's labored breaths—sharp, ragged inhalations that betrayed her waning strength—and the beads of sweat cascading freely from her forehead, tracing salty paths down her grime-streaked face. Ichor flapped from her blade in viscous strands, the weapon itself a blur of motion, leaving behind multiple silver afterimages that sliced through the fog like ephemeral ghosts. The lateral onslaught unfolded in a macabre ballet: ichor and blood arced through the air in graceful sprays, mingling in mid-flight before splattering the ground, while severed limbs tumbled end over end—arms flailing limply, heads rolling with frozen expressions of eternal hunger—and torsos slumped in heaps, their innards spilling out in steaming piles that squelched underfoot.
Her motions were a dance that transcended the ordinary—far too precise and swift for a mere human, her steps fluid despite her injuries, defying the frailty of a mortal knight. The sounds of her metal boots gliding with grace against the stone-slabbed floor were like the rhythmic whispers of a songbird, soft and melodic amid the chaos.
Oh... then it clicked. From the memory fragments of Wolfred, he had firsthand witnessed this beautiful dance of death on the battlefield for the Fortress of Valen—the signature sword art of the Vernys family, now honed to perfection.
The reason she was the greatest female knight in the realm of mortals...
The sword style...
"Ethereal Dance of the Whispering Songbird..."
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She shifted her weight, sword held low in a smooth reverse grip, its tip brushing the wet dirt. She glided forward, her steps light and flowing, like a dancer on a stage of mud and carnage. The numbness in her left arm had spread, a cold drag from the bite making it hang heavy and unresponsive. Her left lung burned with each breath, short and tight, air hard to pull in; her left leg from the torso down was growing numb—a grim reminder of the little time she had left before she became one of the very monstrosities she fought against. Yet she raged on, her mind blanketed in pain, repeating like a mantra:
For Mennyx... for the kids... for the continuity of Eden's glory... and for the honor of a martyr. Nothing else mattered—only what lay within her sight.
The tilted-helmet soldier stabbed first, spear thrusting low, flanked by the half-faced guard jabbing high and two thin ones clawing from the sides—one a wiry farmer with broken nails, the other a decayed scribe clad in ink-stained rags. She leaned into a quick feint, drawing the spears wide, then her sword flashed upward—slicing through the soldier's wrist and the guard's elbow in one clean, arcing motion, severed arms clattering to the ground like discarded relics. She spun, the pommel crushing the farmer's skull with a crack like shattering pottery, her blade thrusting forward to gut the scribe and a bloated onlooker lumbering in, its belly bursting open in a spray of dark fluid that soaked her armor in thin, acrid lines. Five down, their bodies piling like broken statues amid the fog.
The wave pushed harder. A swollen seamstress with needle scars on her hands swung a bloated fist, backed by a gaunt blacksmith whose hammer arm dangled loose, and three thin corpses darting low—a feral beggar with a matted beard, a child with a cracked, doll-like face, and a servant in torn livery. Her arm felt like ice now, slowing her left side, but she dropped low, faking a step back to draw them in. As they closed, she rose fast—her sword twisting in a tight spiral: the first cut slicing the seamstress's knee and the blacksmith's ankle, a fake high swing lifting the beggar's guard, then three quick rips across the child's midsection and the servant's chest. Rot spilled out in hot, foul waves, the group collapsing with wet groans. She stepped over them, their fall blocking four more—a mix of armored and thin undead, their unique scars and rags blurring in the relentless press.
Pain flared in her lung, a sharp squeeze that blurred her vision for a second, her breaths ragged. The side effect of this sword style: it required high mental calculation, precise attacks demanding full body coordination and utilization of her five senses. Feel the air shifting around her, hear the growls vibrating through the mist, smell the bloodthirst in their rancid exhalations, taste the acrid bitterness of decay on her tongue, and see beyond the veil—with full utilization, she could pinpoint feints and counterattacks with deadly precision.
A cluster of five thin corpses leaped at her sides: a lanky thief with a shredded hooded cloak, a gaunt noblewoman in faded silk, two peasant brothers with matching plow-callused hands now hooked like claws, and a withered elder with a cane fused to its palm. She turned in a graceful spin, her blade's edge feinting left to make them dodge wrong, then striking in a burst—slashes knocking the thief and noblewoman off balance, thrusts piercing eyes on the brothers and elder. She flowed through, her sword sweeping wide to behead the thief, noblewoman, and one brother in a single arc, the other two stabbed as they recoiled. Heads rolled into the fog, bodies twitching on the ground like felled puppets.
The cold spread to her chest, weighing her down, sweat stinging her eyes and mixing with gore. Her breathing rasped, her mouth tasting the metallic tang of blood. Petrified but unyielding, she continued—she couldn't spare a moment's respite. A tangled group of six came next: a gaunt armored knight with a dented breastplate fused to its ribs, a swollen innkeeper whose apron hung in tatters over a bulging gut, a thin messenger with a satchel strap embedded in flesh, and three mixed walkers—a guard with arrow shafts protruding from its back, a baker with flour-dusted decay, a hunter with quiver bones exposed. She met them head-on, feinting an overhand chop to make them block high, then unleashing a storm of strikes: low sweeps cutting legs on the knight and innkeeper, a fake jab dropping guards on the messenger and guard, four fast stabs hitting necks on the baker and hunter, chests on the others. They fell apart in chunks of bone and flesh, opening a short path through the horde.
She drove on, the tall-roofed house emerging through the mist, its sharp silhouette like a beacon in the chaos. The horde grouped tighter—armored ones like a scarred veteran with a rotted eye patch forming a wall of spears, swollen like a drowned fisherman hurling bits of rot like stones, thin ones circling her back such as a sly pickpocket with nimble but decayed fingers. Her breaths scraped raw, lung on fire, bitten arm a dead weight, sword gripped in one hand now. She dodged with smooth slides, feints making groups crash into each other, her blade carving through multiples—slashes through the veteran's spear and the fisherman's arm, stabs piercing the pickpocket and two followers, trails of silver and black blood painting the air.
A thin corpse's claw—a decayed artist's with paint-flecked nails—scraped her numb arm, tearing cloth but registering no sensation, just a dull pull. She countered with a feint and stab combo, pinning it mid-air, then using the momentum to slice through five more: a cluster of unique horrors—a soldier with a medal melted into its chest, a maid with apron strings like veins, a scholar with book pages fused to skin, and two laborers with tool-marked hands. The ground turned slick with guts, the fog thick with the stench of rot and blood. Her sight faded at the edges, numbness devouring her left hand completely. Now fully handicapped, using her blade as a crutch, she reached the house's base.
Her eyes frantically scanned the building for a way to climb upward toward the roof. They wandered to the windows, then to the roof, then back to the windows—a plan clicked in her mind. She was going to use the structure's features to propel herself up.
A lance tore through the air, rusted along its edges, hurtling toward her. Barely sensing it, she had let down her guard for a second. The lance ripped into the flesh of her numb left arm, yet she registered no pain—perhaps due to the numbness. Never in her wildest dreams had she thought she'd be grateful for her decaying arm. Enough of the thoughts, she chided herself.
Her blade, with a silver glint, traced defined multiple curves across the growing undead still trying to pull out its lance—a former knight she had known, but not well enough to remember the name. The pain lodged in her heart, the one she had been trying to suppress: that the monstrosities she fought were once people, ones they swore to protect—both family, friends, and foes. She gritted her teeth, her blade coming down in a swift arc.
Beside her, not after trailing an arc of dark crimson on the floor...
She picked up the lance from the twitching, bloodied figure on the ground, missing its hands and its head, which rolled into the oblivion of the dark mist.
She had severed all in one strike.
As for the lance, it was going to be useful. She winced again at the growing headache, like hammers thumping on her skull. Her left eye was going dark; she was losing her left vision. She wobbled, clutching her sword for support. Now she was almost grateful for the absence of those growling monstrosities lurking in the mist... or were they scared? She mocked inwardly.
She winced, then gritted her teeth. This was her chance. She forced herself up—she had to do what Lysander, Nyra, Caelyx, and other knights of her caliber would do...
Push on.
She heaved herself up. All she needed was a perfect execution of her plan, she thought, with labored breathing as she clutched both the sword and the lance in her right hand. Her left arm bled dark ichor profusely. She moved.
With undead lunging from the shadows—clawed hands grasping, jaws snapping in feral hunger—she exploded into action. She leaped toward the nearest window, her boot shattering the glass in a cascade of shards that glittered like falling stars in the mist. Using the momentum, she lunged upward, her footsteps skidding along an adjacent wall for purchase, the stone crumbling slightly under her weight. As decayed fingers scraped at her heels, she twisted mid-air in a somersault, hurling herself higher with a powerful thrust. Her body arced gracefully through the fog, undead below roaring in frustration as they clawed at empty air. Her foot gained purchase on the roof with a resounding clank. She exhaled into the fresh air, her visibility improved since the mist here was less dense. She had no time to spare for sensory details.
Her target was the colossal shadow that loomed above her, partially obstructed by the dark mist shrouding its form, which towered like a spire. Its golden blazing eyes were now focused on her, an imminent pressure surging from the heavens, collapsing onto her shoulders. She gritted her teeth, the force pressing her down to her knees, her heart over-palpitating, pupils dilating, veins bulging on her forehead. This was her third time bearing this seismic pressure... and obviously the last. Her body had become accustomed to it—or so she thought. But it was better this way: this devastating terror focusing on her while Mennyx escaped with the kids. This was her plan all along, and the dumb Condemnation had played right into it. She had nothing left to lose.
A smile so beautiful that it contrasted the catastrophe of Eden etched itself on her lips. This was her end... or so she thought.
The colossal pressure pressing down on her abruptly disappeared, her bones creaking in relief. She raised her head, her neck aching, the raking headache spreading to her right eye. Above, the glowing eyes of the Condemnation gazed at something behind her, as if drawn to it.
She followed its blazing eyes, her gaze landing on a pale, white-haired tall figure standing on a cathedral spire not too far behind—a man of otherworldly beauty, with gleaming silver eyes contrasting those of the Condemnation. Was he a god, one destined to save Eden, or one of the knights of the KnightLord? Yet still, the man felt familiar... pale white hair... silver eyes... She racked her disoriented mind, trying to piece memories together. Her eyes traveled through his features, back to his eyes, which gave a sly wink at her, then a gesture directed to her hand clutching the lance.
The message struck: it was a diversion. The white-haired man was diverting the attention of the towering monstrosity, one whose shadow she stood in. Letting her sword fall to the roof with a clang—but what was a mere lance going to do against that looming catastrophe? It was meaningless; it wouldn't leave much of a scratch on it, that's if it even hit. Yet still, in the face of all these facts, the desperate urge for one last defiance against the very monster that had claimed the entirety of the world she had known, turning it into a terrifying dark hellscape—the fury of seeing those she knew, friends and foes, become nothing less than deranged monstrosities—dominated her. Anger surged in as adrenaline. She steadied the lance in her right hand, gripping it with such ferocity, taking her stance. With a sharp exhale, she hurled it toward the Condemnation, the spear tearing through the air...
Defiantly hurtling toward the Condemnation like a needle to a giant.
A futile attempt... for the spear merely vanished into the dark fog surrounding the colossal terror, soundlessly absorbed into the black shroud.
Nostalgia clawed at her heart. What the hell was she thinking? A mere spear would hurt a monster of that caliber? How absurd. Her right eye steadily dimming in vision... but still it caught it: the slight flicker in the body of the colossal Condemnation. Her eyes squinted. Before she could question what was happening, her senses registered a large ripple in the air—something was coming, with catastrophic magnitude. Laboring as fast as she could, she raced across the roof with labored breaths and pants. It was here, her brain registered, as she leapt as far as she could from the dilapidated building, which before her eyes was pulverized into smithereens. The force of the attack traced a deep canal that eradicated the rest of the buildings on its path—the cathedral where she had seen the white-haired man reduced to gray rubble by a dark, jagged monolith. It was dark and scaly, armored in obsidian-like plates that gleamed with an unnatural sheen, huge bone-like spikes protruding from its length like thorns on a demonic vine. At the end were six enormous claws, each as large as a man, gray and dripping with viscous dark ichor that sizzled upon contact with the ground, leaving scorched trails in the stone.
A sharp pain registered in her feet, halting her observation. She glanced down, her eyes going bloodshot. Her right foot... it was gone. Not only the foot, but everything up to her right knee, all vanished, replaced by a swirling vortex of scarlet flailing in the wind. Had the claws of that terrifying fiend claimed it?
She cursed, her eyes going teary. She was fed up with it all. She cursed—her only sure mobility had been compromised, leaving her handicapped with a left leg that was going numb. How was she going to buy time for Mennyx? Deeply, she hoped for them a successful escape. She had bought all the time she could... she had done all she could.
Her figure landed on the stone-slabbed floor, her body registering the pain in her spine. She groaned—or tried to—but it emerged as a hiss, her raspy breath like white mist in the dark, one she could only see... along with the persistent rays of light diving into this black fog, like heaven's willful defiance.
She stretched her hands toward it with all the strength she could muster, trying to clutch the light within her palm...
Trying to grasp the hope in front of her...
But she failed; it still persisted, leaking beyond her palm to her eyes.
"How fleeting..." her voice shaky. With a huge grunt, she stared at the puddle of blood beneath her right knee. She was losing a lot of blood, wasn't she? The answer was her consciousness thinning.
Had Lysander... Nyra and the rest felt this too? This despair... this loneliness... amidst this looming darkness and chilling cold... battling desperately for life while still futilely clinging to hope? She needed no answer, for the haunting silence did...
Along with ferocious growls tearing from the fog.They were coming—those walking corpses. She heaved, her breath ragged. So, this was her fate: to die mangled, torn apart by those ravenous dead. A degrading end for a hero.
"That's what he would've said," she thought, picturing Lysander's smug grin. The memory sparked a faint smile, but it faded fast. She wasn't Lysander. She couldn't accept being ripped apart, piece by piece, devoured. No, she wouldn't. Certain Nyra wouldn't either.
Her left leg was going numb, but sensation lingered—just enough. She could still escape this rubble. She just needed… her mind blanked. Her sword—where was it? A flash of memory hit: the rooftop. She'd dropped it there after hurling her lance at that towering monstrosity. She cursed herself inwardly. How could she be so careless?
A sharp pain stabbed her abdomen. Her eyes darted down—an arrow, its silver blade gleaming, lodged deep in her gut. Terror clawed at her skull, a pounding headache amplifying her panic. Frantically, she scanned the mist beyond, searching for the archer. Nothing. Only the jagged silhouettes of growling undead, shambling closer through the fog.
Then, a force slammed into her from the side, sending her tumbling across the stone-slabbed floor. Her head cracked against the ground, pain exploding, merging with the agony in her skull. Disoriented, her vision swam, but her eyes locked onto a growling corpse crawling toward her. Its short black hair and dark, hollow eyes mirrored Nyra's—eerily so. The creature had come from her blind left side, its cunning surprising her. This wasn't a mindless husk; it moved with purpose, dragging itself closer, its gnarled fingers clawing at the stone.
She struggled, her numb leg betraying her as she tried to scramble back. The undead's lips curled into a grotesque snarl, revealing jagged teeth stained with rot. It lunged, and she barely rolled away, the arrow in her abdomen grinding deeper with the motion.
She wrenched the arrow from her own abdomen with a gasp that was more a ragged sob, and before the shock could fully paralyze her, she drove it deep into the skull of the nearest creature. The thing that had been Nyra. It wasn't Nyra. It couldn't be. The real Nyra was brave and strong, a vibrant force of life, not this... this growling horror with milky eyes. Her mind recoiled from the assumption, a fragile lie she clung to with desperate hands. If Nyra had fallen to this corruption, what of Lysander? The thought was a physical blow, tearing at the fabric of her heart.
She couldn't picture it. She refused. The image came anyway, unbidden and cruel: Lysander, his face a bloody mask, eyes vacant sockets, mouth dripping with feral hunger. The mental assault made her stagger.
No. This is all wrong. The defensive thought screamed in her mind. They are in the blessed halls of eternity, boasting of their deeds. They have to be.
A ragged sniff, a futile attempt to steady her rasping breath. The growling forms emerged from the fog, their milky eyes fixed on her. There was no escape. This was just delaying the inevitable. Mustering the last dregs of her strength, she heaved herself against the cold, shattered hull of a broken chariot. The world swam, her right eye dimming into nothingness, the left painting everything in a blurry mess of shadow and movement. Both lungs burned, each breath a milestone achieved through sheer will. Her hands, slick and bloody, still clutched the arrow, its silver glint now fouled with dark ichor. Her chest heaved, a slow, labored rhythm. Her heart was failing.
Slowly, she closed her eyes. One more memory. Just one.
But it was not one. It was a cascade.
The culmination of her life played before her: the first time her small hands wrapped around a sword hilt; her academy days as a page; the sunset she met Nyra and Lysander; the funny, whispered moments with Nyra; the spars with Lysander, his face always lit with that proud, confident smirk even in defeat. Her coronation on the monument of kings. Her first mission with Caelyx and Mennyx. Nearly drowning in the Ra'mis upstream with Lysander during a scouting mission. Being stuck in the swamps for days with Nyra, who insisted she knew the way. Her grueling training days with Conan. The raucous knight parties at Wolfred, and Lucien getting so drunk he walked home naked. Meeting the Knight Lord, Lord Vayne, his dark flowing hair and black eyes that held a tapestry of shimmering, multicolored stars. The deadly battle for the Fortress of Valen, where she lost her brother Vermillion and perfected her sword style. Her first shooting lesson with her little sister Eris, who'd teasingly call her an "aged, no-class muscle-head." Her appointment as a general, awarded the title of the Crimson Knight. Old man Bors and his rigorous wind-dancing and mountain-climbing training.
Ah, those good old days. She could have remembered more, but a corrosive darkness was rising, drowning these precious memories, pulling them beneath a suffocating surface. It was making her an empty shell. The corruption was spreading fast. In seconds, as she had deduced, she would become one of those monstrosities.
Auria Vernys would cease to exist.
She heaved a slow, final breath. She would not allow that. Better to die as the knight she was, than live as a thing she was not.
That choice was her only hope.
She opened her eyes. A familiar sensation enveloped her, like being pulled into a gentle embrace, yet her numb body registered no physical touch. Struggling, she darted her failing gaze, focusing her one good eye. Then she saw him. The white-haired man. She was in his arms, his silver hair dancing in a wind she could not feel, his broad back a shield against the world. He was a phantom, a trick of the dying mind, perhaps. But she did not hate it. Not at all.
His voice, a whisper layered with profound emotion, cut through the static in her ears. "You tried, Auria. You did your best." A pause, then, softer, "They've made it far enough. You did it. It is now time to leave the rest to them."
His calm, soothing words surged through her, a final, profound elation she never thought herself capable of feeling again. She had succeeded. She had bought them enough time. She had fulfilled her role as a knight. She had done well.
Tears cascaded down her face in streams and torrents, jolting freely down her dusty cheeks to the ground below. They traced paths across the beautiful, radiant smile that now graced her lips—a beacon of light amidst the overwhelming darkness.
"Thank you," she muttered, her voice already fraying. "If ever you see them again... tell them I tried. I really did. And... I await tales of their adventures in the blessed halls of eternity." The last words twisted in her throat, warping into a feral growl. Thick saliva dripped from her lips. Her left eye filmed over, milky white, her skin rapidly bleaching to the pallor of death.
"Farewell, Auria," he whispered.
Her right hand twitched, a final act of will, and drove the arrow with brutal force into her own heart.
Her hand fell limp upon the stone-slabbed floor. Her bloodied breastplate was still. She was gone.
And yet, her face still held that beautiful, serene smile, her sparkling ruby eyes glimmering as if they had just seen the gates of Paradise itself