The rot slowly coalesced into something solid, its stench thickening, ravaging the air like a forbidden plague.
Bairan stared as the pillar of rot took shape, its presence dampening the surroundings. His mouth twisted in disgust.
"Okay, what in this wretched world is that?"
Opposite him, Koll stood rigid, his expression stern as he watched the strange torrent solidify. With every passing second, the mass grew denser, blotting out the pale moonlight until, at last, it formed.
A creature—if it could be called that. It resembled a massive mound of flesh crowned with a small, grotesque head. Within that head sat sharp, demented eyes, two pools of darkness framing a single crimson orb that gleamed with a deranged evil.
The monstrosity lounged upon a floating throne of jagged edges, its seat adorned with a crown of thorns. Beneath it, the throne's base tapered into cruel, spear-like points—enough to gouge the earth with wounds even the world would struggle to heal.
The throne floated for an instant, and silence gripped the air—though the thunderous shockwaves from Lieutenant Dante and Northern's clash still reverberated in the distance. Now, they felt like mere background noise against the arrival of this new horror.
The throne drifted downward, slow and deliberate, until it hovered just above the ground. The abomination's gaze locked onto Koll, its eyes pulsing with menacing light.
But Koll stood firm, his posture sprightly, his glare defiant as he met the creature's stare. A grimace darkened his face, unyielding.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until finally, the Prophet spoke.
"What?"
Its voice was strange—thick, sluggish, as if dredged from the depths of some festering pit.
"Y-you… summoned… me…"
Koll's sharpened gaze turned razor-edged.
"Yes. I did."
A pause. His eyes bored into the mound of flesh, unflinching.
"Consider this your chance to fulfill your obligations… to the ONE we serve."
"K-Koll… your… loyalty… is… questionable."
Koll rolled his eyes.
"Save me the long talk, Nesomat. We all claim to follow the true Origin, yet every last one of us hides from the gaze of the other Origins in our Master's absence. I've been the only one breaking my back for his freedom. I've sacrificed countless lives to drag you here, so spare me the lecture on loyalty and make this worth my effort."
He turned away sharply, muttering as he walked off.
"As if I needed another reason to be pissed—now I've wasted my trump card too soon."
The mound of flesh, Nesomat, watched Koll leave. Then its massive, overgrown hand shifted, a single finger flicking against the edge of its throne.
From the base, a jagged shard—the same blackened material the throne was carved from—shot forward. The movement was razor-sharp, almost instantaneous.
But Koll merely pivoted, blocking the spike's path with his elbow. The jagged shard shattered on impact, fragments exploding outward. Without hesitation, he drove another punch forward, cracking the remaining structure down to its base in a burst of splintered debris.
His glare burned into Nesomat, still perched on its floating throne.
"DO… NOT. Make me regret this."
A wheezing, mucus-choked laughter rattled from the abomination like a rusted engine gasping its last breath.
"Tea…sing… Teas…ing. Fun… to tea…se."
Koll tilted his head, his frown deepening into something venomous.
"For Madness' sake, why am I the only sane one shackled to a Blood Origin's service?"
The thought lingered for half a second before he clicked his tongue in self-reproach. Especially one straddling the line between rage and insanity.
Nesomat's throne trembled. Then it began to rise.
"What… do… I… do…?"
Koll shot the creature an exasperated look.
"I don't care, Nesomat. Wreck everything. Do what you do best. GET ANGRY."
Nesomat released that strange laughter again, this time with a joyous, almost childlike energy. It juggled on its floating throne, making the massive seat jiggle in a disturbingly unnatural way.
"Angry... angry... angry... AAngry... AANGRYYY... NESOMAT ANGRRYYYYYY."
As the words tore from its mouth, a terrifying thunder rolled across the sky – black streaked with dull crimson. One cloud turned pitch black, as if carved from pure shadow.
The crown of thorns atop the throne slowly peeled away, the metal melting like wax to reveal a rotting, fleshy mass beneath. The grotesque circlet now sat perched on Nesomat's head as the creature continued shaking its throne violently. With each movement, black lightning lashed across the sky in time with its tantrum.
"ANGRYYYY. ANGRRYYYYY. NESOMATTT. ANGRRYYYYY."
Its eerie voice carried the words like a twisted chant, while the black lightning whipped across the landscape, tearing the earth apart in jagged strokes.
Bairan watched from a distance, amusement dancing in his eyes as the demented creature threw its tantrum.
He absentmindedly touched his desert-weathered chin, fingers catching on a single stray hair.
"Oh?"
A grin spread across his face as he tried to look down at the hair, though the angle proved difficult.
Black lightning lashed past him, carving deep fissures in the ruined earth. Bairan's gaze dropped to the fractured ground, his eyes narrowing. Something about these wounds felt... wrong.
A faint frown creased his brow.
"These aren't just—"
His suspicion proved correct.
With a sickening squelch, a rotting hand clawed at the fissure's edge, pulling itself upward. From the depths of the crack, a crimson glow pulsed to life – and as the unnatural lightning continued its rampage, identical lights began blooming across the entire battlefield.
Bairan's amused expression didn't waver as more rotting figures emerged. They resembled humans, but twisted by decay and time.
Not undead. His hazy memories of true undead paled in comparison to these horrors.
Their bodies were masses of putrid flesh, some still clad in crumbling armor - crimson plates and dirtied white chainmail being consumed by rot. They wielded an arsenal of decayed weapons: rusted swords, splintered arrows, corroded maces. Some even rode forth atop four-legged mounds of pulsating rot.
Bairan's gaze swept the battlefield. In mere moments, the landscape had become a sea of rotting horrors — yet not a single dimensional rift marred the space.
As the Sword King mentally tallied how many foes he'd need to cut down in one swing, Nesomat's throne creaked as it slowly rotated.
Then those deranged eyes locked onto him.
"Oh... shoot."
Bairan's lips curled into a smile even as the words left his mouth.