And yet he did not. He did not even feel him.
"Argh!"
There was a sudden welt of pain. Francis reached for his side with his hand. It came away bloodless, without injury. Even the skin did not betray any sign of hurt. And yet where did the pain come from? He glanced around him, on an impossible line of inquiry, and he saw it: a doorway as tall as a castle gate had been cut into the blackened barrier.
With his cutting, there came an affliction to Francis' body itself. He'd melded himself with the barrier, in more ways than one, so that he might both increase the efficiency of his absorption of the sacrificial material, and also strengthen the barrier against any who might interfere with his task.
It should have been as tough as a brick wall. No – even tougher. Slowly but surely, Francis was manipulating the divine energy into something that he might absorb, and with it, his strength continued to increase. With his own strength, so too should the strength of his Domain have gone up, and yet here he was, an intruder.
From his shaggy robes, and dark appearance, Francis might have been tempted to think he was Ingolsol, or at least, a part of him. Francis had been calling to the Dark God, after all.
He'd prepared the Dark Energy for him, he was waiting for him to manifest himself, and grant Francis a true level of power, something that none could take away from him, just as he had before, when he'd granted him knowledge of mana and pushed him all the way past the Fourth Boundary.
They were letting off a greater magnitude of despair than Francis would have thought possible for villagers of their station. By now, they should have already turned into one of the Curse, they should have been mindless. Something, even in the depths of such despair, kept them from hanging and disappearing completely in it.
Francis cocked his head, a curious cat. If there was a problem that his mind could freely solve – even if it was not the most important thing in the world – then often, part of his consciousness would immediately fall into solving it, even if it went against his current aim.
It had happened again there. The boy was dead. He was dead. Francis could see that. He could feel that. When he gathered the magic about his eyes, and enhanced his sentences, he was all the more sure of it.
He looked in close, and one eyelid was hanging half open, dull and lifeless. There was nothing left in them.
Dominus sighed, and rose back to his feet. His hat shifted slightly, allowing the slightest bit of light to touch his skin.
"Dominus..." Lombard said, noting the state of him. Half the man's face had gone purple with the poison. It was cracked and ruined, like the dry fields of abused farms.
The old knight pulled his hat down further in response to Lombard's look. He saw the Captain's expression soften, as though there was understanding there. Dominus didn't want understanding. Again, he was late. He clenched his fist so tightly that his fingernails tore into the skin of his palm, and blood gathered in the hand.
"I was late," he said firmly. "I have no excuse."
Lombard regarded him a moment, and then his eyes widened. He felt it – just the tiniest drop of it, like the crackling of thunder, he felt it. In the instant where their eyes had met, he'd understood. He saw the anger there, of course, he understood that – but he also sensed the power beyond it too.