Chapter 87: Pitiful

Chapter 87: Pitiful

Glenny, still invisible, kicked the floor, spraying the wraith in a sandy attack. The sand passed right through the monster. His eyes turned to slits with a deep growl, taking on the appearance of the Chameleon Lord. Thrust after thrust he battled the wraith with his conjured weapons, moving around at a rapid pace and never leaving himself open for counterattack.

“Never allow your enemy to retaliate,” he could hear his dad say in a gruff voice. It echoed through his head, the pain of their one-on-one lessons biting at his aching heart. Since his mom died, Glenny’s dad wanted him prepared, he wanted him ready for every tough battle he’d ever walk into.

Protecting a friend? Clearing a dungeon? Assassinating a noble? Anything, his dad wanted him to be prepared. Fighting an ethereal enemy, while not something the father and son expressly trained in, Glenny had countless hours of practice to fall back on.

The Sightless King’s corrupting power took the form of two single edged short swords. They were longer than what Glenny was used to, but as the Huntress had taught him in the mountains, daggers were not his best weapon. He could change and adapt to anything if he had to, but comfortability always made its presence known in battle.

Especially against monsters that were semi-intelligent.

The wraith’s face momentarily shone through its dark cowl before screeching like a feral cat fighting for its life. Along with the sound came an explosion of mana that sundered the sandy floor and sent cracks through the underlayer of stone.

Glenny shook with the shockwave, riding it with a limp leap back. The force knocked his legs out from under him but he managed to dodge any real damage. Like a bolt of lightning, he rushed across the arena and intercepted the wraith as it looked to the still downed Leland.

Leading with a powerful up swipe, Glenny parried the wraith’s sickle with a guttural tink. His red swords clashed against the ethereal sickle, canceling each other out with a foul silence.

Glenny frowned and followed his parry with a single handed stab.

His crimson blade sheared through the wraith’s dark cloak, cutting through both the front fabric and back. Almost getting caught by the monster’s return attack, Glenny rolled away, a cold wash of energy moving through him. He nearly jumped as the wraith appeared beside him with its arm outstretched in a deadly slash.

Luckily, being invisible had its perks, such as his enemies never knowing exactly where he was. The sickle went wide giving Glenny enough time to retreat a few steps.

The brief reprieve allowed him a moment of thought, At least I know I can hurt it with my conjured weapons.

The thought, while important, was drowned out by the sight of Jude across the way. King Everald, with madness in his eyes, charged Jude with his antlers out and pointy. Blood still dripped from where the hordeling was impaled, although only a few pieces of gory flesh remained. The main mass of dead muscles lay elsewhere, broken and contorted.

Like the sky opening up after an overcast day, a flock of ethereal crows glided through reality before diving toward the wraith. Grunting, Glenny glanced behind himself, finding Leland standing with a wobble. A jar of thick yellow clay was open and leaking into the sand but the majority was on the Legacy of Curses’ frostbitten arm.

Glenny recognized the substance as one of the few temporary treatments for frostbite that the town of Frostford sold, although he also remembered the seller not being too keen on its potency. Leland would need proper treatment, more than his ring of regeneration could provide. But that was for later, right now—

Jude’s body instantly froze over, all of his sweat and the surrounding air turning into a personal prison. He tipped, falling with the weight of his battle axe as his body no longer had the function to maintain balance. He landed with an eerie dull silence, one that echoed through the stand of onlookers. When Jude didn’t get right up, the monsters cheered.

All except one.

Gelo sucked in a horrid breath. Her eyes twisted from Jude to the other combatants. She pleaded that Glenny or Leland had a way to help, even though neither moved to intercept.

Leland bore holes into the King with his stare, muttering under his breath while his grimoire flipped around to multiple pages. Glenny, still invisible, rushed through the frost sand, each step indenting his exact location. The footsteps grew ever closer to the preening King.

Gelo curse. She cursed and cursed and cursed. Rage enthralled her, pushing her to do something stupid. She wanted to jump into the arena, she wanted to dive bomb her uncle and kill him like Mother had done many times over. All of their private conversation, all of the time she spent in Ice Castle while her Mother slept?

All of that was gone if Jude died. She’d make sure King Everald would suffer for an eternity.

A loose growl escaped her lips. She jumped at the sound, thinking her Mother was right behind her. She turned, finding only an odd looking monster with floppy ears and a spiked tail. It was growling but not in the same cadence her Mother did. Confusion blinded Gelo for a moment, not until she realized it was her own growl that reminded her of her mother.

She had never growled like that before, not even when the poachers hunted her. Why... why was that? What—

It was then she felt it. A primal rage, one so uninviting that Gelo knew it wasn’t her own. Yes Jude was frozen over in a glacier prison, but the rage she felt was something else. Something artificial.

It pounded at the boundary of right and wrong. It blemished the fact that she was just a cub. It sung the song of war, of total chaos, and of an esteemed hatred for one monster in particular.

With the blaze of a symphony, anger and rage poured throughout the arena. Music, as angry and self-loathing as a drummer marching to war, called for willpower and resolve. The sound encircled its creator, a young man with eyes burning violet and a grimoire that always flipped to the correct page.

The grimoire bookmarked a singular page, an active contract with the Lord of Spirits. Flickers in reality splintered with a deep sapphire glow as those beyond death came to the aid of their friend. Spirits, dozens, arrived at the arena with a simple call of rage, one that brokered the strength of a certain berserker.

Across the battlefield, under the pretense of royalty, Everald snarled.

Across the battlefield, under a prison of ice, Jude flinched.

Elsewhere, under the greatest of slumber, she stirred.