Chapter 53

Chapter 53

Riven hadn’t realized that only one specialty pillar could be obtained beyond normal subpillars, but he didn’t dwell on that for more than a half second.

The exploding corpses nearly blew Riven’s eardrums out and tore into the satyr with intense ferocity that covered the surrounding walls in layers of red. Simultaneously, streams of blood from all around the room began icing over and flowing across the floor at insane speed to race up Riven’s legs. The thick red ice crept up all the way past his knees only momentarily to act as a pair of brakes, stopping him right before he hit the opposite side of the room, and he grinned. The crystallized ice fluidly followed him as he rotated his body, using his projected mana to hold the Wretched Snares intact, and spun around with the momentum of the club in a way that most magic casters at his level would have never even dreamed of doing before now.

Usually, catching a club that size would require a Herculean amount of strength. But when he was using mana to do the heavy lifting for him, he only needed to reinforce his spells.

With a grunt from Riven, the caught club rotated with his pivot and circled around his body before being launched from the snares back at the demon like a stone from a slingshot.

*WHOOSH*

*CRASH*

The badly wounded warlord’s right arm was taken off as the club smashed through it like a high-velocity hammer into a sponge. Cries of disbelief erupted from the shocked onlookers. The blinded demon staggered backward, looking down at its missing stump of an arm despite not being able to see.

But the demon was not done, and in fact it became even more enraged.

“PUNY HUMANNN!”

The satyr initially slipped upon the sheet of blood ice covering the floor but rammed a foot into the ground, which shattered the magic Riven had imbued. Flecks and shards were sent skyward, and Riven was thrown back along with Athela just as she’d tried to ambush the creature. With another scream of rage after that, the satyr didn’t let up, blindly barreling toward him at breakneck speed that far outmatched Riven’s own.

Riven had anticipated this and rolled to his feet.

He summoned another sheet of red ice along the floor and felt it surge up his legs again; he could literally feel the blood surrounding him and mold it to his will with the spell he’d created through sheer willpower. With narrowed eyes and a snarl, he felt the Blessing of the Crow kick into high gear along with his newer ability as they both shot him forward. The blood ice molded to his skin and pumped his legs harder, giving them more power as he vaulted ahead to slide underneath the oncoming satyr’s body between its cloven feet. Simultaneously and with a victorious scream of hate, Riven sent razor-sharp discs firing into the creature’s crotch as the monster tore through the air over him.

The satyr stumbled for only a moment. It looked down—trying to pinpoint his location—then turned to Riven again and brought an injured hoof up with a bleating noise to slam the foot down into the stone floor yet again.

Riven’s knees buckled as the room shook again amid a brief shock wave of unnatural kinetic energy, and he scrambled to pick himself up from where he’d been thrown before the satyr closed the gap in a sprint of its own.

His hand quivered as he forced the broken bones and torn muscles to move forward, reaching back into the bag where he still had four remaining vials of Sinner’s Blood left. Like an uncoordinated toddler using unfamiliar fingers, he limply selected two vials.

He coughed and spat blood, then glared up at the monster across the room. “Fuck this goat.”

His shaking fingers lost their grip, dropping both vials next to him to clatter along the ground. He felt drunk.

“Shit.”

Riven grimaced in pain and bent over to pick the vial up while Azmoth held the monster off. He tried to pull off the cork of the closest bottle, doing so by touch just as much as by sight at this point due to his vision coming in and out.

[Your minion Azmoth has died. He will be returned to you twenty-four hours after you pay the blood price for your minion. To resurrect your level 9 infant Hellscape Brutalisk demon, you will be required to pay Elysium directly with a sum of nine thousand Elysium coins. Simply will this transaction to happen and make sure you have the required payment to further this agenda.]

With a massive surge of willpower, Riven popped the cork and brought one vial of Sinner’s Blood to his lips. Simultaneously he flipped the gigantic satyr off when it sniffed and turned his way—despite knowing the gesture was lost on the blinded demon.

[Vial of Sinner’s Blood, restore an average of 70 health and mana simultaneously, may not be taken outside the realms of hell. Warning: Using frequent amounts of Sinner’s Blood may have unwanted side effects over time. Unique Tier.]

The tainted red liquid trickled down his throat, and within seconds he felt himself begin to heal. Frankly, he should be dead by any normal human standards after his lungs had been gouged, though he still managed to hold on while his Blood subpillar radiated upon the warm touch of Sinner’s Blood. His primary pillar seemed to pulse, generously feeding off the cursed liquid and causing him to feel whole again—despite the ominous message the system gave off concerning regularly using the river’s liquid.

But even though it was taking effect, the miasma was spreading, and the potion was still far too slow for the battle at hand. His eyesight began to stabilize again, as did his other senses, and he got a better look at what’d just happened to his second contracted demon.

Azmoth was on the ground, broken and still. The familiar’s natural plate armor had been crushed and a leg had been torn off, and his long, bony teeth were broken off on the left side of his face where the jaw was unhinged and torn at a gruesome angle. Ben was sprinting across the room while holding an obviously broken hand where the bones had been crushed; his dagger was embedded in the satyr’s right flank, and he was in a state of absolute panic. Then there was Athela, who remained as a splattering of green and white ichor with various spider body parts along the stone floor—intermixing with the corpses of the other, smaller satyrs.

The blinded, one-armed satyr was lumbering forward in a slow chase to catch Ben; ravaged by deep claw marks and other wounds, patches of necrotic flesh were falling off in chunks and burned fur was scattered across its body, with numerous needlelike shards of modified webbing lodged in its chest and back. The monster was an absolute mess, missing one eye completely from when Athela had ripped it open, while the other eye was deflated from where Riven’s dagger had punctured it—but the bloodlust was evident in the creature’s slow, ominous walk toward Ben’s screams.

“Riven! Riven, help me!”

Riven, help me? Seriously, man? Did it look like Riven could help yet?! What a fucking idiot—did this guy not realize he was drawing the demon his way? Toward both of them?