Part 31: The Berserker's Lament
The betrayal stung Acacia worse than any torture the gods could inflict. Ogunye and Rama, the only two souls whose rage she could respect, whose commitment she had trusted implicitly, had chosen the fleeting warmth of love over the eternal fire of vengeance. They had escaped, choosing humanity over the righteous cause.
Acacia returned to the hidden sanctuary of the God Seekers. She did not scream or lash out. She went straight to the conduit, kneeling before the massive, cylindrical tube. She closed her eyes and prayed, not with love, but with pure, vicariously increasing rage, exfoliating her raw hurt and betrayal directly into the weapon chamber. The black smoke that poured from her soul was thicker, more concentrated, than anything she had ever released.
Afterward, she sought out Primus. The leader, shriveled and hunched in his triple-sized robe, seemed to be perpetually on the brink of death. Yet, his scent—the agonizing smell of unyielding defiance—was strangely calming.
"They chose love, brother," Acacia stated, her voice tight, devoid of its usual melodic strength.
"They chose fragility, child," Primus corrected, his voice a dry, grating whisper that still commanded absolute authority. "Love is a weakness. It is a leash the gods placed on the first clay vessels, and it will be their downfall. Their betrayal is a gift, Acacia. It concentrates your purpose."
He turned his hooded face towards her. "The hunt can wait. Your rage is too volatile now. It must be refined, not wasted on two broken vessels. I have a mission for you. A stray god, Lord Rue, has established a small, foolish domain far to the North. Go. Collect his soul. Feed the chamber."
Acacia didn't argue, her loyalty overriding her immediate impulse to pursue the fugitives. But her multi-colored eyes narrowed. "The North? That is a great distance."
"Discipline is found in the journey, not the destination," Primus hissed. "Go. And return with the soul of a god."
Acacia traveled for weeks until the landscape shifted into a terrifying domain of ice and fury. The air turned instantly cold, biting at her dark-toned skin. Heavy, relentless snowfall whipped across a vista of jagged, black mountains. The weather was as wicked as the difficult, rigid roads that led up to Lord Rue's Tower—a glittering, frozen spire of arrogance.
Lord Rue, a lesser god of minor domains, was indulging in his favorite pastime. The magnificent, ice-sculpted banquet hall was filled with terrified, beautiful human servants forced to entertain him. Rue was a handsome god, lounging on a throne of shimmering ice, his laughter booming and arrogant. He was having fun, watching his terrified mortals dance and serve him golden goblets of wine.
Suddenly, the massive double doors of the hall burst inward. Not from a blast, but from the raw, concentrated force of the wind outside—followed by the silent, terrifying appearance of Acacia and her Dark Fighters.
The god's guards, hulking automatons of ice and steel, instantly raised their weapons. But the true human servants, knowing the terrifying power of the intruders' rage, fled immediately, screaming and scrambling for cover.
"My, my," Lord Rue drawled, waving a dismissive hand at his guards. "What have we here? A new band of devotees? You certainly make a dramatic entrance, little human."
Acacia's elite Dark Fighters, their swords coated in black rage-smoke, swept forward. The fight was swift and brutal, the Dark Fighters slicing through the ice automatons with disciplined fury. But Lord Rue was still a god. He simply snapped his fingers.
A shimmering wave of absolute cold erupted from him, flash-freezing three Dark Fighters mid-swing, turning them into statues of obsidian ice before they shattered.
"Boring," Rue sighed, taking a long drink from his goblet. "I expected more from the creatures I heard were hunting my kind. Now, kneel, and perhaps I'll let you be my next—"
Acacia moved. With speed and precision, she flung two rage-coated throwing knives. They hit Lord Rue's shoulder and thigh, not penetrating his divine skin, but burning with the corrosive black smoke of rage.
Rue roared, finally looking annoyed. He materialized a spear of focused light and hurled it. Acacia dodged, but the spear tore through the wall behind her, vaporizing the structure.
The battle raged through the banquet hall. Rue fought with arrogant ease, using bursts of elemental power—ice, wind, and focused light. The Dark Fighters were strong, but their blows barely scratched the god's defenses. The battle was brutally one-sided. Acacia was forced onto the defensive, narrowly avoiding a wave of ice that would have flash-frozen her. Rue laughed, delighting in his superiority, mocking the futility of her rage.
In a moment of pure desperation, Rue trapped Acacia beneath a massive, collapsing pillar of carved ice. He stood over her, raising his light spear for the final, condescending blow.
"Goodbye, little mortal," Rue sneered.
The sight of his smug face, the sound of his arrogant laughter, the memory of her friends' betrayal, and the sheer, crushing failure of the mission finally became too much. The controlled discipline that had defined her rage snapped.
A soundless, terrifying shriek erupted from Acacia. The black rage-smoke that normally coated her weapons now poured from her entire body, obscuring her from view. This was an outburst, a pure, unrefined, uncontrollable berserk mode that had never happened before.
When the smoke cleared, Acacia was still standing, but her eyes, the beautiful blue and green, were now twin voids of pitch black. She moved, no longer with discipline, but with raw, impossible power. She didn't dodge Rue's spear; she caught the light itself and crushed it to dust. She was a living manifestation of vengeance.
Rue, for the first time, looked terrified. He raised his hands to defend, but Acacia's fists were faster than thought, striking with the annihilating force of a collapsing sun. She didn't aim for the armor; she aimed for the soul. She battered him, ripping apart his divine essence with her bare hands. The air was filled with the sound of a god screaming in pure terror and agony.
It was inevitable. The rage, unleashed, found its target. Lord Rue's form dissolved into shimmering, gold dust.
Acacia, breathing heavily, stood over the swirling residue. The berserk rage slowly receded, leaving her trembling, exhausted, and horrified by the power she had just unlocked. She opened a small, specialized conduit and let the loyal messenger of the Dark Fighters collect the god soul. She then gave an order, her voice raw: "Leave. Return to Primus. Tell him the soul is secured."
She sent the rest of the fighters away, alone with her trauma and the guilt of her power.
Acacia sought refuge in a secluded hot spring village, a few days' journey from the frigid domain. She desperately needed to cleanse the blood and the overwhelming psychological residue of her rampage.
She stripped and entered the steaming spring, letting the heat soothe her bruised body. She leaned her head back, her mind adrift. The memory of her friends, Ogunye and Rama, surfaced—a deep, painful longing for their companionship and understanding washing over her. She remembered the secret symbol of their friendship: the matching chain bracelets they had exchanged years ago, a red-colored chain forged from rare clay and embedded with iron, inscribing the silent vow: Bounded by Blood, Clay, and Rage.
Her moment of fragile peace was brutally shattered. Four crude, local perverts—men who saw her naked and alone—surrounded the pool, their eyes filled with lust.
Acacia's momentary lapse in control cost them dearly. Her rage, still simmering just beneath the surface, erupted again. She didn't kill them; she delivered a swift, brutal beating, leaving them broken and sobbing in the mud. For their transgression, she calmly took out their eyes—a chilling display of her refined cruelty before she left the spring.
Dressed once more in her hooded cloak, she took a hurried stroll through the village market. Her eyes, ever sharp, scanned the meager stalls. And then she froze.
On the wrist of a nervous peddler, she saw it: a red-colored chain bracelet. The very same distinctive chain that she, Ogunye, and Rama had exchanged. Her stomach twisted with a potent mix of relief and renewed fury.
She grabbed the peddler, dragging him into a dark alley with terrifying strength. Her eyes, now glowing faintly with simmering rage, bored into his soul.
"Who sold you this?" she demanded, her voice low and dangerous.
The peddler, terrified out of his wits by her presence and her aura, stammered through tears. "A-a man! A kind man! He lived across the Ninth Mountain! He s-sold it to me for food! For baby stuff! Said he needed the coin more than the sentimental value!"
The words hit Acacia like physical blows. Food. Baby stuff. They were not just surviving; they were starting a family. They had settled. And they had sold their sacred vow for survival.
The peddler had unwittingly helped her enemies, feeding and aiding the very people she was meant to destroy. She delivered a final, merciful snap to his neck. "No weakness," she whispered, stepping over his body.
Acacia emerged from the alley, her beautiful face set in a horrific, angry grin. Her rage, no longer a volatile berserker's frenzy, was now focused, absolute, and deadly. Her path was clear: the Ninth Mountain.
She manifested her power, sending out powerful rage-imbued birds—spectral forms of black smoke—to round up every available Dark Fighter in the region. The hunt was officially on. Acacia, driven by betrayal, love, and a centuries-old purpose, was on her way to Ogunye and Rama...