Fat-fat-fat, everyone needs more fat…
"Sausage for Valentino."
"And for Paulina."
"For the Paladin."
"And for the Shaman."
"And Liorina."
What am I doing? I am busy distributing sausage. Mutton. More precisely, I am learning the essence of such a thing as "kitchen duty." Thank you, Dartaola, very much, for the new life experience.
In defense of our resident Paladin, I myself am generally not against it. Moreover, I'm very much in favor of distracting myself from exterminating demons in favor of something more peaceful. Difficult battles with a dangerous enemy are an exhausting business. In every sense. Both in terms of strength and in terms of the attention received. You can congratulate me—further attempts to stay "under the radar" will fail miserably in advance; after THAT, they won't leave me alone. For various reasons.
The fight with Archimonde turned out to be too loud, and I suddenly became needed by everyone. By those same Night Elves, who really don't want to lose their tree. And other bosses, at the very least, for explanations. At most, for a repeat of the experience. And I have a whole pack of reasons not to engage in such things. Medical reasons—combat Alchemy, even after help from the local powerful Priests—is very unhealthy. Social reasons—the very fact that I almost started killing sentient beings for a dirty look makes one think.
So the opportunity to take a break, which is directly offered to you, is actually good. Today is my day-off. Which I will spend on reflection away from civilization. Thanks, Dartaola. And Alastir, I understand a significant part of the credit for my current position is on him. The Druid turned to his Priestess acquaintances so that I would be left in the rear, occupied with simple but unambiguously useful activity.
I feel simply wonderful. After all, the Priestesses at Nordrassil are of a higher level than our Paladin and worked on my body better. Much better; the difference is simply enormous. And the food here is magically saturated; there's a Source of Magic nearby, after all. A health resort in its pure form. I think I've earned it. And outwardly, everything is done perfectly decently; you can't find fault.
How did it turn out like that? Well, after the Priestesses, I was handed over to a healer, also a Night Elf, and she forbade me from repeating what I had done. Categorically. Not good for the health, you see. Though in this case, the initiative was supported by both Venidan, with whom we made up, and Dartaola.
I was prescribed minimum exertion, fresh air, and healthy nutrition. Ideally—two weeks, but that will be after we finish here. After Archimonde goes back to where he crawled out from. I thought it all over, clarified if I could work with blueprints. The answer "yes" is completely satisfactory. So, when we finish here, for the victory, I will have a small vacation under the supervision of healers. I intend to learn more about their activities, their goddess and their power, and about suppressing the void. Simultaneously restoring my body from the not-so-best treatment of it. It's sensible, and I intend to do so. One must take care of the body.
Well, today they assigned me here. To the hospital at the temple, where they send the Cursed and others who couldn't be healed on the spot because the demons' magic is too strong. These sentient beings need care, and since the temple is clearly not designed for such a number of guests, they need working hands. And here I am.
Of course, I was deprived of my helmet so as not to stand out; my landing was seen, including the prominent helmet. They wanted the gloves too, but I'm too attached to them by rituals, so they're on me, just covered by the long sleeves of very loose clothing. With the light purple of my skin, I can quite pass for one of their own, except that my eyes have the wrong color for a Night Elf. Of course, I had to change the suit for a neutral green dress, over which the arm-covering clothing is worn. But now no one will definitely recognize me. For they hardly saw me in this guise.
"Sausage, sausage, sausage. Take it."
For me, this became an opportunity to think and evaluate yesterday evening and my behavior. Specifically, the clash with Archimonde itself and what happened later.
The clash itself… overall went even better than it might have seemed. My defense lasted as long as needed, and Archimonde's dirty trick cost Dartaola an arm, which she returned just a minute later. It was close, very close, but I got lucky again. Mana was low, so I was restrained without any problems at all. Everything turned out successfully, even too much so. In such conditions, it's not hard to become a paranoid.
In the case with Dartaola… the ease of what happened frightened me. It wasn't like the voice of the Darkness, which advises all sorts of things and begins to resonate in moments of strong emotions. Which, I suspect, it provokes itself. Or maybe it's my age; I don't know yet myself. And also the fact that I had never killed my own kind, elves. Trolls—I had. Human cultists too. Undead—as much as you want, give me a flamethrower. But specifically my own kind, elves—not once.
"Hey," I was flicked on the nose, "don't sleep."
I shook my head, raising my eyes to the cook and smiled apologetically.
"Yes, sorry."
The cook, a Night Elf of the most brutal appearance, nodded, apparently having drawn some conclusions of her own.
"They'll manage, don't worry. And they'll come back to you, I'm sure," and then added much more sternly, "Now bring more from the warehouse. Run. Quickly, the line won't wait!"
I also nodded.
"Right away."
Fair enough. One can think, but not to the detriment of activity; right now, I'm at work. So I ran toward the warehouse, or rather the warehouse tents. On the occasion of the hostilities, food is distributed without any delays or payment, especially to the Wounded and Cursed. Though still according to norms. Well, I'm the gofer—bring this, fetch that, go away and don't interfere. Simple, but again, it works well for camouflage. And for the opportunity to think. So I, again, have no complaints; it's even better this way.
The entire incident with the curse terrified me. Fact. It terrified me because it wasn't a voice in my head. It was me. I was acting clearly inadequately, but it was definitely me, and I can't find the line between "me" and "imposed." At that moment, the latter felt like the former. And that lack of difference is truly chilling. And the ease with which I, who had never killed my own kind before, was ready to take a life—two at once, no less.
I levitated a large sack from the warehouse, which the cook caught in her hands without visible effort, even though it weighed about forty kilograms; I felt that from the load. Truly powerful. A boss on a bulk, yet managing to maintain a quite pretty face, looking about thirty if she were Human.
"Good, stand further back."
"Understood."
The thoughts won't let go. Is this exactly what submission looks like? I thought it would feel different. That I would see a clear boundary between me-the-spectator and the one controlling the body. But there was no boundary. And that is scary when you don't understand the difference. You can't draw a line and understand if it was truly someone else's will, or if I was just slightly nudged to act that way? And I readily obeyed that desire. To what extent was it my decision to Execute Dartaola with a shot in the back? And the others?
I convince myself that I am well-bred. That I would never do such a thing. But I did. And now I have to live with that knowledge. Searching for that very difference. After all, I hadn't killed elves, my own. And now I almost did. So easily…
"Davilinia, take the tray. Levitate it, it's not hard for you."
"Of course, right away."
Actually, I'm starting to obsess. I shouldn't get so worked up. They are all alive. And fine. I didn't do anything irreparable. And feeling sorry for myself now is just playing into the hands of demons. It doesn't mean I should forget or accept it. But they are all right—we won this battle. Everyone is alive and well. Or will be. Doubts won't help anyone.
To distract myself, I decided to focus on work for now. There are plenty of wounded, or rather, Cursed. The siege continues. It's the fourth day of the battle and, as far as I can gather from those who end up here, the demons are slowly becoming more savage. Yes, even more than is usual for them. I saw the red sky, and the soldiers confirmed—bombardments by Infernals have begun. Apparently, saboteurs tried to get to the warlocks, but failed; the demons learned lessons from our past attempts.
I also saw Chimaeras. A lizard roughly the same size as the Nazgûl transports from "Lord of the Rings," only purple and with two heads with glowing red eyes. The beast looks extremely dangerous: a sharp chin, long fangs protruding outward to the left and right of the muzzle. The horns on the heads are different—the right one's look like a ram's, and the left one's like a goat's. The hide is very beautiful, a combination of purple scales and blue-cyan fur; on the wings, there's purple skin on the bones and blue stretched skin. Electricity sparks in the mouth of one head, while acid drips from the mouth of the second, leaving holes in the floor.
The result is a creature that is terrifying but fascinating. And it's thanks to them that battles are won and the defense holds. The acid head breaks golems and melts equipment. The electric one delivers a fatal shock to infantry, both demonic and dead. Or stuns them so other defenders can finish them off.
I learned about this while carrying plates of food to the soldiers in the role of a waitress. And not a single one recognized the Midget me as the "Archdemon Smasher," as I had been nicknamed behind my back by rumors. And yes, rumors have started to spread, and without clear confirmation, it turns out that I supposedly wiped out nearly half the demon army solo. I found out from conversations. Listening to semi-insane rumors while standing literally a meter away is actually funny. For a joke, I blurted out that when I grow up, I want to be just like her, this "Smasher." They praised me, and I tried with all my might not to laugh.
I feel like Clark Kent with his glasses. Although my Cloak is much better. He had glasses, but I have a helmet that completely hides my face, and generally closed clothing. You take off the suit—and suddenly you're a different elf, and looking at you, it's not even certain you're a High Elf.
Thoughts of this help me accept the fact that I still haven't killed my own kind. And this—it's just the influence of a Demon. Which, actually, distort your thoughts, pervert them. The essence of Fel is change. Turning one thing into another. I need to be ready and better assess the enemy's danger next time. Yes, that's what I'll do.
Stopping at a table, I noted that these two had almost certainly cut their own kind. Two "cabinets" sat at one table: an Orc whose bald head was covered with a wolf skin, and a Human Warrior, without armor, but in pants and a shirt. These, at least the Orc, had surely participated in battles against other Orcs.
Valeera Sanguinar, wherever she was, also surely stole and killed, and for her, my reflections would be nonsense. But not for me. A product of a more civilized era, even if I'm gradually getting used to this crap. I already destroy those Murlocs without mercy. And I've seen corpses in various conditions, and after that incident with Grommash, I've gotten a bit used to it. Apparently, I got too lost in thought, so my presence was noticed.
The Orc grunted and began unloading the tray himself. A big one, though.
"Demons and their devilish magic…" muttered the soldier sitting nearby.
The Orc, looking almost blue, laughed, but with noticeable difficulty; the laughter quickly turned into a cough. Judging by the wolf skin on his skull, he's a Shaman.
"Demon magic is some tricky trash. But the flying beasts are good, they're managing. If only we had those in the second war… We would have defeated everyone."
The tray was cleared, but I didn't go far, wanting to listen.
"We would have defeated you anyway. It's not about the dragons," the soldier remarked.
The Shaman nodded.
"The warlocks, yes. They were the ones who used the demons' powers, lied to get more power. Naive fools, the demons screwed everyone. Although we didn't have machines like they do now. And those lizards just melted the machines, no chance at all. That's why I say—they would've helped nicely, better than the Red Dragons."
They continued to argue, and I left. This wasn't the first such conversation, not even the fifth. The Wyverns and mountain giants impressed everyone. As did their contribution to the fight against the Fel Reavers. However controversial the Night Elf women themselves might be, they don't fight alone. Trees, Furbolgs, Moonkins, Dryads, forest animals, and other creatures of Nature Magic help them. In total, it results in a rather diverse, and therefore universal, force.
As soon as I returned with the tray, the cook had a new task ready.
"Davilinia, bring the barrel with the ryasha flower mark from the warehouse," the cook asked.
I nodded; I know the flower. Not medicinal, but it looks quite nice.
"One moment."
With telekinesis, carrying heavy weights is not a problem. Which my temporary boss quickly discovered when I was carrying food both in my hands and with telekinetics. Now, I'm carrying all sorts of things. Throwing back the tent flap…
Pain seared my neck, my breath hitched, my body jerked from a lunge forward, causing the pressure on my neck to tighten even more. My hands instinctively shot up, trying to tear away whatever had burned and seized my neck, preventing me from breathing. Something round, smooth, and strong was coiled around me; my extended claws had no real effect.
A moment later, I realized I was inside the tent I had been pulled into. And before me, literally ten centimeters away, was a very pretty purple elven face with glowing blue eyes, just like mine. Looking as if into my soul. Beautiful full lips whispered, licking themselves:
"Submit…"
The whisper was clearly lewd, and it echoed not only from those beautiful lips in front of my face but also in my head. It promised a life without worries, if only I would accept the Mistress's will. She would solve all problems, guide and direct me. And open the door to pleasures previously unavailable to me, if only I would ask her. But I had to agree, accept her as my beautiful and wise mistress, and whisper:
"You ruined my break, you chicken."
I couldn't have cast a Mana Shield myself, but a dome crystal was built into the gloves. Just in case. The whip didn't fall off, but the dome gave enough space to breathe. And it also tightened it even more, so the demoness wouldn't be able to remove the whip quickly either.
Her face expressed surprise; she clearly hadn't expected resistance. But then—resolve. She pulled me even closer and whispered in my ear:
"Submit to your mistress, mortal, and I will give you everything you desire. Everything you could possibly want… Just say 'yes'."
Radio operator concussed, communication range reduced.
And again, the realization—resistance will only make things worse for everyone. In the end, who besides the Mistress can understand me? Actually, Venidan. She always helped and understood me. And Dartaola. And my parents. And Lady Jaina is a decent person. There are enough people who support me, even if not always. A sweet lie leading only to the benefits of the Sayaad. This is our soul! It is meant for us!
The analytical module of the gloves detected a consciousness distortion.
Zeta-Omega-12… Twenty seconds. Until full pacification of the target.
"Zeta-Omega-12… Twenty seconds. Until full pacification of the target," I repeated monotonically, as the void energy already surged into me; I miscalculated, need to edit the valve. Enemy detected.
Any delusion receded to the background. The temporal imperative worked as intended. The presence of the demoness was designated as the target. Time set. Convergence in progress.
"Yes, now you will die," the demoness smiled, relaxing, and then was surprised again, hearing the whole phrase.
I used this moment of confusion to try and drive my already deployed claws into my opponent's chest. She recoiled, but didn't seem hurt. My eyes slid down to the alluring chest, about a size five, almost completely uncovered. Didn't penetrate. Seductive and desired. And to the hybrid of a corset and breastplate, where the scratches remained. Annoying. My gaze slid to the thong located below. An elegant but reliable accessory. Armored panties. Another representative of the armored-bra warriors. Where do you all come from? From harem anime. And the chem-dogs. Every artillery player reincarnates as a chem-dog after death.
Primary assessment of armor equipment complete. Hit the lower plate, you can't go wrong.
Catching the movement, I intercepted the swing of a long curved dagger. Not too fast; I managed to catch it with a plate gauntlet. The demoness smiled with her delicate full lips even wider and began to push, shifting the dagger, clearly coated with something, toward my body. Millimeter by millimeter, she is simply stronger than me. I tried to step back, but the whip on my neck prevents me from even arching normally. Track hit, movement impossible.
Aphrodisiac, paralytic, Fel. Contact not desirable.
A stalemate. She holds me by the neck with a whip—harder, mistress—preventing me from retreating to a normal distance; I grabbed her delicate little hand—stump—with an interesting toy—dagger. I don't have much mana; I haven't fully recovered. She's pushing hard, simply physically stronger; I won't hold out long. And then? Into the lower front plate, fire into the LFP!
Initiating enhancement of locomotor functions of the contact pair.
My eyes ran over the sweet image of the demoness, surveying her completely now. Hooves and shapely legs—stilts—covered to the knee with soft fur, muscular bare erotically toned thighs on full display. Armored thong and corset-breastplate. Or even a top-breastplate that doesn't cover the stomach, where the abdominal muscles are clearly visible—just makes you want to lick them. Bracers, whip, long nails on her fingers painted blue, and that's all her equipment. A reincarnator from a harem anime, I'm telling you.
Our eyes met, and here I finally drifted—how beautiful she is—my detachedly calm self and the nervously licking succubus. She clearly didn't expect a kitchen brat to offer her resistance, especially like this. Even if not for long. Carousel and it'll be even.
Full assessment of armor equipment complete. Proceeding to counteraction.
"You're practically naked…" suddenly the realization broke through the haze, albeit in the monotonic voice of a biorobot.
Spreading my arms, I rushed toward her to kiss this work of art—deliver a charged low-punch right into the solar plexus with crystals crackling with void. There's a penetration.
She recoiled, jerked, but didn't release the whip, just as I didn't release the knife. Which means we can continue. Gently embrace her by the waist, step in, pirouette, lead me in a dance of passion. The crystals on the gauntlet rapidly turned black, pumping the weapon with void, creating something like a crystalline brass knuckle. I struck again and again, where a normal sentient's solar plexus is located, then—the left kidney. The demoness groaned and arched, but didn't release the whip. And something tells me she's not groaning from pain. That's it. Track her and carousel, carousel!
"Yes, so rough," she whispered languidly, "you like that. I see you like it. Hmm, your thoughts are so interesting."
Initiating redistribution of psycho-emotional buildup. Correction of cognitive filters.
Hooray, I pleased the mistress! But then I jerked, meeting the eyes of Venidan, or rather the one pretending to be Venidan. I drove the gauntlet into her side and released the energy. The demoness, posing as Venidan, who had taken away my happiness of beholding her, arched and groaned in pleasure. Excellent, patient fixed.
"Give me back my mistress, traitor!" I shouted at the top of my lungs in a fit of passion.
I remembered her pirouettes on the Pepelats, which made me hesitate, but only for a fraction of a second. Another strike. More energy. No one dares to separate us! But… what about ten matches?
Initiating redistribution of psycho-emotional buildup. Correction of cognitive filters.
And I recoiled from a retaliatory slap that dissipated against the shield. But, most importantly, she let me go. And I let go of the hand with the dagger, which also had void burns on the demoness's hand. Poor mistress! Not true, she likes it.
"Rough, insolent girl, don't you dare play with me!" this beauty began indignantly.
ENOUGH!
Contact with the source of consciousness distortion terminated. Correction of cognitive filters. Synchronization with the host.
No longer as a mage, not as a warrior. I just threw myself at her in a rage with my fists. And she, with a smirk, tossing the dagger aside, also rushed forward. Well, let's see who trained better. And who shouldn't be played with. Veni and Dartaola used to give me self-defense lessons. Just in case. And you?
Redistributing freed analytical resources to calculation and prediction of enemy actions.
Ah, right… And this too!
I ducked under a strike from the taller demoness and countered with a fist sparking with purple energy into the liver. The demoness only flinched slightly, and instead of striking, she grabbed me. With one hand, then the second. Engine damaged.
"Caught you!" she announced cheerfully and delivered the next strike with her knee to my stomach.
Straight into the shield. And again. And then I wrapped both arms around the demoness. After all, what is a contact pair? It's a pin and a socket. Through which energy passes. In this case, void. The demoness wheezed from such a shock, released me, and fell to one knee. Aiming… and here comes the "suitcase"…
Which means, my turn! She's disoriented, a straight left will go: Age-zuki—a rising punch, here to the jaw. Choku-zuki—a straight punch from a standing position. Tetsui-uchi—a downward hammer-fist strike, here to the head. Hiza-geri—a rising knee strike, here again to the face. Ura-ken—a downward hand strike, "hammer-hand."
And again, and again. To the face, to the kidneys, to the head, and with the knee, and again, and again. And all of this—seasoned with gauntlets burning with void. At first, the groans were replaced by wheezing and attempts at resistance. Tough chicken. After another strike, she fell. I flipped her onto her back with a kick and sheared off her wings with my claws, continuing to strike. In the end, I just drove my claws into the uncovered spots and began passing void through them, making the succubus convulse and burn. Wow, what a good shish kebab! Enemy destroyed.
Target destroyed. Terminating protocol Zeta-Omega-12.
Finally, the broken corpse of the demoness went still, and I was finally released. Somewhere on the edge of my consciousness, it became very funny to me: my schizophrenias are arguing over whose head this is, unbelievable.
This "cutlet," drenched in green blood, is no longer an opponent. Partly because the green of the blood is fading, dulling, replaced by the purple poisoning of the void. The poison consumed her strength. With a click, I shook my hands, disconnecting the crystals from the "contact pair." The void ate up the released energy; it's not worth keeping this in contact with the body, let alone the soul.
And still, what the hell was that? I never noticed such tendencies in myself. A poorly worked submission, an overlapping imprint of the subduer's personality? Or maybe just the demons' way of thinking? Or maybe something else? I don't know. But it's a very interesting question. Not once before have I felt the urge to do something like this. And even now I don't; I would have sooner killed her with magic. Strange, I'll need to look into it. Another incomprehensible item on the long list. Well, at least the mind-control block worked perfectly. Though, also not the way I planned. Eh. I'll have to add that to the list too.
Kicking this pile of fried meat one last time, I asked the inner voice:
"Will she come back?"
The Sayaad is devoured, as predicted. Her path is torn out and consumed, her soul has become us. To put it simply—no. The void did its job. When we're done, I'll need a Priest. Yeah, that was a good match, we crushed everyone. Or not everyone?
The next moment, I heard screams and clanging outside. The kind of sounds that shouldn't be in a hospital. However, I've already got a grip on myself. First—change the crystals in the gauntlet. And only then go to the new battleground.
When I replaced everything and looked out of the tent, it turned out to be exactly what I thought, judging by the sounds. And what I had hoped until the very end not to see. About a dozen Doomguards, clad in plate armor, typical devils with horns, hooves, and wings, smashing the patients of our hospital with flaming blades. It seems they attacked suddenly; under their feet are the mangled bodies of those who couldn't escape. And those who tried to fight against stronger and armed enemies.
The demons blocked the exits in groups of three, while the tenth, the largest one, hacked into the patients. Who are putting up the most active resistance.
The patients are warriors, even if they've caught something that required serious intervention from Priests. Which means they aren't exactly ordinary sentients. From just trained soldiers to possessors of outright semi-magical and fully magical skills. However, it's not helping them much. I was literally jolted by what I saw. All these corpses, flowing blood, guts, and all that, and I'm without Alchemy. The injectors are empty.
A demon lunged toward the huddle of sentients, delivering a wide strike with bladed claws. A warrior tried to block with a table, but the mighty blow sliced both the table and the man standing behind it into several pieces.
I was able to examine the Nathrezim. Just like the guards, he possessed horns and hooves. But while the guards have something resembling a beast's muzzle, the Nathrezim's head vaguely resembles a bald human skull, albeit somewhat deformed. Full plate armor, though without a helmet. PvP or chicken?
"What is it, mortals," the demon growled, "not enough strength? What can you do without the Night Elves? Only die!"
He hadn't noticed me yet, but he did take notice of the Orc Shaman. Interestingly, the Nathrezim's voice is much higher than that of the brutes. The enemy took a step forward, swinging his claws, which were streaked with Fel lightning. An unpleasant opponent, and quite strong. Especially in my current state. I suspect that everything that happened here—is his doing. Including the succubus in the warehouse.
If you think about it, this action would have caused quite a stir. Though it will do that anyway. But a lone cook's assistant who ended up under demon control could have done a lot of bad things: slip in poison, or plant a cursed item somewhere. To her regret, the place in my head is already occupied. By me.
The fact that this isn't just an attack is indicated by the demon openly showing off so everyone can see his magnificence. Four meters of bald death, you can't take that away, who's arguing. He could have acted much more harshly, but he's in no hurry. Does he know that help won't come, or on the contrary, is he waiting for it to draw the patrolmen to himself from other places? I don't know. The Nathrezim, looking at the Orcs, loudly proclaimed:
"Curs who killed Mannoroth. Did you think you'd get away with it? Pitiful cowards. Now you will die! You will all suffer! Fall to your knees, and perhaps I will grant you a swift death!"
No, they aren't afraid. They are waiting for the moment to attack. All of them. And when the demons, waving their blades, rushed forward, the other side did the same. The Shaman spread his arms and a ROAR erupted from him. It wasn't a shout; it was the growl of a wild beast, an expression of pure, animal hatred. And lightning struck from his hands.
The warriors, armed with whatever they could find, rushed into the attack. Clubs made from table legs, chairs, even just tables as shields. Something that would allow them to live a little longer, to sell their lives more dearly.
The Doomguards didn't mind. The demons roared triumphantly, ready for battle. And the melee began. The warriors threw themselves at the demons while they were entangled by roots. The branches of a nearby tree broke off, forming the humanoid figures of Treants. Holy light enveloped some of the demons, making them roar in pain and burn. Not having a blade doesn't mean being unarmed.
Unfortunately for them, the demons had enough combat experience. And before the separated demons were buried under sheer numbers, literally torn to pieces, each managed to make one or two strikes, stabbing Humans and Orcs, tearing and cutting off limbs and heads. And I can't really help.
"In this melee, I'm more likely to hit my own."
Which means I need to hit the Nathrezim. His four-meter frame towers even over the local brutes, swinging bloodied claws. Every strike takes a life; he is too strong for a block to help in any way; the claws slice through wood as easily as flesh and bone. If the swordsmen are being immobilized and beaten down, the senior demon is another matter. His shorter claws are much better suited for fighting a crowd of unarmed, albeit enhanced, sentients. But that's not all.
The Nathrezim laughed, brushing an Orc off his face who had climbed onto his neck and tried to stick a hand in his eye. He threw him with force to the ground, making him wheeze. After which he tried to step on the warrior, but he rolled away, albeit wheezing, but getting up. And to keep the demon from moving forward, I sent a Frostbolt at him, which the Nathrezim blocked with a wing. But it worked; he was distracted.
"Pitiful mortals. You have no chance against the darkness. I am Everywhere!"
He spread his wings, and some nasty little things broke away from them, resembling either bats or some other filth. If they scatter, you won't catch them later! Fire is ineffective, and I'll hit my own; they began to scatter instantly, in all directions, attacking the sentients, biting and wounding them. Primitive minds. Weak, pliable. And hard to catch. Need to take down the leader. Or immobilize him until help arrives.
And the demon, taking advantage of the confusion and the multitude of small creatures swarming our people, lunged forward, extending his claws. Only to cover his face with his hand a moment later from a Frostbolt. The demon froze, looking around, immediately finding his target. I waved my deployed gauntlets. Now I need to separate you from the crowd so the force hammer doesn't hit any innocent bystanders. And then kill or freeze him, however it goes. The survivors will deal with the Doomguards, albeit with losses.
"Nifret said no one would interfere," apparently the Nathrezim noticed the purple-green streaks flowing from the fingers of my gauntlets, "so she lost, the failure."
In the process, the demon almost casually decapitated another Human. It took an effort for me not to flinch. I'm still not used to corpses and killing my own kind. Still not. In the process, but not yet.
"She enjoyed the process. Groaned with pleasure."
And yes, I am perfectly aware of the absurdity of what's happening. Demons and sentients are busily cutting each other, magic is flashing, Priests are casting. And in the middle of this chaos, the Nathrezim and I are looking at each other and having a nice chat. He has claws in the red blood of sentients; I have mine in purple-green demonic blood. But as long as he's talking to me, he's not killing anyone else. And help will come, sooner or later.
"I don't doubt it," the Nathrezim laughed for some reason, "now I will be the one getting pleasure. Well?"
So how do I kill you? Analytical module launched. There's always time to go on the attack. The demon noticed my hesitation. He folded his clawed hands on his chest and inquired:
"How much longer must I wait? Are you actually afraid?"
And smirking, he set off in my direction at a walking pace. Confidently, but with a visible, demonstrated laziness, as if all this were such a trifle to him. I responded in kind, so as not to stand in the passage and to have room for maneuver.
The clash began instantly. The demon exhaled a wave of Fel; I took it on my shield, responding with Frostbolts, which the bastard covered himself from with his wings. After which he dissolved into a swarm of bats the size of a cat, and this entire organized crowd swept through the Humans and Orcs, biting them, leaving magically infected wounds on their bodies. Let's see how this works. I raised my hand, directing a pulse over their heads:
"Thunderfist."
The force hammer shuddered, turning some of the bats into nothing. However, the Nathrezim reassembling from them doesn't look wounded. Moreover, we delivered the next strikes to each other simultaneously. And both failed to penetrate: I flew back into the tent, protected by a Mana Shield; the demon snorted.
"Is that all?"
"Strong, but light."
Frostbolts struck the creature's chest, which he couldn't block. However, he didn't die either. And generally, he didn't seem impressed. Moreover, he's walking slowly again. Of course, slowly for his four meters of height is quite fast. The demon cut through the tent ceiling almost casually, so as not to bend down. He also casually noted the corpse of his subordinate. Contempt appeared on his human-like bald head.
"And that's all? Nifret turned out to be so weak she lost to you?"
No, just someone is wearing armor and has elemental resistance. Fire won't help; demons generally tolerate it. Especially the senior ones, pumped with Fel.
There was no time to think; in two huge steps, the Nathrezim was point-blank, and a hoof hit the Mana Shield at the level of the solar plexus. The world tumbled from the blow, and the tent fabric blocked my view. And it's hindering my movement.
"Elemental Shield: Flame." "Burning!"
The flight was interrupted by a tree; my body jerked, but the damage again didn't go through. Rising from the burning fabric that fell in flakes from the elemental shield, I shook off the burning scraps. I saw the approaching demon, again in no hurry. I brushed myself off and remarked:
"Didn't penetrate."
The bald one tilted his head to the side, continuing to approach.
"A high-level Mana Shield, hmm," the demon's left hand glowed green, "but will the defense withstand Fel flame?"
No. But that doesn't mean I need to let myself be hit. We ended up outside the camp, which means I no longer need to worry about collateral damage to our own. Especially since the gauntlets have deployed into force hammers. An ice column under the demon's feet and:
"Thunderfist" x2. "Frostbolts." "Ice Shrapnel."
The demon was successfully tossed upward to lose his footing, but managed to dissolve into bats mid-air, which rushed in my direction, and the jerk took no damage. Blink! And behind me, with a crunch, the Nathrezim's claws entered a tree, tearing chunks out of it. Tsk, I can't run forever; analysis? Void, of course. Changed the crystals on the claws for nothing. Looks like I'll have to leave them for now.
The demon lunged close again, sharply turning into bats, causing my shot to go into nowhere, but also giving me the chance to dodge the attack with a "Blink," sending a frost wave behind my back.
"Ice Spikes!" "Freezing."
The Nathrezim took flight, unleashing a rain of Fel onto the ice field, which I covered myself from with an Ice Shield that began to boil and melt. After which it exploded into shards from a mighty blow, breaking through the defense, knocking the wind out of my lungs and sending me flying. The bastard took advantage of the fact that I had blocked my own view.
"Wheeze-cough…"
Slamming into another tree, I got up, restoring my breath. Too fast. And I can't fully use the void. However, the demon was in no hurry to finish me off, looking at me with curiosity.
"It seems you can do more than you show, Mage. I have a proposal for you. Bow before me, recognize the power of the Burning Legion. And not only will you remain alive, but you will also know the boundaries of power you have never encountered before. You will gain power available to no one else."
I couldn't answer immediately; the bastard had knocked the wind out of me. I'm still alive; he did it on purpose. He's playing. Truly: don't play with your food. Because all this time, the crystals were being pumped with energy. And you won't like it.
"A mighty killing of a few unarmed people, quite an achievement indeed."
The Nathrezim didn't stop smirking; his grin became even wider.
"You will serve us in any case, Mage. Dead, alive, it doesn't matter. You will kill your friends in the back, every single one. You will betray secrets, swearing eternal loyalty to me over the corpses of your loved ones."
I just snorted. You shouldn't have said that. Your "mice," though very mobile, don't fly through walls. Which means I just need to do everything right. A well-fixed patient doesn't need anesthesia. Try to dodge "Uomo Universale" at point-blank range. I just need to make sure no one gets in the way and you don't run anywhere.
Streams of ice struck in all directions, first along the ground, and then they crawled up the trees, higher and higher, using them as columns supporting ice walls, forming an Arena. From which there would be no escape. Interestingly, the demon didn't even interfere.
"How interesting. Do you think you've caught me in a trap? SPI…"
He actually did it… "Ice Block"
***
"Witch! Witch! Witch!"
Hmm, I jerked; my body was too stiff. Or rather, I tried; I could only move my fingers, and without the "contact pair" at that; rough ropes bit into my hands, as well as my neck and stomach. For I found myself tied up and standing vertically. Instead of my usual clothes, some prickly sackcloth was on my body; my feet hurt, and I think I feel splinters in them. The world filled with screams, and I tried to understand where I even was. And what was even happening here.
"Witch!"
"Monster!"
"Heretic!"
"Burn her!"
I coughed from the impact of something heavy hitting my stomach, but because of the ropes, I couldn't flinch properly, causing me to groan. My mana isn't responding. What the hell? My attempt to survey the world around me is complicated by long hair, completely unkempt and hanging over my face. Finally, I managed to jerk my head, shifting the unruly hair aside. And holy crap. I'm tied to a post, with wooden logs under my feet. And around me stands a crowd of people, chanting things and throwing—*kha*—stones. It hurts—*kha*—throwing stones. Bastards! At the head of this disaster stands Dartaola in the bright scarlet robes of the Scarlet Crusade, orating:
"...and then this vile witch brutally dragged the boy into her dungeons, raped him, and brutally murdered him! She dismembered him and fed him to demonic dogs, and put his skull on a shelf. After which she violated his soul, reanimated him, and forced the poor boy Billy to kill his parents! To sacrifice them to her! Then she fed the good priests a desecrated soup made of eyes!"
The crowd was in a frenzy.
"Burn the witch!"
"Burn her!"
"Let her suffer!"
"Gouge out her eyes!"
A stone struck my face, making my head snap back and hit the post, while pain seared my skin. I tried to object, but only a muffled moan escaped my mouth. It was stuffed with some stinking rag. And Dartaola continued to recount how I brutally tortured cats, dogs, sheep, and sixteen children to lay out a magic circle from their guts. It's no wonder that by the end, the crowd had to be held back so these peasants wouldn't try to tear me apart right then and there. However, it didn't stop them from throwing stones, and every hit brought only more pain.
And the wood under my feet is extremely unsettling. Very badly unsettling! If I had mana, I'd put a shield on myself, wait for the ropes to burn, and then goodbye. But mana still isn't felt, as if I'm just an ordinary Human again. Well, or an elf. And that's terrifying.
And when Dartaola whispered:
"Forgive me, we didn't have time to save you," and then loudly added, "But the sacred flame will cleanse your soul! The Church of Holy sentences this heretic to purification by Fire!"
And they lit the wood. I screamed. Screamed as the fire devoured my body from the bottom up, spreading, burning my hair. When my clothes flared up. When...
*Your soul is destined for us...*
The pain ended. I stood in charred scraps of clothing amidst a dry, rocky desert that dropped off into a violet nothingness. No sun, no light, nothing. And yet it's clear enough here to see the world around. Under my feet is cold—but not quite—sand. Behind me are gray-blue cliffs that cast no shadows; they just exist. And no signs of life around.
On my body... there are no injuries. My clothes burned away, crumbled into rags, but even my hair has restored itself. I am unusually whole again. There is no pain, and overall I feel fine. So, where am I? Essence? I don't know. This is death, right? I don't like this afterlife.
"Hey, Essence? Are you there? I need to be picked up! Hello?"
No one is there, and no one answers.
The void is just as empty as it was. No reaction at all. What if I'm here for a long time? Do I need to eat? And if so, what? Dying of hunger in the next world after dying doesn't sound good.
"Um, who's here?"
And a strange sensation... of presence. But there was no one. Forward? Backward? Nothing. Only the land dropping off into the violet nothingness. I took a few steps along the shore, along the edge dropping down. I threw a pebble there, and it honestly fell somewhere into nowhere. Gravity exists and it's directed downward. Mana? Still can't feel it. Okay, I need to occupy myself with something else. For example, searching for at least something besides sand and stones in the great violet nothing.
"How do you like your new abode?"
a voice came from below?
I turned around, seeing an elf looking up from below. She was sitting with her legs dangling off the cliff, leaning on her hand and looking at me. That's why she was below; while she sits like that, I am higher. Though in my view, she is quite tall, something like a Night Elf. Because of my small stature, even though I'm looking down, it's not that critical. And also the feeling... of attention. It comes from her. This is clearly someone dangerous.
More importantly, her appearance. Gray-violet skin and dark-violet hair. On her face, coming from her eyes like tracks of tears, are vertical lines of hieroglyphs. And two eyes of a bright violet color, like pits into the distance with black sclera, hm. A black robe with yellow trim, and above her wide, outward-stretched pauldrons hang two violet void-spheres. Leading somewhere. I don't know who this is, but I can definitely determine her affiliation. I feel it. Just like the danger emanating from the newcomer. It seems that instead of a normal afterlife, I've been cast into The Void. I'm screwed. And yet I asked:
"Who are you?"
to which the elf's eyes flared a deep violet for a fraction of a second.
Pain seared my mind; it was as if hundreds of voices began speaking in my head. They screamed, groaned, and demanded, disorienting me, forcing me to fall to my knees, which sank into the sand, kicking up a cloud of dust. And they wouldn't stop—whispering, screaming, protesting. I clutched my head, trying to quell the pain.
"Look at me."
I obeyed. Raising my eyes, I met the elf's gaze. Now we are on the same level. Though it's ridiculous; she has power and authority, and I can't even respond with a fireball. Looking into my eyes with an indifferent gaze, she said:
"From now on and forever, I am your mistress. You may call me mistress or mistress Xal'atath."
Wait, that's... the Priest artifact from Legion. I don't understand.
"You do not need to understand, servant. Only to execute my will."
We met eyes again. My lack of understanding and the mockery of my... captor? Where did she even come from? And is she reading my thoughts?
"The previous claimant to your soul has somewhat ceased to be. And you desired power. Remember? I gave it to you. And we made a pact. Now you will fulfill it."
I don't remember making any pact. Especially with entities of The Void. This thought was also read. It seems I can't even think in solitude.
"It doesn't matter,"
Xal... *khe, ouch!* replied easily.
The arms I was leaning on gave way, and I collapsed onto the sand completely, clutching my head while it was submerged in waves of pulsating pain. And again voices, and again screams and demands. I resisted as long as I could. Whether it was long or not, I don't know, but it felt like an eternity. But ultimately, for the pain to stop, I squeezed out this thought: *mistress*. And it all ended. After waiting a bit longer, I rose to my knees again. The elf had already stood up and was levitating above the ground, looking down with mockery.
The entity of The Void spoke again:
"You understand, good. One way or another, you have received our powers. And I—your soul. Such an interesting soul. I confess, there was a strong temptation to simply consume it, but such potential... a talentless waste of resources. The abilities and ideas planted by the Creator—it would be foolish to simply erase them. No, you will serve me. Voluntarily, or my power will burn away everything superfluous; I do not care. The choice is yours. If you wish—resist; if you do not—submit. You have no other choice; one way or another, you are mine."
And the world filled with pain, for I did not wish to submit. I did not wish it, but The Void used that. I did not want slavery; I wanted to escape, I wanted my powers, I wanted revenge. I wanted to drive away The Void, but it was everywhere. It cut off my resistance, erased from my memory the reasons why I should fight. And each time, there were fewer and fewer reasons to say "no." Until they were gone entirely. I don't know how much time passed, but I was even glad when it all ended.
And then the mistress came. She filled my mind with knowledge of our master Dimensius the All-Devouring. Of the powers of The Void. She granted new attire in place of those rags and a staff carrying a fragment of her power.
"I am the harbinger of the void. You are my shadow."
And then I, without any doubt, knelt, accepting this beautiful gift.
"Your will, my mistress."
She smiled, pleased.
"Mine. You will become the conduit for my plans. And this staff, 'Eternal Cadence', will become the symbol of my authority."
And so we fly through the nothingness. Soon the battle will begin. The Void sings in my mind; the "contact pair" is charged. I know what will happen, for the probabilities are open before me, and I see all paths. Behind my back is the staff, at the top of which is a crystal drawing in any light, "Eternal Cadence". For a moment, a different vector of soaring appears in my mind, and I obey, to fall already beside the mistress, before whom I must kneel. Which was done.
"Mistress. Your troops are ready to begin."
I didn't need to speak; for the mistress, the mind is an open book, for I am an extension of her will. I am the hand of my mistress. And as long as she commands, I will execute her will, forever. Xal'atath nodded.
"You understand. Perhaps, in time, I will return what I took. When we achieve success. Come."
I silently obeyed, snatching the staff from behind my back. "Eternal Cadence" is a gift from the mistress and a reminder that when the light leaves, The Void remains. Which will take everything it desires. You. I remember this. I accepted this. I am part of my mistress.
A short strike of the staff against the nothingness, and two "pillows" appeared from a portal. Voidwalkers, clumps of violet mist with metal bracers, rounded, which is why they got their name.
"Why was I summoned?"
I shared the thought of the mistress's will, and they obeyed. Without submission, for Her will shall be done. Moreover, we are already there; before us opened the violet breach of a Void portal.
We passed through the portal opened by the mistress, and for the first time in a long while, I saw the sunlight that illuminates this world. But I felt nothing about it, only curiosity. Years have passed, or maybe centuries, and light is no longer important. I have long since grown unaccustomed to light, and now it mostly blinds and brings discomfort. I am used to the gloom and desert landscapes where there is no one besides the mistress and the demons of the void. And these streets that stretch out ahead seem too crowded, too noisy.
Where are we? Under my bare feet, for the first time in a long while, was not sand but hard and smooth red stones. I didn't slow down so as not to fall behind, but I allowed myself to enjoy this brief moment of new sensations and the mercy of my Mistress. Mistress Xal'atath, levitating ahead, glanced back and smirked, finding it amusing. But my gratitude is completely sincere. I like serving her as she wishes, and praise is pleasant. And these stones, so cool, even, and rounded—a pleasant feeling. And yet, where are we?
Stone-paved streets, tall spear-like towers, and banners in the form of an eye with lines. Familiar banners. I remembered.
"Dalaran."
The mistress nodded and teleported somewhere, leaving a thread, inviting me to find her. As if it were a fun game. Naturally, I readily executed her will. I ran along the red stones, feeling each one with my feet, every roughness, the warmth of the sun on my skin, taking pleasure in the Mistress's mercy. A pleasant feeling.
A battle was raging in the streets; from numerous portals opened above the city, projectiles are falling, and Nerubians are emerging from the portals. Many Nerubians. Giant arachnoids, but this time—living servants of the Dark Empire. They grab residents, fight with the guard. I don't need to slow down; I see everything that will happen next. Dodging attacks is ridiculously easy.
Void projectiles also fall from the heavens, but foresight tells me where each of them will land. How towers collapse as a result of the shelling. How a Human Soldier tried to impale me on a blade, but a voidwalker that rushed forward ignored the weapon and knocked the warrior out with a punch to the face. A Nerubian, noticing this, loomed over the victim and began to wrap him in webbing.
An arrow! A raised gauntlet took the shot, forcing me to turn around. The arrow deflected with a clatter, hitting the wall behind me, just as planned. And the one who fired it was... Well, of course, Venidan. Who would have thought. She is guarding the survivors. And she recognized me. I see confusion on her face. But why? Isn't she glad to see me?
"Davilinia? You?"
Gripping Cadence, I smiled.
"It's me, Veni, me. Will you surrender nicely? I don't want to hurt you. Believe me, I know what it's like."
The Rogue snorted.
"And become Xal'atath's pawn? Never! How could you even think of such a thing?"
I shrugged. She's not Attacking, so fine. More time to lead the Nerubians here. The mistress wishes to get everyone possible alive, so it shall be. Wants to talk? Let her talk.
"I resisted too, Veni. I did too. I begged for salvation, found reasons to resist. New reasons, over and over. But there was no salvation; the mistress took my doubts away one by one until nothing was left. And now..."
portals opened around the Rogue, and Nerubians emerging from them spat webbing,
"only the will of my mistress remains with me. I am her desire."
Venidan, gripping her magic blades, rushed at me. But Void Arrows flew out of Cadence with a quiet hum, and the Rogue had to dodge. Just as she did from the attacks of the two voidwalkers, whom she bypassed masterfully, bending at the very limit of mobility. I almost admired her; she is good at what she does. But my attacks—they are self-homing. Void Arrows, binding beams. And Venidan jerked after another pirouette when chains of darkness wrapped around her. There was nowhere left to run.
I allowed myself a small liberty to take a few more steps on the stones. The mistress doesn't object; she is amused by how such simple things please me, I feel it. Venidan met me with a gaze full of malice. A Nerubian, coming out of a portal behind her, was already entangling her in webbing, but her head was still free. She spat, seeing my feet in front of her:
"Monster. They'll finish you off—if not me, then others."
I shrugged.
"You won't understand. I lost so much for the sake of serving the Mistress. Until nothing was left but her will. I have nothing else anymore."
Venidan didn't answer; I fired a few more arrows at those fleeing. Carefully, to cloud their minds but not kill them. Until I was sure the Rogue was packed as needed and the Nerubians were carrying her through the portal.
Watching the cocoon go, I ran further. To where Garrosh Hellscream and his Orcs are fighting against Paladins. Not cleansed of the corrupting influence of the Sha, overgrown with numerous tentacles and growths, many eyes, like a fungus on the Orc's massive body, he wields Gorehowl as well as before. The Paladins don't have a chance. Only the Orc, as usual, gets carried away. This contradicts the mistress's will.
"The mistress commands to take them alive, Garrosh."
The Orc growled, irritated.
"I am the will of the Horde! And these are filthy traitors! All of them—cowards and filthy traitors! I will tear them apart!"
The contact pair flared, invading the Orc's mind. Such is the will of the mistress that touched my mind, filling this fool with meanings. I am her shadow, her harbinger. My will is an extension of her desires. And she desires the Orc to act according to the plan. Even if I'm not very good at mind influence, She guides me, though Garrosh resists.
Too wild, too strong and proud. The power of the Sha only fuels his rage, making him even stronger and more furious. His will needs to be restrained. Finally, he too calmed down, the Mistress's influence weakened, and I was able to pay attention to others here. To the Paladins, or rather one specific one, Dartaola. Slashed diagonally by the Orc, she lay there, drenching the stones with warm blood. Hm, what if I walk on such stones? Warm blood and cold stone, an interesting combination.
But the mistress calls me. Something is about to happen, and she wants me to see it. At the base of the city's central tower. The largest tower, the most noticeable. Yes, I'm coming, mistress. Past the captured mages, up the large stone staircase. Where the mistress, raising her hands, controls the artifact, the Dark Heart, absorbing the mana of this city. Seeing me, the mistress smiled, briefly nodding her head to the side.
"Wait on the balcony to the side, my little servant. Something curious is about to happen."
I obeyed, settling in comfortably. With an excellent view of the entrance through which Khadgar and Alleria Windrunner entered. They entered the circular hall of the central tower, stopping at the base of the stairs leading up. To where the mistress, using the dark heart, absorbs the power of this city. Arcana is so pliable! The mistress will take it, all of it, to the last drop. It's so lovely! Seeing me, the elf's face contorted with disgust. However, it's mutual. Uses our power and dares to resist. The mistress will punish them, right?
Xal'atath nodded briefly. The mistress will punish. The spectacle indeed promises to be curious. I will remember every detail, for such is the will of my mistress. Her triumph, which I will think about every second, sitting at her feet. At the foot of the Shadow Throne.
Time passed, and I became myself again. I am Davilinia once more. My undertakings were collapsed, trampled by my own hands. I suffered a total defeat. Then. But now—I am the Shadow of my goddess, who consumed the soul of a titan, gaining eternity. Azeroth did not hold me, and even having gained full consciousness, I did not wish to betray her. In the end, having lost everything, I gained no less. I feel her foot touch my shoulder and smile as the void flows within me. Bliss...
I am no longer a silent servant, but the immortal shadow of my dark Goddess, to whom a place at the foot of her dark Throne is granted. I gave her everything, but gained eternity. I am the Shadow. I am the harbinger of the dark goddess Xal'atath, my beautiful, eternal mistress. And the time has come to throw new worlds at her feet. Whatever you wish, mistress. I am yours.
***
"Davilinia! Davi! Wake up!"
I tried to flinch, but realized I couldn't move. At all—even my fingers won't obey, and I can't blink. Everything around is blue and so motionless! I realized! An ice block! I'm in an ice block! And on the other side stands Dartaola, tapping on it with her gauntlet. And more elves. And humans. And orcs. It seems the attack is over. So I canceled the spell, shuddering as mobility returned.
The Paladin caught me, preventing me from falling.
"Are you all right?"
I remembered what I saw, what I heard, what I felt.
Dartaola, saying there's no place for me on earth. About the terrible crimes I committed. The heat of the fire on which the witch is burned. The slashed Paladin, warm blood under my feet. A pleasant feeling. I jerked, driving away the vision. None of this happened; now I see, I know. Just a dream, albeit an exceptionally shitty one.
"Not exactly, but I'll live. Where's the damn Nathrezim? He used a dream, and I saw..."
I shuddered. The Paladin helped me step off the icy field that had been my cage for the demon and explained:
"Escaped. As soon as we appeared, the bastard escaped. Doesn't matter—what did he do to you?"
I shuddered again. I remember everything I saw.
"He showed me what I never wanted to see. Total defeat. The collapse of everything I did and desired. And the consequences of my failure."
Loss of everything and slavery as a loyal dog without its own desires. And then freedom, when there was no longer any point in resisting, because I had absolutely nothing and no one left. Now I can understand why Xal'atath was so amused by my behavior. A submissive dog, literally. And I shudder at the thought that it could be even slightly, even a micron, pleasant. Hell no to such entertainment! Jokes about dungeon masters don't seem funny anymore.
*Don't lie to yourself. It was definitely a very... interesting experience.*
*I'm not lying. It was interesting because someone scoured everything else from my mind. Because you resisted. Otherwise...* No! I'm not signing up for this voluntarily! Didn't try it in the dream, won't do it in reality. Insanity is repeating the same action hoping for a change. *You're not Vaas. So don't talk nonsense. Now we know what happens if you resist. Your soul is destined for us. Resistance is not the only way out.*
*Why don't you get out of here, huh? I. Said. No.* *We'll see about that.* And the sensation of presence vanished. Instead, the sensation of being held by the shoulder remained. Dartaola, who is looking straight into my eyes. Now we are both without helmets; it's not hard to do. And I see sincere concern on the elf's face.
"We'll manage, Davilinia. Don't doubt it."
I sighed.
"I'm not sure. The memories are very shitty. And educational."
A thought suddenly occurred to me. After all, I could control the void there. And I have crystals on my gauntlets already charged with it. Can I repeat... The formation is unfamiliar, but I remember the dream well. If...
Violet energy began to swirl over my hand, breaking off from the crystals, condensing into a sphere. And Dartaola's stern question, instantly losing its sympathy:
"What? Are you? Doing?"
I sighed.
"Testing a theory. And I don't like the result."
Raising my eyes, I noticed not only the Paladin but also a couple of soldiers looking warily in our direction. The elf sighed, waving toward the trees. But she calmed down again, though it's clear she won't let me go without answers.
"Come, tell me what happened."
I confess, the desire to say "no" is quite strong. But I dislike the "stay silent and just give up" option quite a lot. I need advice. For example, from someone who knows how to work with the Holy light. So I told her. And I did it even fully, mentioning the role of my comrades in the dream. Doing this specifically to Dartaola was a bit scary; on the other hand, it's not like I could go to Venidan. And I don't really have any other acquaintances who use the Holy light.
"And the magical, or rather Void Arrow, was a spell I used there, in the dream. And I thought: if it's just a dream, I can't repeat the spell, right? Because I never knew it. It doesn't exist; I never used such a string formation."
We both looked at the void sphere hovering over my gauntlet. It resembles a star being drawn into a black hole, with a bright, almost blue rim and the coal-blackness of the pits. Pointing my hand at a tree, I gave the command, and the sphere flew into the tree with a "vwooooom" sound, where it burned a small hole. A complete spell, homing where needed, working as it should. The reason why I'm shaking a little.
"You see? It works. And I don't know what to do with this, Dartaola. I'm not sure how much of what I saw was a dream. And how much was a prediction. And if it can be replayed somehow. And if it can—then how? I don't know."
The Paladin didn't answer immediately; she was thinking too. And I continued to examine the new void sphere. After all, these arrows are a good weapon against demons, as proven by Alleria Windrunner.
"I could use this power against the demons."
The Paladin raised her eyes and looked at me with skepticism.
"Are you serious? A minute ago you were thinking about the danger, and now you want to let even more of this energy into your body?"
I shrugged.
"In theory, it's still the gauntlet. Not me. And we have a siege out there."
What else is there to say? The battle is far from over. It's easy to say no when ten kilometers from here, even closer, demons aren't tearing your comrades apart. We aren't in a position right now to refuse a weapon. Venidan supported me. Now it's Dartaola's turn. She hesitated longer than Veni. After all, The Void for her is an enemy no less than the demons. But the void is somewhere out there, and the demons are on the doorstep. She sighed.
"I will support you. Don't go far; we will monitor the influence. In case of anything—you retreat and don't get involved anymore. Understood?"
I nodded.
"Of course. I agree to do that."
We set off for the front line. And it wasn't redundant; by the end of the fourth day, the demons had occupied the wreckage of the Fel Reavers at the entrance to the base, using them as cover. Deploying their own turrets there. Everything is heading toward the Horde base being lost on the fifth day.
And it's completely impossible to stop thinking about the sent dream. How much of it is a dream? And how much is a prophecy? Or do I just want it to be something like that? I don't know. And this ignorance worries me very much.
***
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