Chapter 8: The Inquisitor's Nightmare
"What do we do, Leinz?" Draped in the same golden and blue livery, one of the Inquisitors, Bors, asked. His trembling hands raked his shoulders amidst the beautiful darkness that now drowned them.
His eyes scanned through his visor, cold sweat dripping down his skin. He gulped.
That figure... behind that iridescent vortex... the one who created this beautiful dewy night... a power of this level, as Supervisor Steins had said... was probably an attribute of a...
Sequence Four Mnemonic... or beyond... He inhaled. The Demigods.
"Leinz... Captain Leinz..." another Inquisitor called, probably a veteran like the rest. "Say something. What do we do?"
He glanced at them, then at his holster—a dark short rifle gleaming under the light of whatever stars these were. Could the Anti-Mnemonic bullets really work on a being of this caliber?
He gulped again. This was their only defense.
"Damn that slum rat... she tricked us... damn it..." Another Inquisitor shouted. He couldn't make out the man's features.
Across the dark fog, laden with twinkles of tiny stars in multiple colors and beyond... No, to be exact, he glanced around—he couldn't even spot the other three except for Bors, who stood nearby. And for whatever reason, this being remained silent... but he couldn't shake the feeling of being observed.
By a Higher Power, no less... like a colossal watcher looming over him.
But still...
"Round your barrels... we aim at the Vortex," he ordered, his voice booming across this realm of unending night and the dark river they stood upon—or whatever it was.
"I can't find it... My gun... it's gone..." A voice belonging to another Inquisitor bellowed, laced with fright, echoing through the realm.
"Me too..." another echoed, equally terrified.
"Also gone... it's all gone..." A cacophony of panicked sounds and screams erupted.
He glanced at Bors, who displayed his empty holster.
"It's all gone, Leinz..."
He clutched his own instinctively... but to his dismay, it was empty too. Vanished... perhaps...
He stared at the swirling vortex, now glowing in an eerie amber.
It was the work of that entity... whatever it was. Why did it take them? Was it an undercover Mnemonic backing the Slums? If so... then...
"We're doomed..." The words slipped from his lips unbidden, his fear eroding his composure, his eyes locked in a widened trance.
"Damn it, Leinz... I shouldn't have..." Bors clutched a handmade crochet, squeezing it tightly, his eyes shut. "I just got a kid, Leinz. We have to do something... you have to..."
"I know..." If only Steins were here—he could handle this supernatural threat. But he wasn't.
Think, Leinz. Think.
Then it clicked.
"We negotiate... we strike a deal with it," he muttered, his eyes widening in realization. "From the look of it, it doesn't seem to bear us such ill will. If it did, we wouldn't still be breathing."
"Strike a deal..." one of the Inquisitors, shrouded by the fog, replied. "Leinz, have you finally lost it? Why would it..." His voice trailed off as a tone of greater ferocity and audacity thundered through the realm, rattling the dark river beneath them, quaking the expanse above. The stars turned crimson; auroras like scarlet lightning streaked the sky.
"Silence!! I deem you all not worthy to speak." The voice resounded, followed by a pause that made the realm seem to inhale, sealing their lips—whether through fear or sheer prowess, he couldn't tell... but his soul obeyed. "It seems... you..."
Then he felt it—the weight of immense eyes gazing from beyond the swirling vortex. A shiver raced down his spine, his legs retreating subconsciously as Bors mirrored the movement. "You are the one who matters among this bunch... I have no use for the..." A crimson line flashed in front of him, vanishing before he could process it. "Rest of you."
The sweat streaming down his face turned icy... What did it mean by that?
"Le... Le... Lein... n..." Bors' stuttering voice pierced his daze, sounding gagged.
His gaze snapped toward him.
"Bor..." The word died on his lips. Disbelief, pain, fear—all clawed through him, widening his eyes. Bors' throat bled from a precise, linear cut. His hands grasped at it desperately... the bloody crochet dropping to the ground as his body crumpled. Reacting swiftly, Leinz caught the flailing form before it hit the surface.
"Hey... Bors... hey..." He pleaded, pressing his hands to the wound, blood staining them crimson. "Bors..." he muttered, tears spilling as he stared into his brother's fading eyes, now growing dim. He pulled the body against his chest, blood soaking his livery. He wouldn't let go... not Bors... not his only brother.
He wouldn't...
Then a tug at his hands—Bors' bloodied fingers. Through tear-blurred vision, he saw the crochet, now drenched in deep scarlet, far from its pristine white.
"Tell... them... I... I... Lov... v..." Then Bors dissolved like mist, slipping from his grasp... the one anchor he clung to, gone.
"Bors... Bors!" He roared, clutching the bloody crochet, raking it across his face in anguish. Damn it all... Damn it all...
His knuckles whitened. The crochet fell, its pristine whiteness swallowed by the dark, liquid floor with a soft ripple. A moment later, a splatter of blood followed—his blood.
His eyes bulged as his brain registered the agony and loss. His free hand reached for the severed stump... his mouth contorting into a scream...
"Aaargh..."
Then his other hand fell in the same graceful arc, landing serenely beside the first.
All his mind could muster was...
"Huh..."
"I told you... didn't I? I deem you not worthy of the ability to speak." The voice intoned terrifyingly, his eyes bloodshot with pain... yet terror silenced any cry. Blood and tears flooded his being. Why such cruelty from this being? What had they done? He stifled another sob.
"Good..." The mist parted, unveiling a dark silhouette. Its face swirled like the vortex, its form woven from night itself. It sat cross-legged on a towering throne, hands propping its face, elbows on the armrests. A massive sword—dark, etched with red glows—pulsed in the shadows, dimly illuminating the entity.
The monster incarnate... His vision dimmed; death approached, consciousness whirling... yet clarity lingered, just enough to absorb its words.
No... it felt as if his fading awareness was preserved solely for this.
"Listen well, Mortal... heed my words. The lives of all you know depend on it. Bear my reckoning to those above you and beyond. Tell them the Devil has descended on Valen... bringing Ruination. With it comes not war, but a plague." His consciousness ebbed, the words echoing distantly. "Should they ask who I am... Tell them I am Mephis Meredith. Should they ask what I am... Tell them I am The Dream." A pause... then a yank on his mind. The ethereal nightscape—the distant nebulae, the twinkling stars—all thinned, convoluting into a narrow tunnel before his dying gaze.
"Death sends his greetings... Farewell for now, puny mortal..."
Those were the final words he heard before the tunnel erupted in blinding light, overwhelming his senses, forcing his eyes shut.
"Leinz... Leinz..." A distorted voice cut through his haze. Though warped, he recognized it. He forced his eyelids open to find Bors standing there—whole, unscathed, clad in his livery.
Just like himself... but that mattered little. He pulled Bors into a fierce embrace, tears soaking the fabric. For a fleeting second, the phantom scent of blood filled his nostrils, and the memory of Bors's weight turning to mist in his arms made his stomach lurch.
"Leinz..." Bors murmured, worry etching his tone. "What's wrong?"
He released the hug, his hands trembling as he wiped his eyes. "It's nothing... Probably just a bad dream," he muttered, patting his shoulder. His eyes shifted past Bors, beyond the other three veterans, to the dilapidated building ahead—cracked walls, broken and sagging windows, a double-stair structure.
He shivered. Impossible... he was back to the moment before the invasion.
Which was for the best. They wouldn't encounter that monster... and he could live to deliver its message.
He wouldn't repeat that fatal error.
"Saddle the horses..." he commanded, turning away from the building. "We retreat."
---
From atop the structure, his figure observed the Inquisitors' cart retreating down the broken street, fading into the distance. His hair danced in the noon wind, face concealed by the dark, convoluted Helm of Fate... his Night armor absorbing the sunlight. He examined his hands, the faint cracks etching his pale skin like fine porcelain. A necessary toll for weaving such an intricate tapestry of fear and false memory into the minds of mortals. How demeaning, to be chafed by such a petty exertion.
He allowed himself a smirk beneath the helm. Crafting that personalized nightmare for the mortal captain had been a trivial exercise of will, a mere flicker of his power woven into the fabric of their perception. An effective, and efficient, means of communication.
A smile crept across his masked features. Truly exciting. It seemed Vortagem had found the other Pawn... The Pawn of Chaos. She was indeed a reliable companion.
Darkness surged from within, a swirling vortex engulfing his form—a stark contrast to the luminous world around. He had positioned this pawn successfully... and it appeared effective, for in that pivotal instant, another presence observed... indirectly.
Not in the present. From the future.
He gazed at the sky—the deep blue expanse—as the Tapestry enveloped him in a vanishing labyrinth of mazes and stars.
It was about time to advance the next piece on his chessboard... The Pawn of Chaos.
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Note:
Mnemonic: Term used to describe successful walkers who had completed a mystery stage or more... via Hypnoapotheosis.