Chapter 13: Ascension Of The Juvenile
The circle of Corpse Diggers convulsed, a single, mindless organism of gnashing maws and chitinous flesh. They lunged as one, a converging cage of teeth and shadow designed to overwhelm him, the air thickening with their putrid stench.
But he didn't move.
He let them come. Let the deadlock form. Let their serpentine bodies eclipse the moonlight, weaving a deathly maze of ichor and bone meant to drown him.
[Playing a risky gambit..]
"You wouldn't understand... bot," he winked at his own reflection in a scythe's blade, immediately finding the gesture stupid, "...it makes me cooler. And more fun. But mostly cooler."
[Oh.]
Then, he played his final note.
His scythe began a harrowing dance—a dark blossom of absolute ending. The blade became a whirlwind of silent, efficient geometry. It wasn't a fight; it was a dissection. He traced lines of cessation through the air, and where the lines fell, monsters ceased to be. They came apart, their forms flickering into gushing streams of black viscera that phased harmlessly through him, followed by an explosion of ichor and bone, pupils and sclera, all raining down from the convergence point of his dark maze.
By the time he drew his second breath, the converging cage had collapsed into a heap of twitching parts. The final worm was bisected by a vertical arc, its two halves sliding perfectly apart to hit the mud with a synchronized, wet thud.
Then, silence.
[Quite marvelous for a juvenile. You fight like a seasoned weaponsman. Though still substantial and Flawed.]
"Was the last part necessary?" he muttered. Everything was going so well until then.
He heaved a sigh, unsure if it was from the bot's internal frustration or his own fatigue. He let the scythe dissolve. His form solidified, boots settling onto the mountain of carnage he had built. He sat upon the huge heap of Corpse Diggers, using a gravestone as a footstool as the weight of the night pressed down. The moon hung directly behind his head, a stark halo that threw his face into deep shadow and lit the edges of his form in silver. The last vestiges of the Death Scythe curled behind his shoulders like the talons of a vast, unseen bird, further darkening his silhouette into something less than human.
A shadow. The Shadow of Death.
That was a peak character moment, wasn't it? he thought. One that could hit hard for ages to come.
"Right, bot?"
[I guess so.] He could detect a vein of sarcasm and boredom. Veins throbbed on his own forehead. [I suggest, Arthur, you focus on absorbing their essence if you wish to have a good night's rest.]
Realization struck him like a hammer. His eyes darted to his leather-worn watch, his most treasured accessory, albeit a bit second-hand.
He had only 09:12 remaining!
His gaze then fell from the watch down to the slaughter—the bloodied, dissected, and strewn remains of the leech-like creatures glimmering under the moonlight in pools of black. They were numerous...
[117.]
Damn. It would probably take an hour or two to walk to each one to extract their essence.
He sighed. Guess he wasn't sticking to today's eight-hour sleep regimen. He had just concluded this when a dark blue hologram bloomed before his eyes.
Do you wish to Extract All Essence Collectively?
Totality: 117
Yes / No
Elation bathed his form. His hand clicked the 'Yes' option without a second thought, as if scared the offer would evaporate.
All around him, the mountainous heap of corpse-flesh began to dissolve. Not into rot, but into light. A hundred and seventeen corpses unraveled at once into a silent, spectacular storm of gold. They were fireflies of pure potential, a swirling galaxy of captured energy rising from the carnage, even the ones he sat upon dissipating. They bathed him in their countless lights.
He recoiled, but the beautiful glimmers did less than harm him; they phased past his form, rising like fireworks into the night sky. In that moment, all he felt was...
Warmth. A harmless warmth.
One that left him surprised, shocked, and a little... guilty.
[Absorption complete. Physicality and Intelligence Would be augmented significantly.]
A new screen, blazing dark violet, materialized.
[TOTAL HARVEST]
Corpse Diggers Eliminated: 117
Physicality Gained: 1,638
Intelligence Gained: 234
Aura Reservoir Formed.
The Aspect Intangibility has evolved from Low to Medium.
Do you wish to integrate all stats, Arthur?
The numbers were insane. What the hell? His physicality was now in the thousands, and his intelligence had spiked by 234.
Wow.
[Congratulations, Reaper Lynch. You have Ascended, not to Apparition, but to a Wraith. So, should I integrate the stats, Arthur?]
"Come on, bot, you could've said the first part more coolly. You know, used better word placement."
[Glorious! A juvenile, a reaper bearing the Scythe of Death, graced the battlefield with a whirlwind of silent geometry, dissecting a horde into nothingness before ascending upon a mountain of his own making under a haloed moon,and upon this throne of blood,he became reborn as a New Entity..
A wraith..
A true Herald Of Death..
Better now?]
He cracked his neck, the sound sharp in the new silence. "Yep." He gestured vaguely at the now-empty clearing.
[Do you wish to integrate the stats?]
He drowned himself in thought. If a speed in the twenties made him lose control and crash into a tree, how would he fare if it was in the hundreds? Or a strength in the hundreds—he could literally turn a palm to pulp during a handshake or destroy his precious typewriter.
But... perhaps he could manage. He would just have to be extra gentle with things.
[You can task me with the restraint. Full physicality would be unleashed only at the appropriate time, Arthur.]
That would be helpful. "Bot... really helpful."
[Why still call me "bot," when you evidently assigned me a name, Reaper Lynch?]
"Oh." His eyes shone with realization. He had forgotten. What was it that time...
Mimir.
[How could you forget something you poured your mental prowess into thinking up? Your words, not mine.]
Arthur let out a short, breathy laugh. "Yeah. Well. Don't read too much into it."
[Explain.]
He sighed, the sound weary. "When I was a kid at the orphanage, there was a stray puppy. Scrappy little thing. I called it Mimir. Probably scavenged the name and its meaning from some old book I've forgotten. It was just... the first name that came to mind. That's all."
The silence from the System was different this time. Heavier.
[.A… profoundly sentimental choice. How… touching.] The sarcasm was so dry it could have desiccated the surrounding air.
"You're welcome," Arthur muttered, ignoring the tone. The leaden numbness was returning, the high of the power-up already fading into sheer exhaustion. "So bo—, sorry, Mimir, I suggest you begin the integration. I'm kinda feeling sleepy."
[.....]
"Hey, Mimir...."
[.....]
What's with the silent treatment? he thought. Wait, is this bot actually mad? If it was, he was fucked. There weren't any taxis this deep into the night. How the hell would he trek back to his district with his sore body?
"You know... Mimir," he placated, crafting the cheesiest smile he could muster, "I sincerely apologize..."
He was trailed off.
[System Reboot Complete...]
Huh...
[Sorry, Arthur. Since you've ascended to the Sequence: Wraith, my functions were updated to suit your new state. Hence the silence. Stats successfully integrated. Do you wish to know the perks of being a Wraith?]
Veins popped on his head. Damn this bot! So all his apologies were inherently unheard. Ecstatic, he muttered sarcastically.
[Arthur?]
Then he felt it. Instead of the searing pain from his first body refinement, a burning warmth spread under his skin, comforting and scalding at the same time. He stifled a scream with a grit of his teeth. It was followed by a vast hit of knowledge, as if all of history, the present, every country, ideology, and culture were flashing before his eyes in a high-speed replay.
After an eternity, it stopped, and so did his nervous functions. Like a hollow shell, he fell unconscious, his form dropping toward the pale grass of the cemetery.
[Projecting Spatial Bypass
Trajectory Attained.
Spatial Bypass Calculated.
Speculated Bypass: 100%.]
The world around his unconscious form twisted before birthing the familiar visage of his dim, dark room. His silhouette, drenched in blood and ichor, collided with the bed. The wooden frame offered a single, sharp crack of protest before surrendering, splintering into a shower of splinters. His form burrowed a shallow crater into the floorboards beneath the wreckage, his unconscious mind ignorant to the destruction he had caused.
[Sleep well, Arthur.]
08:45:56
---
Back in the cemetery, the moon cast long shadows over the ground, now clean of all but the memory of blood.
A figure stood where Arthur had been, veiled in layers of shifting, grey fabric that seemed to drink the light. No part of her was visible.
Her gaze swept over the scene—the utter absence of corpses, the sheer, sterilized efficiency of it.
"A new Reaper," she murmured, her voice a soft chime in the silence. "Quite contrary to what... I had expected."