Nico's brows lined with sweat as he lunged forwards, tunic fluttering wildly around him, glaive blurring through the air with a single twist of his torso. In response, a wide arc appeared in the air, and Shaman allowed its loose form to disperse into a cloud of ethereal mist on impact.
The tired Sleeper sighed, his chest deflating heavily.
'Tag is harder than I'd imagined…'
He plopped to the ground and dismissed his Memory. A pleasant fatigue washed over his taxed mind as the open breeze caressed his skin, and now that his light training session was over, an inevitable thought entered his mind.
Today was the deadline he'd set. Today was the day he'd have to continue on.
Over a month had passed since the desperate clash against the nightmare horde. His leg had made a miraculous recovery by the end of the first week thanks to his divine constitution and manual essence circulation. It was quite the shock. Most Awakened didn't even sport such a great healing factor, and while he knew the benefits of claiming a god's lineage were many, something as obvious as enhanced healing had slipped his mind.
Not only that, but an epiphany dawned on him that Shaman could spread a portion of itself — its mist — out from the host while still keeping possession. There was enough that he could form a loose silhouette and polearm, so he had absorbed as much of its primordial hunting style as the Specter was capable of showcasing outside of combat.
'It's still quite curious to know that Shaman's… volume? Mass? Regardless, it grows in tandem with the number of fragments in its soul.'
Due to that, he had inspected most everything he owned much more. From Memories to descriptions, history to Shaman, and anything and everything else that was able to take up enough time to keep busy.
Yet, above it all, the greatest mysteries remained the one with his spirit. The elusive, immaterial thing that was paradoxically a tangible part of his being. Meditation was dedicated most days to attempt discovering its location, but there was little progress besides the fine tuning of his already powerful sixth sense.
Still, there simply wasn't much to do out here. Most of the local population had been steadily culled, and Nico wasn't going to risk going far enough to find any more creatures.
Shaman mainly patrolled the cliffs and slaughtered wandering abominations while waiting for a Spire Messenger to appear.
Admittedly, one never would. At least not within the timeframe Nico was willing to accept.
And while he had been reluctant to tempt the skies above for sudden storms, he couldn't live in constant wariness of them, either. He was on a strict timeline: nine months to form the Demon Core — all problems solved along the way. Staying here and allowing Shaman to continue absorbing soul shards he would need for himself was no longer acceptable.
Slicking back his bangs, Nico summoned the Specter's runes.
Specter: [Barrow Wraith Shaman].
Specter Rank: Awakened.
Specter Class: Devil.
Specter Attributes: [Wraith], [Hunter], [Specter], [Flame of Divinity].
Specter Abilities: [Enthrallment], [Possession].
Soul Fragments: [211/1000].
'Well, I suppose that's fair enough. There were around sixty fragments before the nightmare horde, and eighty or so each across the following months of hunting and letting it absorb the harvested shards.'
His gaze turned to his own runes.
Name: Nico.
True Name: Eternal Dawn.
Rank: Dreamer.
Class: Monster.
Soul Cores: [2/7].
Soul Fragments: [879/2000].
Ice froze his veins.
'I have quite the work to do. I'll take my time and eradicate a good majority of the monsters in the areas along the way.'
And that's what he did.
Setting off atop an Awakened Monster — a massive insectoid with prickly hairs on its carapace, a dozen sets of translucent wings, and six sharp legs — he made his way further north.
He spent time killing, training, meditating, and killing, over and over and over again.
Every monster the Dream Realm threw at him, regardless of class or species, was slaughtered.
Rivers of black blood marked his path.
Aching muscles and a fatigued mind never stopped him, and neither did a fractured spirit. The only thing he had to do was absorb fragments, kill, train, and meditate. No matter if the pain was creeping into his waking life after resting. No matter at all.
Just kill until nothing was left.
Train until muscles refused to move.
Meditate until sleep begged for his acceptance.
Over, and over, and over…
…and like that, four months passed.
He had long since crested halfway across the harsh landscape. A mind and body sharper than ever were born through that stride. Torrents of fragments reformed his Dormant Soul Core, each bringing him closer to evolution — towards demonhood and an additional augmentation.
The [Wrathful Crescent] was as much his weapon as the [Mourning Star] had been. No, it was more familiar. Nothing he had ever fought in the Dark City compared to harsh, constant battles that ensued when prowling the labyrinth.
Between the fights he continued south-east and was now nearing its edge. Each ride atop his Specter brought him several dozen kilometers closer to his destination. The complete opposite side of the vast blood-soaked isles awaited discovery.
Would he perhaps find another statue like the priestess? Maybe even a powerful monster or forgotten landmark? Or nothing at all?
One day, while meditating atop Shaman's harrowing possession, a gentle, unnatural jolt of its wings let him know that something required his attention.
'What is it now?'
He gazed off into the distance cautiously. Out there, looming over a landscape even the bloody walls of coral avoided, was an obsidian tree, its crimson leaves so numerous and thick light barely crawled through its intricate network to grace the ground at noon.
'A tree?'
Giant plates of bark ran across its surface like slabs of ancient stone on a colossal black tower. Its trunk, wide as a mountain, sat atop a barrow of ash. Dozens of kilometers of the surrounding labyrinth were dead, with roots as large as train cars snaked deep underground and hidden from view, occasionally popping up as small mounds shrouded in layers of gray soot.
For a moment, the currents of wind tossed the branches and leaves into a mesmerizing dance of beauty, their eerie song somehow finding him despite the distance. The tree he was seeing… it was comfortable, warm, and safe. Its fruits were delicious and fulfilling. Unlike the treacherous, lethal world of the Dream Realm, the Soul Devouring Tree was an Eden all its own. Who wouldn't want to protect its sanctuary for the rest of their days?
Who wouldn't want to live, die, and serve?
Who wouldn't want to allow time to become an object and desire a fallen star?