You release your grip on the sword's hilt, letting your hand fall to your side in a gesture of peace. The weapon thrums against your hip, its amber stone pulsing with what feels almost like disapproval, but you ignore it. Instead of drawing steel, you step forward and lower yourself to sit across the fire from the cloaked figure.
The flames between you dance with unnatural vigor, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across the clearing. Though the fire appears ordinary, it consumes no wood. The branches beneath it remain uncharred, as if the flames feed on something other than matter. Its warmth reaches you, but it's a hollow sensation, like the memory of comfort rather than comfort itself.
For long moments, silence reigns. The forest around you grows quieter, as if holding its breath to witness this meeting of two beings that should not exist. Even the strange hair-like filaments on the surrounding trees cease their constant motion, hanging perfectly still in the windless night.
?I told you to go away,? the other Soulseeker says finally, his voice turning to a low grumble that resonates in the clearing like distant thunder. ?There is nothing for you here. You are better off not remembering.?
You remain silent, watching the cloaked figure through the wavering heat of the fire. The hood remains drawn forward, concealing whatever lies beneath, but occasional gleams of reflected firelight suggest eyes watching you with equal intensity.
Your continued presence and silence appear to agitate the figure. The cloak shifts more frequently now, not just with the suggestion of shivering but with restless, almost angry movement.
?No? Fine.? A sigh escapes from beneath the hood, carrying the scent of decay and something metallic, like old blood. ?I will do you the favor.?
The movement is so swift you almost miss it. One moment the figure sits hunched by the fire, the next his arm extends to his side, reaching for something lying just beyond the firelight's reach. What emerges in his grip sends a shock of recognition through your hollow form: A sword of impossible dimensions, its length easily matching your entire height. The blade is broad and notched, bearing the marks of countless battles. Unlike your own weapon with its amber stone, this blade is simple in design without ornaments. A weapon made for destruction, and nothing else.
The Other rises in a single fluid motion that belies his previous hunched posture. As he stands to his full height, the oversized cloak falls away, revealing the true nature of what you face.
The other Soulseeker towers above you, standing nearly twice your height. His hollow form is broader, more substantial than yours, as though the corrupted souls he's consumed have granted him physical mass. What little can be seen of his flesh beneath tattered remnants of armor appears desiccated like your own, but mottled with patches of oily blackness that shift and swirl beneath the surface.
Most shocking is his left arm. What should be his left arm. From the elbow down extends not a hand or even a recognizable limb, but a massive claw that seems to belong to some great predatory monster. Each talon is as long as your forearm, curved and serrated along one edge, their surface the same shifting black as the patches on his skin. The claw flexes as you watch, talons spreading wide before clicking back together with a sound like blades being sharpened.
?You should have listened,? he says, voice clearer now that he stands at his full height, no longer muffled by the hood that has fallen back. His face remains mostly in shadow, but you catch glimpses of a hollow visage not unlike your own, save for the eyes. Black voids that swallow the light from the campfire.
The enormous sword comes up in a two-handed grip, the claw somehow functioning in perfect concert with his intact right hand. ?She sent you, didn't she? The one who calls herself Moira.? He spits the name like a curse. ?Always sending others to do what she cannot. Always watching.?
Without further warning, he attacks. The massive sword descends in an overhead arc that would cleave you in two if it connected. You roll aside at the last possible moment, feeling the displacement of air as the blade buries itself in the ground where you had been sitting. The impact sends tremors through the clearing, causing the strange fire to flare higher with a roar.
Your own sword is in your hand now, drawn in a motion too smooth to be conscious. The amber stone in its pommel blazes with golden light, pushing back the shadows that seem to gather around your opponent. He wrenches his blade free from the earth with a snarl, leaving a gash in the forest floor that seeps the same cloudy fluid you've seen from the mushroom entities.
?Tainted,? he says. ?I shall cleanse you.?
He circles right, forcing you to move around the fire. His footsteps leave momentary impressions of darkness on the ground, as if his very presence corrupts the earth beneath him. The enormous sword should slow him, yet he wields it with terrible ease, keeping its point trained on you as he moves.
?We share fates,? he continues, voice almost conversational despite the tension crackling between you. ?Empty. Purposeless.?
He lunges suddenly, the massive blade sweeping horizontally at waist height. You leap backwards, feeling the sword's passage displace the air inches from your hollow form. Before you can regain your balance, he follows with a backhanded return stroke. This time you're forced to parry, your own blade catching his at an angle that deflects most of the force.
Even so, the impact sends shockwaves up your arm. The strength behind his blow is immense, fueled by whatever corrupted essence he's accumulated. Your feet slide backwards through the soil of the clearing, leaving twin furrows as you struggle to maintain your stance.
?You move well,? he acknowledges, pressing his advantage with a series of lightning-fast strikes that force you into a desperate defense. ?The fragment you carry—a warrior's soul? A dancer's? No matter. It won't be enough.?
The monstrous claw that serves as his left hand suddenly detaches from the sword's hilt, lashing out in a separate attack while the blade continues its assault. The unexpected tactic catches you off-guard. Though you evade the sword, one talon scores a line across your shoulder, tearing through desiccated flesh with ease.
No blood flows from the wound—hollow beings have none to shed—but something else emerges: a faint gray mist, the tainted soul fragment briefly destabilized by the corruption in his touch. You stagger back, momentarily disoriented as the fragment struggles to remain integrated with your hollow form.
?Pitiful,? he hisses, black eyes furrowing at the sight of the exposed fragment.
He presses forward with renewed vigor, each strike of his massive blade leaving trails of darkness in the air that linger momentarily before fading.
The clearing becomes a deadly arena, the strange fire at its center flaring with each clash of your blades. The surrounding trees bend inward, their hair-like filaments reaching toward the combat as if drawn by the energy being exchanged. The forest itself seems to be feeding on your struggle, growing more vibrant and present with each passing moment.
You find yourself driven back to the edge of the clearing, your hollow form pressed against the twisted trunk of a particularly massive tree. The other Soulseeker towers before you, his enormous blade raised for what appears to be a finishing blow.
?Your journey ends here,? he declares, the black mist from his eyes now flowing freely, creating a nimbus of darkness around his head. ?Another failed experiment of that woman.?
As the blade descends, something shifts within you. The tainted soul fragment in your chest pulses once, strongly, and with it comes not a memory but an instinct, a flash of muscle memory so powerful it momentarily takes control of your hollow form.
Instead of attempting to parry the crushing blow, you drop and roll forward, passing beneath the arc of his swing and inside his guard. The massive sword embeds itself in the tree behind where you stood, momentarily trapped in the ancient wood. Your smaller, lighter blade finds an opening, slipping between the plates of his tattered armor to pierce what would be the heart in a living being.
The amber stone in your sword's pommel flares with brilliant golden light as the blade sinks deep. The other Soulseeker freezes, eyes widening in what might be shock or recognition. His claw spasms once, talons closing on empty air, before his hollow form shudders from head to toe.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
?Impossible,? he whispers, voice suddenly diminished. ?You're nothing... maybe... no... You should have gone.?
You withdraw your blade with a single smooth motion. Rather than cloudy fluid or ichor, what emerges from the wound is pure darkness—a stream of black mist that carries within it flashes of imagery too quick to comprehend. Faces contorted in agony. Landscapes burning. Acts of violence and despair played out in fragmentary glimpses.
The corrupted souls he's consumed in all his Soulless existence are escaping through the wound your blade has opened, their essence destabilized by whatever power resides in your sword. The stream of darkness thickens, pouring from the hole in his chest in increasing volume, pooling on the ground at his feet where it writhes like something alive and in terrible pain.
His enormous sword falls from nerveless fingers, embedding itself point-first in the forest floor. The monstrous claw that served as his left hand begins to shrink and wither, the talons retracting into fingers that appear almost human before desiccating into hollow bones.
?Take it,? he whispers, his voice fading as the darkness continues to pour from him. ?You'll need them.?
His hollow form collapses to its knees before you, diminishing in size as the corrupted souls continue to escape. What began as a towering figure now kneels at barely your own height, the intimidating bulk reduced to something frail and empty.
His voice fails as the last of the darkness streams from the wound. What remains is a hollow husk not unlike the mindless ones you've encountered since awakening on the beach. It topples sideways by the fire, as empty and purposeless as discarded clothing.
The darkness that has pooled on the forest floor begins to move with purpose of its own, flowing together into a roiling mass of corrupted soul essence. Within it, you catch countless fragmentary glimpses: Memories, identities, experiences, all tainted by the black corruption that binds them together. The mass pulses, expands, contracts, like something breathing or perhaps struggling to maintain cohesion.
Your sword, still in hand, responds to the corrupted essence. The amber stone dims and brightens in an irregular rhythm, as if uncertain. The blade itself seems to tremble slightly in your grip, either drawing you toward the pool of darkness or warning you away—it's impossible to tell which.
The fire at the clearing's center burns lower now, its unnatural vigor fading with the death of the other Soulseeker. In its diminished light, the corrupted soul essence appears even darker, a hole in reality that promises power but threatens to consume whatever touches it.
You stand at another crossroads. The corrupted souls lie before you, temporarily destabilized but already beginning to regain cohesion. You could absorb them as the other Soulseeker did, taking their power for your own. Such strength might be necessary for whatever lies ahead, whatever purpose fate has in store for you. Or you could leave them, refusing to taint yourself with their corruption, maintaining whatever fragile integrity your hollow form possesses with its single, tainted fragment.
The choice is yours alone, with no Moira present to guide or manipulate your decision. What manner of Soulseeker will you become?
- Absorb the corrupted souls, gaining their power despite the risk to your identity
- Leave the corrupted souls behind, maintaining the purity of your single soul fragment
# Chapter 6: The Other
You release your grip on the sword's hilt, letting your hand fall to your side in a gesture of peace. The weapon thrums against your hip, its amber stone pulsing with what feels almost like disapproval, but you ignore it. Instead of drawing steel, you step forward and lower yourself to sit across the fire from the cloaked figure.
The flames between you dance with unnatural vigor, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across the clearing. Though the fire appears ordinary, it consumes no wood. The branches beneath it remain uncharred, as if the flames feed on something other than matter. Its warmth reaches you, but it's a hollow sensation, like the memory of comfort rather than comfort itself.
For long moments, silence reigns. The forest around you grows quieter, as if holding its breath to witness this meeting of two beings that should not exist. Even the strange hair-like filaments on the surrounding trees cease their constant motion, hanging perfectly still in the windless night.
?I told you to go away,? the other Soulseeker says finally, his voice turning to a low grumble that resonates in the clearing like distant thunder. ?There is nothing for you here. You are better off not remembering.?
You remain silent, watching the cloaked figure through the wavering heat of the fire. The hood remains drawn forward, concealing whatever lies beneath, but occasional gleams of reflected firelight suggest eyes watching you with equal intensity.
Your continued presence and silence appear to agitate the figure. The cloak shifts more frequently now, not just with the suggestion of shivering but with restless, almost angry movement.
?No? Fine.? A sigh escapes from beneath the hood, carrying the scent of decay and something metallic, like old blood. ?I will do you the favor.?
The movement is so swift you almost miss it. One moment the figure sits hunched by the fire, the next his arm extends to his side, reaching for something lying just beyond the firelight's reach. What emerges in his grip sends a shock of recognition through your hollow form: A sword of impossible dimensions, its length easily matching your entire height. The blade is broad and notched, bearing the marks of countless battles. Unlike your own weapon with its amber stone, this blade is simple in design without ornaments. A weapon made for destruction, and nothing else.
The Other rises in a single fluid motion that belies his previous hunched posture. As he stands to his full height, the oversized cloak falls away, revealing the true nature of what you face.
The other Soulseeker towers above you, standing nearly twice your height. His hollow form is broader, more substantial than yours, as though the corrupted souls he's consumed have granted him physical mass. What little can be seen of his flesh beneath tattered remnants of armor appears desiccated like your own, but mottled with patches of oily blackness that shift and swirl beneath the surface.
Most shocking is his left arm. What should be his left arm. From the elbow down extends not a hand or even a recognizable limb, but a massive claw that seems to belong to some great predatory monster. Each talon is as long as your forearm, curved and serrated along one edge, their surface the same shifting black as the patches on his skin. The claw flexes as you watch, talons spreading wide before clicking back together with a sound like blades being sharpened.
?You should have listened,? he says, voice clearer now that he stands at his full height, no longer muffled by the hood that has fallen back. His face remains mostly in shadow, but you catch glimpses of a hollow visage not unlike your own, save for the eyes. Black voids that swallow the light from the campfire.
The enormous sword comes up in a two-handed grip, the claw somehow functioning in perfect concert with his intact right hand. ?She sent you, didn't she? The one who calls herself Moira.? He spits the name like a curse. ?Always sending others to do what she cannot. Always watching.?
Without further warning, he attacks. The massive sword descends in an overhead arc that would cleave you in two if it connected. You roll aside at the last possible moment, feeling the displacement of air as the blade buries itself in the ground where you had been sitting. The impact sends tremors through the clearing, causing the strange fire to flare higher with a roar.
Your own sword is in your hand now, drawn in a motion too smooth to be conscious. The amber stone in its pommel blazes with golden light, pushing back the shadows that seem to gather around your opponent. He wrenches his blade free from the earth with a snarl, leaving a gash in the forest floor that seeps the same cloudy fluid you've seen from the mushroom entities.
?Tainted,? he says. ?I shall cleanse you.?
He circles right, forcing you to move around the fire. His footsteps leave momentary impressions of darkness on the ground, as if his very presence corrupts the earth beneath him. The enormous sword should slow him, yet he wields it with terrible ease, keeping its point trained on you as he moves.
?We share fates,? he continues, voice almost conversational despite the tension crackling between you. ?Empty. Purposeless.?
He lunges suddenly, the massive blade sweeping horizontally at waist height. You leap backwards, feeling the sword's passage displace the air inches from your hollow form. Before you can regain your balance, he follows with a backhanded return stroke. This time you're forced to parry, your own blade catching his at an angle that deflects most of the force.
Even so, the impact sends shockwaves up your arm. The strength behind his blow is immense, fueled by whatever corrupted essence he's accumulated. Your feet slide backwards through the soil of the clearing, leaving twin furrows as you struggle to maintain your stance.
?You move well,? he acknowledges, pressing his advantage with a series of lightning-fast strikes that force you into a desperate defense. ?The fragment you carry—a warrior's soul? A dancer's? No matter. It won't be enough.?
The monstrous claw that serves as his left hand suddenly detaches from the sword's hilt, lashing out in a separate attack while the blade continues its assault. The unexpected tactic catches you off-guard. Though you evade the sword, one talon scores a line across your shoulder, tearing through desiccated flesh with ease.
No blood flows from the wound—hollow beings have none to shed—but something else emerges: a faint gray mist, the tainted soul fragment briefly destabilized by the corruption in his touch. You stagger back, momentarily disoriented as the fragment struggles to remain integrated with your hollow form.
?Pitiful,? he hisses, black eyes furrowing at the sight of the exposed fragment.
He presses forward with renewed vigor, each strike of his massive blade leaving trails of darkness in the air that linger momentarily before fading.
The clearing becomes a deadly arena, the strange fire at its center flaring with each clash of your blades. The surrounding trees bend inward, their hair-like filaments reaching toward the combat as if drawn by the energy being exchanged. The forest itself seems to be feeding on your struggle, growing more vibrant and present with each passing moment.
You find yourself driven back to the edge of the clearing, your hollow form pressed against the twisted trunk of a particularly massive tree. The other Soulseeker towers before you, his enormous blade raised for what appears to be a finishing blow.
?Your journey ends here,? he declares, the black mist from his eyes now flowing freely, creating a nimbus of darkness around his head. ?Another failed experiment of that woman.?
As the blade descends, something shifts within you. The tainted soul fragment in your chest pulses once, strongly, and with it comes not a memory but an instinct, a flash of muscle memory so powerful it momentarily takes control of your hollow form.
Instead of attempting to parry the crushing blow, you drop and roll forward, passing beneath the arc of his swing and inside his guard. The massive sword embeds itself in the tree behind where you stood, momentarily trapped in the ancient wood. Your smaller, lighter blade finds an opening, slipping between the plates of his tattered armor to pierce what would be the heart in a living being.
The amber stone in your sword's pommel flares with brilliant golden light as the blade sinks deep. The other Soulseeker freezes, eyes widening in what might be shock or recognition. His claw spasms once, talons closing on empty air, before his hollow form shudders from head to toe.
?Impossible,? he whispers, voice suddenly diminished. ?You're nothing... maybe... no... You should have gone.?
You withdraw your blade with a single smooth motion. Rather than cloudy fluid or ichor, what emerges from the wound is pure darkness—a stream of black mist that carries within it flashes of imagery too quick to comprehend. Faces contorted in agony. Landscapes burning. Acts of violence and despair played out in fragmentary glimpses.
The corrupted souls he's consumed in all his Soulless existence are escaping through the wound your blade has opened, their essence destabilized by whatever power resides in your sword. The stream of darkness thickens, pouring from the hole in his chest in increasing volume, pooling on the ground at his feet where it writhes like something alive and in terrible pain.
His enormous sword falls from nerveless fingers, embedding itself point-first in the forest floor. The monstrous claw that served as his left hand begins to shrink and wither, the talons retracting into fingers that appear almost human before desiccating into hollow bones.
?Take it,? he whispers, his voice fading as the darkness continues to pour from him. ?You'll need them.?
His hollow form collapses to its knees before you, diminishing in size as the corrupted souls continue to escape. What began as a towering figure now kneels at barely your own height, the intimidating bulk reduced to something frail and empty.
His voice fails as the last of the darkness streams from the wound. What remains is a hollow husk not unlike the mindless ones you've encountered since awakening on the beach. It topples sideways by the fire, as empty and purposeless as discarded clothing.
The darkness that has pooled on the forest floor begins to move with purpose of its own, flowing together into a roiling mass of corrupted soul essence. Within it, you catch countless fragmentary glimpses: Memories, identities, experiences, all tainted by the black corruption that binds them together. The mass pulses, expands, contracts, like something breathing or perhaps struggling to maintain cohesion.
Your sword, still in hand, responds to the corrupted essence. The amber stone dims and brightens in an irregular rhythm, as if uncertain. The blade itself seems to tremble slightly in your grip, either drawing you toward the pool of darkness or warning you away—it's impossible to tell which.
The fire at the clearing's center burns lower now, its unnatural vigor fading with the death of the other Soulseeker. In its diminished light, the corrupted soul essence appears even darker, a hole in reality that promises power but threatens to consume whatever touches it.
You stand at another crossroads. The corrupted souls lie before you, temporarily destabilized but already beginning to regain cohesion. You could absorb them as the other Soulseeker did, taking their power for your own. Such strength might be necessary for whatever lies ahead, whatever purpose fate has in store for you. Or you could leave them, refusing to taint yourself with their corruption, maintaining whatever fragile integrity your hollow form possesses with its single, tainted fragment.
What do you do with the corrupted souls?