‘I’ve met up with Mistress,’ Aclysia reported to John, who direly needed the good news. The monsters of the inner city had been roused to action by the earlier combat. Like sharks smelling blood in the water, they were now aggressively searching for food. An alleviating circumstance was that they saw each other as a source of sustenance, at least when they got close enough to each other. The bad news was that this behaviour made their patrol routes unpredictable. Adding to this that every single one of the monsters was unique in its details, even if there were common themes, and that there was no telling which one of the inert Lorylim would spring to life next, and the situation on their hands was quite dire. The levels of their enemies ranged from 30 all the way to 200.

John was fairly confident he could have massacred his way out of this if this was all his opponent had to show. However, he knew that Enki had at least one Metracana under his command, likely two. There was the Second of Light, Leryala, who Momo had met and who served Enki guaranteed. Then there was Third of Darkness, Thresta, who served a nebulous ‘master’ and who had saved Seminaris. If Enki was that master, then that not only meant that he had two Metracanas directly under his control and Seminaris in his debt, but that Sigmund, or what remained of him, was somewhere around here as well.

Then there was Jeremiah. This scenery struck John as similar to the vision he had. There was a tingling that the prophecy he had spoken during the Florida tournament would come to fruition. Before he could rely on a prophecy, however, he had to consider that Jeremiah, as the Art Eater, was still active, which put the Artificial Spirits at outsized risk.

There were things about this that didn’t line up. Neither Leryala, by Momo’s description, nor Thresta had struck John as Lorylim touched. Perhaps they didn’t know what they were part of and simply served? He was running several theories through his brain, while they sneaked their way southwards.

Ignoring the potential of stronger foes, even if John wanted to just murder his way out, it wasn’t an easy task with Mark around. As a matter of fact, nothing was an easy task with Mark around. At level 30, he was an above average soldier of Fusion, but could hope to defeat the very weakest of the surrounding Lorylim at best. Exploiting windows of opportunities was a lot harder while moving with someone who operated at ‘only’ twice top-athlete performance.

“We’re moving through that building next,” John whispered and pointed at a ruin that consisted of two concrete walls that were just barely connected anymore via the second floor’s steel mesh and a hint of concrete.

“Yes, sir,” Mark said, scratching his nose and then his arm nervously. He didn’t stop scratching.

John closed his eyes for a moment and sent a prayer to whatever god may listen. “Follow me and we’ll make it out of this, alright?” he asked.

‘John…’ the First of Wrath reached out mentally, her voice so much softer than usual. She stopped in her tracks after touching his thoughts. She must have realized that her king candidate was perfectly aware of what was happening.

“I trust you, Mister President,” the soldier stated.

John clenched his jaw and just nodded. A large Lorylim hobbled past them, its left leg too small to carry the grotesque, bloated torso. Every step was accompanied by a squelching moan and the expulsion of yet more spores that filled the air. “Now,” he pressed out, then started running. Beatrice and Metra were fast behind him. Mark followed as quickly as he could, but fell halfway. ‘God fucking dammit,’ the Gamer thought and turned around. ‘Why do I bother?!’ the cynical part inside him shouted, as he carried the man yet again.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the soldier apologized immediately, upon being put down inside the building. “It’s just… everything itches…”

“John,” the Gamer told him. “You’ve earned the right to call me John, Mark. You’re a hero.”

“Me? A hero?” The baffled response were the first words the soldier let out that weren’t underlined with panic. “I’m just a soldier… you… you aren’t even phased by all of this… you only look… sad?” A distant, high-pitched shriek interrupted their conversation. “Just what is this place?!”

John had been wondering the same. The creatures and the landscape were clearly Lorylim infested, but they didn’t behave like Lorylim. There was none of the hivemind, none of the mocking chatter, none of malevolent purpose. What surrounded them were just beasts. Powerful beasts, corrupting beasts, bloated and mutated beasts, but ultimately just beasts.

The answer was found through Aclysia’s eyes.

She and Rave stood before a pit that had been dug out in the suburbs. It was massive, a hundred metres wide and dozens deep. Mycelium covered the walls and gooey black liquid dripped into the pit. Inside it, numerous beings fought against each other, laughing like carefree children while they devoured the weakest. Some were humans, many were elementals, and a select few seemed to be a mixture of both. Every single one was infected, their physical form tainted by the corruption. The mad laughter betrayed that the state of their mind was similarly hopeless.

“Do you know the concept of a poison jar?” John asked.

“No,” Mark denied, mindlessly scratching and scratching the same spot on his arm.

“It’s a mythological way to create a powerful poison by trapping numerous venomous animals in one container, like a jar. The animals will turn on each other, devour each other, and concentrate the venoms of all other animals within themselves. The one creature that remains by the end of this, so the legend, will have the most potent venom.” John made a small gesture towards the outside. “That’s what I think this place is. The Lorylim are trying to create particularly powerful monsters to some end. From what I gather, the more powerful one of them is, the closer they move to the city centre.”

“I see.” Mark sounded clear now, almost unbothered. “Well, we should get out of here then… is everything alright, sir?”

John had to force the air out of his lungs. “You’re not going to make it, Mark,” he confessed, hanging his head.

The soldier opened his mouth to ask the obvious question, but looked down at his arm before he could say anything. Over the course of their conversation, he had torn through the cloth of his sleeve, his nails already bloody with the skin he had scratched off. Something writhed underneath the bloodied flesh, on top of the bone.

John had expected many things to flow from there. A panicked scream. Accusations at John for getting him into this mess. Sobbing and denial of reality. Perhaps an immediate fall to the corruption that was gnawing on his soul.

All colour drained from Mark’s face as the inevitability of his fate dawned on him. “…I’ll end up like the rest of them, won’t I?” he asked, his voice as thin and fragile as freshly formed ice over a still lake.

“Yes.” John took the soldier’s hand and rested his forehead on the knuckles. He could feel the Lorylim move between skin and bones. “I’m so sorry. I could barely even buy you half an hour.”

“No… that’s not all you bought me…” The soldier reached up to his tag, the standard issue for identification, and ripped it off. “…for what my family gets to inherit, Mister President,” Mark said and presented the tag to John with his bloodied hand.

The implication was clear. There were many things John wished to say. How rightfully angry the soldier could be for the orders John gave or for him not being able to save him. The Gamer knew that military strategy trampled on individuals. He would give the same orders again if he had to do it over. That something was necessary did not mean that it was fair or easy. As a matter of fact, it most of the time meant the opposite.

John took the tag. “You’re a true hero,” he repeated. Beatrice raised her spear, but John stopped her. ‘This is my burden,’ he told her and raised his palm. A flash of arcane light later, the individual known as Mark ceased to be, leaving nothing but a body.

A body that shuddered with newfound life and leapt at John, Lorylim matter bursting out of the scattered remains of the skull. A spear slammed it back against the wall and a halberd cleaved apart the corpse of the man whose dignified end was now so sharply contrasted by his body.

Grinding his teeth, John rose to his feet and put the tag into the safety of his inventory. Distantly, he heard laughter. Nihilistic, awful laughter that he had come to be so familiar with. He knew he was being baited and, as hot as the rage boiled inside him, his Wisdom did not allow him to investigate personally. “We’re going south,” he spoke coldly and turned away from the corpse after one more apologetic glance.

While three of them continued at a speed appropriate for them, the Mandala Sphere chased the origin of the cackles. The Extension found it in a maw of jagged teeth that sat on the end of a stalk that had grown from one of the ever-present veins. No sooner was the Extension nearby than the maw closed and opened into an eye. The laughter resumed elsewhere.

The Mandala Sphere followed, one source of laughter after the other, until finally John’s mental eye fell on a familiar scene.

He was inside a barren concrete room. The floor, the walls, and even part of the ceiling were covered in a network of black mycelium. Where it branched out the most, the lines were incredibly thin and fine. The further the veins were traced back, the thicker they became, until reaching their origin point in a heap of human flesh.

The skin had been left behind, leaving exposed muscle and bones, a slick film of blood covering every fibre and feature. A lipless maw snapped for air between fits of laughter. Dry, lidless eyes seemed lifeless and hateful equally. The legs of the ‘man’ were fused together into a pulsing mess that reminded of a snail crawling along. Much of the bones were already gone, eaten away by maws that sprouted on the skin, and replaced by gills, teeth and black, oozing abominable growths. Writhing maggots constructed more of an appearance, but dropped dead, unable to fulfil their task.

The Observe sheet said one thing, but John knew who really was laughing with those lips. Morphing into Jack, the Mandala Sphere allowed the Gamer to vent the embers of his rage. “I’m going to kill you,” he said. “Every single one of you.”

“Ehehehe,” Izha giggled. “What a threat, after I so graciously allowed you to pretend to be the benevolent ruler who cares.”

The Gamer grinded his teeth. He hated everything about this. Of course, it couldn’t have been so convenient that the corruption waited until John came to terms with the fact that he couldn’t even save that one soldier. “Why?”

“Why did I allow you the goodbye?”

“No,” Jack stared down at the maggot of a man, “you just want to hurt me. You know you can hurt me more if you dangle my failure in front of me. That’s all you care for. I want to know why you exist. What could have made something as miserable as you?”

“Could you forgive me for what I did if I told you?” Izha asked, tiredness and hope in his voice.

“You’re beyond forgiveness,” John spat out. “I just want to understand what not to be.”

Jeremiah’s body rose up in mindless laughter. Laughter so loud it bounced off the concrete walls. “I came to be, because nothing matters!” Izha said, even as the gills kept laughing. “I told you already when you encountered my Honesty. I’m the final symptom of the sickness, the incurable malaise of being, shaped by HER grace. Let it end, let it all end, back to entropy with all of us! You’ll understand, I will make you understand, that there is nothing to existence but the pain of continuing on when nothing lasts. When Enki breaks your body, I will be left to claim your mi-”

The tirade ended when Jack’s foot crushed the jaw of the monstrosity. The laughter continued and the Gamer let it. He couldn’t stop Izha’s amusement. Absolutely anything John did would prove the corrupted mind right. ‘I’ll learn the two faces of the hated foe,’ John repeated to himself the prophecy he had spoken, ‘the corrupted…’ He looked up from the squashed body to the other part of his vision.

Motionless and, in a way, more disturbing to behold, was the shell Izha had crawled out of. A hull of many metals that were used to forge the most powerful weapons in history. Foremost of all was Astrotium. As little as there was of it, the Art Eater had still stolen it from Metra.

The shell was barely even humanoid and far from human. Its proportions were completely off. The torso was too long and numerous wing-like appendages curved out of the back, shaped like wilted flower petals in their lifeless failure. The right arm was elongated, needle-like claws touching the concrete floor. The head was twisted into a snout that split into a maw with four segments. Like saliva, black ooze dripped from the gap. The fluid puddled at the lizard-like feet of the monument to disgust and spread outwards, sustaining the mycelium endlessly in the absence of Izha’s consciousness.