Was stitching corpses together into a three-headed giant manticore and then animating it with two dozen screaming souls merged into an undead abomination a waste of time?
Probably, but it made for a damn good mount.
A good, expendable mount he could rely on without endangering his dracozombie in hostile territory again.
Simon rode his newfound creation—which he had nicknamed Dessin in memory of his likely late brother—across the desert towards the border fortress. One of Mithras’ warlords, a certain Deathmonger, commanded it. Surely he could be persuaded to answer Simon’s questions and then let him leave without a fuss.
A few patrols of monsters and demons had already attempted to interfere with his desert ride, and he had slaughtered them all without issue. Most were too weak to offer him even a sliver of experience, but he had accumulated enough soul gems to fill a purse and collected a few rare materials from the corpses. All the bones Simon collected ended up merged into a ghoulish, skull-faced morning star he called Deathmace. The whimpering spirits fueling it would deal a hefty amount of Soul damage to anyone he struck with it. His mummy guide had been kind enough to contribute to its creation.
Let nobody go to waste, Duchar always said.
Besides, he couldn’t deny feeling a certain pleasure at massacring demons left and right. Simon didn’t enjoy pointless slaughter, but any fiend he murdered was a resource Mithras couldn’t throw at him when they inevitably came into conflict and a potential source of levels. He felt like a proper adventurer again, slaying monsters with a clear and appeased conscience.
Yes, he could have simply turned into a bird and traveled to the fortress that way without picking any fight, but where was the experience in that? The fun?
This bleak future was perhaps one of the few places and times when he could indulge without worrying about consequences. This grand hunt would help him forget his frustration at the Oracle and the current state of the world.
Simon found it almost… therapeutic.
He eventually caught sight of the fortress, of its massive, rounded stone walls and various defensive trenches backed by watchtowers. A small army of imps, scorpion-centaur monsters, and feline demons guarded the area.
Simon shrouded himself in a Nightveil, cast buffs to ensure his mount shared them through their bond, and then killed his way in.
He didn’t bother trying to sneak inside the fortress. Simon simply had his branded Dessin charge forward and tear down any fortification in the way. His Dreadful Aura was enough to kill all onlookers as soon as they saw him, and he was halfway through the defenses before someone survived long enough to sound the alarm with a warhorn. Simon raised the corpses into undead minions and had them tear out their living comrades while he stormed past the fortress’ gates.
Simon found himself staring at a walled pit in the ground.
As per the information he had gathered, Deathmonger’s fortress was a deep quarry surrounded by enormous walls. Armies of enslaved goblinoids mined the spiraling walls for material to the tune of imp whips, while forges below produced weapons for Mithras’ army. The noise of pickaxes hitting stone and the clang of hammers were somehow quieter than the shouts coming from the pit’s depths. A massive arena occupied its bottom, where demon spectators cheered on bloody spectacles from crowded stands. The unlucky victims were a blinded ogre and a scar-burned troll pummeling each other to the audience’s delight.
This reminded Simon of Cocagne’s slave pits, and not in a pleasant way.
He attempted to summon a Dungeon crystal to seize the place as his own, only for the miasma to fizzle out in his hand. He could only take an unclaimed territory as his own, and another’s dark aura already suffused every inch of this burrow. He would need to slay the local warlord before he could make this place his own.
If they want blood, I will give them their fill. Simon renewed his buffs, cancelled his Dreadful Aura to avoid killing the slaves by accident, and had Dessin fly down into the pit below. Let’s make an entrance.
War horns heralded their approach as they landed in the arena, blowing a cloud of dust across the pit and throwing back both contestants. The two goblinoids were flung against bloodied walls while the crowd roared in delight.
“I am here for Deathmonger,” Simon announced to all who would listen. “Is he brave enough to face me?”
He looked around the stands and spotted a private box overseeing the arena. A towering figure slouched there on a cushioned throne, fanned by a harem of succubi and holding a demoness that slightly resembled Cassandra in his arms.
The creature was a truly hideous sight to behold. It was humanoid in that it had two arms, two legs, and a torso, but the former two were so oversized as to drag on the ground when it rose from its seat. Its torso was painfully thin and jutted with exposed ribs holding a pulsating, black heart-like organ pumping the body with miasma. Its skin was covered in thick grey fur and shining runes etched into its pulsating muscles. Its face resembled that of a wolf, except for a set of two goatlike horns protruding from its forehead and a ghoulish maw that reached all the way to its eyes. It pushed past thirteen feet in height, and exuded an aura of palpable menace.
Its heart was like a black star to Simon’s Dark Visionary sight; not as awe-inspiring as the corrupted suns of the Zodiac, but greater than any normal demon.
An archfiend from Hell.
“You’ve got some guts showing up unannounced, but I always welcome challengers,” the beast said with a guttural growl. A squirmous tongue as long as a snake slithered from between the beast’s fangs to lick claws longer than daggers. “I always enjoy the taste of blood on the tip of my tongue.”
That voice… It had grown deeper since their last encounter, but Simon still recognized his old foe. “Borsh?”
“It has been centuries since a mortal last called me by that name. I don’t think I had even bonded with the Lord O’ Runes back then.” Borsh studied Simon warily, likely due to sensing his own overwhelming aura of malice. “Have we met?”
“Not quite, but this is a welcome surprise.” Simon had finally found someone from his era, though this carried a certain risk. He’s got to be much stronger than before.
On top of enjoying four centuries to gain more levels in his Hybrid Class and refine his gifts, the Weaver had bonded with a very powerful and dangerous demon. Borsh didn’t feel as dangerous as the likes of Lotan, but Simon couldn’t afford to underestimate him.
Either way, Borsh had answers he sought, and he would provide them.
“Quite the career change, from a self-hating shifter slaver to archfiend dog of war,” Simon commented. “Selling your soul to Verney paid off well.”
“Another name I haven’t heard in a very long time. Who are you? You are no elf, and you smell of…” The werewolf growled with hostility. “Lotan?”
The word caused disquiet in the crowd, with some shouting, ‘Destroyer! Destroyer!’ Simon guessed he knew which side of the Zodiac dispute Lotan had fallen on.
“I have no skin in your game, nor do I hold allegiance to any demon.” Simon smirked behind his helmet in anticipation. “But if you want to know me better…”
He blasted Borsh with Hellfire Gaze without warning and set his viewing box ablaze.
Borsh’s demon harem quickly took the hint and flew away to the safer stands while the possessed werewolf rose from the burning ashes of his cushioned throne. The two gladiators had run through a tunnel on the side of the arena, leaving the place clear.
“That is who I am, Fleamonger.” Simon readied his Deathmace for battle. “You will bend the knee, answer my questions, and surrender this fortress for my personal use. Only then will I spare your miserable life.”
A furious howl answered his generous offer. Borsh leaped into the arena, his fur having turned to rune-carved steel by the time he landed.
“Or don’t,” Simon replied with a faint smirk. “I was going to humble you either way.”
Borsh rushed at Simon’s mount with frightening speed and ferocity, his wire-veins flooding his iron body with baleful black smoke, lightning coursing through his claws.
Dessin pounced back, and the crowd went wild.
Simon’s mount and Borsh tussled in the arena, exchanging swipes of their claws. The demon werewolf proved stronger and faster than the manticore, lacerating its flank with lightning-slices and cutting through its ribs. He would have likely torn apart Simon’s mount already without their shared buffs raising its speed and empowering its strikes.
Borsh lunged from the side in an attempt to reach Simon himself and drag him to the ground, but Dessin retaliated by trying to impale Borsh on its stinger at lightning speed. The werewolf’s runes glowed on his metal skin and turned him to mist, making the stinger phase through Borsh’s body harmlessly.
The werewolf reappeared in midair, his fangs out and aiming for Simon’s throat, but he welcomed his attacker with a swing of his mace. He received a ‘Poison Negated’ notification from the smoke coming out of his enemy’s body and felt a jolt of lightning course through him after his weapon smashed into his fangs.
The blow tossed Borsh back to the arena’s blood-drenched soil without leaving a wound. The runes covering Borsh’s body likely reduced the damage.
So Simon stripped him of them. “Invert!”
He targeted Borsh and began to turn his runic enhancements inside out, the symbols fizzling out and causing the demon no amount of discomfort.
A lupine smirk stretched across Borsh's face, and Simon barely had time to blink before his runes fired lasers of focused magic in all directions. Dozens struck Dessin in multiple spots, cutting off one of its three heads and leaving it riddled with holes. One hit Simon himself in the shoulder, the unholy light slightly damaging his Overlord armor beneath the Nightveil.
Minor Supereffective Light damage!
A few of the beams hit the audience and killed a handful of spectators, but it only increased their bloodthirst. “Deathmonger!” they sang. “Deathmonger! Deathmonger!”
“I’m the Lord O’ Runes,” the werewolf boasted as he basked in the crowd’s acclaim, his tattoos recovering from the Invert. “You won’t strip me of my due!”
Time for a change of tactics then. “When silence offers no respite, death’s trumpets shall herald your end! Sing my praise, Culebre Chainpiper!”
His servant appeared above the arena, singing his praise with thunderous trumpets. The music drowned out the cheers of the crowd and spellbound quite a few of the audience’s members.
“A summoner?” Borsh growled in contempt. “Can’t defeat me on your own, coward?!”
“If anybody asks, I’ll lie and say I fought you fairly.” Simon activated his Crown of Pain and pointed at him. “Kill him.”
Culebre uttered a dreadful note, and dozens of winged spectators flew out of the stands. Gargoyles, winged-lions, and other creatures swarmed Borsh from all sides with murder on their Charmed minds. The werewolf felt no reservation at welcoming them with his claws and fangs. He underwent a berserk frenzy, his muscles rippling with newfound strength, and then tore his way through his attackers. Limbs and blood rained on the arena in a shower of gore.
Simon’s ‘fans’ nonetheless delayed Borsh enough for him to complete his spell. Black particles gathered at the epicenter of the brawl, swirling around the blood-drenched Borsh. The werewolf interrupted his slaughter for a second once he saw the miasma building up in front of him into a pitch-black miniature star.
“Darkflare.”
Darkness consumed all.
The star exploded into a vicious maelstrom of miasma that blasted everything in the vicinity. Hungry anti-light vaporized all corpses within reach, devoured Borsh’s flesh, and vaporized a good fifth of the arena in a cataclysmic detonation. The entire pit shook from the impact and the nearest walls collapsed onto themselves, burying spectators under falling debris.
The audience in the stands finally took its cue and fled, leaving Simon, Culebre, and his mount facing a crater. The smoke faded away to reveal a still-standing Borsh, albeit grievously wounded; the Darkflare had blasted away most of his skin and flesh on his left side, exposing his charred iron skeleton and wires beneath his skin.
Another Darkflare would put the mutt down for good.
Unfortunately, he quickly sensed a surge of mana building up inside Borsh. The werewolf’s runes glowed like the heart of the sun, and he crouched by anchoring his claws into the ground. Light built up inside his gullet.
“Retreat!” Simon ordered Culebre, but he knew it was too late for him personally. With little space to maneuver, he leaped behind Dessin and used it as an improvised shield as Borsh answered the darkness with light.
A beam of runic-focused sorcery poured out of Borsh’s gullet. Multicolored energies swirled into a single pulse of light that swiftly vaporized Dessin layer by layer, from fur to bones. Realizing the manticore was done for, Simon drained it of its remaining life and mana to heal himself, summoned his overlord scepter in his free hand and turned it into a pavise shield with Warmonger. He took cover behind it after Dessin turned to dust, and then anchored himself on the ground.
The beam struck his shield with a torrent of magic, damaging his armor and pushing him back. Borsh thankfully lacked the power of the likes of Helel, and Simon’s shield held until the power ran out; though it had turned to molten steel by then.
Borsh was on him in an instant in spite of his grievous injuries, his claws shining with runic-power. Simon pulled back and avoided a strike aimed at tearing out his throat, but another swipe lacerated his chest plate deep enough to reach the skin beneath and unwind his magic.
Dispelling Claw stripped you of Shadowshield and Nightveil!
I truly need to invest in an anti-dispelling spell, Simon cursed in his heart as his shroud of shadow dispersed. At least the Regen effect remained, likely due to its high Tier of its associated buff. This healed his wounds even as he retaliated with a mace blow that nearly tore Borsh's head off his shoulders and sent him stumbling away. Studying the runes on his pelt will be a start.
Borsh regained his footing, but his anger swiftly turned into shock and a slight dash of fear. He could see his foe for who he was now that he had stripped Simon of his Nightveil, and he recognized his armor. “You’re… the Overlord?”
“Yes,” Simon confirmed with burning eyes. “Time to bow, Borsh.”
He blasted the possessed werewolf with Hellfire Gaze and brought him to his knees. Borsh roared as unholy flames and screaming souls consumed his flesh, with Culebre joining in on the fun. The dark eidolon blasted the werewolf with wind coming out of his trumpet-like body.
Simon heard that wolves could hear hurtful sounds humans were spared from. He had no idea what kind of song Culebre played for Borsh’s displeasure, but it clearly hurt. The werewolf held his skull as if his brain threatened to spill out. His steel flesh was melting off his iron bones from Hellfire Gaze’s increasing heat.
The runes woven into Borsh’s skeleton pulsed to life, and engulfed the arena in miasma.
Simon had learned long ago at the Lighthouse that what differentiated archfiends from their lesser cousins was their ability to summon an Abyssal Domain. Borsh Deathmonger had indeed unlocked this privileged power.
The arena twisted around them into an open plain whose sandy ground was covered in symbols. The sky turned into a rounded vault of floating runes assembled into eldritch scripts swirling in impossible patterns.
Borsh-Ygnolark, Lord of Runes, has trapped you in his Abyssal Domain! All teleportation effects are negated!
The runes’ power flowed into Borsh’s body and caused him to grow in size. The monstrous werewolf began to rival dragons in might and howled in a feeble attempt at intimidation.
“Is that all?” Simon taunted him as he dismissed Culebre to save on power and called upon Hell itself. “Darkbound.”
The Abyss’ malice dwelled within his flesh, stretching his armor and the body within until they became a living tower of steel and infernal fury. Borsh’s howl of triumph turned into a whimper as a shadow loomed over him.
By the time they both stopped growing, Simon was a good head taller than his foe.
Borsh still dared to strike him. His fangs lunged at Simon with the energy of despair and struck him in an attempt to dispel his transformation, but whatever effect his Dispelling Claws carried could not undo Darkbound.
Simon’s mace fell upon him like a meteor and smote him with Underworld Hammer.
The blow smashed half of Borsh’s skull to pieces and forced him down on the ground where he belonged. The entire domain shook from the impact, its floor spewing lava that devoured the nearby runes.
Borsh had grown strong, but he was hardly a match for Simon anymore.
“Archfiend or not, you are a mere dog of Hell… and I am its lord.” Simon stored Deathmace in his Inventory, grabbed Borsh with both hands, and then lifted him above his head. “Back to the kennel with you.”
He smashed Borsh’s back onto his knee and snapped him like a twig.
The werewolf’s spine shattered with a sickening crack and one final wail of pain, after which Simon let him fall at his feet, mangled and defeated. Now that he had proved his superiority enough for his magic to work, he crouched and grabbed Borsh by the back of the head like a disobedient dog.
Don’t worry, Borsh, you are about to add a new tattoo to your collection. Simon manifested a Devil Brand in his hand. In time, you’ll wear it with pride.
Now that he had proved his superiority in battle and softened Borsh for the kill, he launched the mental battle required to brand his victim. His spirit invaded the werewolf's, blowing past his remaining mental defenses. He could feel the terror the Overlord inside him craved, his victim’s knowledge and realization that he would end up like the very goblinoids he ruled over. There was only one thing Borsh Deathmonger feared more than death, and it was becoming a slave himself.
And beyond the fear, Simon found one morsel of unyielding pride.
“Never…” Borsh howled, his Domain shaking as it echoed the wail of his soul. “Never!”
The runes covering the Domain’s sky shone so brightly they would have blinded Simon without his immunities. Magic burst out of them in a shower of multicolored sparks that built up in intensity.
Realizing what was going on, Simon immediately triggered Crown of Pain and tried to cast Borsh into the prison demiplane, but he was too late. His foe snarled one final curse.
“Rune of Farewell!”
The whole Domain collapsed in a banquet of explosions, and the battle came to a fiery end.
A/N: should be in a plane to Denver's LitRPG con by the time you see this, but I hope it arrived to you safely :)