Online In Another World



As the man looked up, allowing himself to bathe in the abyssal liquid, the ceiling was etched with a circular design of multiple lines carved in, slowly pouring out a thicker, more concentrated fluid. It trickled down upon the man's body as he welcomed it, with his arms held out as if ushering in an unseen embrace.

"...Yes. Come to me, Dread…"

'This is what I've sought for so long. Though, oddly enough, when I think about it…What brought me here? Every now and then, I hear it–a voice; young and innocent, calling to me. It's a girl. So familiar–so nostalgic…I wonder,' Krimjaw thought.

Within the twisted, distorted chasm that was the mind of the dutiful follower of the cult, memories were foggy and melded together; a forgery of madness. Still, Krimjaw wholeheartedly welcomed the concentrated essence of the fallen Primordial aspect as it rained down upon his skin, seeping into his pores.

It was as the Primordial fluid infiltrated his skin that memories began to unlock and unwind within the madman's mind, flowing alongside the pain that came with the transformation occurring to his body.

"Guuaaaah–!" Krimjaw howled in pain as his muscles contracted and his bones shifted within his flesh, causing his skin to blacken as his blood itself was corrupted.

'...I remember now. Fragments. It's scattered within my mind, but I remember–I remember you, Evelynne. That name…It feels as natural as breathing, yet I've forgotten it all of this time. I'm her father…but where is she? What happened to her?' He thought.

Collapsing to his knees within the accursed bath, the man groaned in anguish as his body continued transforming itself with the sound of his bones snapping into place to adjust to his new flesh echoed.

"Oh, Evelynne…! Evelynne—! Evelynne—!" Krimjaw repeated.

It felt like his humanity itself was being stripped from him; as the man looked at his own hands with teary eyes, his skin peeled away into dust that crumbled to the bath. For the first time in perhaps decades, the man thought clearly; even after devoting his mind, body, and soul to his belief–there was, for a reason he wished to know, regret in his heart.

["'Krimjaw'--a name I now remember is merely the one I was given when joining. It's all washing away. The man who I once was is forever gone now: "Mattias Thorne" is dead. I am no longer human."]

What he saw around him was a boundless stretch of luscious, green grass; a peaceful pasture that extended past the beautiful horizon.

"...Ah…"

The scent of morning dew was welcoming, with the sensation of the gentle breeze against his skin, he felt as though he reached something that did not exist–"home." A village existed, lively and full of honestly working, good people.

He knew these people, though their names were fragmented in his mind. All he could was stand there and observe–

"Daddy! Daddy! You're back!"

'That voice…Evelynne?' The fragmented man thought.

Standing there, he found himself being approached by a small girl with short, blonde hair and a smile as bright as the morning sun, rushing over to him with her arms out. Naturally, he found himself extending his hands, free of scars, welcoming the embrace that would come before–

It all was swept away in a moment.

That magnificent pasture and the village with it were turned into a lifeless region; countless corpses littered the ground, to which he stood upon a mountain of. What stood alone amidst the stretch of death was not a man, but a monster, shed of its humanity.

["That's right. I am not a man who could have such happiness. The path I've walked, the death I've left in my wake, I've forsaken any such outcome for myself. The only path left for me is the one straight for Hell."]

The clarity that came to his mind was an awakening he did not expect, only filling his mind with regret unmatched in anything else.

["I just question if I was always meant for this. Was I born a man destined for evil? Was my birth a detriment to this world? If only my own mother had placed a pillow over my head as a baby, then this world would be better off. I have left nothing behind. I have only taken. My existence is one better left never happening. If perhaps she had lived, if she survived–maybe, maybe I could have left some good in this world. But, that time has passed. All that's left to do is pray that somebody comes along that can kill the monster that stands in place of the man I was."]

–

In the shattered chamber of concoctions and experiments, Jin looked towards the billowing smoke left in the wake of his lethal attack. Left standing there was the dual hammer-wielding figure, whose armor was heavily damaged, yet the man remained standing on his feet as blood dripped from across his body.

"...Gruuueh…" Alistair slowly groaned.

The spell used by Jin was nothing short of life-ending; magecraft built of darkness infused with the concept of "Anti-matter"—a forbidden aspect of magic.

It gnawed at the armor that protected Alistair, eating away at the mystical enchantments to it and obliterating the man's flesh beneath.

Jin slowly exhaled, feeling his body continuing to degrade in status.

'Using that one is taxing. I probably drained half of my time left…but I needed to finish him quickly,' Jin thought.

"Eeeeugh…" Alistair wobbled in place, groaning out as blood continued puddling onto the floor.

Oddly enough, the heavily-armored man had yet to fall, remaining standing.

"I…can still fight!" Alistair roared through bloodied lips as his helmet peeled away from the scathing darkness.

All that was revealed beneath the helm was a disfigured face of burnt flesh and wide eyes devoid of lids.

It was that insanity that Jin was all too used to seeing; spiraling eyes that "reason" itself was an impossibility to. That undying loyalty to whatever crazed deity they worshiped was something that didn't care for the downfalls of one's own physical being.

Jin readied his daggers again as the bloodied figure stumbled about, seeming to want to continue battling.

"I, Alistair, will–!"

Though before the figure could so much as lift either of his heavy weapons that dragged across the blood-stained, metallic flooring, something erupted from the ominous hole in the wall the half-dead man guarded.

"--?!"

Reaching out from the darkly-veiled hole were black tendrils that wrapped around the wounded body of Alistair, quickly dragging the half-dead man into the nebulous room beyond.

'What is that? Was I too late–?' Jin questioned.

The sound of metal twisting and bones crunching was intertwined with the squelching of flesh; an unpleasant melody of horror that echoed from the pitch-black room. It didn't take any special abilities or experience to sense what Jin felt; like a cold, chilling wind that shook him to the marrow of his bones, a presence unlike anything else was felt.

It was something unmistakable; there was no other possibility that it could be as footsteps echoed from the hole in the wall, splashing through abyssal puddles.

'A Primordial–at least, something like it,' he thought.

Knowing this, Jin didn't hesitate as he jumped back to give himself more space, retrieving something from beneath his shirt. It was a small, sleek case made out of black material. It was held in his hands as if it were the most precious, fragile treasure in the world, treated as though a single touch could shatter it.

'If I'm dealing with something of this caliber, then I'll need this…I didn't want to rely on this, but–I guess I brought myself to this point,' Jin thought.

Slowly, he opened the small, black case, lifting its lid that felt hundredfold as heavy as it looked. More than the entire scenario itself that was undoubtedly a suicide mission, it was handling the case and whatever was inside that made the man's fingers lightly tremble.

What laid inside the black box was a single piece of paper, seemingly torn from its original source.

Jin looked at it, gulping as sweat dripped from his chin just at the mere sight of the paper that seemed ordinary at a glance.

["The "Script of Monte Faustin"--one of the "Five Legendary Artifacts of The Founders." Only two of the artifacts are in possession of the Journey Foundation, with the other three being wielded as the trump cards of entire nations. It's not for a lack of reason–each of the Five Artifacts are extraordinarily powerful, each capable of deterring any threat to a nation alone. The Script of Monte Faustin is no different; it's a journal imbued with a unique power. Anything can be obtained just by writing it on the paper–power, wealth, or even warping reality itself. However, something of "equal value" from yourself needs to be exchanged."]

Both powerful and frightening, the single, torn piece of paper was something invaluable. With only a mere few words, reality itself could be changed, or his own life could be rent into hell. It was a fickle piece of impossible power.

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