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Father of Monstrosity (Web Novel) - Chapter 21
Chapter 21
This chapter is updated by NovelFree.ml
“Marvellous!”Ringed around Jakob and Heskel’s mightiest creation, the Shining Hoard and their Lord were enraptured and merry, wanton desire to possess so extraordinary a vessel purely visible on all the faces that beheld it. Even the Lightning Construct, Stelji, who seemed incapable of fear, was sufficiently cowed before the slumbering corpus.
Sig the Golden, or ‘Blood-Witch’ as her Lord had taken to calling her, stood some distance away from the celebrants. The phantom sensation in her missing hand was awakening again in this moment. She had started to notice a pattern with how it always seemed to pre-empt some soon-to-be danger, especially considering how it twice already had saved her when fighting the monsters of the Underking who sought to break into Lord Mammon’s demesne.
She would stay vigilant for anything that might do her harm, even within the Demon’s private sanctuary.
The Flayed Lady yet favours me. Her strings to me have not been severed, only frayed. Her quiet flame burns in me. I feel its intensity.
My time will come.
I am Her blade.
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Wearing their work-robes crafted from the pelts of Mammon’s demonkind who converged on him and broke the barrier between realities wherever he travelled, the pair stood before their creation, pride swelling within their hearts. Loke dwelled behind them, eager to serve its master the moment it was needed.
“Marvellous indeed!” the Demon Lord praised them again, while circling the dormant vessel.
Jakob was unsure how long they had spent constructing the enormous body, though it felt like many months, maybe even years. It was quite possible that only a matter of days had passed outside the peculiar dimension that existed within Mammon’s mansion, though he could not know until he left its embrace.
A smattering of bristly pubescent hairs adorned his upper lip and chin, and made his scent-mask itch and chafe, though he had been so consumed by his task that he had not considered his personal hygiene or well-being.
As he looked around, he considered how it had been wise to guard himself from the influence of the Demon Lord by having Heskel anoint their attire with Chthonic sigils that kept them void of corruption, though he wished he had had the knowledge to do it himself and considered his lack of familiarity with the ancient alphabet his biggest handicap. Hopefully it would be remedied when he had the opportunity to finally study the Tungsten Scroll.
Sig, Stelji, and Loke had all inhabited the Demon Lord’s demesne unprotected for a longer duration than Jakob’s own long stay and the infectious aura that Mammon exuded, like a human exudes the scent of their natural oils, had taken its toll on them, both physiologically and mentally.
The Blood-Witch had become enamoured with trinkets and baubles, and these were hoarded jealously in her private nook of the ever-expanding mansion interior. Further, her blood had turned into an abnormal rose-gold colour, as evident every time she manipulated it to utilise her golden prosthetic.
Meanwhile, the Lightning-Tamer seemed obsessed with her mirror-image and froze whenever she caught a glimpse of herself reflected in the shiny hoard. Likewise, her exterior had undergone a metamorphosis, with silver covering three-fourths of her previously-pristine bone carapace. Jakob was willing to bet that the magic he had enabled her to wield was also immutably changed in some manner.
Loke was a unique case, as he possessed the brain of a canid and the Vice of Greed was already exhibited in his behaviour prior to any involvement with the Demon Lord, but he had still manifested a strange desire to ‘mark’ his territory by way of covering everything in the now-golden thread that was spun from his body. Jakob had tested the new web his construct now spun, and found that it was of a completely different substance than what it had originally been, meaning the change was more than just cosmetic. Similar to the change Stelji had undergone, Loke’s carapace was almost-entirely golden from mandibles to spinneret.
“You have truly outdone yourself,” Mammon praised as he came back into view from another indulgent stroll around his soon-to-be vessel.
“I pray this is sufficient for my end of the deal.”
“More than! Far more than!”
The Demon Lord stopped before them and snapped his clawed fingers. From the coin-strewn ground beside him crawled an enormous orange slug with no discernible features other than a black slit where its mouth was. An oval core shone through its translucent flesh from within what was ostensibly its ‘head’, just above the black slit mouth.
Mammon placed a hand on his Hoardbeast and it immediately regurgitated the Tungsten Scroll that Jakob had entrusted to his safety. As soon as the Scroll landed on the ground, Heskel moved to gather it up and ensure its integrity. He briefly unfurled it to make certain its drawings and instructions were untouched, then sent his Ward a single affirmative nod.
“I am glad we could amiably conclude our bargain,” Jakob announced.
“Indeed. My past interactions with your kind have left scars of distrust, so it pleases me greatly that you could deliver what you promised.”
Jakob stared blankly at the Demon Lord.
“The Blood-Witch will show you the way to the outside. But, first, witness my apotheosis!”
Like rain travelling against the pull of gravity, golden lights flew from the horned-and-demonic body that once had been known as a thief named Veks, whose soul was now forever trapped in a mirror-polished sword that lay buried beneath mountains of hoarded wealth. As the last streak of golden essence left its old vessel, the body simply collapsed to the ground, scattering coins with its dead weight.
Jakob allowed himself an indulgent grin as the slumbering beast opened its eyes to reveal glowing-orange irises. A pulse of energy radiated out from the Dragon, as the soul of the greatest Demon that ever graced Helmsgarten took hold and unfurled its aura with renewed vigour, proving that while Veks’ body had been fitting, it was not as excellently-matched to its inhabiting spirit as the slender salamander-like Dragon that Heskel and Jakob had constructed.
“IT IS PERFECT!” Mammon roared, using his enormous thousand-fanged maw and potent vocal cords to give voice to his delight. He moved his six clawed limbs with an effortless ease and swished his tail jubilantly. It might have been an amusing sight, if not for the fact that his body measured thirteen metres in length and four in height. As it were, Mammon’s excited state in so colossal a body seemed only to alarm the onlookers, who moments before had been cheering him on.
As Jakob had expected, the body immediately began a metamorphosis into something akin to how Veks’ body had originally become transfigured, with its stitched-together bruise-hued skin rippling as it turned jade-green and scaled on the top-half and head, while the bottom-half and tail began sprouting reddish-brown fur like that of a blood-spattered bear.
However…
There was one markedly-important difference between the former vessel and the new dragon-shaped one, a vital ‘flaw’ that undermined its strength completely, and it had intentionally been added by Heskel at Jakob’s behest: a Necroscript Soul-Lock.
“WHAT IS THIS!? WHERE ARE MY POWERS!? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?” The enormous Dragon of Greed spasmed in impotent rage as it attempted to crush its creators underfoot, but it was physically and mentally unable to harm them. It was unsurprising that the Demon Lord would immediately notice the effects of the Soul-Lock, given that it restricted his innate magical powers, which his private demesne further empowered, such as his ability to observe all that occurred within his personal mansion realm, as well as the ability to translocate his physical body between locations, and every other unique power he would normally possess. Only his aura was unhindered, though Heskel and Jakob were both unaffected by its corroding touch thanks to their precautions.
“Heskel, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Jakob could tell the Wight had a grin on his face when he uttered those fateful words. “Obey.”
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Sig was running for her life. The Endless Mansion of Lord Mammon was gripped by pandemonium as the Demon Lord’s servants fought against their erstwhile ruler, who, despite his apparently-sealed powers, was still utterly decimating anyone whom he laid his glowing salamander-eyes on.
She vowed to hunt down the Fleshcrafter and his brutish bodyguard once she escaped the treacherous dimension of the rampaging Greed Dragon. It was not a Vow of Revenge, for she held no special consideration for the arrogant Demon Lord. No, it was a Vow of Resentment, as they had taken from her a golden opportunity to sow her own betrayal and chaos, reducing her to little more than a side-feature.
“I swear, my Lady, their blood will be Yours.”
As she climbed yet another hill of cascading coins and stolen treasure, a furred demon raced through the air overhead, its bat-like wings ruffling Sig’s wild gold-specked hair.
It seemed that the Fleshcrafter had somehow sent the Demon Lord into a blind fury after he took-up residence in the monstrous beast that he and his servants had laboured on for weeks. Or had it been months? Perhaps it had even been a couple years…
She shook her head, trying to clear the fog that clouded her memory. Somehow, the pervasive pressure she felt while near the Demons had grown stronger than before and was interfering with her faculties.
A massive tremor suddenly shook the entire mansion interior, nearly burying her as she slid down a hoard mound when it collapsed in an avalanche upon the valley below, burying a few of the strange buildings the demons had taken to living in.
After managing to avoid a near-death of being crushed beneath tonnes of gold, she turned to look back towards the fight between the demons and their furious Lord. It seemed one of his former subordinates had managed to cut a deep gash into one of his eyes, the damage to his physical vessel somehow linked to the stability of the strange dimensional space inside the mansion that existed purely as a result of his presence.
It seemed strange to her that they would turn on Mammon, when he clearly possessed superior strength and vitality, but perhaps that was how the demons acted when they saw weakness. Normally, servants and squires would defend their Lord’s honour by capturing the ones who had offended it. It was maybe not too far-fetched an idea that all social mobility within the Demons’ own worlds were driven by a primitive ‘might makes right’ idea. Sig at least thought it would explain so strange a behaviour.
When she turned back towards the distant horizon, she thought she could see one of the exits from the pocket realm, but she saw no evidence of the Fleshworker and his hulking Guard passing through. The pair had vanished as soon as hell broke loose, leaving behind their constructs and former servants with unsettling ease.
“Lady, give me the strength I need,” she prayed as she thundered on towards the gate in the distance.
I will look forward to disembowelling them.
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“How many more secrets do you hide from me?” Jakob wondered out loud, as he and Heskel wandered through a derelict Noble Quarter, where countless battles between mortal and monster had taken place since last he had been here. It seemed order had been restored, but, from the large funerary pyres and yet-to-be-retrieved corpses, the victory had been won at a steep cost. He wondered if the Crown and its guard would venture into the deep and face-off against Grandfather. After all, if they had struck a deal once, Grandfather’s actions had surely violated its terms and ensured his own death sentence.
Heskel did not answer the question. He had exhibited many peculiarities after they had first left the sewers, such as in the development of his personality, not to mention his hitherto-unmentioned repertoire of obscure incantations and rituals.
They had left the private demesne of the Greed Lord through a complex Chthonic sigil the Wight had prepared in advance, unbeknownst even to Jakob, which penetrated the endless space of Mammon’s dimension and created an opening for them to simply walk through to return to reality. They had appeared in the garden outside the mansion, emerging from a decayed hedgerow.
Further, it was his archaic knowledge of Necromancy that had enabled them to trap the Demon Lord’s soul within his new vessel and render him ‘mortal’ in a sense, at least insofar as making him killable. Though, as was the case with all True Demons, he could not be permanently killed, only cast back to his natural form within the realm that spawned him.
It might take a while, but, sooner-or-later, the Demon Lord would be killed by the lesser demons who seized on his weakness like wolves sensing a wounded pack-leader and believing themselves capable of taking up the mantle. It would be one more loose end gone, though it was not truly much of a loose end truth be told. After all, the Soul-Lock ensured Mammon could not cross the boundary of his mansion demesne and enter Helmsgarten.
Jakob still struggled not to find it amusing that even so powerful a Demon was susceptible to entrapment. In a way, the stronger they were, the less cunning they became, as though their mightiness was the only thing that mattered. The fact that Mammon had not even considered the possibility of Jakob’s subterfuge was a testament to that.
But then again, he and Heskel had been careful to only communicate through Necroscript or coded speech, like passing notes while the tutor was watching, except getting caught would have resulted in excruciating death.
The pair reached the gate-bridge leading into Market North, and, though this district had fared better than Noble Quarter, it was full of ruined shopfronts and corpse-pyres as well. Unlike Noble Quarter however, the guardsmen of the Crown, as well as a smattering of Adventurers’ Guild mercenaries, were keeping order and had set aside space for the injured and dispossessed. It seemed that they entirely avoided the Quarter now, perhaps having fought against the Demon Lord’s servants and lost, or maybe considering it less-important than the money-making Market where the rich and proper had invested untold fortunes.
With Heskel in the lead, carrying the Tungsten Scroll, they hurried down side-alleys and backroads until they reached the courtyard of the Apothecary. Jakob hoped that the Crown considered his former laboratorium abandoned and insignificant now that they faced a bigger threat to their supremacy from below. But even if they still kept guards there or sent patrols by, the pair would only stay for long enough to decipher the Scroll.
“Hopefully they have not utterly decimated our tools.”
Heskel grunted indifferently.
“You’re right. What does it truly matter?”
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“Sire… what have you done!?”
“Sirellius. What matters more to you: the stability of the Kingdom or your former King?”
The wizened Advisor looked at the man who sat in the throne, slumped against the backrest and blood oozing from nearly-two-dozen stab-wounds to his torso and stomach. Patrych yet held the murder-weapon in his grip, his powerful body showing no sign of emotion or strain from what ought to have been a traumatising event. The lifeblood of his progenitor dripped from the blade-tip and soaked into the white-and-purple carpet, creating a stain that would never wash away.
“The King is dead…”
Sirellius met the gaze of his new ruler, whose soulless ice-blue eyes were locked firm on his own.
“All hail the King, long may he live and prosper!”
Patrych seized the crown from the brow of his deceased father, not even bothering to wipe away the crimson specks that marred its splendour, before settling it atop his perfect head.
And, to think, that just a week prior he had been dead.
“Sirellius.”
The Old Man stiffened as he awaited the first orders of his new King.
“Bring me the One who remade me. I wish to thank him, personally.”
“As you wish, my Liege.”
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Sig did not need a trail to know the location of her quarry. For she had learnt something about Jakob that was sure to be his undoing:
He was arrogant and believed himself untouchable.
Such an individual might not conform to original behaviour patterns, but that did not make them any less predictable.
“Halt!” demanded one of the patrolling guards when she had just crossed the gate-bridge into Market North, but she was too determined to let anyone get in her way. Before the man had the time to reassert his demand, her golden arm had sprouted thorns of blood that punctured several holes into his throat when she lightly slapped her palm against him.
The guard’s wingman, for they always travelled in pairs in this part of town, barely had time to drag his sword out of its scabbard before the blood of his companion shot from his open wounds like a storm of crossbow bolts, shredding him.
Sig had progressed far in her mastery of Hemolatry as well as in her imagination. With a single word, she brought the blood of her two victims to her, where it covered her prosthetic like a crimson layer of skin. If an archer required arrows for their bow; Sig required blood for her magic, though her own would also work, as long as she had enough to spare, but that was only for emergencies.
Armed with her crimson arsenal, she sped down the backroads, eventually finding a point from which she could ascend to the rooftops, so that she avoided the twists-and-turns and lost as little time as possible.
Jakob will die today, she vowed.
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With what bordered religious reverence, Heskel unfolded the Tungsten Scroll on the only table they had been able to salvage from the ruin of Jakob’s standoff against the agents of the Crown.
Similar to the first time Jakob had laid his eyes on it, the sight of its contents made his head swim and turned his mouth dry, while his eyes began to itch. It was as though mortal eyes were not meant to read its curled and wandering sigils nor behold its complex drawings and diagrams.
The scroll stayed unfurled without needing to be weighed down. Jakob almost felt as though it longed to be read and understood. It longed to be used. He was obviously no stranger to books and tomes infused with a sentient mind or enslaved soul, but the scroll was made of a seemingly-inert metal, exactly because of the ruinous power Chthonic sigils had on most surfaces. Therefore, it seemed that binding a sentience to it would not work, but Chthonic was also not a language known to play by the rules: it was the language by which rules were made.
Strangely, they had only encountered two things that did not self-destruct or combust following a Chthonic sigil being inscribed on its surface: this peculiar metal named ‘tungsten’, and the skin of living beings like humans, demons, and beasts.
It seemed to make no sense to Jakob, given that hide and skin was not possessed of similar unique properties as this metal. Though perhaps the answer lay not in logic that made sense to him, but rather in some unknowable force akin to the entities that the powerful language could invoke.
After letting the Wight study the scroll for what felt like hours, Jakob looked at him expectantly.
“Is it what we believed it to be?”
Heskel tore his gaze from the metal sheet.
“It is a summoning ritual.”
Jakob clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw creaked in protest. With a carefully-controlled exhale of vented steam, he let the tension gripping him relax somewhat. He took a deep breath through his nose, the scent of Misty Reminiscence flooding his nostrils.
“…And, pray tell… what does it summon?”
His chest hurt from the tension that rapidly built up in his body as he awaited the Wight’s answer. It was too much excitement for him to handle and he felt blood trail down his lip under the mask as it poured from his nose.
Heskel looked at him intensely. He did not need to speak for Jakob to understand the answer.
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Sig snapped the man’s head into the brick wall with a roundhouse kick of her gold-toed boot to his temple. The impact produced a loud internal crunch, but, just to be certain, she leant over his unconscious body and slammed her palm into his forehead, sending a spike of her rose-blood through his cranium and brain matter like an ice-pick through hard ice.
Just a couple more streets.
She was close to the Apothecary now, though her progress was repeatedly delayed by the persistent guards who had found the bodies of the patrol she had slaughtered. Though she had always been skilled at staying out of the seeking gaze of the guards, she had thrown caution to the wind for the sake of getting to her quarry before they left the city to escape her and all the other enemies they had made.
With a flick of her golden arm, she sent a triplet of blood darts into a guard just as she rounded the corner. Her startled expression last only a moment, before the light was snuffed from her as the darts exploded within her body.
Sig moved on quickly, before more of them came after her. The alleyways were not a great place to avoid detection, but the rooftops had proven far worse, after a well-aimed arrow had clipped her ear and the side of her cheek.
The phantom sensation in the limb Mammon had robbed from her made her immediately halt and not a moment too late, as an arrow flew past her so close that it ruffled her wild hair, its aim to catch her mid-stride.
She whirled around and instinctively flung a closely-grouped barrage of blood darts at the archer who stood nearly forty metres further down the way she had come.
While her own projectiles crossed the distance with blinding speed, the archer managed to release another arrow, but Sig easily drew the blood-coating on her body in front of her like a shield, which stopped the steel-tipped missile dead a couple seconds later.
The archer on the other hand had no such defence, their recklessness earning them a face-full of open craters where the Hemolatric magic impacted and exploded.
Sig turned and continued on. She was so close now.
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“Nharlla?” Jakob asked, not sure if he had heard correctly. “Are you absolutely certain??”
Heskel nodded gravely.
“That cannot be.”
“It is,” he insisted.
“What would summoning such an entity entail? Would we be dooming our world if we dared?”
“Unsure.”
Jakob bit his lower lip, which was already a bloody ruin thanks to his repeated peeling off of the skin with his teeth. He had taken off his scent-mask to wipe the blood from his nose and mouth, but it still flowed eagerly.
The revelation that the Tungsten Scroll held not only the instructions on how to summon a Great One Above, but one of the Watcher’s own Vassals, was unimaginable. And yet... he supposed that somehow the Great Ones would have once been in contact with the denizens of this world, else the propagation of their language, sigil-alphabet, and spells would never have made it here.
The Watcher had many Vassals, all of them ruinous in their strengths in one way or another, but Jakob only knew of Chthonic Hymn belonging to three of them: the Watcher itself, with the ‘Hymn of Devouring Madness’; Septen, with its ‘Stone Plague’; and Nharlla, with the ‘Catastrophic Scream’, ‘Unravelling’, and ‘Doppelganger’ hymns.
The other hymns that he knew of were creations of Grandfather, like the ‘Amalgam Hymn’ or ‘Implosion’, and a few others that he had long suspected as being lesser versions of ‘true’ Hymns that stemmed from Great Ones.
Given that all of Nharlla’s associated spells, that he knew of, were associated with metaphysical ailments and hallucinations, it seemed summoning the entity would not result in conventional decimation of the world, but perhaps the result would be more devastating or long-lasting. There was no knowing what sort of event summoning a Great One into reality would cause, but, it was possible that Jakob might be rewarded for the attempt in some manner. Suddenly, the thoughts of what sort of reward so powerful a being could gift made his head swim with dangerous ideas.
He shared a long gaze with his Lifeward.
“We have to attempt it.”
Heskel made a sound that might have been a chuckle. He should have known that the Wight would easily invite the challenge such an undertaking required.
All thoughts of the task Grandfather had once given him were suddenly not very important anymore. Jakob almost found it amusing that the Old Spider still sought the tomes Veks had stolen from the Mage Quarter, when Jakob now possessed something that dwarfed their rituals a million-fold in effect. Even summoning Mercilla was incomparable to the greatness of summoning Nharlla, if indeed it was possible.
“So. How do we get started?”
Heskel began listing the things they required, as prescribed by the scroll.
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Sig flexed the golden digits of her prosthetic as she crossed the walled-off courtyard to the stairs that led below the building it bordered and into its belly. The pervasive smells of the many wares of the Apothecary stung her nostrils, despite the fact that she was still outside and a steady wind battered the district and its back-alleys.
I should kill Hargraves when I’m done, she decided.
With the barest effort, she commanded the blood coating her body to coalesce and take the shape of a crude dagger. She wanted to lock eyes with the Fleshcrafter when she took his life.
The phantom pain alerted her that she was close now.
Without making a sound, she pried the basement door ajar, seeing a figure within the damp-and-dark basement leant over some metal plate, using only a candlelight to see. The rest of the interior was upturned and ruined, making her wonder what had happened here since last she had set foot in the lair of the monstrous Creator.
Focus.
She could easily fling a blood dart through the crack in the door and kill the Boy like that, but it would be too easy. Such a kill had to be savoured. She had fantasised about it for months, after all.
With her real hand she carefully pushed the door all the way open, before slipping inside and skulking towards the figure. She almost thought it was someone else, but then she remembered the strange attire he and his manservant had crafted inside Mammon’s realm, using the skin of the greedy demons that flocked to him like flies on shit.
Even though she had been utterly quiet, he suddenly turned to regard her.
“I thought I recognised your scent,” he told her, his face blank of any emotions, the crimson mask he normally wore hanging from the neck of his demon-skin robe.
No! This is wrong. You have to fear me! I am your Reaper, come to collect your soul!
“Well?”
Sig took a step back, as Jakob regarded her coolly.
No! NO! I am not afraid! I am fear made manifest!
She tightened her grip on the dagger of blood collected from every guard that had stood in her path to get here.
Just as she was about to lunge at him, a meaty and immensely-strong hand seized her by the neck and lifted her off the floor, pops and cracks sounding from her body as she spasmed against its vice-grip.
Heskel’s shadow seemed to swallow her whole the more she struggled.
