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Torn God: Watcher of Deep Places (Web Novel) - Book 5: Chapter 12 The Dancing Blade [Part 1]
Book 5: Chapter 12 The Dancing Blade [Part 1]
This chapter is updated by JustRead.pl
A worthy man does not see success as the final rest, nor does he regard failure as a fatal end. Rather, it is the steady cultivation of courage and perseverance that truly shapes a noble character.- A Quassian Aphorism.
It felt as though I had just been trampled by a stampede of charging beasts. My body screamed, every nerve ablaze, and something warm and sticky leaked from my lips. I tasted it before I smelled it—the sharp, metallic tang of iron. Blood. My blood.
Instinct took over. I wrenched my visor up, gasping as I scanned my Status. MyHealth sat at just under half, a grim confirmation of what my body already knew. Pain pulsed everywhere, an intricate patchwork of agony that overrode even my Improved Pain Nullification. A wry grin pulled at my mouth. Still alive. There was a silver lining: even now, the Regeneration granted by my Mark of the Adaptive Helix was knitting me back together, slowly but surely. My eyes flicked again to my Mimic Shield—the thing was sitting at fifty points of Health left. It had taken the brunt of that explosion, so that was no wonder.
With a grunt, I tried to rise, pushing my hammer against the ground. My feet obeyed—barely. The weight of my armor dragged at me, but the heavy Adamantine alloy had held, stubbornly unyielding against Canis’ blast. It did its job. But the force of the explosion had still damaged me, as there was no getting around physics in this world.
I stood there, swaying, my breath ragged. And yet, through the haze of pain and exhaustion, my mind locked onto one thing: the devastating spell.
My boosted Intelligence brought every detail back with crystal clarity. The memory sharpened, pulling me back to the moment Canis had spoken the words. I remembered them—not a long chant, not a song to coax Mana into obedience. No, they had been… raw. Simple. A command, as simple as it was terrifying.
A compulsion surged through me—a hunger that burned brighter than the pain. What was it? What had he said? The need to know overwhelmed reason, swallowing me whole. I couldn’t resist. My hands moved instinctively, and I cast Sage’s Sight on my own memory, pulling the words from the past, translating the arcane syllables that had tumbled from Canis' lips.
Shiptu Sarareshsattu, The First Spell. The spell of beginnings and the spell of becoming.
The knowledge returned like a whispered secret, slithering through my thoughts. The voices inside me stirred, murmuring warnings. This is a tool. A terrible tool. A forbidden one. One that must never be cast.
Especially, not by me.
Because the effects were clear. Canis had proven it: the First Spell was explosive, uncontrollable. Worse than an unshackled god.
Even in the stillness of the aftermath, I shivered. My Regeneration continued to tick away, knitting flesh and sealing wounds, but that knowledge, that terrible truth, carved deeper into my psyche.
The explosion had dismissed my Aura spell, and it was just as well—I needed clarity now more than ever. Taking a small step forward, I cast a simple Heal spell, the warmth of it flowing through me and raising my Health to a safer margin. Times like this made me grateful the spell worked by percentage rather than a fixed amount; I would need every drop of strength for what came next.
I surveyed what remained of the Grand Bazaar. The earthen dome above had collapsed, allowing thin shafts of celestial light to pierce the gloom. All around me lay charred ruins of stone and earth, splintered and sundered. Fragments of bodies littered the ground like grotesque confetti. The scene left me doubtful the Necromancer had survived.
Then I saw him, Vincenzio, his body slumped against the jagged edge of the ruined dome. He was still alive, or something close to it. Urgency sparked within me; I could not fail now, not after coming this far. If the NPC died before I obtained his scroll, I’d lose the promised rewards and experience. It would all have been for nothing.
I rushed to his side. His sallow face, somehow even paler now, caught a dramatic beam of light from a crack in the dome above, framing him like a dying hero in some tragic finale.
“Good… you have survived,” he rasped. “Unfortunately… the same cannot be said of me… one is surely dead.”
The lower half of his torso was gone, and charred bone had fused into a macabre seal. Even I could tell he was beyond ordinary salvation—unless I intervened.
“Wait, just a moment,” I said, mustering my calm. “I can heal you with my magic.”
He laughed bitterly, a rattling sound. “No… I would not survive Her touch, and I will not suffer it,” he said, refusing my offer.
“What about potions?” I insisted. “I have—”
“Beyond the reach of Alchemy, Gilgamesh,” he cut in. “Stop wasting time… it already hurts to breathe. Quickly, in my bag.” He nodded weakly toward the charred remains of his satchel.
I tore it open, my hands fumbling past half-melted potions and a fine dagger sheathed in ornate metal. “You must seal that creature in the dagger,” Vincenzio gasped. “It is a Vessel. Canis must have had one as well. That’s why they fought the Djinn—the Consumed One—for themselves, not to save this city.” He coughed, spraying blood. “Bah! Enough… of an old man’s complaints!”
“What do you want me to do with this?” I demanded.
“Kill the creature with the Vessel, the dagger,” he said. “Its soul will be trapped inside, creating an Artifact. Not as mighty as one forged by the Ancients, but still powerful. Better in your hands than theirs.”
I slipped the blade from its sheath with a soft whisper of steel against leather. The dagger was a thing of cruel beauty, slender and keen, its polished surface a silverine hue. It was as long as my forearm and tapered to a wicked needle’s point, fit to slide beneath a mail shirt or through the joints of a fine-wrought breastplate. A small crossguard of darkened steel held a single red gem at its heart, a ruby maybe, or a red garnet the color of old blood. The grip was carved from dense Ironwood, and at its pommel coiled a bronze serpent’s head, fanged and hollow-eyed. It was a beautiful weapon, this dagger, but a part of me doubted that it would be able to seal or defeat the Djinn.
