A sharp whine bursts my eardrums. The Bui jerks to the side, half its skull missing, momentum carrying it past me to slump against the wall. Azo stands, tears in his eyes, his hand pointed at the empty space where it once was.

  You’ve absorbed soul energy! Spend it to evolve yourself!

  Psychic Telos steals a piece of the Bui’s soul to repair my hearing, but it is a few drops skimmed from the torrent that is the soul of a level 35 sentient. My own spirit harnesses it, filtering it, removing the taint that is the Bui’s hideous influence. For the briefest moment, like a breath of air against my cheek, I feel the sad, tortured man that was Brody Fenworth, before my soul takes his energy as well.

  It lets me know, beyond a shadow of any doubt, that he screamed impotently for weeks, trapped while his body was puppeted by a soul he could never defeat.

  Seems like I’ve got a new species to hate.

  “Azo…”

  “You were right,” he whispers, eyes wide and shining with unshed tears. “That much power… Brody never left the glade. He never… wait. Sarah…”

  “Yeah, I think so,” I say, coming over and putting a hand on his shoulder. “This asshole was the leak. And now, we’ve got bigger problems.”

  “He might not be the only one.” The man’s dark eyes focus on my face. The lost look leaves him, and a bit of righteous anger takes its place. “We can’t let them get away with this.”

  “Oh, we won’t,” I say, standing and stifling a yawn.

  I don’t care that I just got woken in the middle of the night. How my body can be tired when all this chaotic shit is happening is beyond me, though maybe it’s related to spending every available drop of energy I have to give. While I’m now back to a healthier 141, brushes with nonexistence probably take their toll.

  “This isn’t over. Get your little, uh, railgun hand ready. We need to clear the rest of the apartments.”

  He lets me take the lead as we head deeper. There is another room full of corpses, executed in a similar style. And another. We don’t comment. What is there to say?

  There’s no sign of anyone else, alive or dead. We knock on some doors at random, but the emptiness is telling. I know exactly where all these people are; I helped kill their murderer. The hallway loops around back towards the glade as we progress in a wide curve. The only sounds this far in are my breathing and the soft scuff of my shoes on stone. Azo is eerily quiet at my side, quiet enough that I have to do a visual check several times to make sure he’s still following. We pass more signs of combat as we move back in towards the center glade from a new direction, scorch marks and bodies of a few species. No Laranya, no Cobalds.

  We come to a stop. A figure stands silhouetted in the center of the hall. At its feet, a large body rests in two pieces. I’d think the silhouette human, but the angles are all wrong. Too sharp, too empty. It turns.

  Burning red eyes light the hallway, a shade I recognize all too well. The body at its feet comes into focus as well: Miguel. Cut in half.

  My stomach turns to ice.

  Identification: Irda Zelnar, Ekinor Deathlord, 1st Legion of the Iskari Empire

  Level: 56

  Strengths: Strength, Agility, Intelligence, Will, Toughness

  Weaknesses: Charisma

  The Ekinor are the Competitor species of the Third. The Iskari Empire spanned the length and breadth of the Ekinor homeworld before their questionable environmental practices led to the near-extinction of all natural life on the planet. To extend the life of their civilization, they developed powerful necromantic rituals to feed upon the souls of lesser species.

  “Ah…” His sigh is the satisfied hiss of grave dirt rasping over coffin wood. “There you are.”

  Well, fuck. A couple things occur to me in tandem. First, this bastard is so strong I can feel the imprint his soul leaves on the aether like it exerts a gravity all its own. Second, I have a little over half my soul energy to play with, and I wouldn’t feel confident even with all of it. And lastly, the bastard has been looking for me.

  There’s no Threenut to save me this time, no sizzling wall to throw him against. My only ally is one twitchy asshole who barely trusts me enough not to kill me. Maybe the cavalry is coming, though I doubt it. If I was George Wellington, I’d be fucking off to the darkest corner and hiding like the good little mouse I am. If the bastard wasn’t here for me, that’s exactly what I’d be doing.

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  Well. Fuck it.

  “Hey, Assless!” I say with forced cheer. “How ya been? Keeping up with your happy murder ways, I see.”

  “Yes. And I see you haven’t learned respect.”

  “Hard to respect an asshole trying to stick a sword in you, bud. You’ve got issues. Maybe try talking to someone. Though, in your case, I’m not sure even a team of therapists is enough. I mean, where do you start? Unholy death ritual? Undead immortality perspective issues? Choosing murder as your favorite hobby?”

  The longer I stall, the more soul energy trickles into my reserves, and the longer there’s a chance for someone, anyone, to come save me.

  “You are a strange creature,” he says, ignoring my jibes. His sword is in his hand. When did that happen? “I do not understand you.”

  “That’s what my therapist said!” I say, my soul hovering on the edge of pouring forth. “Said I try on new personalities like I try on clothes. Not really a helpful statement, you know?”

  “You are the only blight upon my honor,” the Deathlord says softly. “A stain I shall soon wipe away.”

  Seems like my stalling time is up. No cavalry to be heard. Crimson light ignites in glowing lines along his armor like blood filling the grooves of a sacrificial altar. His Artifacts share the heaviness of his soul, adding to it. Multiplication, not addition. The light reveals his cadaver’s smile. It’s almost the same as I remember it: empty, hollow cheeks, glowing eyes burning with hatred, and… a dark slash missing teeth.

  “Oh my word, Assless.” I smile at him through the terror gripping my heart. “I can’t speak well of the rest of you, but your smile looks real pretty. I can’t remember, what happened to your teeth?”

  His wordless rasp of rage is more than I hoped for. There’s a flash of red that paints the hallway. He disappears.

  Gravity Manipulation.

  Strengthen Gravity.

  I gasp as soul energy gushes out of me. Like trying to pump blood through a clogged artery, my power surges against an obstacle of such density and weight that it will not move. Most of my strength goes to forcing this absurd weight to bend to my magic, and very little goes to the magic itself.

  The Deathlord is visible again, and shit he’s fast. He was already over halfway to me when my power hit. He’s stopped, for now, but he doesn’t fall backwards like he should. Grimacing, he kneels in the middle of the hallway, holding onto his sword. Or part of his sword. Wasn’t it longer? Or, wait… he buried it in the fucking floor?

  I’ve got seconds until I’m empty. I don’t need to look at my soul energy to know what it’s costing me. I can feel it. Weakness, coldness. A body losing the only force that animates it. Fraying. When my power runs out, I’ll be dead before I have the chance to scream.

  A cutting whine builds behind me.

  Finally.

  The distinctive screech of Azo’s attack tears through the hall. The Deathlord, holding onto the sword anchoring him to the floor, doesn’t move aside. He can’t, not if he doesn’t want to be launched at terminal velocity towards the glade. He lifts a hand. A hellish chime reverberates through my bones. A flash of scarlet light sears my eyes. Gravity returns to normal.

  Something punches my chest. My lungs heave. Or try to. The left side of my chest feels strangely heavy. Why can’t I breathe?

  I blink against the afterimage of the light. My vision finally clears.

  The Deathlord is here. His eyes are dancing flames this close up. There is a pattern to them I never noticed before. They remind me almost of Zara’s dancing; their motion makes meaning that I can almost discern. His rotting face is strangely gentle. His skin looks soft somehow, and I have the urge to know what it feels like. His outstretched hand presses against my chest.

  I glance down.

  Not his hand. His sword. Buried to the hilt in my chest.

  “Thus is my honor restored,” he rasps.

  His free hand opens. Silver dust hisses against his gauntlet. Azo’s ring. Nothing, now. The fire of his eyes swirls maddeningly, hungrily, focus shifting towards my chest and the blood just beginning to leak around the blade. His fingers dance like the conductor of a silent symphony. Invisible hooks dig into my body. He pulls.

  A groan escapes my lips. I finally taste blood.

  Golden light brightens the hallway. My body, glowing like burnished metal. Liquid, beautiful. Holy, wonderful. Fire made pure. Peace made manifest.

  He pulls.

  My scream is silent. My soul. He’s taking it, taking it like that Ekinor in the duel, taking it to fucking eat—

  The golden light rages against his control, burning towards me, to return to me—

  With a determined, guttural grunt, he pulses power into it, his own soul battering mine. It drifts towards his body. Squirming, fighting, my soul’s rage whispers through the air. He strains, his crimson gaze wavering, his body trembling. With a crackling scream of effort, he shears a sliver of light from the rest, and my soul goes still.

  The undead warrior relaxes, his face easing into eager lines. He tilts his cheek like a lover delivering a kiss.

  The wisp of golden fire dances across his lipless cavern of his mouth and disappears into its emptiness.

  He sighs, an addict finally knowing release.

  I am helpless, helpless as he violates everything that is me, everything that should be inviolable.

  Anything but this. Anything.

  “Exquisite…” he whispers.

  Darkness takes my vision until all I can see is twin pools of crimson fire.

  I knew I’d die, sooner or later. I knew this whole endeavor was hopeless.

  But not like this. Please.

  The fire disappears. The pain, too.

  At least it’s over. The struggle, the pain, all of it.

  Finally.

  I fall into darkness.