Echoes of the Abyssal Blade: Path to Free Will-Chapter 78: In The Abyssal Ruins

Jonan’s head was a throb of dull but persistent pain. His eyes were burning, and with every heartbeat, stabs of sharp pain pierced his skull.

The ears were ringing with a shriek: a steady and painful high pitch that made it difficult to differentiate any sound from the eerie, almost chilling silence that filled this place.

Everything was a hazy smear, an amalgamation of colors and shapes; rays of light-or whatever this place had for light-stung his eyes. He had to muster all his strength to raise one trembling hand to rub them, hoping it might offer some relief from the discomfort.

He did not know how long he would lie there, but after what seemed like an eternity, for him, probably an hour or so, maybe more, he could finally open that swollen, bruised eye just a crack; the world was still a blur, but gradually, it powdered and solidified as lines came into being and colors took form, and his gust of sadness seemed to choke his breath-fervid covetousness: endless water just there, making an aquarium far, far away-shifting, eerily still sea stretching beyond the horizon.

But this was not ordinary water; the surface shimmered with a pale purple hue, casting out an uncanny glow that made his skin crawl.

Even the seas of Dreavows continent, with violent tides and deep, monstrous trenches, could not begin to rival the magnificence of this ocean he was fervently gazing upon.

He was on land, a small and narrow strip of rocky soil, squinting along crooked and dark trees, but all he could see was an endless, unnerving sea of violent violet.

Something stung his senses; his instincts screamed at him as he knelt by the shore, where his hand hovered in hesitation just an inch above the surface. As it got close, every hair on his body stood in terror. A wave of unspeakable dread washed over him as he snatched his hand back as though it were burned.

"This place... gods!" he muttered, his voice hoarse and dry.

He knew the risks of entering the Abyssal Ruins; the records left by those who preceded him spoke of worlds within worlds, pocket realities, some serene, and some deadly.

But personally experiencing The Abyssal Ruins themselves was a turning point for him; the ruins others ventured into had different dangers, different rules, and were always different places, never repeating.

Still, knowledge of his predecessors wasn’t entirely useless; one thing always remained constant in these places: human natives, while different in looks and culture.

One could at least get a bit of help from them to understand their surroundings and where they were.

The natives were, of course, known to be strange, sometimes hostile, sometimes allies, depending on fortune’s favor.

Jonan checked his belongings; his satchel was intact, and more importantly, so was the weapon case strapped to his back.

Inside, his sickles lay, their blades sharpened and ready to use, he hadn’t brought his spear because he thought it would be too heavy to bring with him, and if he needed a spear, he could exchange it with the natives who inhabited this place.

Strapping on his weapon, Jonan stood and looked around him, the line of land proceeded inland, it was climbing into dense, gnarled forests, the trees were deformed, their branches bent into impossible shapes. The bark had feeble, luminous growths attached to them, casting an eerie, pale light over the region.

Step by step, he proceeded further, leaving the shore behind.

The deeper he went into the island, the denser the air became, it was heavy, stifling, and had a smell like festering flowers and dry blood. 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

It was suffocating silence, no chirping insects, no leaf rustling, only his own broken breathing and the grinding earth under his boots.

Jonan’s hand rested lightly upon the handle of his sickle as he walked, every step he took with care, he did not want to be attacked.

And for some unknown reason, he could feel someone’s eye upon him; he could detect it in the pricking of his skin, in the fantasized itch at the back of his neck. Something was hidden outside.

He did not have to wait very long.

A movement, a shadow among the trees, then a low, rumbling snarl that vibrated through the ground.

Jonan stood still. His gaze flicked, his eyes raking the darkness. And then it appeared.

A creature—bigger than any Shadow Panther he’d ever encountered, it was lean and powerful. Its fur was midnight-black, with iridescent sheens like oil slicked velvet.

What took his breath was the eyes of the creature, or more specifically, the feathery wings protruding from either side of them, quivering and fluttering as if sampling the air. Its body glowed softly, changing colors like a living rainbow beneath its coat.

It was lovely, and completely horrifying.

Jonan could sense its strength immediately, that its strength was equivalent to a Grade Four beast, but Jonan could feel it in his bones, that the beast was more feral, more lethal than anything he’d fought in Dreavows.

He barely had time to draw both sickles before the creature lunged at him.

It was fast—unnaturally so, a streak of dark color, a flash of rainbow light, Jonan twisted his body, he instantly was ducking low as claws swept through the space where his head had been, and the air could be heard, split with a sharp crack.

He lashed out with a sickle, aiming for the beast’s flank, but the creature shifted mid-leap, as its body turned into a blur, his blade finally grazed its fur, drawing a single bead of dark red liquid, but it wasn’t even enough to slow it down.

Jonan backpedaled, his heart was pounding, he gathered his will, calling on the secret technique he’d been practicing with Rhydian, and he burst forth with the power of Hatred.

A dark aura flared around him, the air distorting with his fury. The veins on his arms darkened, his muscles swelling as the power surged, his eyes took on a blackish hue.

The beast snarled, sensing the change. It circled him now, it was cautious but unafraid.

Jonan struck first this time, dashing forward, one sickle low, the other arcing high. His movements were fluid and deadly, his power of hatred, which was now circling his aura, made him faster and stronger.

He managed to land a blow, the sickle biting into the creature’s shoulder. It howled, and rainbow light started flaring, a deep, jagged cut marred its fur.

But it wasn’t enough.

The beast retaliated instantly, a paw like a boulder slammed into Jonan’s side, sending him sprawling, the impact drove the breath from his lungs, he rolled away, narrowly dodging the beast’s attacks, avoiding the follow-up strike, and forced himself to his feet.

He was hit by another swipe by it, another dodge, and its claws grazed his cheek, as hot blood ran down his face.

He struck again and again, each time leaving shallow cuts, each time barely evading death. His stamina waned, his power of Hatred was burning through his reserves like dry tinder.

The beast showed no signs of fatigue.

Jonan cursed under his breath, he knew he couldn’t win this, not here, not now.

He feinted a strike, and then he spun and bolted back.

The creature pursued, its snarl thunder in his head. Branches ripped at his clothes, as darkness flashed by behind him.

He ran, his heart was pounding, and every cell in his body was yelling.

Before him, the faint line of the shoreline glowed through the trees.

Jonan leapt out of the undergrowth, falling onto the rocky ground. He did not stop until he was at the edge of the shore. The beast followed, halting just at the tree line. It paced back and forth, its feathery eye-wings quivering.

Jonan did not dare to take another step into the water.

The creature regarded him, snarled—and then, to his astonishment, it backed off. Not into the forest, but into the interior of the island, disappearing between the writhing trees.

Jonan fell to one knee, gasping.

His body hurt. Blood trickled from a score of cuts. His left arm dangled numb at his side, bruised. He rubbed the blood out of his eyes, looking out into the black woods.

"So it... won’t leave the heart of the island," he whispered, his voice a broken rasp. "Or is it because of this purple water?"

A small blessing for now.

But he still needed a way past it.

So that he could at least contact the natives living here, and only after contacting them would he know the situation of this place.

Jonan gathered his strength, forced his shaking legs to stand. He would have to find another route, one that the beast didn’t guard. Or perhaps... something to mask his presence.

He checked his satchel again. Among the contents were several vials of scent-masking oil, a few dried herbs meant to ward off lesser beasts. He wasn’t sure if they’d work on something of this grade, but it was better than nothing.

Jonan glanced at the water once more. Its purplish hue shimmered under the alien light. The air here felt wrong, heavy with unseen forces.

He steeled himself.

"I’m not dying here," he swore quietly, clutching his sickles.