act18mini

Now I have killed. A Victorian girl wearing a bright printed scarf on her head.

Her scarf faded and her complexion twisted before my face. She became no different from the musbeasts I killed, only bigger and more hollow.

Her life must have flowed into me. I find myself swinging the greatsword that they gave me, almost as tall as I am.

But I don't feel the ecstasy they spoke of.

AHHH—!

Phew—you, you're rotten too.

If I don't rot, you will, is that it?

Wh—What's that?

The massive explosion almost ruptures the young Nachzehrer's eardrums. A massive suit of armor flies past him.

The fog gently picks away the broken limbs the armor is wearing, pale fragments dispersing with the steam.

Several Sudarams fly towards it, their swords making screeching sounds on the metal, piercing the dull thud of Originium explosives.

(Sound of gushing steam)

Metal... shall... decay...

The young Nachzehrer has no time to look back. Heavy metal legs break the fog in front of him, blocking out the already-dim sunlight.

How many years do you think it took us to build The Crawler? You think we'd just let you eat it?

Armor plate to the portside foreleg!

Does the main gun still turn? Two o'clock, fire!

Blast a path through the Sudaram for the Steam Knight!

The young Nachzehrer falls to the ground. Cold blood immediately seeps through the remaining mop cloth, as though he was born to wipe such filth.

But why was he born to?

He has no time to think about the answer. A great iron hammer is raised above his head, its glaring reflection in his eyes.

No, no—

I don't want to—

You don't want to die.

A tide of rot rushes past him, and the hammer falls to the ground as scrap.

M—My Patriarch...?

I—I'm sorry, I'm not, I didn't...

Please, don't punish me... I'm not a deserter, I just—

If you have yet to fully comprehend war, then you are no deserter. It is not yours to give up your life so easily in.

Your war has yet to come.

Go.

The fog... it's fading.

More and more wounded are being evacuated before they die. The Nachzehrer are being deprived of the rot they feed on.

'Disperse.'

The fog is thinning.

Even I can breathe now.

Wait, you couldn't breathe all this time, Doctor?

Why didn't you say anything?

It wasn't that bad. It's just better now.

This won't last for long. Shining reports that the fog that had been diverted elsewhere is returning.

We must move—

Doctor—!

Mon3tr!

'Perish.'

You feel a sense of deja vu.

It is not that any memories came back to you. It is that, once again, you sense how tiny and frail your life is.

A blade of grass in the wilderness. What is one blade or a thousand in the presence of death? You will all become nutrition for next year's sprouts.

The tide of rot crosses Amiya's black curtain, Mon3tr's massive frame, and Logos's wall of incantations, rushing towards you.

The next instant, it comes to an abrupt halt.

It is you.

It is me.;What?

You have kept your promise.

Mon3tr, Structural Fortification! Protect the Doctor!

There is no need, Dame. I shall not fight you here.

Even though this is a battlefield?

Precisely because it is a battlefield.

You do not belong to this battlefield of mine. Every second you spend here is an insult to it.

War doesn't belong to anyone. It only destroys everyone.

Hah! How arrogant.

No matter. This war that has nurtured me, this war I have nurtured, is now over.

Even if it has cycled back and forth for a thousand years in the most uninteresting manner, even if the pain it gave rise to has become numbness, this war has achieved its goal.

Now, the Sarkaz are masters of their own destiny.

The Amnannam in Theresis's hands...

Theresis? No. The Amnannam is in the hands of all Sarkaz, scattered across the land for a thousand years.

From this war, they will come away with power, freedom, and a future.

What is left for <i>me</i> is the purest afterglow of war, one that knows no purpose but war itself.

If there is no purpose, then why do you—

Outblood child, so eager to put a stop to everything you do not wish to see.

If you see war as only evil, suffering as only a mistake, and sacrifice as only a waste, then you can bring neither destruction nor rebirth.

...Should I take this as the God of War advising the King of Sarkaz?

Very good! Finally, you call yourself king.

But it is not advice. My war may have won the Sarkaz a future, but it is not my place to dictate what it is.

My place is only to fulfill the very nature of my being.

To spread decay?;To nurture new life?

To me, decay and rebirth are one and the same.

As for you, ageless dame, outblood king, and <i>you</i>... It is not my place to judge you.

Go. Theresis awaits.

Behind the Nachzehrer King, the ranks of Sarkaz part silently.

They reveal a black path between white shroud, white bones, and white pall.

...Doctor.

Only by taking down Theresis and Amnannam...;...will we truly bring an end to this calamity.

We're with you, Doctor.

This is the moment Rhodes Island has prepared for. There is no need to hesitate.

And... the Nachzehrer King?

My whistle shall disperse the fog.

If we triumph, we will not celebrate victory alone.

Through the fog, you can see the faint silhouette of a tank, the gushing steam of a Steam Knight, Exemplars and alliance soldiers fighting side-by-side—

You hear the communications of Closure, Wiš'adel, and the others—

All of them fighting for the same end...

—An end to this war.

Let's go meet Theresis.

You have crossed the waters of death, Aefanyl, and witnessed the dim candlelight of the other side.

Go. I do not wish to fight you.

Sing once more when all decay has returned to the soil, when all war drums are silent.

Your end does not lie here.

The Banshee shakes his head and says nothing. His bone pen floats up in front of him.

Hah. So be it.

...I do envy Laqeramaline.

The Nachzehrer King spreads his arms wide. The Banshee begins to move his bone pen.

A thousand branches rise from the Nachzehrer, formed of flesh, blood, and bone. A thousand incantations are etched by the point of the Banshee's pen, in opposition to the decay.