Lassus Animus - Part 7

Reflexively, John relied on his abilities to save him from what would have otherwise been a mortal wound. He pulled himself off the blade unceremoniously and whirled to face the unseen foe. His blade flashed as he moved to cleave the rotting skeleton that had impaled him in half; a single strike wasn't enough to do the job, but a series of wild slashes sliced and crushed the bones of his threadbare foe until both halves stopped moving.

With the immediate threat gone, John whirled on his heels, scanning the surrounding area. Already there were more enemies rising, but none were close enough to strike. In the breath of relief he allowed himself at that knowledge, he finally felt the strange trickle of warmth running down his body. Apprehension blossomed in his chest even before he looked down to find an open wound in his stomach, blood still leaking from the fresh hole that was struggling to close itself.

Status Effect Gained: [Bleeding].
-87 HP!
-61 HP!

"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, why isn't it healing," John half-shouted, eyes wide and adrenaline spiking yet further, putting his already overclocked mind into a flailing state that could scarcely comprehend its own thoughts. He tried to cast a Lesser Heal spell, but his mana fizzled out in under a second. Only a few points of health were restored, not even enough to finish closing the wound. "Fucking damn it! Gamer's Body even stops diseases; this shouldn't be happening, with or without a status effect! The last time it failed like this…"

John swallowed, neither memory comforting. Twice his Gamer's Body had failed him. Once when Himiko implanted the shard in his chest... and the other in one of his darkest moments, during the year he'd locked himself away. When he had thrown himself into training to escape his pain, with such ferocity that he'd nearly gotten himself killed...

"Your powers, your body, your mind... they're all linked together, John. Your body can't knit itself back together while your mind is tearing itself apart."

...just like he was doing now.

"Gaia fucking damn it, what am I doing?" John struggled to contain himself now, the realizations mounting with the stresses and anxieties that had been pooling within him for the last few days. "I'm making the exact same mistakes as I did at my worst. And I didn’t even realize- fuck, why is it so hard to think straight? I- I can’t- Moira was right. This was stupid. I'm so fucking stupid. I'm gonna get myself killed, and…"

“Even though your body might be magic, your mind definitely isn’t. You can get as strong or fast as you want, but we all still have to deal with the same bullshit when it comes to mental health.”

"I should have listened to Adantia. I should have listened to all of them," John thought ruefully, futilely clutching his hands over the wound as best he could, though the effort barely staunched the flow from either side of him. "I was so out of it I didn't even realize just how far gone I was, how burned out my mind has gotten. I can barely even remember the last two days. I’ve been pushing everyone, snapping at them, I don’t even know why I… What the hell is wrong with me?!"

Abandoning the attempt at first aid, John threw his blade forward, letting it spin through the air. The pristine metal lacked its usual effortless grace, wobbling and weaving around erratically as it traveled under the influence of his thoughts, but it held the course he'd intended well enough to accomplish its goals.

The edge of the blade was sharp and pristine, unlike his ragged mind. It tore through the decomposing corpses that had freed themselves from their former graves. None of them died, but the blade's razor-sharp edge never failed to sever something vital, cleaving away legs, spines, and heads in near equal measure, leaving the uncomfortably short distances between himself and each target a far more time-consuming trek for the freshly diced creatures. With a few precious seconds bought, John tried something truly ****.

He closed his eyes. And he breathed.

It wasn't a miraculous cure-all. It wasn't even a dramatic shift. He could still hear the reanimated bodies around him rattling and schlucking across the ground. His thoughts still ran rampant, perhaps even more so now that he was actively trying to shut them out. But in between the beats of his raging heart, in the lulls between the waves of anxiety, he found the tiniest bits of peace that he hadn't allowed himself in nearly five days now.

"Deep breaths. Count of three. This is- this has to be a stupid idea, right? But if I don't get myself together, I'm not going to make it out of here alive..."

With shaking hands, John cracked one eye open and pulled free his phone. There were already a series of missed calls and messages popping up on his screen, but he dismissed the notifications without bothering to read them. They couldn't help him now. They couldn’t save-

"No. Calm thoughts. Just... just keep breathing."

John’s thumb fumbled across the screen, a **** search through a playlist he’d long since forgotten. Finally, the mark was found. With a shaky tap, the first crystalline notes began to resound from the small speaker.

Even with the volume turned so high that the sound began to distort, the tiny speaker struggled to be heard over the pounding in his chest and the clambering limbs of the recently deceased. But the familiar notes touched a place in his mind that all of his breathing exercises could only scratch at. Its tranquil notes imparted a peace that, however shallow the feeling might be, gave him a blanket of calm to subdue the anxiety flooding his body. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to clear away some of the harsh static clouding his thoughts.

"You can do this. You've faced worse than this and come out alive."

-71 HP!

"I can't fix what I've already done. I can only keep moving forward. Just like I always have."

-91 HP!

John had closed his eyes and couldn’t read the actual numbers, but he could hear the ticks of his Bleeding status as they accumulated. He could hear the footsteps shuffling nearer, hear each fumbling grasp in the tall grasses that carried an abomination that much closer to him. All those made him want to run, want to **** himself to move as fast as he could. Instead, he took a shuddering breath, and remained still.

"Anxiety got me into this situation. I need a clear head to get back out of it. Fear will only cloud my mind, make me hesitate. And if I hesitate..."

-102 HP!

"...I die. And that's… even that's fine. Because then I get to see her."

-74 HP!

"Whatever happens, I'm sorry, everyone. And if I make it back, I’m going to tell all of you that in person, I promise. I'm not going to do any more dungeons until after the war. I had to learn this lesson twice, but I won't need a third time. One way or another, it ends here."

Status Effect Removed: [Bleeding]

Gamer's Body was working again... to some extent. He could actually feel his insides knitting themselves back together, unlike the normal instantaneous repair it did. It was a deeply unsettling sensation, one that almost undid the work of calming his frayed mind. John's eyes ripped open as soon as the status effect was gone. Shambling hands reached for him, mere inches away now, filling John's returned vision with ****—his and theirs.

Shard of Bishamonten Activated! [100% Integration]
Rune of Resonance Activated! [100% Damage Increase]
Strength, Agility, Endurance, and Libido increased by 20!
Damage Inflicted to Enemies with Negative Alignment: +50%
Damage Received from Enemies with Negative Alignment: -50%
Overflowing Aura Activated: Lesser Heal [Allied Targets Only]
Cruciare has become Lifetime of Penance, Barrier has become Field of Judgment.

Silver steel flashed in the moonlight, scattering flesh and bone as it went. Every hand that had reached for him was removed or left behind as John took to the sky, levitating with his Elemental Infusion to evade the small army of undead. The rune on his blade appeared, a fiery red and orange that pulsed in time with the Shard in his chest, while a subtler green aura surrounded his skin. His health bar ticked up slowly, achingly slowly, just a few points every second, but it was something, and it didn't require his barren mana bar to sustain.

"You have the tools. You have more power than you ever had any right to receive," John told himself. "More power. More lovers. More patience from your allies. More of everything than you deserve. For once... be worthy of it all."

The music on his phone was still playing, but now the peaceful melody was lost entirely among the gruesome sounds of severed limbs and splattered viscera. He focused on his breathing instead. He had a tendency to stop breathing entirely in battle, since it was no longer necessary. Now he **** each one at a measured pace, tuning his body to a rhythm other than the frenetic pace of his anxious thoughts.

The undead below him shifted and began to evolve. Mutated tendrils sprouted from many of their backs, fleshy columns that spread into gore infested wings, defying nature and physics alike as they took to the sky after him. Those without flesh to speak of instead rearranged their compositions in other ways, bones splitting and evolving, turning into living cannons that fired bone fragments into the sky after him.

"Can't just cheese them by staying out of range. Gonna have to get my hands dirty!"

As the newly-winged zombies took to the sky, John returned once more to the dirt below. His weary mind was ill-suited to the task of flying so low without crashing into most everything, so he planted his feet and went through the motions. Ill-placed grip, shabby form, sloppy movements... John might have lacked precision, but the realization of what he had done, how far he had let himself slip, at least gave him new determination to drive each strike of his blade with.

-292 HP!
-411 HP!

John winced and finished his stroke, severing a zombie from hip to shoulder as it landed, then took advantage of the newly opened space to step away from the sharpened bones that had impaled him from behind. His counter-attack shattered the bones that it did not outright slice apart and rendered his foes mere piles of dust and bone, but an arc of crimson still sprayed out over the bleach-white remains.

"Breathe. In and out. Let your body flow like the battle itself."

It was little help, but a little was all he could ask for, perhaps all he deserved. And it was enough to keep his mind from spiraling again, which kept his wounds healing, however gruesome each twist and unnatural movement of his flesh and organs felt as they sewed themselves together again. John's health bar danced with as much speed as his blade, and with twice the grace, ticking up steadily, only to be torn back down when an errant step or a lapse in concentration brought a decomposing limb close enough to sink its claws into him.

"Adantia... I'm going to thank you when we meet up again," John told himself in the beats that passed between waves, as the last of his enemies fell, and new dirt began to shift around him. "You'll probably slap me around for being this stupid... but I deserve it. So I'll do it anyway. And I'll tell you I understand it this time. I understand how selfish it is to run off and die alone, rather than continuing on, no matter how painful it is—which is why I'm going to keep fighting. It's why I'm going to live!"

John's breathing had grown erratic as his thoughts pumped fresh adrenaline through his veins. He **** it to a steady pace, **** his wandering mind back to its task once again as the dead rose around him. If his level were only a bit higher, half of them would never have made it to their feet; as it was, all he could do was hack away, a cluster of strikes for each body where he desperately wished that one alone were enough. He'd barely taken out five when he found himself in the midst of a barrage from a bony creature whose entire carapace ruptured and exploded into skeletal shrapnel.

-119 HP!
-691 HP! [Critical Hit]

John's vision went white as a piece of bone lodged in his throat. He'd ducked to the ground, hoping to use the shambling bodies of its allies as barriers, but a length of skeletal remains ripped right through the rotting thigh of a corpse and tore through John's throat. Blood gushed from the wound for long enough to chill John, whether from the shock or the blood loss itself. His blade fell from his hand as his fingers started to go numb—but the wound finally closed as his vision began to dim, giving him back his senses and control. The corpse whose thigh had been torn stumbled and staggered his way, too close to evade.

The Fang of the New World launched itself skyward at a **** mental command, erupting from the ground below and striking the undead's skull with the pommel, rather than the blade. A miscalculation made by a mind clawing its way back to consciousness, but an effective one; the speed and weight of the blade cracked bone and toppled the creature backwards, its flailing arms grasping at the other monsters behind it, rather than John. John's sword flickered and wobbled in the air, the rune consuming most of his remaining mana bar in the brief activation. He lunged for the sword before it could fall again. His aim was off, and he missed the grip, but by some small miracle, his fingers caught enough of the guard and the flat of the blade to pull the sword toward him and grasp it properly with his left hand.

He took to the sky again as he fumbled to adjust his grip. This time, he chose to stay in the air, even as the undead below adapted and prepared to take to the skies or launch what parts of their rancid cadavers they could after him. Their numbers were thinning; if this wasn't the last wave, the last were likely in the process of digging themselves out. They were making what would be their final stand.

"So am I," John thought grimly. Visions of the others flashed in his mind, brought strength to his grip. It came as something of a shock to him to realize that he was still breathing—both very literally and only slightly less so. His heart was pounding, and he could feel the Shard of Bishamonten pulsing alongside it... but his breath was even, steady.

"Don't think like that. I'm the fucking Gamer. I have..." John resisted the urge to grimace as he glanced at his status.

"That's 895 more than I need to stay alive! The only hit point that matters is the last one!"

1,522 DMG!
-319 HP!
1,296 DMG!
1,431 DMG!
-287 HP!

Notifications flashed like little exploding stars as John swerved erratically through the sky, dodging what he could, powering through what he could not. The last of the dwindling corpses fell one by one, and this time, they did not rise. As the final writhing, necrotic creature tumbled to the ground and its wings began to rapidly decompose, John landed alongside it, his body and mind weary, his health all but gone. His breathing was even, but by this point, it did little to soothe him as shadows began to dance at the edge of his vision.

"Is it failing again? Am I about to pass out...? No. I'm not seeing things. Something is out there."

Footsteps, soft ones. Padding against the trampled grass of the endless cemetery. There were no obstacles to provide cover, only a single tree scattered here or there amid the array of gravestones, hardly wide enough to conceal a single person. Yet something was on the prowl.

Something that put the hair of his neck on end and moved like a ghost from one of his childhood nightmares.

He could hear breathing, and it wasn't just his own level, steady breaths. It was panting, ragged. Not exhausted, though. Excited. Frenzied. A beast ready for the hunt.

"These undead don't breathe like that. They barely breathe at all, except to moan and grunt. What's out there?"

John whirled as something behind him moved, but he saw only the tall grass stirring, with no sign of any mini-boss or missed undead minion to cause it. The wind swept over his skin and he spun again, blade cleanly slicing the open air. He could hear it now. Laughter. An unnatural laughter, a mirthful sound called forth from the maw of some great beast.

“You intrude. You dance upon the precipice… you dance too closely, little lamb.”

John's eyes narrowed, his bones grinding themselves against the metal of his blade's handle, fingers flexing instinctively. Something was in the air. A chill, a spectral haunting that put a primal fear deep in his bones. It was beyond the anxiety he felt, something more than his tattered mind struggling to keep going. It was-

He saw it, just for a moment, just in the corner of his vision. Something big. Something deadly, and faster than it had any right to be. It was on him in an instant. He whirled as the glint of fangs reached for his neck, but his blade passed through the shadow like smoke, and it faded before he could even look at it properly. His blade hit something, but it wasn’t whatever creature he had seen; all he heard was a metallic clang. Then he was alone again.

"You are well-versed in the ways of the hunter."

The voice again. It was ragged and strained, like a well-weathered man that had spent a few too many years smoking and shouting his youth away. But it wasn't a man. The shadow was back now, darting wildly at the edges of his vision. It sprinted on four legs, so fast he couldn’t get a proper look at it. He whirled, trying to follow its movements, but he could only ever catch glimpses, little-

Another lunge. John flailed wildly, only pure reflexes standing between him and what his mind was screaming was certain ****. A gaping maw engulfed him, passing over his blade harmlessly. Something resisted, something seemed to bounce off his strike, but he received no notification, and nothing about the creature’s body reacted to it as it dissipated against his skin. Its form simply flowed over him and vanished again, leaving a sickly, oily feeling against his skin.

The sensation sickened John in ways that he had never experienced before, left his body trembling in its wake. It felt like something beyond reality, something horrific in ways he couldn’t describe; just looking at the beast seemed to drain John in ways he couldn’t describe, but feeling it sweep over him was so much worse. This was no dungeon creature. It was a nightmare given the gift of speech without the humanity to impart on its words.

"But now... you're prey!"

Directly behind him, leaves rustled, branches shook—leaves that John knew weren't there, branches that existed only in his mind. John spun at the sound anyway, and for an instant, stood face-to-face with something he did not have the time to comprehend. A black shadow surged forward, washing over his body, dissipating at first, just as before, as though it were nothing more than mist... until a sharp pain lanced through his abdomen.

Glowing blue eyes met his, filled with a hunger that even the creatures of John's nightmares had never possessed. A terror set into John as he saw those eyes, one that had his arms flailing wildly before he even conceived of the idea to strike at them.

1,429 DMG!
-592 HP!
1,317 DMG!
1,938 DMG!
-217 HP!
2,198 DMG!

Shard of Bishamonten: 25% Transcendence Achieved.

Then John blinked, and at once, the shadow was gone. In its place stood a **** Knight... or, rather, the remains of one. Its legs had fallen to the ground, cleaved away by his wild strikes. Its body had fared similarly, with most of its chest now lying in shards upon the ground, shattered ribs and vertebrae that looked more crushed than sliced apart. Only its head, neck, and enough of a shoulder to hold those parts in place remained, held aloft by the grip it held on the hilt of its greatsword, itself in turn anchored... anchored in his... where its... blade was...

Status Effect Gained: [Dying]

Mini-Boss defeated, Dungeon complete [Level 75]!
+9,375 EXP [+25 EXP from Perks]
+$37,500 ($18,750 + 100% from Perks)
+39 Phylactery Shards
+211 Grave Dust
+̸1̶ ̸M̵a̵r̵k̵e̶d̷ ̶b̴y̸ ̸E̷r̶e̵s̶h̷k̸i̷g̷a̷l̴

The Barrier faded along with John's vision. The sound of his sword clattering to the marble floor of the Order's manor rang in his ears with all the distant clamor of a baseball landing on a far-off tin roof. He saw the room spinning around him, but he didn't feel the impact, nor did he find himself particularly concerned. Visions of red and black danced in his eyes. Hands he could not feel clutched at his armor. Voices were raised, but too muffled to make out.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I fucked up."

His own words. Were they heard anywhere but his own mind? He couldn't tell; he could no longer feel his lips, and the golden light filling his eyes stripped away even the blurred reactions of those kneeling over him, until even that light began to fade...

...And all he was left with was darkness.

"It's cold," he thought numbly. He tried to move, and he couldn't tell if he succeeded, or not. He couldn't even tell if he had a body anymore. It felt as if he were drifting in an endless void, one without direction, without purpose.

"Is this what it feels like to... to end?"

"I do not know.