Chapter 603: The Mortal

Garina didn’t have the slightest idea as to what Vermil could have been planning when he grabbed Crone’s head. Even with Decras’ magic, there was no power he possessed that had a chance of causing any real harm to the Apostle.

The moment Vermil tried to release an actual attack, Crone would kill him. The difference between their souls would be larger than the size of an ant and an elephant. There was simply no way to bridge that gap.

Could Renewal possess some ability that Vermil plans to call upon to kill Crone? No. She’s no more powerful than Decras — and even if she were, Vermil wouldn’t be able to harness that magic. His other runes are too weak to resist the pressure of such strength.

That means he’s planning on somehow outsmarting Crone?

Garina’s fists clenched at her sides. That was not a smart plan. Crone wasn’t exactly the most intelligent Apostle, but he was no fool. He couldn’t be fooled by a desperate mortal with no plan. If Vermil was planning to somehow fabricate evidence in his mind, it would fail.

And if he failed…

Garina’s stomach churned in fury and disgust. Her fingers twitched at her sides. It would have been easy to stride forward — to drive her pointed fingernails through the other Apostle’s eye and kill him on the spot before he could react.

But she couldn’t do that. Her honor would have died a painful death at the notion… and Crone knew it. She wasn’t sure if shame or honor would kill her first, but at the rate things were going, she was getting the sinking feeling that she was going to find out.

Damn it all. How did I get myself into this situation? Why did I agree to let Vermil do this? How far have I fallen from what I once was that I’m willing to risk so much just so I can have some damn peace?

Garina’s nails bit into her palms. Blood dripped down her fingers and fell to the ground of the burnt forest.

Then her thoughts missed a beat.

Something was wrong.

There should have been concern in the faces of the other mortals. Even if they weren’t the ones that were about to be forced to humiliate themselves, they had to know that Vermil would not be making it out of this alive if he lost the bet.

Crone was going to take him to the rest of the Apostles, and they would bring him to Decras. No mortal was going to survive a meeting with a god.

But in the face of all of that, the only one of Vermil’s allies that looked concerned was the old man.

And that didn’t add up in the slightest. Garina was not blind. She’d always prided herself on being observant. Vermil and Moxie were clearly more than just friends. But Moxie — the one that should have been the most worried — looked more relaxed now than she had when Garina had arrived.

Lee shared a similar expression, and it wasn’t one that fit the situation in the slightest. It was not the expression of one whose friend was about to be killed.

It was the one of someone who knew they had already won.

What’s going on? Are they fools? They can’t possibly believe that Vermil is actually going to get the upper hand over Crone. There’s no universe that a Rank 4, no matter who he is, will be able to match souls against a Rank 7. ṝ

That means they think Vermil was actually telling the truth. But that isn’t possible. He had to have been lying. Vermil is a mortal. Nothing he claimed could have been true. So what am I missing?

Crone twitched in Vermil’s grip. His expression shifted, screwing up as if in agony, and Garina’s eyes went wide.

A droplet of blood ran down from his nose. It traced across his lips as if in slow motion, continuing down across his face.

Garina’s gaze followed the drop as it beaded at the bottom of his chin and fell, landing on the ground with such an audible drip that she could have sworn it echoed in her ears.

What?

Crone’s eyes snapped open. They’d gone bloodshot and wild, darting around the clearing as if they were unable to comprehend what they saw. The Apostle ripped himself free of Vermil’s grasp and jerked to his feet, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to rise.

Vermil’s hands dropped to his sides and he stood as well. His features were unreadable. He simply watched as the Apostle, 3 ranks above him, gasped desperately for air as he re-grounded himself in the world.

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Confusion exploded through Garina’s mind. Something behind Crone’s eyes had changed. His pupils had dilated; his gaze was wide and vacant. He stared straight past all of them as if he were watching something that wasn’t there.

The Apostle didn’t even seem to notice the small river of blood tracing down from his nose and dripping from his chin.

“What are

you?” Crone rasped.

“That was never part of the question,” Vermil replied. He adjusted the collar of his jacket. “You lose, Crone. Admit it. I’m older than you.”

Crone could do nothing but let out an agonized, wheezing laugh. It seemed the full control of his senses hadn’t returned to him yet.

Vermil’s eyes narrowed. “Unless you still don’t believe me? I’d be happy to run through all of that with you a second time.”

“You… were telling the truth. I should not have lowered all my barriers and allowed a creature such as yourself into my mind,” Crone ground out. He wiped his face with the back of a hand and squeezed his eyes shut. When they opened again, much of his former self had returned. Much — but not all. “Someone like this… now I see. You chose a fragment of a monster as your disciple. What I saw was not of Decras, but that does not mean he does not possess Decras’ rune. This could still be the mortal that stole his rune. If you were willing to train an abomination like this, then you may have already turned your back on the rest of us.”

Garina stared in disbelief. The words hitting her ears echoed as they passed through their mind. Nothing made sense.

What the fuck am I watching? Did… Vermil win the bet? What happened in there? And what is he talking about? And what is this about a fragment of a monster, much less the other shit he’s saying?

“We’re not done here,” Vermil said, snapping his fingers. “Finish our bet first — unless you have no honor?”

“I have honor,” Crone snarled. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, his gaze re-focusing on Vermil. “We who follow in the Master’s footsteps have nothing but honor. It is our duty. You have three seconds, abomination. Choose your action. I will copy it. I do not know what you seek to achieve with this. Will you debase yourself?”

Vermil turned and strode over to Garina. He pointed at a dagger at her thigh and she wordlessly handed it over, still trying to understand what was going on. Vermil marched back to stand before Crone.

“Would you stop with your weird fetish shit?” Vermil demanded. “At this point, it almost seems like you’re hoping to do it, but don’t wrap me up in that. But, before we get started, what happens if you refuse?”

“What?” Crone’s features tightened in anger. “You insinuate I would be unable to do anything you commit yourself to? My resolve is unshakable. There is no humiliation too great—”

“Answer the question. What happens if you fail?”

The anger in Crone’s face turned to fury and he pounded a fist against an open palm. “It is impossible. I will do anything that you do. But if it will get you to finish this worthless discussion and get on with it, then fine. I will do whatever you ask of me. No restrictions or limits beyond turning my back on the Master. I will not betray him… though it matters not. I will not fail. My motion will mirror yours perfectly.”

“Good to hear,” Vermil said. He moved his hand, bringing Garina’s dagger up to his back so its handle lined up perfectly with the handle of Crone’s sword. “The three seconds begin now.”

“Pain does not scare me,” Crone said, taking his sword hilt in his hand. “Do as you will. You are only mortal. I am a follower of the Master. There is nothing you can do that I cannot.”

Vermil lifted Garina’s blade in a wide motion, then brought it to rest at the side of his neck.

“This should be fun, then,” Vermil said. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

Then, without another word, he carved through his own neck. The long dagger sliced through it in a single clean motion, sliding free of the other side even as the strength slipped from his body.

Garina’s mouth dropped open in abject disbelief.

Across from her, the elderly man’s eyes bulged in horror. He took a step forward, dropping his staff as he reached out to stop Vermil but nowhere near close or fast enough to move in time to have stopped him.

Vermil’s body pitched forward. It crashed to the ground, his head rolling and thumping as it bounced off his back and landed on the burnt ground beside the corpse, joining it in a growing pool of blood.

Crone did not move.

He stared at the corpse, the sword at the edge of his neck, lips parting.

“What?” he breathed, then in a higher tone, “What?”

Vermil had killed himself.

Madman.

Why would he do that? For the sake of his students? What level of conviction does it take to sever your own life like that?

“Do it,” Garina whispered. She swallowed. Her gaze sharpened. “Copy him, Crone. That was the bet.”

“I — I can’t do that,” Crone said, licking his lips. “What manner of fool kills themselves? That’s impossible to copy! I will not throw my life away for such a worthless task. What did he think he would get out of this? The deal was with him, not any of you. If the mortal is gone, then it—”

“Gone is a strong word.” A voice echoed through the forest.

Garina’s blood went cold just as her domain prickled in recognition. It should have been impossible, but her domain was not one that could be tricked so easily. There was no doubting what she felt — and she could tell by the look on Crone’s face that he felt it too.

She, along with everyone else in the clearing, spun.

Vermil strode out from the trees, as naked as the day he was born. He plucked a leaf from his hair and flicked it to the side, his eyes as cold as a dead sea.

Garina couldn’t help herself. She took a step back.

This didn’t make any sense. Vermil had definitely died. That hadn’t been an illusion. She’d felt him die… and she’d felt him return.

“You know, you keep calling me a mortal.” Vermil strode over to his corpse and lifted his own head by the hair. He pulled his own severed head’s mouth up into a grotesque smile with two fingers and shook it in disappointment before tossing it to the ground, where it rolled to a stop at Crone’s feet. “I don’t think you know what mortal means. Now, get on with it. Copy me as you promised to — or admit defeat. Which will it be?”