The creature walked, slowly but surely, his footsteps leaving only a dull thump behind. He breathed in as he walked, consuming the thin demonic qi that leaked off the demonic mountain. It powered his initial-purification fiend body just enough to bring it to a group of pines, whose inhabitants ignorantly chattered away as it placed its clawed hand on the sappy red bark. The color where it touched faded, and the tree cracked. The squirrels and birds, initially indignant at his presence, began dying. Only the smartest among them flew to another tree branch.
One tree, many lives. Two trees, many more. Two became three, and three became many. One by one, a carpet of darkness expanded around him, swallowing lesser spirit beasts in his wake. A boar charged toward it, cutting deep into his body before ultimately being swallowed by him. Birds followed suit, plunging at him as directed by the sovereign of the mountain. For they would never stoop so low as to challenge him, weak as he was. A mistake, he knew. Demons often made mistakes like these when dealing with his kind.
Wave after wave of demons swarmed toward him, and though the swarm didn’t harm him, it slowed him greatly. Annoyed, he fought back. In response, the waves increased in intensity, and before long, he could take it no longer. He dissociated into nothingness, leaving behind only a black stain on the forest floor. All stood still.
A mountain lion, the sovereign of the mountain, let out a sigh of relief from her perch in a nearby tree. She had been watching the dark creature, praying to her ancestors that it didn’t head her way. The creature felt ancient and terrible. And worse, she knew nothing about it. It was weak, so it wouldn’t be honorable to face off against him. Yet that weakness conflicted with the sense of danger it gave her. It was a rare moral dilemma, a question of honor that couldn’t be ignored.
Fortunately, all was well now. Her minions had destroyed it in roughly thirty seconds, and there would be peace once again. Or would there be? Her eyes narrowed as a cluster of black stains, remnants of the creature, merged together in a puddle of black ooze. It writhed violently, black horns poking out and stabbing creatures that had moved back into their homes. Endless moments passed as an arm poked out, then another, then two legs. A large horn sprouted on its forehead, and its eyes, blacker than the deepest shadows, opened.
The creature lashed out, horns shooting out from its back in every direction. Tiny tentacles of blackness touched the nearby forest dwellers, draining their life in an instant. The mountain lion called out orders, rallying her lords to the cause. They ran from their dwellings, and on her orders, slayed the foul beast once again. It only took thirty-one seconds to down their fierce opponent.
Only a single black stain remained, but the sovereign dared not trust it. Like clockwork, it wriggled and reformed, coalescing into the fearsome creature from before. The lords pounced again, and they defeated it easily. This time, it took thirty-two seconds.
Far in the Southern lands, a man lay dying. The infected wound on his side sent pain lancing through his entire body with every breath. It was a welcome pain, for it told him he hadn’t yet passed. Anything was better than what awaited him, even the agonizing seconds before his demise.
It served him right, he supposed. He never should have left. Things might have been different then. At the very least, he wouldn’t have been killed like a common criminal. Death would have come for him anyway, but through it, he might have gained something greater: immortality.
Only the Spirit Temple could grant immortality, and even then, only to the worthy. He was a true believer. Life was unfair, the temple taught, and as such, it was full of suffering. The only way to transcend it was to embrace the suffering, embrace the regret of a life wasted. Only then could one become an evil spirit, free from the fleshly woes and carnal desires of the living.
Unfortunately for him, it took strength to do that. Not of body, but of spirit. As an acolyte of the Spirit Temple, he’d been pitted against the others like gu in a jar, killing each other until only the most poisonous remained. He’d thought himself strong, but a few days in, he’d been relieved of that notion.
He’d left the Spirit Temple that same day. Out the front door, no questions asked. The Temple didn’t punish deserters in the flesh but in the spirit. They simply waited till the parting, when shackled souls returned to their origins. There, they became fodder for true remnants, true believers with strong spirits and a need for vengeance. They were the core of the spectral community, the assassins that roamed the lands and the watchers that saw through all. They were the shepherds that consumed souls and saved the few members of the flock they could.
Spirits, what possessed me to steal that sword? he thought, the pain preventing his mind from wandering further. The wound on his side had festered, and black lines radiated outward from it, poisoning the rest of his body. Stealing the sword had seemed like a good idea; it had been right out in the open where anyone could take it. Unfortunately, someone had spotted him, and during the brief tussle with the merchant’s guards, he’d suffered a shallow cut to his side. The merchant must have also been a believer, for who else would arm their guards with poisoned weapons? The wound had festered that same night.
The man sighed—a sigh of regret for a life poorly lived. It was the sigh of a man who’d sworn oaths that shouldn’t have been. It was the sigh of a man who’d been dying, for life no longer
