Apocalypse Healer - Path of Death-Chapter 42B2 - Cohorte
Three days earlier, farther away…
William sat atop the Venocria, his expression souring at the sight unfolding before him. The Venocria impatiently flapped its long, leathery wings, but he shook his head.
“It’s not yet time,” he growled, the tension in the air palpable. “You know what happens to those who disobey my command.”
The last part was more of an established fact than a warning. He did not have full control of the Cohorte, but they were bound to him. Disobeying his command would strip them of the power he had given them. For most creatures, that wouldn’t be a problem, but beings like the Venocria—monsters that had evolved from a Common Seer Bat—would fall apart and disintegrate.
Or, more likely, they would die on the spot. Breaking the Bond would trigger the Mark etched into their Souls. It would incinerate the creatures' Souls or harm them permanently if they were strong enough to endure the Soul Burn.
Regardless, William didn’t need to do anything to activate the Mark. Once etched into the targets’ Souls in exchange for promises of power—or other boons on rare occasions—all he had to do was give commands. The Venocria stiffened and floated above the Sanctuary, or what was left of it after the Cohorte circled and invaded the System Sanctuary.
Residents, made up of half a dozen—probably more—different races, ran for their lives, but they had nowhere to go. He spotted a young human man charging at one of the humanoid Witherlings with a flame-wreathed sword and sighed. The man removed one of the Witherling’s three heads, surprising William a little, but the Witherling responded by depriving the swordsman of his sword arm. He studied the man from a distance as he screamed, staring at what was left of his arm—a tiny stump that bled like a gutted pig.
The screams ceased in an instant. The Witherling didn’t hesitate to tear off the man’s head before consuming it. William watched the Witherling’s main head crunch on the man’s skull from afar and shook his head in disgust as the third head started to feast on the dead body.
More shrieks, desperate and pleading, resounded, but William could only watch. No. He could also retract the Cohorte and change his target, but Zephir would not condone such an act. His Master would not consider it an act of mercy. On the contrary, he would punish him—maybe even kill him—for being cowardly. For being too afraid to enrage the Pantheon.
He watched the natives collapse, green mist oozing from their bodies. Tendrils of mist drifted from all over the Sanctuary toward him, while the rest surged toward the monsters of his Cohorte—or toward the natives and Aether-affine creatures that struggled to their feet even after dropping dead. They resurrected, transforming into the undead, but they didn’t resemble normal Infected. Their skin was venomously green, dirty mist oozed from their bodies, and their eyes glowed eerily. Though they had died mere moments ago, they were also forced into submission within seconds.
As for those who resisted the Mark, William made no attempt to persuade them.
He willed the newest members of the Cohorte to kill and consume them, absorbing their strength. As for the unfortunate ones who were never graced with resurrection, William chose to treat their corpses with the respect they deserved—the same respect Zephir would show them. He let the mist do its work, disintegrating the corpses and transforming them into a liquid that seeped through the cobbled streets into the ground, corroding the land.
The streams of green mist entered his body, fueling the Venomized Reservoirs, but William didn’t store the power. He glanced at the notification blinking to life in the corner of his vision and amplified his Skill Runes.
“Fly lower,” he commanded the Venocria.
The monster obeyed at once, lowering its altitude to skim just above the Sanctuary, revealing up close the terror William’s Cohorte was causing.
Some Protectors were doing a good job of defending their lives.
A pack of Blight Kobolds charged at the Protectors, their clubs smashing against the defenders’ shields, their claws scraping their armor. The Protectors were forced into retreat, but magical projectiles and augmented arrows whistled past the defenses, tearing through the Blight Kobolds one by one. The tide of the small battle shifted as the Kobolds fell, and William watched in silence as the Protectors’ expressions lit up.
The Blight Kobolds died like flies, and it did not take long before the last one dropped dead. Only one Protector—a defender who had grown overconfident—fell when he pushed forward to face the last of the Blight Kobolds without sufficient support. The group’s Cleric tried to save their fallen comrade, but the victorious smiles vanished as the defender suddenly pounced on her, sinking his teeth deep into her neck.
William heard no scream as the woman died. However, the other Protectors screamed and shouted, and one of them responded quickly, embedding two arrows into their heads. The Venin Infected died—for good this time—on the spot. However, the miasma oozing from the Blight Kobolds’ corpses had spread. The Protectors didn’t seem to notice the miasma—at least, not until it was too late.
William shook his head and turned away to study the Sanctuary’s situation. More monsters joined the Cohorte, but he was still not satisfied. Their numbers were great, but William could not help but think that their strength was lacking.
Spiders would have been much easier, he grumbled inwardly. Empowering the broodmothers was enough to create an army of decently strong creatures, but who was he to find fault in his Master’s plan? He was but a pawn, and he acted accordingly.
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The remaining residents and Protectors fell back as monsters flooded the alleys and streets, slowly driving them toward the Panthea. No more than half an hour passed before all survivors were confined in the Panthea. The only thing separating them from the ferocious monsters and the mist that flooded the Sanctuary’s streets was the Sacred Dome.
William whistled, and the Venocria moved. It pressed its wings tightly against its body and shot toward the ground in an instant. The leathery wings swung open in their glory, slowing their dive as they reached the ground. A simple yet smoothly executed maneuver through the Sanctuary brought them toward the wide-open plaza where hundreds of monsters were already waiting for him. William jumped from the Venocria’s back and landed softly on a Mutant Giant Infected.
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“Poor souls,” William muttered, devoid of mercy. He straightened his robe and strode slowly toward the entrance to the Panthea, studying the Protectors in glee. While the residents looked like they were about to collapse from fear at any moment, some Protectors stared at him in hatred. Did they know he was the aggressor—the pest that was going to eradicate them all? William shrugged at the thought. It was of no importance. Not really. The Protectors would not live to tell the tale either way.
Unsurprisingly, one of the dwarves charged him. He rushed outside the Panthea with intriguing speed—probably a Skill Rune increasing the dwarf’s speed for a moment—but William did not move. A tingling sensation appeared in the back of his head when the dwarf shouted at him, but it was too weak to attract his attention.
The dwarf swung his mace at him, and William felt the Bond of the Cohorte tensing. William lifted two fingers in a lighthearted manner, and a wall of acid burst out of the cobbled street. The dwarf screamed as he charged through the wall, catching William’s attention. That was… foolish, he thought, shaking his head as the mace melted before his eyes. The dwarf’s skin and flesh followed, and the Protector had yet to reach him when his sizzling bones fell to the ground.
“Idiot,” he hissed. Then again, this wasn’t a new reaction. This kind of response to his invasion shouldn’t surprise him anymore. But he could not help himself. Every time he encountered a Protector consumed by rage, William wondered how they had survived to become Protectors. Or how they had reached the Peak of the Bronze Rank, occasionally also the Silver Rank, when they behaved like lowly beasts.
The monsters around him stirred, and a small pack inched closer and pushed past him, snapping toward the Panthea, but William stopped them with a mental command. Most obeyed immediately, but one of the larger creatures, an Undead Giant, did not. William felt the Mark burn the Undead Giant’s Soul as its massive club cleaved downward, hitting an invisible wall—the Sacred Dome surrounding the Panthea.
“I willed you to stop,” William snapped. “That was not a request. It was an order!”
The Undead Giant turned, its killing intent directed at him.
William cocked an eyebrow. His lips parted, and the whisper of a Word of Power escaped his lips.
“Die.”
It sounded like the hiss of a serpent as it resounded in his ears, yet the Word of Power belonged to him. It was a gift, but it felt more like a punishment. The nightmare—all of it—began with the Words of Power, after all. William winced, thinking back to that time, but his eyes remained cold as the Undead Giant’s features contorted.
The monster’s killing intent dispersed instantly, only for its head to burst apart, drenching the surroundings in brain matter and venomous miasma.
The Undead Giant dropped to the ground. Not even a second later, the first monster arrived before the corpse, gnawing on the giant’s tenacious flesh.
William looked at the creatures in disgust as more and more monsters of the Cohorte charged at the corpse, pushing others aside to claim a piece of the Undead Giant and its miasma. However, his disgust quickly gave way to a thin smile as he turned to the men and women trembling behind the Sacred Dome. Some had seemed strong and composed just moments ago, but their confidence quickly faded.
“I give you one chance at survival. Grant me free entry to the Panthea, and I will let you leave,” William offered. He knew the offer was generous. The Panthea might be protected now, but it would not last forever. Either the Protectors and residents would forsake their gods and live to tell the tale, or they would remain loyal and learn the bitter truth of their beloved Pantheon. William liked both ideas.
Nobody moved behind the Sacred Dome. They kept staring at him, fear and hatred burning in their eyes. William walked past the monsters feasting on the giant corpse and pressed his hand firmly against the translucent barrier that protected the Panthea from the greatest harm.
“I will swear an Oath if you cannot trust me,” he added, watching as some residents stirred. Unfortunately, all he received in response were curses.
Looks like I won’t be able to feast on as much Divinity as expected, he thought with a sigh.
“I gave you a chance. It’s not my fault nobody took it,” William shrugged, turning to the Cohorte and hissing, “Attack!”
The Cohorte responded immediately. Its monsters lunged at the Panthea from all sides, clawing, kicking, and biting the translucent barrier, while William stepped back, watching terror flood the eyes of those who finally realized they were about to die. He ignored their screams and scoffed as they ran toward the Panthea’s main temple—as if that would change anything. It was to no avail. William knew better. The Pantheon would not protect them.
If anything… William mused, his attention drifting to a Blight Kobold slipping through a small gap in the dome. It shrieked excitedly, rushed toward the nearest survivors, and attacked. More Kobolds and other monsters followed, tearing the gap wider. At first, the opening expanded, but it wasn’t long before it collapsed entirely.
The failure of the barrier, which was meant to protect the Pantheon’s most devout followers, brought a smile to William’s face.
“That’s what you get for trusting the Pantheon,” he spat at the residents, who stared at the flood of monsters in horror. Some froze, while others continued to run. But there was nowhere to run.
The residents may not have been responsible for weakening—no, removing—the Sacred Defense Dome, but the gods certainly were. One—or more likely, multiple—transcendent beings of the Pantheon must have retracted their Divinity, weakening the dome.
What a shame— William would have loved to devour more. Still, some of the gods’ Divinity remained. They couldn’t retract everything. Not right away, at least. While it wasn’t the best-case scenario, it was good enough to nurture and expand his army. And, of course, to grow stronger himself.
But he couldn’t devour the Divinity right away. The Sanctuary had to be conquered first—only then could he claim his prize.
“You did well, my youngest.”
Zephir’s voice rumbled in William’s head, making him shudder.
His Master was always present—everywhere, at all times. But that didn’t ease the tension and fear bubbling deep inside him whenever Zephir spoke.
“Your next target,” Zephir hissed, and the image of another settlement formed in William’s mind. One more Sanctuary. But something about the image was odd. William could see a Familia, but there was no Panthea. And most surprisingly, the Sanctuary was surrounded by towering walls armed with watchtowers. It shouldn’t have been surprising, but the towns and Sanctuaries he and his Cohorte had destroyed hadn’t been protected by walls.
“A Sanctuary created by one of my friends.”
Zephir had friends? That was a greater surprise than the walls and towers.
“Obliterate it. You’re near it. Closer than my Child. My Child is on the way to remove the Fool. He is also there, but I want you to finish the dwarves first. Claim the Rift and sacrifice the Core to me!”
William shuddered as his Master’s desires and emotions flooded him. Greed. Impatience. Anger?
“Once you’re done, end the Healer!”
