The ethereal membrane of the wings curled inward, wrapping around me like a cocoon spun for an insect. Within its warm, ghostly embrace, I felt a shift—a deep, rhythmic pulse within my soul core. It beat in time with my heart, radiating through every fiber of my body like waves of molten metal.
The sensation was unbearable. Every inch of me burned, as if I'd been flayed and pressed against a bed of fresh coals. My head snapped back under the weight of it, and I screamed.
At first, the sound tore out with raw, visceral force. But it didn't last. My voice collapsed into a gurgle as my vocal cords shredded, my throat flooding with blood.
The wings changed.
No longer just ghostly flame, they thickened into something more—flesh and blood twisting and knotting around me, blotting out the world. I expected darkness.
But instead, there was only white.
Blinding, sterile, and absolute.
I clenched my jaw and forced myself to focus. Beneath the pain, I could feel something happening—something beyond flesh and bone. The souls I had taken in were being smelted like raw ore, purified within the sacred furnace of my soul core. Memory, will, identity—all of it stripped away. Burned clean.
They were being prepared for rebirth.
And through it all, my own soul fed on the process. I drank in that raw, distilled essence, and it fueled my transformation.
Then—suddenly—a scream burst free. Not mine alone, but a release of everything I had carried: the rage, grief, longing, and love of the souls bound within me.
My wings exploded open.
The oily film above the arena rippled violently. Thin rips formed in its surface, and several contractors began to twitch and foam at the mouth—then collapsed outright. I felt one of them die, and their soul didn't rise. It was dragged downward, torn from the body by something far deeper than the lich or I.
The weight of maintaining the barrier pressed harder on the remaining contractors. Some of them now looked as lifeless as the undead they once controlled.
As for the lich—it recoiled.
It staggered back like a creature met with poison. And maybe that's what I was to it. We stood on opposite ends of the cycle—not just opposed, but incompatible. The lich was a perversion of life and death, a creature of stagnation and rot, devouring souls to halt rebirth. The contractors... they were something else. Their corruption bent the cycle but did not fully sever it. I couldn't say how their pact functioned, but it reminded me—dimly—of the bond I felt now with the god of rebirth.
I stretched my wings wide.
They were massive, longer than my own body—feathered like a bird's, clad in gleaming copper. As I moved them, embers drifted constantly from the feathers, a steady snowfall of fire. I tried to command them, but found no grip—no muscle memory. These wings weren't mine yet. Not fully. But instinct stirred. I followed it, letting the wings fold back behind me.
Thankfully—or maybe unfortunately—my armor had been ruined, offering no resistance as the wings settled against my back.
I rolled my shoulders and moved toward the lich, who in turn stepped back into the horde of dead it had gathered. Without a command, they all surged forward—not quite a jog, but close to it they stumbled and barely stood up right as they moved. Whatever skills and coordination they'd had in life were long lost or hidden from observation.
I lowered my blade to a low ready and delivered an upward diagonal slash. Like a hot knife through lard, I felt no resistance, allowing me to follow up with a downward slash on the next. From there, I cut and cut some more—body parts severed and fell away, only to turn to ash moments later.
I didn't feel overwhelmed by the number of bodies; my speed and strength let me easily carve holes through any encroachment they made. The only challenge was dodging the spells the lich launched at me, each one draining the vitality from the area it struck.
Only one of my feathers was lost—its color fading as it became feeble—but it was still frustrating to know I had to deal with the fodder before I could reach the lich. Despite my elevated body and power, the act of swinging my sword was still tiring. The blood of the corpses, though long dried, had no right to be as sticky and viscous as it was.
I felt my anger and hatred build with each strike. The blatant sacrilege displayed by this bony cunt pushed me over the edge.
I let out a guttural yell and forced my body further. I wasn't sure if it was my will alone or something special about the sword Kushim had thrown to me, but the blade began to heat—its surface glowing faintly. When I swung, the undead I slew hissed and cracked as they burned away.
Still, I saw no soul in any of their bodies. The only true way to free the lich's victims was to kill it directly.
It was a long time before I seized the chance. After cutting down another of the dead, I caught sight of the lich's golden adornments on one of the corpses that had gathered near me at the start. With a burst of strength, I launched myself forward—legs and wings propelling me like a missile. The sweep of my wings carved through anything foolish enough to stand in the way.
I slammed into the lich, shoulder-checking it hard. It staggered back, but that didn't stop it from casting even as it fell. I dodged one spell, but the other struck me square in the chest. A chilling sensation robbed me of heat, numbing my limbs for a heartbeat before I forced myself back into motion. I didn't let it stop me—I advanced, pressing the attack.
My blade found its mark, biting into the lich's arm and snapping the forearm cleanly. It swiped at me with its other hand—missed—but I felt a deep instinct warning me not to let those fingers touch me.
From there, the fight turned into a close-quarters melee. I had the advantage. The lich, for all its power, relied on its spells and the undead around it. I couldn't afford to get hit—it still felt like it might be hiding some other trick—but I remained confident.
Soon, it was on the ground, looking up at me. Its body lay in tatters, its gilded armor shattered and fallen away, revealing a naked skeleton covered in carved runes. I raised my sword high—like a true executioner.
The remaining zombies lunged to protect their master, but they were too slow. Even the goblin, with its enhanced body, was nothing more than a hollow doll now.
I didn't waste another moment. I swung down, shattering the lich's skull into dozens of jagged pieces.
What struck me, though, was how it just… gave up at the end. I mean, sure, it had run out of options. But still. Did I truly overpower it that thoroughly? Or was there something it saw—or didn't see—that made it stop fighting?
I watched as its body collapsed into black dust. Then, suddenly, my vision was consumed by the countless souls that burst forth. They rushed toward me all at once—it was beyond overwhelming. I felt drunk, high, dizzy, like my senses were being pulled in every direction.
I had to plant my sword into the ground just to steady myself.
I wasn't sure how long it lasted, but by the end, I was drenched in more sweat than during the fight itself.