CHAPTER 80: SPIRIT CORPSES (1).

The gentle rustling of leaves and the sound of fetid water running against the rocks on the riverbed was drowned out by the sound of steel ringing.

With a heavy grunt, Garrick’s broadsword carved through the lead Brandor’s shoulder, splitting the corrupted flesh apart.

The creature shrieked and stumbled backward.

Black ichor sprayed from the wound, hissing as it struck the earth. Its disproportionate arms swung wildly, claws raking the air where Garrick’s head had been a moment before.

"Geor! Cover me!" Garrick roared.

The large farmer shifted his rusty shield, catching the Brandor mid-lunge. The impact drove him back two steps, his boots skidding into the mud. His face twisted with exertion as he shoved forward, using the shield’s edge to bash the creature’s oversized skull. Its skull was dented as it staggered but didn’t fall.

There were too many of them.

Six, maybe seven could be seen. Garrick could tell there were even more in the trees and shrubbery.

The pack had surrounded the party in seconds, emerging from the underbrush like they had been there all along, simply lying in wait.

Garrick’s mind was filled with dark thoughts as he parried another strike,

’Shit! Fuck! Damn it! Damn it all!’

Brandors were pack hunters, Grade F but they usually swarmed in numbers. However, it was quite rare to encounter them, with most of them wiping out every Hunter they came across. A few months ago, the Templars had led a crusade into the forest to carry out a culling that had massively impacted their numbers.

From the looks of it, the local population had already begun to recover in just a few months.

The Abominations were far more coordinated than others. But they were not swarm creatures.

"Stay together!" Garrick yelled out again. "Don’t let them separate us!"

Aisha’s crossbow thrummed. A bolt buried itself in a Brandor’s eye. The creature dropped, twitching. But two more took its place, their thin bodies weaving from the trees with unsettling speed.

Lammy swung her broadsword in wide arcs, keeping two Brandors at bay. Sweat poured down her face as she roared back at Garrick,

"Garrick, what do we do now?!"

Garrick gritted his teeth. Surviving a Brandors attack was so difficult solely because of their numbers. When one was killed, another would quickly take its place. The creatures had the ability to crush the skull of a human easily with a single blow too.

"We’ll draw back slowly!"

Lammy gritted her teeth as her broadsword sheared through the heads of the two Brandors.

With his machete, Garrick cut off the arm of a Brandor. As the creature shrieked in pain, grasping at the emptiness left behind, he abruptly took its head off in one clean stroke.

His eyes scanned all around, desperate to find an opening to escape from.

That was when his eyes found Lawson in the chaos...

Lawson stood slightly apart from the group, bow drawn but not firing.

Garrick watched as his hands trembled, as though he was struggling against some inner demon.

His face was twisted into something ugly, something that went beyond mere fear

It was hatred.

Pure, seething hatred.

A hatred so potent, it was given physical form, radiating off of him in waves.

"Lawson!" Garrick barked. "Get your head in the fight!"

But Lawson didn’t respond. He just stood there, bow still raised.

Then his neck twisted sharply.

His eyes locked onto Garrick with an intensity that made the hairs on the back of Garrick’s neck stand up.

Something was wrong.

Something was very wrong.

A Brandor lunged at Obed. The slender man twisted, short swords flashing. One blade opened the creature’s throat. The other punched through its thin torso in quick succession. It collapsed in a heap, but Obed was already moving, spinning to face the next threat.

Garrick blocked another strike. The Brandor roared and pressed forward, its massive arms hammering down again and again. Stabbing his blade into the ground, Garrick coldly smashed a gloved fist forward.

The face of the Abomination caved in and a moment later, its skull turned inside out, brain matter and blood spraying from behind as it collapsed to the ground.

Garrick spat out disgustedly. Then he turned his attention back to Lawson.

That was when he saw it.

Lawson’s eyes had gone completely black.

Not just the pupils— his entire eye.

Black from edge to edge, like pools of ink had replaced the whites and irises. His mouth hung open slightly, drool sliding down his chin. His bow lay on the ground beside him and his fingers had begun to twitch erratically.

"Lawson?" Garrick’s voice came out strangled.

The archer’s head turned.

Slowly.

Like something was puppeteering him from the inside.

And then he smiled.

Garrick felt his body jump out of his skin. What he had just bore witness to, was perhaps the wrongest thing he had ever seen. The smile stretched wide, pulling the skin of Lawson’s face taut until it looked ready to split. The black eyes gleamed with endless insanity.

"Fuck you, Garrick," Lawson said.

But it wasn’t Lawson’s voice.

It was multiple voices speaking in unison— some high, some low, some gruff and some quaint. They all spoke the same words, perfectly synchronized.

"Fuck you, Garrick."

Lawson clawed at his face, drawing thick bloody lines.

Then he charged.

Garrick barely had time to raise his sword. Lawson moved with impossible speed, closing the distance in a heartbeat. His hands grabbed for Garrick’s throat.

Garrick twisted, bringing his broadsword up. The flat of the blade caught Lawson in the chest, stopping his momentum. But the archer didn’t react to the impact. He just kept coming, fingers clawing at Garrick’s face, that too-wide smile now turning into a vicious, furious expression.

"Lawson! Stop!"

But there was no Lawson left to hear him.

Garrick’s expression was dark.

He knew what this was.

He had seen it happen countless times.

’Fuck!’

The evil spirits that roamed the world, unable to go to both heaven or hell, were envious of the living. They hated them as they were forced to exist in unending despair and agony.

Because of this, they were fond of possessing the living. However, for the most part, possession was not easy.

Unless, of course, a seed of darkness had already begun to sprout.

The Evil Spirits could the latch onto that seed and spread their sin, completely corrupting the soul of the possessed.

Smashing his fist into Lawson’s midsection, he followed up with a backhand blow, sending him flying.

Then he turned his gaze.

Geor had dropped his shield and was clutching his head, eyes partially shut. Blood seeped from his nose. Behind him, a Brandor circled, preparing to strike.

Aisha had fallen to her knees. Her crossbow lay forgotten in the mud. She stared at her hands with an expression of pure horror, watching as the skin seemed to ripple and writhe.

"They’re in me," she whispered. " Help me. They’re in me they’re in me they’re—"

Lammy swung her sword at nothing. Her eyes were wild, unfocused. She turned in circles, striking at enemies that weren’t there. A Brandor approached from behind, jaws opening wide.

Fog was rolling in...

It came from nowhere and everywhere at once.

Unnatural was its flow as It moved against the wind, climbing upward from the river in tendrils that seemed almost alive. Within seconds, visibility dropped to mere feet.

The world had become grey and muffled.

And in the fog, something stirred.

Garrick felt cold fingers brush the back of his neck.

He spun, sword raised. Nothing was there.

He groaned as Lawson tackled him with enough force to knock his wind out.

He was a much larger mand than Lawson was, so it was particularly unnatural. However, the possessed had no need for rhyme or reason.

They went down hard, Garrick’s back slamming into the mud.

Lawson’s hands found his throat and squeezed. Those black eyes stared down at him, filled with a neverending river of hatred and rage..

"You took it from me," the voices said through Lawson’s mouth. "You take everything. You’re just like them. Just like all of them. Greedy. Selfish bastards!"

Garrick’s vision began to grey at the edges. His hands scrabbled at Lawson’s wrists, trying to pry them loose. But the possessed man’s grip was like forged tongs of enchanted steel.

Through the fog, Garrick could hear the others dying.

The Brandors were feasting now. Garrick could hear the sounds of tearing flesh, of bones cracking. The pack had found easy prey in the party’s madness.

His consciousness was slipping. The pressure on his throat was like a vice’s grip. The darkness filled his vision.

And behind Lawson, in the swirling fog, something moved.

It was tall. Impossibly tall. Its form shifted and flickered like smoke. But Garrick could see parts of it— a skeletal hand reaching down, fingers ending in points like needles. A face that was all hollow eyes and a mouth full of teeth that went back and back and back forever.

It bent down, bringing its face close to Lawson’s ear.

And it whispered.

Lawson’s grip tightened. His fingernails dug into Garrick’s flesh, drawing blood.

"Die," the voices said. "Die die die die die—"

The world went dark.