FINAL CORE - Chapter 64 (Patreon)

What is ‘holiness’?

Is it the warm, reassuring love of the sun that would cascade down over us in bountiful grace, day after day, after day?

Is it the tender, gentle kiss of the moonlight, coating us in an ethereal essence, which is much the same as the graceful love of a departed spirit — Pale, yet full of warm intent.

Or is it perhaps the more material gestures of a species towards one another? Are these things holy?

Is a hug holy, if done to convey deep affection? What of a kiss, meant to present the passions of love?

— Is ‘love’ holy?

Or is holiness simply a term that is used to define the actions of entities that creatures, as simple as I myself am, are not able to understand?

Like an infant, being read a poem in its crib, it can never hope to understand the words being said by its keeper. Yet, it would watch and listen, it would reach and grab and babble. But it would never understand the graceful depths being bestowed upon it.

It does not have the faculties required. This poem, this presence of a mother or a father, are these then, for this metaphorical child, holy?

If so, then are we all simply the same?

In this world of ours, are we the babbling infants, reaching with our small, chubby fingers up towards the stars that shine with such a bright, jovial luminescence, thinking that they are powerful, immense, holy things?

— When perhaps in reality, they, the stars, are merely the decorations that adorn the mobile above our cribs?

I can not say.

The real thing of beauty, the real holiness of this life, is something that we can never truly view. We simply do not have the eyes for it.

~ Thoughts of a random philosopher, sitting in a meadow and staring up towards the sun.

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The humans are still in the process of reorganizing after the events of the night before. Between the misfortune that befell them all and the message from the heavens, delivered by a messenger of the color of blood, many of the soldiers have entirely lost the will and the drive to fight. Hundreds of them have declared not only their unwillingness to fight, but to go as far as they need to in order for this declaration of insubordination to remain standing.

Isaiah knows the ways of the human world.

These men and women who deny their sworn duty now in the face of this higher presence before themselves will, nonetheless, be cut down by the men and women who wear clothes of the same fabric and color as they do.

True faith, true belief.

It is sure that there are many others amongst them who feel the same, but who lack the courage or the freedom of other obligations to die for their principles.

— This will not be allowed to happen.

Isaiah stands on the tower.

It has no dominion itself over the lands beyond the island. But it does have the uthra and a few abilities that will allow it to see its will done.

They, these men and women of principle, will like any criminal or refuge, find their place of sanctity here.

On a more pragmatic note, it would be very useful indeed to have trained, experienced human soldiers here. It is not unreasonable to think that a lot has changed in human society since it was a part of it and this includes such abstract concepts as military doctrines.

Having more information is always a good thing.

But for now, until everything is ready. There are other things to do.

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Floor Eighty of the tower is an outward extension, another new floating island that sits to the side. It is a peaceful thing that is somewhat removed from the rest of the tower. It’s like a garden, secluded in the air, far from any distant problems of the living world below.

Birds sing, the sun shines and a cool wind chases away the heat of the afternoon.

The tower has changed a lot in form. Starting from the ground with its cylindrical base, it rises up to the sky until it begins to branch out to the left and to the right with these complex bridges, extensions, islands and sub-towers.

Like a bolt of lightning, there are growths and some of these veer off into very different directions.

[Floor-Eighty]{Boss Room}

The Wishing Tree

An impossibly large, strong tree sits in the middle of the floor. It is flush with thick, fat fruit that appears to be very enticing to eat. Ribbons of many colors adorn the tree, hand-writing covering each one of them to describe a secret wish.

Boss Arena: In order to proceed, the tree must be climbed and a ribbon with a wish to ascend to the next floor must be placed on a branch of the very tall tree. It must be climbed and a branch reached, without the adventurer being tempted by any of the poison fruit.

If they fail, the boss-monster will be revealed and must instead be challenged to proceed.

Capacity: {01} Boss

[Poison Fruit]

A beautiful piece of exotic fruit that is extremely enticing. The hungrier a person is for food, for wealth or for power, the more delicious it will appear to be.

Effect: If consumed, applies status [FORBIDDEN KNOWLEDGE] and activates the boss-arena for the person who eats it. For everyone else, the room will appear the same. The fruit will also apply a chaotic array of status effects.

[FORBIDDEN KNOWLEDGE]: You see what others do not, this does not equate to being a blessing.

[The Gluttonous Serpent and the Tree of Heads]

A massive serpent that is wound around the great tree. It has eyes like poison emeralds and fangs like a hydra’s. The serpent is an extremely aggressive creature that will remain wound around the tree, but will lash out and strike with terrifying speed.

The tree itself will change from a kind, beautiful thing to a withered, lashing, barren thing. All of the fruit will fall, revealing themselves to be severed heads.

 This boss is only activated when a person is afflicted with forbidden-knowledge, and can only be seen by them.

Boss tactics: Combined Phase: The boss only has one phase. The serpent will poison and consume anyone it can catch and the tree will begin to cast an array of harrowing spells, each of the heads acting as a source of magic.

Secret encounter tactic: A ribbon can be strung around one’s own wrist with a wish to be spared from harm.

Isaiah nods.

It is an unusually dark concept for the tower. But perhaps this is not a bad thing? After all, all faiths and religions tell stories of dark things, do they not? In order to remind those who follow them what may happen, should one stray from the paths of virtue and goodness.

[New Area Added]

Floor {90}

The ninetieth floor of the tower dungeon. It is currently empty.

Capacity: {182} Monster-Points, 08 TRAPS

(The next sub-boss/challenge room will be available in {05} floors!)

(The next boss arena will be available in {10} floors.)

It’s almost time. Floor one-hundred.

So far, the adventurers have been advancing well, but only until the forties. It is odd, but Isaiah does find that it is enjoyable to watch them grow stronger, even if they are, as Red would put it, the enemy.

But perhaps it is not beneficial to think in such terms?

After all, they all strive for life just the same, no?

A pair of wings fly in. Beige. How unusual. Usually Beige is always tagging along with Black and Magenta.

“Yes?” asks Isaiah, holding out a hand. Beige stares at it, fumbling around somewhat awkwardly for a moment, unsure. Isaiah nudges its hand further somewhat and Beige lands down on it.

“B-black told me to get you,” says Beige, lowering its gaze.

Isaiah nods. “Thank you, Beige. For what?”

Beige shakes its head, not responding with more than that. Isaiah has not interacted with this uthra as much as it should have, perhaps. But it would seem that Beige is a little shy, or nervous.

“Very well. I’ll go see.” It lifts its hand, letting Beige fly back into the air. “Show me the way.”

The two of them fly off of the tower and head towards the south-eastern edge of the island.

_______________________________________

This is the unmistakable tinge of evil.

It is not an evil born out of such things as simple greed or anger, but is rather an evil that stems from a much deeper, darker place. It is a place that, amongst all beasts, only the human-animal has access to.

Isaiah and Beige have arrived at the edge of the island, where Black and several of the other uthra have gathered.

“- I mean, fuck me,” says Red, leaning back and away. “That’s fucked. God damn.” The uthra winces, which Isaiah does not find unusual for her to do in this particular situation. “I mean… shit.” She lets out a sharp exhalation and then looks away, holding her hand in front of her eyes.

“We were keeping the water from the ocean in check,” says Black, covered in grime from his work. With Magenta next to him, her clothes, rare for an uthra, also dirtied. “Then we uh… we found this. It was sticking out of some loose dirt.”

Revolting.

Isaiah feels a tinge in its gut. It is the familiar sensation of nausea that it had not felt since it was a human. It is a nausea born of an understanding of what it sees, a sight that something like a bird could never understand.

— Unholiness.

Isaiah bends down, reaching into the wet, soggy, broken crate that is filled with mutilated, living flesh.

To know that it shares this world with a creature that is not only capable, but also willing to engage in something like this… This goes beyond anything else. It goes beyond the spats and the death before. This is… This is worse than death.

It lays a hand on the thing inside — A disgusting thing with broken bones, folded in over themselves and healed together wrong. It has sewn lips, doing nothing to hide the streaks of water that leak out of itself. It has insects, gnawing on its self-regenerating exterior. It is a wretched, twisted thing of horror that does not scream. It gurgles.

The work of true, undeniable, malice.

Isaiah takes the strange thing, pulling it out of the broken crate.

This is too much. The witch, Perchta, the fetid malignancy that she is in this world, must be removed.

— It can not afford to look away any longer.

Isaiah rises into the air, holding the wronged creature, as it looks down towards the uthra. “Cease all of your work immediately,” orders Isaiah. “Fly in groups of four. Never alone.” It looks at them with an intensity in its eyes. “- Find the witch.”

The uthra look at each other and nod, silently sorting themselves into groups of their own design and then fly off without a word. Isaiah does the same, carrying something wet and soft back towards the tower.