FINAL CORE - Chapter 65 (Patreon)

Where does one begin to untangle the knot of time?

What do we know? What do we think that we know? And are these things even the truth?

I can not say.

We look back at the history of our world and see clear definitions written in the lines of the books we were taught as children and in the books that we ourselves now teach our own children. But, in truth, how do you know that what is in the books is not ‘correct’, but rather, true?

History is written by the winners, after all.

Generation after generation, this information will continue to be passed down, held as the undeniable truth. Good won. Evil lost. How could it be any other way? Just look at the history books, it says so right there.

- Or?

I ask you, look outside.

Look out of your window and stare at the wretches that hobble the street. Stare at the hungering children that howl in the alleys at night. Stares at the frothing men and women, eating each other alive to make some more money. Stare at them and tell me that good really triumphed over evil, as it sits written in the books.

No.

If you ask me, we did not defeat the demon-king. We say that we did. We write that we did and we teach this to our children, as it was taught to us — by the books. But when you look outside at the world, can you really in your deepest heart say that good has truly triumphed? Can you say that the world is as it ought to be?

If so, I disagree.

We live in the age of the demon, but we simply are naive to such matters.

Written history in its entirety is nothing but an almanac of generational propaganda, written by those who had won the most and wish to continue doing so.

~  Writings of an excommunicated member of the Holy Church

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Filth.

In the dredges of every season, there is filth to be found. In spring, the heavy rains that nourish the rebirthing spectrum of life, also cause thick sloughs of mud. In summer, the scorching heat causes dry, brittle dust to fly and fill the air, together with swarming insects. In autumn, the death and decay of many things coming to the end of their journey falls to the floors of the forests and rots. In winter, slush and ice coat everything that they touch.

However, these things bring with them a boon. They are not without purpose and intent, there is clear, logical, natural and beautiful reasoning behind these phenomena.

Filth exists, but it does so for the same reason as does the concept of purity, as does water and soil and air. Filth, as a term, is simply a combination of these things in some manner, usually in a place that is unwanted by a creature that perceives itself to be smart enough to care about such things.

— But this.

This is without reason. There is no explanation of the natural world for a thing of terror like this.

To end a life to consume it, this is a natural thing and is not to be interfered with. But to steal a life, to prevent it from cherishing the gift that the seasons have to give, for no reason other than baseless cruelty, this is something that can not be forgiven. It is unholy.

Caeli, the battle-alchemist nods, grabbing a small potion and pouring it into the creature’s unsewn mouth. It hadn’t spoken or screamed or said anything, really. The dryad simply remains catatonic.

— Where does one even begin?

(Dryad) has consumed: (High)[Potion of Deep Sleep]

The lights behind her eyes do not go out, as they were already long since vanished. But they do close.

“Want me to do it?” asks Rorate, standing on the other side of the table. “My sub-class is ‘field-medic’. I’m not really trained for anything like this, but… I don’t get squeamish.” The dark-elf lowers her gaze, looking down at the jumbled knot of bones that need to be broken and limbs that need to come undone.

“No,” says Isaiah. “This is my fault,” says the entity, looking at the thing before itself.

— It had let Witch Perchta go after her assault. It had decided to take the kind path in the hopes that this rift of theirs, between the tower and her, could be solved through ways of peace.

It was mistaken, once again.

Isaiah can not help but wonder if it is simply doomed to repeat such catastrophic mistakes over and over again? This is like the ascension. The suffering of this creature lies in the actions of Perchta, however, it itself is the force that had driven her to movement and it is the force that had failed to pursue her in a meaningful way.

Isaiah grabs the first bone, getting ready to break it.

This time, it has once again learned a painful lesson. Mercy is a graceful thing that should be bestowed upon many.

But some people, some creatures, are beyond it and the most pure, holy thing that there is to do in this world is to simply remove their blemishing presences from it. One death to cease this grand suffering so many others.

Isaiah crushes the first brittle fingers.

It will be a long process of breaking, untangling and healing what there is to be healed.

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Production of new floors on the tower have ceased entirely.

Isaiah doesn’t care.

The repair of damaged structures has been neglected, but Isaiah also doesn’t care. Food must be prepared by the denizens of the tower themselves in the kitchens, rather than being cooked by Red. Materials for any small tasks must be collected and carried up many, many flights of stairs.

But the highest priority now is to find the witch. The uthra have this as their sole task and it itself can do little to help, as it is bound to the territory. So instead, it alleviates the uthra by fulfilling these prior tasks when it can.

They are at a turning point. Isaiah can feel it. Between the witch and the soldiers, the tower is falling under immense pressure. Fate is conspiring to bring some happening to its door and it will not allow anything to happen to its people, its children. It has so many failings already, but these will not be one of them.

The witch will be found and brought to justice.

The soldiers will be repelled, gracefully.

There is simply no other alternative.

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Today is the day of rest.

But there will be no handing out of trinkets and baubles.

Isaiah stands at the edge of the tower, staring down towards the band of humans that have begun living there. The first man, a dwarf, who is believed to be a merchant of sorts, has even begun building a small house.

— They will rest.

There is no debate to be had here.

(Isaiah) has: Deactivated [Mercy]

[Quest]

The Day of Rest

Difficulty: Extremely Easy

Description: Today is declared to be a day of rest for everyone. Sleep. Eat. Bathe.

Objective: ‘Mercy’ has been deactivated for the day. Do not make any foolish choices.

Reward: Life.

It stares down towards the ground, watching as the quest appears before the proclaiming statue and people begin to gather around it.

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[Rorate]

[Dryad]

Class: Monster (Non-Aggressive)

Element: NATURE

Type: Caretaker

Category: Hominid*

Level: 57

Extremely loving and gentle entities, dryads are an advanced form of NATURE spirit that has been granted a physical body, in order to tend to the forests and natural places of the world. They act as keepers of these regions and spend their days dutifully tending to plants and animals in order to help their home region thrive.

Dryads are territorial in a sense and will often compete with one another. However, this contest is not one of physical strength or violence. Rather, they will do their best to tend to their sections of the forest. At the end of the contest, whoever has the healthiest and most beautiful forest wins the duel, the reward of which is often a token prize such as a beautiful stone or a rare flower.

Dryads have been known to attack loggers, miners and hunters. However, they have never attacked a traveler.

• [Self-Regeneration]{Passive}: Dryad’s own bodies are extremely in tune with themselves to a degree far above that of most monsters. This allows for a constant self-regeneration of physical damage, as well as HEALTH-POINTS.
• [Summon Animal]{Active}: The dryad can summon a random animal of a level equal to its own to aid it in combat.
• [Ivy]{Toggle}: The dryad can manifest several lashing tendrils of poisonous ivy or brambles, in order to fight off intruders or to manipulate distant objects.

Rorate wipes her forehead off, looking down at the creature. Today was supposed to be her weekly sermon, actually. But she’s busy here.

The dark-elf grabs a clean cloth from the basin.

The door opens to the side, a face looking in. The monk.

“Oh, hey,” says Rorate.

“It’s time,” replies the monk, stepping inside. She nods her head to the door. “Go.”

Rorate shakes her head. “I can’t. I want to stay here.”

The monk doesn’t bother replying. She nods her head to the door and takes the damp rag from Rorate’s hand.

“— Are you sure?” asks the dark-elf.

The monk doesn’t reply, simply setting to the task of wiping the dryad down. It’s hard to say if the healing, if the butchery that it was can be called that, was successful. She stops, feeling Rorate still watching her and then turns back to the dryad.

“I was never sent to fight a witch,” says the monk.

Rorate tilts her head, playing with the tip of one of her own long ears. “…Huh?”

“I was never sent to fight a witch,” repeats the monk, wringing out the cloth over a bowl. “Why?”

Rorate shrugs. “I mean… I guess that’s not the job of an inspection-team?”

“Then whose is it?” Rorate shakes her head, not having an answer. “I was only ever sent to fight dungeons. There are other things in this world that need to be fought by someone too,” The monk continues with her work. “Who, if not me?” The beads on her arms rattle. “- Go.”

“Are you really sure?” asks Rorate, uncertain.

The monk looks her way. “— Who, if not you?”

Rorate looks at her and then the dryad and then nods, grabbing her half-written gospel from the table. There are blood-stains on it.

This gives her a great idea for tomorrow’s section of her writing.