FINAL CORE - Chapter 84 (Patreon)

Demons.

What is a demon?

To understand the nature of a demon, one must first understand the concept of souls.

Every living entity, be it a person, or a goblin or a slime, has a soul.

Within the confines of our living world, there is no way to see such an ethereal thing. However, if one were to follow this entity into the spirit world after its passing, you would see its true form.

Reports of those who have returned from the dead confirm that a soul is a strange, string-woven construct that vaguely resembles a child’s doll, made out of thick yarn threads of prismatic colors.

These threads, like real threads, can fray.

Most often, a ‘doll’, a soul, does not persist in the after-life long enough to come undone as the cycle of rebirth returns it to the world after a process of mending and healing in the restorative waters of the well of souls. However, in some cases, this mending process of the soul goes wrong.

When these threads fray, they catch and become tangled, like curly-hair that is never brushed. The person-like shape of the soul becomes a jumbled mess as the arms come undone and get caught in the legs, and the head gets caught in the shoulder, and eventually it all degrades into a knotted mess.

Once this degradation process is complete, the state of demon-hood is fully achieved.

We know little of demons, but we know of this process, and we know the following.

Demonic magic is highly unusual in its make-up, often diverging far from the natural elements available to a caster.

Once they escape the spirit world and return to ours, they have particular hatred and anger in their souls, leading them to either become severe threats to society or recluses that live in somber shadows.

A demon’s exterior is changed, their skin taking on a red hue.

In our future studies, we hope to hand-create the demonification process on test-subjects, to be listed in the following compendium.

~ Holy Church Magical Research Institute

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White

Uthra, Male, Worker 5

Tower Forge

White sits down in the forge, resting on a rafter as the sound of work rings out around him.

Gray, working the forge as always, turns to look his way. “What’s wrong?” asks the uthra. “No work today?”

White stares at his hands, before looking over to Gray. “Six-thousand.”

“Huh?” asks Gray, looking his way. “Six what?”

“Six-thousand kilograms,” says White. “Of gold.” The uthra looks back down at his hands. “Every day, I rise from my nest to dive into this hole, where I then dig out more clumps of gold and ore.” He shakes his head. “I bring these to you and you melt them into bars.”

“Sounds right so far,” remarks Gray.

“And then…” White lifts his gaze. “They go to the stockpile.”

“Yup.”

“All Six-thousand kilograms. That’s just the gold. We have iron, steel, and cobalt.”

“Don’t forget the orichalcum and all the jewels. What’s your point?” asks Gray. “I told you, if you’re sick of mining, just go ask Isaiah for a new job. It’s not a problem,” explains the uthra. “You know how it is. I’m sure there’s something else for you to do.”

White shakes his head. “No,” replies the uthra. “If Isaiah wanted me to do something else, it would tell me as much.”

Gray groans. “We had this talk months ago already,” says the uthra. He shakes his head and dusts himself off. “That’s it. Come on. I’m taking you to Isaiah myself,” says the uthra, yanking White by the wrist and flying off out of the forge.

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Beige

Uthra, Female, Worker 4

Tower Catacombs

Beige floats through the underground catacombs of the graveyard that she has been tasked by Black to keep up to maintained standards.

The air is damp and cold. Bones line the walls, nested in their final places of rest. Darkness flows through every niche, as if it were water. Looming emptiness calls all around her, beckoning her to join it in the total void of nothingness.

The uthra holds her hands clenched at her chest as she flies around, her lips pursed, her eyes wide as she fearfully hovers through the darkness.

She hates it down here. It’s scary.

Nervously, she looks to the left, down a tunnel that she passes, and then towards the right, down another, staring right into a face.

“- RAAAGH!” snarls a horrific maw from the shadows before herself.

Beige screams in terror, spinning around and flying away straight into a wall, striking her head against it.

The uthra gracelessly tumbles around, falling over into a pile of bones and clutching her throbbing forehead with heavy wetness in her eyes as she looks behind herself.

— At Magenta, who looks around the corner, laughing.

The uthra purses her lips, pointing at Magenta. “Y-you jerk!” she yells, rubbing her sore head.

“You were so scared, Bei-Bei,” says Magenta playfully. “I got you good!”

Beige points at her. “I- I’m gonna tell Isaiah!”

Magenta blinks, lowering the skull she’s holding. “Huh? Wait,” says the uthra, lifting her hands. “You can’t bug Isaiah. It’s super busy.”

“I- Isaiah says it always has time for us!” yells Beige as she gets up and dusts herself off. She rises into the air and shoots off down the tunnel.

“Wait! Hold on!” yells Magenta after her, flying off in pursuit. “You’re gonna get me in trouble! Beeeige!”

The two uthra race down the catacombs.

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Red

Uthra, Female, Worker 6

Tower Kitchen

“Red, feed my slaves,” says Red, cutting a carrot and sliding it into a pot. “Red, wash my useless lackeys,” mutters the uthra beneath her breath, grabbing a sizable block of butter and simply chucking the entire thing into the pot as is. She rolls her eyes. “Red, preen my feathers, and call me a pretty birdy.”

“Are you okay?” asks a voice from the side. “I’m pretty sure Isaiah never asked you to do any of those things, Red,” says Crystal. Red shoots a glare his way. “You might just be living out your victim complex again.”

Red grabs the sack of tubers from the forest. “You know, Crystal,” begins Red. “One day, you’re going to get what’s coming to you,” says the uthra.

Crystal shrugs. “What’s that?”

“You’ll see,” she replies, chopping the tubers up into large cubes and then tossing them into the pot too.

“Isn’t that, uh… isn’t that a lot of butter?” asks Crystal, looking over at the pot where a whole block of butter is melting. “Are you actually trying to kill everyone?”

Red points her knife at him. “Are you really just going to sit here and be a pain in my ass while I’m trying to work, Crystal?” she asks. “Because if you are, I can throw you in the pot too,” says the uthra, nodding her head to the pot. “Doubt anyone would miss you.”

Crystal rolls his eyes. “You’re such a jerk, Red,” says the uthra, sitting back down at the table. “Are you ever going to grow out of that?”

“I dunno, are you ever going to get off my ass and leave me alone?” asks Red, returning to her work.

It’s quiet for a while.

“I really do think that’s way too much butter, though,” says Crystal. “You’re going to make all of the humans sick.”

“Get a grip. They love my food,” replies Red. “The animals.”

“Yeah, because of all the butter,” remarks Crystal. “It’s not good for them.”

Red sighs, setting down the knife and looking at him. “Will you mind your own damn business?” she asks. “You take care of your work, and I’ll take care of mine.” She points at herself and then at him. “This, this thing here? It doesn’t need to be happening right now.”

Crystal frowns, looking at her. “It does if you’re hurting the tower by making the humans sick. You know Isaiah likes them.”

“I’m not hurting them, asshole,” says Red, tapping her head and glaring at him. “If I wanted to hurt them, I would have done it already using my hands!”

“Then why the butter?” asks Crystal. “I bet you’re using it to hurt them in a way you’re ‘allowed’ to, since Isaiah would get mad at you for anything more direct.” Crystal looks at her. “This lets you get away with it by playing innocent.”

“What?!” Red plants her hands on her hips, leaning in. “I use it because it tastes good, dumbass!”

“As if you care if their food tastes good,” replies Crystal, getting up from the table. Red opens her mouth, but then stops herself from saying whatever she wanted to say. She simply lowers her hand and continues to stare her anger into his soul. “We should ask Isaiah about this,” says Crystal, flying away.

“What? Leave Isaiah out of this, dick!” barks Red.

Crystal flies off. Red lets out an angry, muffled scream, kicking the oven as hard as she can with the sole of her boot, and then flies off after him.

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Isaiah

Isaiah stands on the roost, in a conversation with the dryad Seide about the forest. She had come to speak to it about her goblin-tribe here, which she is tasked with looking after as a wood-mother. Isaiah, in turn, tells her of the many incursions during the start of its new life as a dungeon-core.

“It seems that we were once troubled neighbors,” remarks Isaiah, looking at her. “Perhaps there is a way forward from here, though?”

Seide nods, smiling. She holds a hand clutched to her chest and then looks out over the landscape. “In truth, I need to go back to them,” says Seide. “They are lost without my guidance.”

Isaiah nods. “I understand,” it replies. “But?”

It’s quiet for a while as Seide stands there, the wind playing with her long, forest-green hair as she stares off. “I’m… I don’t think I’m ready yet,” she replies, looking back at Isaiah. “To leave, to… to go back in to the forest.”

The two of them stare at each other for a while, each contemplating the other’s existence.

— A buzzing of wings and a chiming of voices fills the air.

“Ah…” says Isaiah. “I believe it is time for me to return to my duties,” it remarks, looking over its shoulder towards the rainbow swarm that rises up and over the edge of the tower. “I enjoy our talks, Seide. They are very insightful.”

“— ISAIAH! ISAIAH!” calls Beige, flying in, barely able to stop herself. She frantically speaks. “I was working in the catacombs and Magenta w-“

“- Isaiah!” says Gray, tugging on Isaiah’s arm. “There’s a problem. Do you have a minute? It’s about Wh-“

“Chief!” barks Red, getting there before Crystal. She pushes Crystal away, holding him at bay with one arm while she tugs on Isaiah’s other arm. “Tell Crystal to go die in a hole and to leave me alone! I’m so si-”

Voices chirp all around it.

Isaiah looks between the lot of them, its gaze wandering over their many faces of many colors and expression, each of them having a different desire, want and need, but also attitude and development. It is a hard, difficult task to manage so many expectations, hopes, and souls — to foster and guide them.

But it is one that is most fulfilling.

It’s nice to be wanted, after all.