Round 41: Speed and Passion (Part 2)

What the hell is that thing?
The Riverbanker walked through a sparse, withered forest. It wasn’t strange for the trees along the riverbank to turn black and die; what was strange was how they had managed to take root and grow in the first place. The boatman found a thick, black ebony log as wide as his body, dragged it to the riverbank, and squatted down to touch it with his shriveled palms. As strange incantations were spoken, the bark fell off, and the trunk slowly transformed—he watched in amazement at the steel monstrosity over there while casting the spell.
The boatman never mentioned again that his boat had been destroyed. He made good use of his free time to figure out how to build a new one. It would take a long time to reach the skill level needed to handle such a boat as easily as before—probably most of the next few years, or even decades. But time was a problem he could overcome with patience, whereas a crazy invention capable of blowing up a giant demon outright was a risk he couldn’t afford.
“Captain, don’t you want a metal boat? That gentleman is quite generous,” said the succubus, sitting smiling on a tree branch, her wings folded behind her, her tail swaying gently from her short skirt. “After all, we’re natives of the Lower Realm. How about I help you out? Of course, don’t come up with any more evil plans, and definitely…”
She glanced at Phylgas intentionally or unintentionally, then switched to telepathy to speak to the boatman.
Your shameful plot failed. Now you know she’s not like those half-demon Teflin everywhere, right?
“The Riverbankers always build their own boats; they don’t need help from outsiders.” As the canoe took shape under the boatman’s hands, he stared at the succubus, his eyes sharp as needles—not to admire what was beneath her skirt, of course.
“Don’t be so nervous. I’ll keep your secret,” the succubus said, winking.
The boatman gave a silent sneer and focused back on the boat.
“Keep my secret? Thanks, but I don’t need it. Everything I do is public. You’d better pay attention to your own schemes before you end up burning yourself out.”
“What schemes do I have?”
“Hmph. As you said, we’re natives of the Lower Realm. Go ask any native—who doesn’t know what Tanaril is? I don’t think that female mage is stupid. Do you really think she’ll let you get away with it? I think her connection to that monster is much closer than yours—first, figure out how much money you have before doing business. The Tides of the Underworld will arrive at any moment, and then they won’t care where you go. Be careful, succubus.”
“You Yugros just lack trust in others. That vile trait really saddens me,” the succubus said, turning up her nose and giving up on finding amusement in him.

Forty-seven and Kairo were playing a card game popular among mages, with Moriel standing by to watch. The female mage wasn’t really interested, but she had to keep herself busy. The Gray Wastes weren’t a good place for meditation or rest—the deep, oppressive cold could easily seize those asleep, crushing their unguarded minds and dragging them into nightmares ruled by ghostly women. But Moriel also didn’t want the Tin Man driving around recklessly; she certainly didn’t want to suddenly find herself in another chaotic bloodbath. The Flame Monarch was probably, maybe, possibly, almost defeated, with demons joyfully hunting down the demigods’ terrified armies under the mushroom clouds. It was already hard enough to convince Forty-seven not to get involved further.

Even the ever-gray sky seemed to show traces of clouds drifting across it. Realms merged and collided here, and tides fluctuated with changes in the dimensional rifts, indicating that the worlds connected by portals were also impermanent. The Tin Man’s war chariot reverted to its convertible form and stood quietly on the barren, cracked riverbank. It now exhibited a mechanical beauty different from that of Forty-seven and Kairo, closer to the perfect standard pursued by Agus, the construct mage—precision, rigor, mass-produced standardization. The Riverbank Man assured that the dimensional portal would open soon, and he was likely telling the truth. Kairo drew another card with water elemental properties into her deck. Moriel wanted to remind the girl that it wasn’t the best choice, but suddenly felt uneasy.

“Huh? How do you still have so many warriors?” Kairo was surprised to see Forty-seven deploy another wave of expendable troops, wiping out her carefully built defenses in just one turn.

“I thought I already destroyed ten… no, over a dozen of your warriors. Wait, are you cheating? I want to see your cards!”

“You’re so ignorant. Don’t you even know how to use ‘Endless Swarm’?”

“That’s nonsense! There’s no such card!”

“It must be ‘Restless Dead.’” Watching two novices play cards was painful, so Moriel decided to end it quickly: “He doesn’t have any support cards, but his soldiers have slightly higher defense and are much slower. Just hold off the undead attacks with cards with light properties. In a couple more turns, it’ll be daylight, and his cards will be automatically destroyed.”

“A true gentleman stays silent while watching a game. Can’t you help me?” Forty-seven flipped through his cards repeatedly, clearly at his wits’ end.

“Using undead yet not even preparing basic cards like dark magic… Since it’s a game invented by mages, victory can’t be achieved just by sheer numbers.” Moriel saw the River Styx Ferryman finish his work and start pushing the wooden boat lower. “Well, I think it’s time for us to leave. What about your chariot? If you can cover it, it should be fine to last a few minutes in the River Styx.”

Forty-seven shook his head, walked over, opened the door, and got into the car.

“A few minutes? You underestimate the power of the primary productive force.”

The tides of the River of Darkness came quietly, lacking the grand waves one might imagine. At first, the dry riverbed gradually became moist, with tiny springs emerging from the cracks. The gray dust was softened into large patches of darker color, which soon merged into bubbling puddles. In the blink of an eye, a massive flow of water seemed to appear out of nowhere, converging from all directions—like a large basin of bathwater that had been used many times and had already cooled, swirling and breaking into bubbles. The water level rose rapidly, and countless whirlpools of various sizes appeared on the surface. It took only a few minutes for the water to cover the riverbed and rise to half a person’s height around the wheels.

But then, 47 and his vehicle began to float—or rather, the vehicle had turned into a boat. The river water churned around it, stirring up muddy sludge. It was conceivable that the wheels underwater were still turning—though it was unclear how. 47 steered the “boat-vehicle” toward the shore, and a crescent-shaped wave seemed to tear a wound in the River of Darkness.

“Please.”

47 turned off the engine and stepped into the muddy water—one step at a time—as if it were just an ordinary ditch in the swamps of Rain City. He reached out to Moriel.

The female mage watched him. Aside from the part of his body in the water, the man in iron armor was completely dry, as if coated in oil. He could surely lift himself onto the boat easily, even more easily than picking up a feather pen. Moriel hesitated for a moment, suddenly feeling that he was very distant from her. Such an illusion shouldn’t have occurred—after all, they had gone through many things together—but at that moment, 47 and his machine truly seemed like something beyond her understanding, separated from her by an immeasurable distance, as if they existed in another world.

In the city’s streets and alleys, the fortune-tellers and witches selling their services were mostly scammers who knew a bit of psychology and how to read people’s expressions. Yet it was undeniable that there were a few people in the world with exceptionally sensitive talents. Their eyes couldn’t see every detail, nor was their hearing necessarily superior, but they could perceive a world beyond the five senses, and might even touch space and time to glimpse fragments of the future. No one knew how such abilities came about, and they often disappeared suddenly—like a joke played by fate on the lucky.

The prophecy mages strived to create their own order using magic, using the guiding principles of that order to search for fragments in chaos. Over time, they achieved great success, with many of their spells being even more incredible than those of other factions like Stone Skin or Fire Balls. But whether this approach was leading them further away was unknown. Moriel hadn’t experienced such sudden surreal sensations in a long time—since she successfully cast her first trick, her innate sixth sense of precognition had rapidly faded.

Yet it never completely disappeared.

Moriel extended her hand, and the moment it touched 47’s, she felt an electric tingling sensation.

Kerry suddenly raised her arm and swung it. A brilliant light burst from her hand into the sky, exploding into countless stars that spread in all directions. The specks of light covered the dull sky over the gray ruins, drifting slowly downward. Their faint connections made them resemble a huge web of light stretching across the sky.

The Steel Elf’s reaction was equally swift as lightning. Thanks to her keen senses, she quickly noticed something unusual in the trajectory of the falling starlight. Even gods couldn’t cast illusions that were completely undetectable—given Keri and Fergas’s speed, it wasn’t difficult to catch the culprit once a clue was found.

Forty-Seven remained motionless. Even as Fergas led the captive toward them, he still held out his hand, seemingly studying his palm lines. A speck of starlight clung to his hand, slowly turning red. Morriel was gone.

“Ah, truly remarkable—being able to detect such things,” said Dagulas. Her gold-rimmed glasses were askew, her robe dusty, with Fergas’s clawed hand resting on her neck, blood trickling down her pale throat.

Yet Dagulas didn’t show much panic, only a hint of frustration in her eyes. “I still can’t compare to Morriel… I used to think she was just lucky to have found you, but now I realize she surpasses me in both talent and magical mastery.”

“Thank you very much for putting on such a splendid magic show for us.”

Forty-Seven stepped forward and clapped loudly.

“As a reward, I’ll perform a trick for you too.” He extended his right index finger, covering it with his left hand. “This is one finger…”

“Look, it’s become two.”

“Simple, right?” Forty-Seven played tricks, but the onlookers remained silent—the eerie red glow in his eyes was so terrifying even demons shuddered. “So you’ll have to make it clear to me too. I’m the fairest person around. Tell me, where did you take her?”

“Here,” Dagulas replied quickly. She rolled up her sleeve, revealing a strange artifact on her rounded right arm. It was obvious it couldn’t have been crafted by a mortal—its scale-like gauntlet, covering almost the entire forearm, was adorned with a palm-sized polyhedral gem. By its quality, it must be one of the most powerful and precious magic gems, its size making it priceless. Mysterious black energy coiled around the gem, dimming its dazzling brilliance—but even the faint rainbow light that occasionally seeped through certain facets added color to the gray ruins, giving the artifact a hint of vitality amid the gloomy atmosphere of hell, as if it had its own life.

“A magical item that can imprison any creature… not even someone as powerful as you can escape it,” Dagulas continued. “And from what I’ve observed, you don’t understand the power of spatial manipulation, do you? It’s a shame Morriel noticed this and was able to take your place to bear the spell. But before meeting you, I planned to use this to capture her… How lucky. It seems if I had targeted her, I would have only trapped a Quesai demon.”

Forty-Seven waited for a while.

“What are you waiting for? Let her go. Do you need me to say ‘please’?”

“I can’t do that,” Dracula smiled sweetly. “Do I have the luck to find a divine artifact just by walking around in the swamp? All of this is thanks to His Majesty Mephistopheles… Before his boundless power, we’re all helpless. After all, I won the bet, and Morriel became the sacrifice… Did she not tell you? Ah, she never takes authority seriously.”
“Mephisto? Back in the day, I killed him three hundred times a day.” Forty-Seven signaled the steel elves to step back and circled Dracula. “I remember you used to be afraid of death too. What’s changed now? Mephisto never goes to the second layer—do you expect him to save your life?”
“There is no true death in the multiverse. When we end our lives, our bodies return to the dust of the primary material world, while our souls drift along the River Styx in search of a destination. The gods open the gates of their realms to welcome their devout followers, and demons also acquire souls drawn to evil, filling their filthy lower realms.”
“Everything follows a pattern… Even Death is merely a guardian of the multiverse’s laws. My fate was determined the moment I fell into the flames of hell. Clouds always drift with the wind; it’s impossible to go against the laws. You can certainly kill me and reduce me to ashes. But my soul will return to His Majesty Mephistopheles, along with this.” Dracula pointed to the artifact on her arm. “This is a contract, the power of order… utterly unchangeable. So, I suggest you go ask His Majesty Mephistopheles instead. He admires your strength. I believe—”
A roar interrupted Dracula’s words. Her face showed disbelief and pain, as if her appearance had changed instantly.
She slowly collapsed downward, clutching her abdomen—blood seeped through her fingers, but even more flowed out from the large wound in her lower back. Forty-Seven held his gun expressionlessly, aiming at Dracula’s head.
“Wait, she’s right!” Kairo quickly tried to stop Forty-Seven. “A demon of Mephistopheles’ caliber has the power to do this! She might really return to Bato with that thing!”
“Is that so? Bring her back to life.” With those words, Forty-Seven left the mess to others to deal with.
“It seems Sister Morriel is trapped in Mephistopheles’ domain.” Kairo tried to remove the gemmed armguard, but it was tightly clamped to Dracula’s arm, making it impossible to detach. “It’s connected to the rules of Bato Hell. My power is too weak to interfere…”
Mist swirled around the gem, forming a thin layer, but it never managed to penetrate inside.
Dracula’s face was pale as she lay on the ground, struggling to breathe. “Cough… Still don’t understand? brute force can’t destroy it…”
Forty-Seven turned the unfamiliar “Desert Eagle” in his hands. The sports car drove itself onto the shore and stopped beside him—maybe it was time to go?
Kerry suddenly tried to stop him, but gave up after a second.
A pale thing suddenly rushed out of the car, bounced into the air, spun several times, and finally stopped facing Forty-Seven. It was the chatterbone skull—perhaps it could be called the car’s computer now.
“Connect me to Feani.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, the dull skull began to creak and grind—after a moment, two supernatural shadows appeared in its hollow eye sockets.
“I knew there would always be another time after ‘the last time.’ What, were you locked up by that woman again? I’m curious why she still has patience and hasn’t torn you to pieces with her blade. Huh, this isn’t that woman’s maze. Gray ruins? Haha! How did you convince your stubborn girlfriend? Have you finally agreed to let me use your construct mirror for experiments? Great! Don’t worry, as long as I…”
Forty-Seven grabbed the skull’s chin, silencing its chatter.
“Shut up. Listen to me first.”
After Forty-Seven briefly explained his predicament, Faeani fell silent for a while.
Later, the skull’s teeth clicked together as it slowed down its speech: “I should be grateful for your trust. Yes, I can do it. Four-dimensional space is a prison for all things, but it can’t bind me. But once I break free from Mephistopheles’s confined space, I’ll surely attract his attention. Mephistopheles is the most powerful lord of the Bathos, the King of Demons, second only to that Darkness Supreme Nethes, who was born almost alongside order. I’m a free scholar who hates being watched… Once I’m tainted by Mephistopheles’s power, it won’t be easy to get rid of it.”
“Stop talking nonsense. State your conditions.”
“I want to borrow your construct mirror. As the multiverse has evolved from chaos to its current state, order now holds absolute dominance over tangible things. My kind are either sealed away in slumber or wandering between worlds… Overall, chaos still has a broader advantage. So although I can appear in the material plane using temporal turbulence, order automatically repairs the gaps caused by chaos, weakening me and making me more vulnerable. But your mirror is different. I don’t know what force keeps it intact, but it was summoned by me and fits me perfectly. Please, lend it to me for some time to study. With it, I can resist order’s interference and go to more places to uncover more secrets… Oh, maybe I can even find Earth! Didn’t you say—”
“Enough,” Forty-Seven waved his hand. “I agree. What do we do now?”
“As long as you allow it,” Hate replied, “bring that woman to the car. I must use it to unleash my full power to resist Mephistopheles’s magic.”
Forty-Seven turned to Dracula. Anticipating her impending fate, her face turned even paler.
“A few pieces of advice for you,” said the Tin Man.
“Never sacrifice a witch as a price for survival.” He grabbed Dracula by the collar. “Any sacrifice not offered to Jehovah will bring disaster.” He roughly lifted her up. “All who associate with beasts cannot escape death.”
“Wait… wait…”
“Wait for what? If you truly believe in Mephisto, you should have committed suicide earlier to seek his favor. Maybe he’d reward you with a Jordan Stone.”

As Dagulas was shoved into the car, a vigorously growing shadow immediately replaced the flames in the headlights, making the entire vehicle blurry and dazzling—Dagulas’ screams quickly sank into the trembling sea of shadows along with her distorted body. As time passed, the black steel lost its fixed shape like a pudding monster, stretching out numerous tentacles as it slowly melted.

“What are you looking at?”

“Sister Moriel!”

Everyone turned at the sound. Moriel, holding her staff, stood in a dim space that was rapidly disappearing.

“I’m not looking at anything. I thought you’d crawl out of this mess of jelly,” said Forty-Seven.

After a while, Faini completed the assimilation. A giant shadowy figure stood on the banks of the River of Souls, shrouded in black mist. Its lower half, somewhat clearer, resembled a tiger, leopard, lizard, or some other four-legged monster. Amorphous tentacles floated around its form, yet it seemed to possess a sharp, icy texture. Sometimes it would solidify for a moment, turning into solid steel—like a nightmare suddenly appearing in the mists of time and space, emitting an unstoppable evil glow, as if everything around it was rapidly decaying toward doom.

“Thank you very much!” Faini’s voice sent ripples of unease through the air. “I’ve also completed my task. Well, let’s talk again another day—there’s so much to do. Remember to stay in touch!”

“I don’t want to see it again,” Moriel sighed with relief after the hatred vanished.

“A stick in exchange for a car—this bastard really knows how to do business,” said Forty-Seven, scratching his chin. “How about I help you turn it into a rifle?”

“No need,” the female mage said, looking at her staff. The shadow and metal had combined in some incredible way to form a light, straight staff. Colorful gems had been reshaped into a blade-like structure embedded at the tip, their light dim, startling, and flickering—yet from any angle, a bound, pierced female figure could be faintly seen within.

Dagulas. She had replaced herself, trapped in a distorted, restructured gem prison, in a way that was countless times more tragic. Though it was a hypocritical act of kindness, Moriel still poured power into the staff to ease Dagulas’ eternal pain. Faini claimed that if she could make another deal with Mephistopheles in the future, she might be able to get him to release Dagulas, or perhaps she could do it someday herself… The female mage gently rotated the staff, and endless threads of magic webbed together, twisting, changing, and coalescing.

The ferryman rowed the newly built boat to the center of the river.

“I must take my leave now. I hope you’re satisfied with my services. Hurry up—we’ve already missed a tide!”

With that, he drifted downstream with his canoe, disappearing into the mist rising over the River of Souls like a divine abomination.

“Everyone can swim, right?” Forty-Seven glanced around. “…Never mind.”

He moved his shoulders, which cracked loudly. “Hodak isn’t as unlucky as me.”

Once ready, he opened the car door. “Let’s be clear— whoever dares spit on me, I’ll kill them… Hm?”

No one saw how Morriel got on the ship, just as no one saw how she was trapped by Dagulas. Morriel smiled and tapped her staff forty-seven times. “I just learned it. How about that? You’re not the only one who can transform.” The river water rose silently, with only a few tree crowns scattered across the growing expanse of water. “Turn left.” In the mist, Morriel guided Forty-Seven—the currents of the realms were far from calm, unlike the River of Darkness. Rifts between realms appeared in the mage’s magical vision, standing in rows. Winds of energy blew through the realm passages one after another, emitting sounds beyond human hearing, even beyond Forty-Seven’s refined gold shell, piercing straight to the soul. What was that? A small dark red shape came into Morriel’s sight. Half of it was submerged in the river water, like a writhing clot of blood on black cloth. Morriel gripped her staff tightly… “Go take a look.” Her voice was very steady, with not the slightest tremor. Sensing something, as they approached, the red mass struggled to lift itself, forming a fragmented human shape. “…” He looked as if he had just crawled out of a volcano in a hell of flames, his red-hot muscles hanging from charred bones, barely holding together his burning internal organs. He turned his head toward Forty-Seven, a flash of light suddenly appearing in his empty, dark eye sockets, like the last spark bursting from dying embers. “Morriel…” The mage ordered Forty-Seven to lift the cover and calmly watched this pile of soul remnants. “Morriel!” Perhaps her appearance stimulated the soul; it staggered forward, stirring the river water and sending up wisps of steam. “I hate you!” “I hate you!” The soul’s voice mixed with the winds of energy, flowing into the gaps in space, then swirling back from all directions, sounding like thunder in the haze, as if the entire River of Darkness was roaring in response to his hatred. “Wow,” the succubus exclaimed in awe. “Such strong obsession… He still remembers you.” “What exactly did you do to him? Even among humans, only two kinds of emotions can reach this level—love and hate. If we could pull him out and turn him into a soul prism, it would be valuable…” Morriel didn’t answer. The soul was gradually swallowed by the river water, its edges dissolving, and the voice in the wind turned into indistinct, meaningless murmurs. “Let’s go.” Morriel stopped looking at it. The red light on the dashboard flickered, indicating that Forty-Seven had something to say. The mage sat up straight, waiting for him to speak—although she wished to keep those things buried deep in her heart, she wouldn’t hide them from him. “It shouldn’t be like this!” Forty-Seven’s intense tone startled everyone; it could even be called a scream. “He’s the one who was chosen!” “Wh… what?” Morriel was stunned. “The prophecy says he will destroy the Sith, not join them! Bring balance to the Force, not leave darkness behind!” The mage snapped off the sound system. So the only thing left that still made some sense was: the half-goats had finally gotten their revenge.

The Riverbanker drifted alone with the current. Though it was a clear loss-making business, at least there was some money to be made. The boatman narrowed his eyes, gazing at the River of Souls, with misty waters stretching ahead. He slipped into a cloud of fog and reappeared in a much narrower waterway. The boatman grinned, satisfied with his control.

There are always customers in the world… The boatman soon spotted another one. He raised a hand and waved it around to get the Riverbanker’s attention.

The boatman slowly rowed closer, estimating how much this guy might be worth.

He too seemed to be a lucky survivor of a bloody battle, looking rather disheveled. His magic cloak was torn in several places, and the wand stuck at his waist was dull, its energy long exhausted. It seemed only the emerald-handled dagger in his hand had any value. He had distinct lower-plane origins, evident from the sharp horns on his forehead—the one on the left had been nearly cut off by a blade, with blood continuously seeping from the wound. He wiped it roughly with his hand from time to time, his snake-like eyes filled with deep resentment.

“I just had an accident; I’m afraid I can’t provide services.”

“Take me to City of Ribcage. I won’t treat you badly,” the Teflin said, as if he hadn’t heard the boatman at all, and started bargaining on his own terms.

“…Alright. But we had an agreement,” the boatman said slowly. “This is a makeshift boat… poor in construction and performance. With that in mind, many common routes are now dead ends. We’ll probably spend more time on the road. Is that okay?”

“Then hurry up.” The Teflin jumped onto the boat. “I don’t want to stay in this hellhole for another minute.”

The canoe carrying the two of them sailed into the mist.

“…It’s obvious you’ve not been lucky lately. Speaking of which, I’ve always admired the resilience of you half-demon descendants. There’s a saying, ‘When things go wrong, catch a Teflin. If it wasn’t the Teflin who did it, then he must be too busy.’ Almost every plane persecutes you…”

“Enough. I’m not on your boat to discuss racial discrimination.”

“Oh, fine. Since you don’t like chatting. You seem tired and in a bad mood. I suggest you adjust. I don’t want to go through the trouble of taking a customer from the Gray Wastes to their destination just for them to forget how to pay.”

Time passed—maybe hours, maybe days.

“Do you know what it’s like to spend a lifetime drifting, taking all kinds of people from one world to another, yet never leaving this boring River of Souls? The amount of payment doesn’t really matter… it’s just a way to prove my hard work. Customers are what matter most to me. You’re the only way I get new experiences… Oh. Idiots like you, weak as they are, are also a source of my strength.”

The Riverbanker rowed the boat alone. The canoe had undergone some changes—changes that outsiders could notice or not.

“My ship is such a pity. It was about to become a pure soul ship… Now it has to start all over again. But I never dwell too much on things that can’t be changed. Excessive emotion is useless and hinders experiencing new things.”
The boatman’s gaze fell on a newly appeared horn-like protrusion on the inside edge of the ship. Only he could discern the varying shades of dark wood there, forming a twisted human face—the protrusions could be seen as a small horn on its forehead.
He chuckled.
“Actually, I’m a senser.”