Judgement Blood: A Celestial's Vendetta

It had been a few hours since they left the cave, and the colossal silhouette of the Weeping Knight Seer remained looming over them, unchanging and just as far. It was as if no matter how much they travelled, it never got closer.

And never let them forget its sorrow.

The forest itself was too large for mere humans. The tree trunks themselves were thick enough for hewed-out chambers as big as the cave they were in. And although the rain stopped and the clouds parted, sunlight barely reached them as thin streams of white blades; all else was barred and redirected by the green shrubbery intertwining and merging above them like a humid, perforated ceiling. 

That wasn't to say that it was dark, no, it was only dim, and... and beautiful. 

'If only it wasn't so Goddamn deadly!'

The whispering and shushing sounds of brooks rushing to lakes and waterfalls wreathed them but never showed themselves. It was a continuous backdrop that only served well to cover their progress through the forest.

Every crackle of leaves, snapping of branches or whispered warnings from venomous plants and snakes was cancelled out by the never-ending murmur of the forest.

They were small, and everything was big. They were ants in what jungles once were. 

The only constant in their whole expedition was the Seer, appearing every now and then when they ascended small gale-mounds for moments of rest.

Cenric would ensure that no ambushes awaited them, and when he sensed a hint of danger, Alexander would conceal his presence and venture out to comfort them with knowledge of their surroundings.

All in all, it was the best strategy they could derive from their current circumstances.

Circumstances that demanded speed and caution.

During one of their respites atop a small gale-mound, while Alexander was away surveying a hint of danger Cenric had sensed, Ilyas dropped and rested against a singular, lonely tree.

Cenric lay on his back beneath her benevolent branches, his wounds resting, his eyes closed. 

"I have to say, Cenric, considering we've been in this forest for quite a while, I'm curious about its name."

Cenric, unmoving, cocked his head at him with his eyes still shut. "It's only natural, my good sir. But I must say that it does carry a curious name, Karmin Laymen Forest. It's a name that's been passed down since... well, Celsetes know how long."

Ilyas stifled an involuntary chuckle. 

'Oh, that's just perfect. They have no clue!'

Cenric raised an eyebrow. "I never considered it to be a comical name, good sir. Is it a southern reference that I'm unaware of?"

"You can say that."

Alexander finally trudged out of the thicket surrounding the gale with an unsettled face, prompting Cenric to sit up.

"What is it?" Cenric asked.

Alexander huffed, scratched his head, and said, "It's a GranOrangutan. It's only slightly privvy to our existence, so we aren't in imminent danger just yet."

Cenric sighed. "I had a hunch it would be one of those unsightly mammals."

'Wait! Wait, wait, wait! What's the 'Gran' part about? No, screw it, I'll ask!'

But before Ilyas could ask, Cenric turned to him with a weak smile. "I doubt you're aware of these kinds of creatures having been raised in the desert, so I'll give you the essence. If their names start with 'Gran', you mustn't be brave. They will uh..."

"They will squish you like a bug. This forest may be too big for us, but it's perfect for them," Alexander finished. 

Ilyas huffed in disappointment. There was a part of him that was hoping for it to mean an 'old Orangutan', but of course, why would convenience find its way to the birthday boy, right?

"Don't brood too much, my southern friend, there is a chance it may run into another predator and die."

Ilyas shook his head despondently, "Yes, but then that predator will also become 'slightly privvy to our existence', and it will be even worse."

"And wounded," Alexander added hopefully. 

Cenric was pondering the trees when he muttered, "That Karmin Laymen fella must've been one of a kind to have made this forest his home, huh?"

Ilyas rubbed his forehead.

***

It was sunset, and they continued trudging North with extra caution and a sufficient pace.

Ilyas inspected his wound frequently to check if it had reopened unknowingly. The Sanguiniser was a miracle worker, but it wasn't absolute. The pain was there, and the damage was there; all it did was buy extra time until he was tended to by an actual medical professional.

'At least I didn't have to get cauterised.'

Alexander had explained that if they weren't so lucky, a red-hot metal sizzling on his bare flesh would've been the alternative. But thankfully, the Sanguinzer quelled the bleeding and all symptoms of the fever he would've supposedly been exposed to... but for how long?

During most of his time, however, Ilyas was very carefully reminiscing about the dance: every step, every twirl, every sway... It was soothing, but he was mostly interested in what lay beneath. What the dancers intended couldn't be comprehended then.

But now...

It was now obvious that it was a dance to a certain form. His father must've been aware of this fact, since he said a friend of his made it. 

He also said that he'd hate if his son died and he could do nothing about it. 

The more the mask's nature revealed itself to him, the less sense it made. 

For now, it didn't have to; for now, dissecting the dance that persisted in his mind was imperative to his situation. 

'But they didn't do anything with their arms, all there was was footwork! And I don't even have a weapon, Goddamit!'

Eh, he'll just be generous with the compliments to Alexander and hope he lets him borrow his sword.

'Although I still want a Twinblade!'

He'll just focus, for now, on-

Something appeared in the distance!

The three froze and squinted in its direction. It was showing between the gigantic tree trunks.

A solid husk. Dark and delipidated. 

Cenric turned to them enquiringly without saying a word. Alexander nodded, and Ilyas shrugged indifferently. 

They moved toward it. It wouldn't nab much out of their time, just an hour or two. They had that much to spare in exchange for a chance at reupping their supplies.

A short while later, they reached the clearing where their quarry was situated. 

And their quarry was...

A two-floor makeshift cabin, made out of alloys and wood. 

'Huh?! What's a building like that doing here?'

Ilyas's frown paled in comparison to Cenric and Alexander's surprise. 

They moved tentatively around the cabin with utmost fascination. 

'Oh, they'd love the Vault.'

"It's from the Triad wars," Alexander muttered, wending his finger through the gaps between the planks and panels.

"This alloy... indeed. You are right!" Cenric affirmed.

They completely disregarded Ilyas and made for the crumbled door.

Ilyas, absolutely lost at what they were discussing, followed silently.

Inside, rank air smothered them in humidity and rot. Unusually thick spider webbing hazed the place in a sticky grey, almost obscuring the surface of the dark planks and alloy.

The cabin felt cramped and begged for an end. Countless years of rain had made stepping on the soft wooden planks like stepping on snow. If not for the alloy framework, it would've crumbled, god knows how long.

Cupboards spanned the walls with intervals for an old gas stove and sink. Strange for a kitchen to be the entrance, but damn it, who cared at this point?

An old metal table was bolted to the ground, hefting old metal boxes filled with... something.

They treaded silently to it, Ilyas's hand tending to the pulsating pain in his liver from the extra discretionary effort.

Cenric stumbled on his way, his wound admonishing him. He sighed and decided to sit on the ground against one of the walls, letting Alexander inspect their finding.

Ilyas, too, felt the need to let his body rest, but his curiosity was overwhelming. Maybe after...

Alexander reached the metal box, tried to flick open the lid, but to no avail.

He bled and summoned his sword. After striking at the hinges a few times, the box gave, and the lid clicked open. With his sword set to the side, he opened it completely, and inside was a sheaf of yellowed cotton papers.

Written on the surface with pleading and desperate handwriting:

PLEASE! LET THEM IN!

An unsettled frown creased Alexander and Ilyas's faces as they stared at each other questioningly. 

A nervous hand reached to remove the first yellowed paper from the sheaf, to inspect the others in the stack.

PLEASE! LET THEM IN!

PLEASE! LET THEM IN!

PLEASE! LET THEM IN!

They all cried the same.