Capítulo 51: Stitched Monster!
Leonard made his way through the shadowy alleys of the Old Port and toward the quieter neighborhoods beyond. His destination: the backyard of the house next to his own.
It wasn't long before a figure descended the wall like a gecko, agile and silent.
"You really can't stop climbing walls, can you?" Leonard teased as David landed with a soft thud.
David, all 2.5 meters of muscle and clumsy charm, scratched his head sheepishly. "Front doors are overrated. Besides, I get bored staying inside all day."
Leonard arched a brow. "Bored, huh? Maybe next time you could tone down the noise." He crossed his arms, a faint smirk on his lips. "Walls don't make for great soundproofing, you know."
David chuckled, unbothered. "I'll try to keep it down."
Leonard shook his head. "I swear, sometimes you're more trouble than you're worth."
David grinned. "But you keep me around, Master. So… what's the plan today?"
Leonard patted the towering man's shoulder; a reassuring, solid presence. "We're solving a problem. Someone might try to play wizard, and we need to make sure they don't."
David straightened, his grin turning eager. "You mean fighting?"
Leonard chuckled softly. "Maybe. Just stick close, and don't break anything I can't replace."
As the pair strode off into the night, Leonard felt a small sense of security with David beside him. There was something primal about the presence of someone 'big' a towering shield of flesh and bone ready to face anything head-on.
'People like size,' Leonard thought with amusement. 'I guess I'm no exception.'
Tonight, Roger wouldn't see them coming.
----
Meanwhile in the dimly lit dungeon, Roger worked methodically, his bony fingers moving with unsettling precision as he crafted his latest potion. The faint flame of his soul flickered deep within his hollow eye sockets, casting a sickly glow on the stone walls.
His voice, a rasping whisper, echoed softly against the damp stone. "First, 200 grams of placenta water." He poured the thick, murky liquid into the wide-bottomed flask, the surface rippling like a viscous mirror.
"Next, 40 grams of ground Blue King pollen… 26 grams of Golden Rooster powder."
The blue and yellow powders fell like fine dust into the mixture, their colors dissolving and blending until the liquid turned a pale, sickly green. Roger's hand paused for a moment as he reached for the next ingredient: four rotted rat eyeballs, plucked from their sockets and shriveled like grapes left too long in the sun.
He dropped them into the flask without hesitation. The eyeballs landed silently, sinking into the pale green liquid as though devoured by it. The potion responded almost hungrily, bubbles rising thick and slow, the surface gurgling as if something within was struggling to breathe.
Finally, Roger reached for a small jar filled with ash. "And 50 grams of plague patient's ashes." He tilted the jar carefully, letting the powder trickle into the boiling mixture.
The moment the ashes touched the potion, the liquid began to solidify. The bubbling slowed until the entire mixture thickened into a gelatinous paste, quivering in its flask like a thing alive.
Satisfied, Roger retrieved the flask and placed it on a nearby rack where a dozen similar bottles sat in neat rows. From left to right, their contents ranged from pale green to a dark, almost black solid, like tar left to dry.
He selected the bottle at the far end, the darkest one and gave it a gentle shake. The contents broke apart into something solid, yet pliable. With a practiced hand, he poured the mixture onto a square of white parchment. It settled into a pale green, stick-like form, similar in shape to mung bean cakes but with a sickly sheen.
Roger leaned in and inhaled deeply. A faint phosphorescent mist rose from the object, glowing eerily at the tip of his nose. He pulled back with a dry, rattling chuckle.
"Perfect. The Rotten Rat Plague Powder is becoming more authentic."
A sound; like bones clicking together, rumbled from his skeletal jaw in a low, unsettling laugh.
Then came the knocks on the dungeon door. 'Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.' Three long, one short.
Roger's hand paused mid-motion. He tilted his head, listening. 'The cousin,' he thought. He knew the knocking codes well; his cousin's rhythm was three long and one short, while his middleman, the one who traded for the plague powder, used the reverse: one short and three long.
"He's Early," Roger muttered, a flicker of curiosity in his hollow voice. The trade wasn't due for several more days, so this visit could only mean that his cousin needed something.
Roger moved quickly, climbing the narrow, damp staircase to a vantage point above the entryway. Hidden among towering shelves of grim alchemical tools, he peered down, his eye sockets narrowing.
There stood his cousin; hatless, as instructed. Roger had warned him repeatedly never to wear a hat when visiting. The angle from the shelf was tricky, and a hat would obscure his face. Of course, Roger hadn't told him the 'real' reason: he simply didn't trust anyone whose face he couldn't see.
Satisfied it was his cousin, Roger retreated, snapping his fingers as he descended.
From the shadows, a monstrous figure lumbered forward. Nearly three meters tall, it emerged from a cavity in the dungeon wall; bloated and grotesque, stitched together from pieces of corpses. Its patchwork flesh sagged, its enormous belly quivering with every step. The creature's presence was suffocating, exuding a stench of rot and a cloud of negative energy that seemed to poison the air.
---
Outside the dungeon, hidden behind the stone gate, Leonard crouched with every sense on high alert. He had prepared to release a spell the moment the door opened, but what he felt now made his stomach twist.
From behind the stone, his spiritual perception picked up something foul; thick with death, decay, and that unmistakable pulse of negative energy. This wasn't Roger.
"The Stitched Monster," Leonard muttered to himself, recalling Ben's description.
Ben had told him about this; how his cousin Roger would sometimes send his abomination to answer the door when there was nothing for Ben to do. It was only when Roger required a specific task that he opened the door himself. Ben had been infuriated by this arrangement, spitting his disgust as he ranted.
"That monster! That abomination! He'd send it to greet me, like some sick joke. I swear, one day I'll…" Ben's voice had faltered then, his righteous fury crumbling under his own cowardice.
Leonard steadied himself. He hadn't come all this way to let a stitched monster get in his way. He knew what lay beyond that door and he would deal with it.
"Tonight," Leonard whispered, his eyes narrowing. "Tonight, this ends."
The stone gate began to creak open, the smell of death spilling out like a fog, and Leonard prepared to strike.
Leonard crouched low in a shadowy corner of the dungeon, blending seamlessly into the gloom. His gray wizard cloak, a gift drawn from Angele's ring, draped around him like liquid smoke. The fabric was enchanted 'shielded' its surface constantly shimmering with the faint weave of a 'Level 1 Shield Spell'.
This subtle magic generated an invisible force field around him, enough to deflect minor energy attacks and physical strikes. For now, it was Leonard's most reliable layer of defense. If the shield broke, he knew he could recharge the spell using his mental power, though it would drain him. A faster option existed: 'magic stones' small crystalline vessels brimming with energy that could instantly restore the cloak's defenses. Leonard kept a few tucked safely in his belt pouch.
His attention snapped back to the dungeon door. Slowly, with a deep groan of rusted hinges, it creaked open.
A hulking figure stepped into the flickering torchlight.
Leonard's breath hitched as the creature emerged; a grotesque, patchwork abomination stitched together with crude seams. Its flesh sagged unnaturally, mottled with bruises and rot, while its bloated arms swayed like pendulums. The creature's face bore several mouths; one where it should be, others stitched grotesquely onto its neck and palms.
The mouths croaked disjointed sounds in a chorus of overlapping voices. "Go… go—gooo…!" It was less speech and more a cacophony of snarls, like multiple pipes spewing corrupted air at once.
Leonard squinted, analyzing the creature. It was massive, but not quite the size or strength of an 'Abomination', a far more advanced undead entity.
"Not an Abomination," he murmured to himself. If it were, it would have already sensed him. Unlike stitched monsters, Abominations possessed a dangerous intelligence, magic abilities, and the terrifying knack for self-repair. They could absorb corpses into their bodies, growing in strength and size with every fallen victim. Wizards had long studied them, fascinated by their resilience and potential for weaponization.
This creature, however, was merely a 'Stitched Monster'. Simpler, cruder, dumb as a brick, yet shockingly strong. Its grotesque form was enough to terrify the average person, and for many wizards, that was sufficient.
Leonard steadied his breathing, watching as the monster lumbered forward.
Suddenly, the 'mirror image' of "Ben" appeared; Leonard's illusion, carefully crafted to mimic the trembling, nervous man who had served as his informant. The stitched monster shuffled after the illusion, its massive arms swinging dangerously close, even passing 'through' the spectral form.
Leonard winced but held his ground. 'The darkness helps me here,' he thought, grateful for the creature's abysmally low intelligence. It hadn't noticed anything was amiss.
He trailed behind, creeping between shadowed pillars and avoiding the slimy potholes on the dungeon floor. The stench of rot hung thick in the air, mixed with the sour odor of dead rats. Leonard nearly gagged as he pressed forward, his boots skimming the edges of stagnant water.
"How does anyone live down here?" he muttered under his breath, his nose wrinkling. He'd read that undeath dulled the senses, but this level of tolerance for filth bordered on madness.
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