บท 5: Tricks
My hands press rhythmically against the fat man's chest. Push, push, push. I keep my focus sharp, every motion deliberate as I try to force life back into the motionless body.
The neck wound has been hastily bandaged—poorly, sure, but good enough to keep the others from questioning me too much. I keep my eyes wide and my face solemn, avoiding any blinking to keep the tears pouring.
Internally, though, I'm starting to get annoyed.
Five minutes. Five minutes, and I've made no progress with the soul mist.
A dozen people have gathered now, forming a loose half-circle around me. Sadness, fear, and quiet murmurs ripple through the crowd, but they're watching me like I'm some kind of tragic hero. I can practically feel the weight of their misplaced respect pressing down on me.
It won't be long before someone steps in to stop me, though. Probably one of the drunk ones.
Yes, drunk. I can smell the alcohol on them even from a few meters away, which is impressive, considering my nose is always runny. Their stumbling, slurred movements make it obvious now that I pay a bit of attention to them. Not surprising, really—these people had clearly been out drinking when the telefrag hit.
Unlucky for the fat man. If they'd been sober, maybe someone other than me would've fought back or at least tried to help before running. There are 15 or so able-bodied men, not counting me or my brain dead friend.
Lucky for me, eh?
Their drunken hesitation gives me time to experiment with his soul.
The others don't seem to notice the mist rising faintly from his body—or if they do, they haven't reacted to my prodding and poking at it. It wavers and swirls under my touch, almost alive, but it's… too heavy. That's the only way I can describe it. I can't get it to condense, no matter how hard I focus.
Condense it into what, exactly? I don't know. There's an itch in the back of my mind—a whisper that might be Madness playing tricks on me—but the instinct feels real.
The heaviness, though. That's undeniable.
Fat-phobia is real, I think, almost snorting at the absurdity of it. If being fat makes your soul fat too, maybe it's got a point.
A wrinkled hand clasps my shoulder, pulling me from my thoughts. I look up and meet the gaze of the old man who had been screaming at the sky earlier. His fury is gone now, replaced by a quiet sadness.
"Sir," I stammer, forcing my voice to shake as I meet his eyes. My lower lip trembles just enough. "I… I'm so sorry. I wasn't fast enough… I…"
The old man shakes his head slowly, patting my shoulder with one hand. In his other hand, he holds a motherfucking twelve-gauge shotgun.
The bar owner? the voice of reason theorizes. He must've had it in the bar. That's…useful.
"You did nothing wrong, sonny," the old man says, his voice low and thick with emotion. "You're a hero for killing that… creature." He glances at the goblin's corpse, his expression hardening for a moment before softening again.
He tries to comfort me, his words stumbling as he explains how he'd been cleaning glasses behind the bar when a flash of light had blinded him, and the next thing he knew, he was here. His tone is gentle, but his words barely register. The takeaway should be that random things happen that one can't control, or something.
I nod along, letting my face twist from grief into anger. Slowly, deliberately, I rise to my feet.
"This place… this horrible fucking place…" I growl, my voice trembling with barely suppressed rage. "Whoever did this… whoever put us here..."
My words cut off as I turn and begin stomping on the goblin's corpse.
Again and again, my foot slams down, and then my fists join in. The goblin's flesh gives way beneath my blows, too easily, almost like wet paper. Just like with the mist, I feel a slight...ability to move the flesh of the corpse, but I couldn't try it on the human one, now could I?
The body collapses inward with each strike, but no one else seems to notice.
They're too busy watching me with wide eyes, some clutching drinks they'd scavenged from who-knows-where.
Inappropriate? Or oddly appropriate? I wonder absently, the thought almost funny.
As I punch and tear at the goblin's remains, the mist rising from its body swirls more freely than the fat man's had. It's lighter, easier to manipulate, though no one else seems to notice it. Invisible to them, now I'm completely sure.
When I finally stop, the goblin's body is little more than a smear on the ground. My fists ache, blood smears my knuckles, but I kneel down slowly in front of the fat man's corpse.
Lowering my forehead to the ground, I let my shoulders shake as though overcome with emotion. It's the perfect disguise for the deranged smile that I can no longer suppress.
I feel it, deep in my chest—satisfaction, excitement, something else entirely.
[Fleshcrafting - lvl 1 > Fleshcrafting - lvl 2]
[Soul Well - lvl 1 > Soul Well - lvl 2]
The system text hovers in my vision as the clearing falls silent, save for the faint murmurs of the onlookers behind me.
But they don't matter. Not one bit.
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