Demonic Devourer: First, I Eat the Babies [LitRPG]

Chapter 87

A certain temple

The manifestation of the flower eliminates my eye, half my brain, and a fair portion of my skull, but I’ve survived worse. Without a mind, I have a soul; without a soul, I have a mind. Until my enemy slaughters both, I’ll live.

And I refuse to let him do that. I haven’t survived this long to go down to a nobody.

“Do you have a name?” I ask, ripping myself from the flowers once more. They haven’t stopped moving, and I suspect they won’t until my target is dead or this temple is gone.

“I own many.” Slow clapping reverberates through the air. “You have fantastic resistance. As one should expect from a being such as you.”

The sensation of the world tilting in a dimension beyond the three I can perceive is back, and it increases with the pressure of the flower within my head.

Advancement accompanies adversity, right? Sapphire sure drilled that into my head, and nothing I’ve seen so far contradicts that.

I just need to understand how.

The flower magic runs this temple, and it eliminates my ability to access my skills.

“The gatekeeper’s sixth law: refer not to the ever-changing with immutable terms, else a flower withers.”

Pain explodes across the left side of my face as the flower that replaced it dies, shriveling in fast motion. Blood spews from the freshly-exposed part of my head, internal organs collapsing in on themselves as the flower crumbles away.

Irritating. Now I’m on a timer. I need to find a way around this temp—around the shrine’s anti-skill field before I go past the recovery my passive magic grants me.

Interesting that it seems to be able to read my thoughts. That implies a lot about the area I’m in, though I’m not sure what.

The flowers grasping at my legs bloom brighter and larger as blood and brain matter drips onto them, eagerly slurping up any sustenance I have to offer. They reach greedily, groping for purchase on every part of my body they can reach, and I tear them apart with my bare hands.

“The gatekeeper’s second law. A flower blooms.”

This time, it replaces my right hand.

I can’t stem the flow of blood from my body, and Demonic Heritage is too slow to function, especially if I’m actively fighting off a wave of flowers that seek to drown and eat me.

It’s a reversal of the role I usually play. I deny my opponents options, overwhelm them, and Devour everything I can get from them.

Despite it all, I laugh.

“Laugh all you like, Carnelian,” the empty cleric declares. “By nightfall, you will be ours.”

“Who is our?” I ask, batting flowers away with my good arm. “Care to elaborate?”

It’s the Deadmarked, I know, so I don’t bother listening to his explanation.

The Mark of the Dead Gods. They worship deities that no longer walk this world; at least, none of them exist in their true forms anymore. Evidently, this enables them to use inexplicable magic that can enforce the strangest rules.

The rules govern the temple. I can’t see any exits from the pavillion we currently stand in, so it’s likely there’s not much more that they can extend their influence over.

I just thought of this area with a word that I’ve referred to it by before, I realize. Does that mean the sixth law only applies when I do it consecutively?”

“Are you listening, Carnelian?”

“Not really,” I reply, kicking myself free of a flower the size of my head and advancing.

“The gatekeeper’s sixth law. A flower withers.”

When the flower that took the place of my right hand disintegrates, it takes half of my forearm with it. Blood fountains forth from both missing parts of my body.

I didn’t think of anything the same way twice, did I?

Wait. The gatekeeper called me Carnelian two times in a row, which should violate his own law, except obviously, he’s fine.

Does the law apply to me responding to the same name twice? Broken gods, this is annoying.

I’m not getting any closer to the lawmaker either. Every step I take is like walking through quicksand, and the moment I set my foot down, a fresh wave of flowers pushes me back into position. The church is overflowing with them now, blanketing every visible surface, and they continue to grow in size, feeding on my flesh. They assail me faster than I can move, tying me down and preventing me from using my high Body (Speed) to blitz my foe.

Rules, rules, rules. There are at least three more laws that I don’t know about yet, each which could trigger off of anything and have any effect.

Since I’m not making any progress trying to push through a rapidly-growing flood of flowers, I stand still, letting them grow on and around me.

Bit by bit, the pieces click into place; though half my brain is missing, Mind (Speed) is still present within what remains of my body, allowing me to think far faster than any of the flowers can devour me.

This is a place of rules. A place where one person holds total command over what happens inside. A place where the system doesn’t work like it’s supposed to.

I know one other area where that applies, and I suspect that even if they aren’t the same, they’re similar.

This is a nullspace. In function, if not in reality. I find it hard to believe that the one who guards that which is sacred is a proto-Titan, especially because I can feel them and there are none within a hundred miles of me.

Still, this is a nullspace; if not a nullspace, then a domain that’s been made permanent.

Earlier, the man of many names used a story involving a gate. I can assume that’s what following the domain’s laws grants access to. That’s either a weakness or the ultimate goal of it.

I suppose, one way or another, I’ll find out.

The weight of the flowers threaten to knock me to my knees, but I remain standing even as the flood rises, burying me alive in an explosion of color. The temple isn’t recognizable anymore.

My vision fades.

“Rest well, my friend. You will serve a far grander purpose once you pass through the gate.”

I remain silent.

“The gatekeeper’s final duty: to those who allow it, the gate opens.”

If the world was tilted before, it spins now. Had I not concluded I’m in a nullspace or something similar, this would have revealed it to me. Reality shatters; the abyss meets my eyes; I am made of flowers.

The gate beckons.

The gate is open; the gate is closed. The gate is everything; the gate is me; the gate is nameless. I pass through the gate; the gate is impassable; I exit the gate.

Effect precedes cause. Time is a myth, long since disproved. There is nothing and there is everything and—

And deep within this semi-lucid dream state that the final stage of this domain forces me into, my internal walls collapse. The system that I use to draw on my magic melts, as much a part of my will as my own body.

Half alive and half dead and half something else entirely, I reach deep within me, searching, and I find a seed.

I laugh and I laugh and I laugh.

I am Evelyn Carnelian, and I am more than the sum of my parts.

I am Evelyn Carnelian, and I am not yet dead.

I am Evelyn Carnelian, and this is child’s play.

“The traveler,” I say, forgetting when I opened my mouth, “arrives at the gate.”

“What is this?” the voice says, halfway between curious and fearful.

“The story,” I continue, “does not end there. The traveler sees the gate; she sees beyond it. She learns from it. She passes through the gate and returns. She understands.”

I let the seed blossom, drawing on the neverending growth of this space. The ever-shifting domain, only limited by the unchanging laws of the gatekeeper, flows through me. In this unreal state, it is me, and that means I can use it.

“The traveler’s first revelation,” I say. “A flower takes root.”

None of this makes any sense, but instinct has never failed me and it does not start to do so now. My opponent’s weapon of choice has broken down the walls between me and everything I need, and I welcome it. The words flow over my tongue as if they were designed to be spoken right here, right now.

Adversity sculpts excellence, indeed.

The gate closes.

Black and white and red explode out from me, annihilating the flowers that cover me and ruining the manifestation of the gate.

When the faceless man speaks again, his voice is tinged with fear. “The gatekeeper’s third law—“

“The traveler’s second revelation,” I continue, cutting him off. “A flower blooms.”

My nullspace explodes outwards, Devouring the flowers and replacing them with unforgiving darkness and scouring light as one. The process they use to fuel themselves now powers me instead, allowing me to blossom far faster than I should be able to.

Pitting domain against domain is a challenge, but the temple is no true nullspace; if it is, nobody is using it.

“Stop,” the priest commands. “Stop!”

But there’s no power to his words. He is the gatekeeper no longer, because there is no gate.

There is no temple.

“This,” I say, “is mine.”

New skill unlocked: Manifest

Tier: Irrelevant

For the briefest of moments, make your nullspace reality.

The man flickers once, twice, and then he’s gone. I can’t stop him—I assume this wasn’t his true body.

My nullspace returns to nothingness again once I have consumed the temple in its entirety.

Class: Proto-Titan advanced to level 21!

The level of my secondary class more than doubles in a single instant as reality returns to its base form. Causality restores itself, and the world untilts.

Manifestation is impossible to hold onto for long, and so my nullspace drops away in moments.

It’s fine. The temple is gone in its entirety. Once the magic fades away, I see exactly how much I’ve consumed.

I stand in the center of a crater, perfectly round. The earth around me has been thoroughly obliterated for almost a hundred feet in every direction, impossibly smooth.

There’s no time to waste now. Though I got what I wanted out of that, it’s not enough.

Anyone who tries to kill me will die.

I don’t have a name for the man, but I don’t need one. Magic (Meta) being as high as it is means that I can use Locate on someone whose magical signature I’ve interfaced with before. Still, I need to feed the skill a name, even if that name isn’t accurate.

Locate: the former gatekeeper.

He’s not even a mile away. Amateur.

With the fresh power I absorbed from the nullspace temple, I have the reserves to Bloodpath for hours if I have to.

As it is, it takes me roughly forty-five seconds to find the facility my target is hiding in. A labyrinth of sparsely populated streets lead to it, twisting and winding through building complexes that rival the height of Novarath’s towers and sinking through layers of manmade detritus.

Zelin is a garbage heap of a city, but I don’t stop to take it in. Instead, I become a bloodstain amongst the ground, my Antimemetic Cloak preventing guards from identifying me. Everyone I pass turns towards me uneasily, sensing the presence of a poorly-masked Titan, but they can never find the source of their troubles.

The gatekeeper lies hidden behind eight walls, each of them guarded by a different magical effect.

I Siphon a crystalline wall’s magic away, smashing straight through it with a fist. A wall comprised solely of force dissiptates when I torch it with Wraithfire. For the next six, I don’t even bother finding a way through them.

“Descent unto the Void,” I say, creating a fist-sized hole in each remaining barrier.

There are guards here, I notice belatedly. None of them have reacted to my presence yet; I’m moving too fast.

I haven’t used up the carrying capacity of my skill yet, so I take a pound of flesh from each guard, sending their hearts and brains careening into my nullspace. A few are able to offer token resistance, but this is a Category 1 city. Though I will pay dearly for this, none of the guards are able to defend against a skill this powerful.

Trait earned: Killer VII

Requirements: Kill 1,000 beings that possess levels

999 kills becomes 1034 in an instant.

I use Bloodpath to send myself straight through the walls.

My target is waiting for me in a vault. He looks just as he did in the projections—face constantly blurring, figure indistinct.

“So,” he says, obviously shaken. “You have come. I have seen the error of my ways, Carnelian, and—“

I activate Abyssal Echo, sending demonic magic spiraling straight through his skull. It doesn’t kill him, not immediately.

“Appraise,” I say. “Let’s see who you really are.”

Name: He Who Watches The Gate

Age: 613

Race: Fae

Class: Florist