A persistent breeze tugs at his tattered clothes, pulling free loose strands of hair from his blood matted scalp.

  The orange sky of late evening a subtle backdrop.

  The briefest flash of color or wisp of fiery cloud only periodically glimpsed past the oncoming tide of liquid darkness. The hoard set before him so numerous in scope and illusive in their origin as to make it nigh impossible for him to determine just how many he faced.

  Hard not to see it for what it so resembled.

  The creeping shadow of the reaper’s moth eaten mantle, as it blankets the world around him on all sides. An ode to futility for as far as the eye could see.

  Suddenly, his vision blurred, and his thoughts ground down to a halt. Blinking, he shook himself back to some semblance of awareness, doing his utmost to present an imposing figure—to hold his spirit body together through force of will alone—if only to mask the waves of debilitating lethargy and weakness which threatened to topple him at any moment.

  Even in his most pessimistic of estimations, none of them put a candle to how he was feeling right now. When the system knockoff had warned him about his spirit body being in poor condition… maybe he should have…?

  No. No, there was no use regretting his decisions now. Not after everything that’d happened. And even if there were, he was already all out of time.

  There came a terrible bellow of incandescent fury. The wall of sound that next slammed into him setting his head to spinning, even as the scar-faced Cthulle he remembered from the recordings broke away from the middle of the pack, and shot toward him at breakneck speeds.

  There was a sensation of vertigo as the distant figure became very large, very fast, before Jun finally reached the apex of his jump, and so began to fall.

  Before he was able to fall far however, before the rage fueled front runner could get his meaty paws into him, before the entire hoard could descend upon him like a tide of inky blackness, he opened his mouth, and uttered just a few simple verses.

  Simple words which rippled outward as if borne on a physical wave—his voice resounding with unmistakable finality, as greater truths of a higher reality were roughly channeled through him.

  “My will a focused strike; restrain the thoughts that blind me—I will bury us all if it means total comprehension.”

  ABSOLUTE BURIAL

  Behind him, green clouds gathered. Swirling. Coalescing. Imploding before reforming into a flashy new configuration—an oversized coffin of solid emerald green, boldly chased with laughing skulls and wilting filigree.

  There was a dreadful creak of un-oiled hinges as the casket lid eagerly swung itself wide. Then came the rattle of chains from somewhere inside the impenetrable dark of its cavernous maw. Before, in one fell swoop, numerous chains pierced the gloom to wrap his body and yank him inside—lid slamming shut with booming finality.

  At this, the tide of inky bodies slowed in their advance, confused by this unexpected turn of events. Scarface, sensing something was amiss, even began slowly backtracking—wary of this enemy and the seemingly endless bag of tricks at his disposal.

  The coffin shook, rattled, vibrated so violently it seemed liable to unmake itself prematurely, before stilling abruptly. The slow creak of a coffin lid hesitant to open. Endless seconds for the door to creep its way to full extension, revealing the unknowable black veil that lay beneath. The hoard flinched back as a single chain link peaked through—curious yet hesitant.

  Tentative, as if shy.

  Only to be joined by the snaking length of a second. And then a third. And then a fourth.

  Thick dread formed in the pit of Scarface’s stomach, and, going purely on instinct, he was the first to break into a full on retreat. Unfortunately for him, it was ultimately too little too late, and he was far too close besides.

  Dozens. Then hundreds. Then thousands of chains exploded forth like a cacophonous river of shifting metal and rattling links.

  A legion of chains which spread out to encompass the sky—glittering like jewels in what light periodically peaked through the once clever encirclement. Then, the sky full of piercing chains went to work.

  Spearing. Impaling. Punching easily through tough hide and even tougher muscle.

  Dozens of the younger, less experienced Cthulle fell from the sky in the first few seconds—unable to withstand the sudden ferocity of the vicious onslaught. Hundreds died in the seconds thereafter. Scarface, for his part, was impaled not once, but twice—once in the membranous skin of his left wing, and again in the dense meat of his thigh.

  This despite his uniquely high speed, awareness, and agility—hounded on all sides even as he ducked, dodged, and weaved between an impossible number of living projectiles.

  Fuming in silence, he could only watch as yet another dozen of his siblings were shot from the sky, an unseen cluster of chains taking them from behind— threading through their bodies then stringing them along like some macabre, bloody sort of ornament.

  And if that weren’t bad enough, he wasn’t even given time to rage at the loss, before he was forced to outmaneuver yet another flock of those light blasted chains.

  For all that there were only sixty seconds in which |Absolute Burial| remained active, nearly half of the thousands strong hoard of Cthulle were either killed outright or simply removed from the battle. Meaning that, by the time those sixty seconds were up, and the grinning skull coffin began to fade back into emerald mist, the strong position from which they’d sought unequivocal victory had been reduced to little more than a few coordinated pockets of resistance bordering gaping holes in their grand encirclement.

  Not even the sudden reemergence of Jun, unharmed, if a bit pale, was enough to rally the scattered mass of survivors to decisive action. Not that it would have been enough to save them in any event.

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  Jun breathed, fighting past the roiling tides of nausea that threatened to unmake him. Unwilling to cede the much needed momentum when he already, somehow, had the much greater force on the back foot, he pushed through the discomfort and once more reached for the words that would prove his salvation. His words, quiet spoken though they were, nevertheless reached far and wide.

  “My will unmakes mountains; retribution my iron sheath—what need have I to act, when you’d do well to do it for me.”

  DETONATION WEAVE

  As gravity once more reclaimed him, and his body began its upcoming reunion with the ground, a silvery mist was swiftly absorbed into his skin, until a soft light was emanating from every inch of his body. A muted glow which, contrary to expectations, did not originate from the inside out, but instead shone from the outside in—his attempt at a derma-weave, like a second layer of skin, having been formed entirely of condensed crushing mists.

  Time slowed for Jun as he went through his pockets and retrieved a handful of inconsequential objects. Tiny rocks chipped away from the floating pillars beyond the rift. Reciting the crushing litany in his mind all the while, he reached for a single stone and lined up his angles.

  All it took was a thought to fill the stone with silver light—his |Detonation Weave| growing imperceptibly dim in response—until he’d deemed it was at a satisfactory level of saturation.

  Without an ounce of hesitation he flicked the stone downwards, towards the foreign landscape of the ground far below, detonating the unstable energy inside the pebble with a concussive boom, just as soon as it left his palm. And in so doing, roughly fling himself upwards, flipping madly through the air, until he spun high above the rippling mass of Cthulle—finally gathering themselves for a counter attack.

  Too little too late, Jun thought to himself briefly, even as he charged up an entire handful of the explosive death pebbles. |Detonation Weave| growing dangerously dim at the expenditure, with a flick of his wrist he detonated another at point blank range—restoring some of the kinetic energy he’d lost whilst flinging himself out of the range of any potential reprisals.

  Still winging through the sky without an ounce of control, earth and cloud little more than an intermingled blur, he managed to use that momentum to launch the first of many salvos—centrifugal force giving it just that extra bit of oomph.

  Unfortunately, he never got to see the very first explosion go off. He merely noted how the ensuing shockwave added ever so slightly to the steady silver glow of his new favorite mantra.

  An excerpt from: “A Mad Man’s Repository: A Conceptual Compendium on the Unreasonableness of the Universe.”

  Consists of a list of self-made mantras, the step by step process of their painstaking creation, my personal take on etheric concession theory, as well as a whole assortment of inane ramblings, petulant rantings, and unintelligible ravings penned, as always, by yours truly.

  |Absolute Burial| (Piercing Aligned—3rd Aspect)

  My will a focused strike; restrain the thoughts that blind me—I will bury us all if it means total comprehension.

  Etheric Concessions: Deprivation Overwhelming, Analytical Mind, Borrowed Time.

  Description: The stubborn culmination of nearly twenty years of on and off tinkering—as well as a whole boatload of experimentation—absolute burial is actually one of a set. What I like to call my “ultimatum class” mantras—pretty cool name huh?—seeing as that’s exactly what it’d taken for me to actually bother finishing any of them. Now, normally here’s where I’d give you the full rundown on its general abilities, pros and cons, etc. But, seeing as it’s getting pretty late, and these descriptions are only ever me rambling to myself anyways, I figured, why not just skip straight to the good part—the concessions!—since they’re what really makes this baby tick in the first place?

  Deprivation Overwhelming: As the title implies, this etheric concession essentially deprives the user of everything non-critical to the use of said mantra. So things like sight, smell, taste- all of the senses really. This includes, but isn’t limited to, your sense of self, your sense of shame, your sense of general well being, you get the point.

  Basically anything that doesn’t assist in piercing baddies with your wicked long chains goes straight out the window.

  Oh!

  And did I mention this mantra’s whole shtick is that it’s this huge coffin deal with spearing chains that are like, a mile long at least? Ah-! Don’t ask me why that is… I’d been feuding with a cabal of elder vampires at the time and… you know what? I don’t need to explain myself to you! It’s badass, that’s why! And that’s all there is to it!

  Analytical Mind: Where deprivation overwhelming scoops out every thought, belief, and scrap of emotion like it was disemboweling an overripe gourd, analytical mind fills that void with a perfectly rational mind. Think reptilian thoughts entirely unswayed by anything but cold calculation. Essentially, if the optimal decision in any given scenario required you to slit your own mother’s throat, anyone under the sway of this concession would do so without a moment’s hesitation. Not because they enjoyed the task, or anything of the sort, but because it was deemed necessary. Note to self: Do not use in the presence of mothers, children, or the elderly. Yeesh…

  Borrowed Time: By calling on an aspect shared between all four of the martial alignments, I was able to tap into a wellspring of power so vast it actually beggars belief. In essence: the transitory nature of life when in the hands of a warrior. It’s often said that a candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long. That to live by the sword is to die by the sword, and the truth of the matter is, very few of those who kill for a living live long enough to see old age. By tying this mantra to the generations of warriors on innumerable worlds whose journey was cut short by an axe, sword, spear, or hammer, I’ve found a way to supercharge all of my mantras well past what should’ve been possible. This does come at a rather steep cost, however, as is so often the case.

  |Detonation Weave| (Crushing Aligned—3rd Aspect)

  My will unmakes mountains; retribution my iron sheath—what need have I to act, when you’d do well to do it for me.

  Etheric Concessions: Berserker Rage, Demolition Junky, Borrowed Time.

  Description: Another ultimatum class mantra, detonation weave pulls rather heavily on the experiences granted to me by my exposure to the wonders of techno worlds, and all the varied gadgets they come up with therein. Really, all it had taken was a drastic change in my perspective to fix an issue I’ve struggled with since the very beginning—go figure—a solid defense.

  By creating a flexible derma-weave just above the skin layer, not only do I avoid the rigidity issues I ran into with my “body’s temple crushing erosion” mantra, but it also had the added benefit of drastically increasing the kinetic energy I was able to store up on my person, without the risk of severe bodily harm—seeing as I am no longer storing it directly inside my bones and muscle tissue like an idiot. Before, it’d simply built up in my body with no real way of release. Now, not only is it possible to store vast amounts of kinetic energy, but also to consciously redirect it as well.

  Concessions are fairly one note, but what can you really expect when dealing with the patron of crushing?

  Berserker Rage: See the enemy. Attack the enemy. Also, everyone’s the enemy, and everything needs to die.

  Demolition Junky: Me go smash. Thing go boom. No thing go boom? Me feel sick. Me feel angry! Make bigger thing go boom—make many thing go boom!—until me feel much much better.

  Borrowed Time: The unrealized potential of all the lives lost in the heat of battle borrowed at great cost. See Absolute Burial for a more in-depth description.