"I need a list of what you can do," he said. His tone was matter-of-fact, devoid of any anger or drama. It was a simple statement of need.
She didn't turn. The static in his mind sharpened into a spike of pure defiance. "Why?"
"Because I need to know what tools I have," David replied. The answer was straightforward, pragmatic. His voice was without threat but laced with the unshakable weight of his control. Also, it's just good sense. You don't use a blender without checking if it has a puree setting first.
He felt her resistance tug against the compulsion for a single, futile moment before it completely shattered. "Three. [Raise Undead]," she said, the words curt and hostile. "I can make the dead get back up. Skeletons. Zombies. Whatever's left in the body."
Useful. A self-replenishing, if smelly, workforce. "Any idea how many? Any limits?"
"No."
"Fine. Next."
"[Life Drain]. I can siphon vitality from living targets. It weakens them. I can use the energy to heal myself or... enhance my physical capabilities." There it is. The 'make me fast and grumpy' skill. David nodded slowly. That explained the fight, her speed.
"Good. Last one."
This hesitation was longer, the resentment a cold burn through the tether. "[Create Undead Knight]. It requires a significant corpse. Or... parts. Small ones. Fused together." She finally glanced over her shoulder, her eyes promising murder. "I haven't tried it. I've been gathering materials."
Gathering materials. She's out here building a monster in her spare time. That's... dedicated.
"Alright," David said, turning to leave. He paused. "Keep gathering." Might as well. A custom-built undead knight sounds slightly more reliable than Jamie. Equally harmful.
Mara’s glare could burn through coals.
The clearing was quiet. David walked closer to Mara. She stood a statue. Still silent in simmering rage. He could feel the emotion through the tether, a constant, staticky pressure in the back of his mind. Like a distant flock of angry bees.
"We need to clear the air," he said, his tone conversational. "You've got one trip to get over this whole 'I want to stab David' phase. If you don't, I'm going to have you walk into a colossal. You won't be coming back."
She didn't turn. The static intensified.
"Speaking of," he continued, "back on our first few hunts. Were you giving me the occasional siphon? Taking a little snack?"
"No," she said, the response immediate and sharp.
He felt the falseness in the tether, a distinct, sour note. A lie. He sent a single, silent command down the line. It wasn't a question.
She flinched as if struck. A wave of cold fury washed over him, followed by a grudging, defeated pressure. "Yes," she hissed through clenched teeth.
Knew it. Should've charged her a tasting fee. "Well, there you go. You brought this on yourself. So, suck it up." He gave her a flat look. "Literally, in your case. But not from me."
“Get your shit together before I make you forget your name.”
He turned and walked away. Gotta remember to never trust a necromancer. Especially one you've already pissed off. It's just good life policy.
The clearing had become a stage, and David was the director of a very strange play. He watched his cast and crew prepare. Jamie was a bundle of raw nerves, darting around to gather the last bits of kindling. Kid’s a live wire. Just gotta make sure he doesn’t short circuit and set himself on fire—he’d survive thanks to the ice, though. Rhea was the stage manager, her movements economical and precise as she arranged the debris into a stable, burnable pile. She could probably build a functioning log cabin with this junk. She was good to have around.
Evans stood in the wings, his posture all quiet authority, his gaze sweeping the dark tree line. The critic. Waiting for the show to go off the rails. And Mara. She stood at her mark, a perfect, still statue. Through the tether, she was just a hum of cold readiness, a loaded gun in a silent room. My lead actress. And she doesn't even get a line.
The star of this particular production, Frank Corbin, was lying center stage, looking like he’d just lost a fight with a lawnmower. His skin had a nasty greenish-gray tint, and sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. A full-body shiver wracked him every ten seconds or so. Method acting. He’s really committing to the role of ‘Dying Man’. The makeup department outdid themselves.
A small audience of other survivors watched from the safety of the plane’s torn fuselage, keeping their distance like he’d asked. No autographs, please. The director needs to focus.
The fire, the main prop, was a nice touch. It wasn't just for show. The flickering light and the smoke would create a handy visual smokescreen, blurring the finer details of his sleight of hand from the cheap seats. It also sold the whole "ancient ritual" vibe. He’d fed them the simple, believable story.
Mara’s little issue was a surface-level scratch, fixed with the focused flame of a couple of lighters. Corbin’s problem, however, was a deep, systemic rot. You don’t fix that with a band-aid; you need to cauterize it. They bought the lie because it was straightforward enough; easy to understand. The truth was a lot more interesting.
The truth was, David had been workshopping this production for over an hour. Corbin’s Oscar-worthy performance as a plague victim was his directorial masterpiece. He’d been sending Mara quiet, mental memos. Just enough to make him feel weak. He’d had her conduct a slow, careful siphon of Corbin’s vitality. Not enough to cause any permanent harm, just enough to make him progressively sicker, to make the story of a powerful, lingering curse completely unassailable.
The fever, the pallor, the shakes—it was all a meticulously constructed illusion. David had most definitely not discovered a curse; he'd built one from the ground up, brick by painful brick. You can't be the only guy with the cure if there's no disease. So I became a disease manufacturer. The benefits are great, the ethics are flexible. B
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
"Let's get this show on the road," David said, his voice cutting through the tense quiet. "Light it up."
Jamie jumped at the command, his hands fumbling with a cheap plastic lighter. After a few frantic clicks, a flame finally caught on a piece of frayed airline blanket. The fire grew, its hungry crackle the only sound for a moment.
It was time for the director's cameo. David walked toward the fire. The heat washed over him, a physical force. He could feel the frantic, chaotic energy within the flames, the raw power of simple combustion. This part was just routine maintenance. His [Energy Affinity] skill had been a background process for hours, a constant, low-level sip of whatever he could scrap together to keep his internal reserves topped off. This, however, was different. This was pulling up to an all-you-can-eat buffet after a week of rations.
For one long second, he was just a guy committing to a very bad action. Then his skill engaged. It stopped being a sip; it became a voracious, open-mouthed gulp. The thermal energy of the fire rushed into him, a torrent of raw power that was instantly processed, streamlined, and filed away into the metaphysical storage the System provided. The roaring flames, which had been leaping toward the sky a moment before, guttered and simmered around him in the space of a few heartbeats. They sucked inward toward his body as if being pulled down a drain, leaving behind nothing but a strange sheet of ice beneath him and a ring of flame encasing him beyond its edges.
David sat there in the middle of the charred, smoking circle, perched on a throne of ice he'd just made by eating a fire. To the audience, he figured he looked like a budget shaman who'd seen one too many David Blaine specials. Maybe next time, add some chanting. Or some whale sounds. They were all seeing a miracle, a holy man battling demons. What they were actually seeing was a guy multitasking. Killing two birds with one stone. Or, more accurately, curing one fake curse with one very real one. The show was over. The lie was sold. And soon he’d be up two assets and one fully charged bullshit meter for whatever happened next.
The small fire was still crackling, its light trickling over the clearing. David stood up from the circle of ice he'd made, the cold already fighting a losing battle with the fire's heat. Multitasking. Charging my batteries and doing interior decorating. The others were staring, but he paid them no mind. The opening act was over. Time for the main feature.
He walked over to Corbin. The marshal was conscious, sitting up now though he looked like he'd been through a dryer cycle. His face was pale and beaded with sweat, but his eyes were sharp, locked on David with a mix of hope and grim determination.
"The curse is clustered deep," David said, his tone as matter-of-fact as a mechanic describing an engine knock. "I have to pull it out strand by strand. It's gonna feel like I'm rooting around in your ribs with a coat hanger. Try not to tense up."
Corbin let out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh. "Just get it over with."
Excellent. A cooperative patient. David knelt and placed his hand on Corbin's chest, right over his heart. He could feel the frantic beat through the damp fabric. He didn't need to close his eyes or chant. He just focused.
He reached for the [Infernal Thrall] skill. He knew the shape of it now, the feel of it. You’d expect it to be about domination, but it’s not. It was about architecture. He was building a bridge.
He focused, and unleashed something like a psychic attack made of pure demonic malevolence—a single, razor-thin strand of demonic energy struck Corbin's defenses. It was a psychic crowbar prying at the seams of the man's will. Corbin cursed, twitching and seizing, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth as the connection took hold. “F—feels like my veins are on fire—what the fuck.”
"That's the curse fighting back," David lied smoothly. "Just the initial contact." Actually, that's me hitting your soul with a crowbar. My bad.
He felt the automatic flare of Corbin's own energy—a bright, panicked surge of self-preservation. David just held his ground, without force; a constant, unmovable pressure. He began to weave, his energy. To build a channel. A conduit.
Almost there, he sent a wave of calm from [Calm Mind] down the forming connection, lacing it with a sense of calm finality. It was both a suggestion and statement of fact.
He felt the exact moment Corbin's resistance crumbled. The man was too sick and too invested in the allure of a cure. His energy, now leaderless, began to flow along the path David had carved, marching to his proverbial orders like good soldiers, its rhythm slowly syncing with the demonic current’s march.
David closed the loop. His energy flowed through Corbin and Mara’s now, which followed pacified and patterned after his, flowed back. A closed circuit and a perfect, self-sustaining feedback loop of control. And we have liftoff.
He removed his hand. The connection was solid, a new, silent wire humming in the back of his mind next to the one connected to Mara. He could feel Corbin's physical state—the fever, the lingering weakness—as clearly as he felt the weight of the bone javelin on his back.
He looked at Corbin. The marshal's breathing was easier, the greenish tint already fading from his skin, Mara releasing her draining effect at his command. Corbin looked up at David, genuine relief in his eyes. "I... I can... it’s gone. The pressure's gone."
"Told you I'd fix it," David said, his voice still flat. Yeah. I fixed a problem. He stood up, turning away from the grateful marshal. He had a new tool in his kit. One that came with a badge and a gun.
Then Corbin's eyes lost focus, staring at a point in the empty air in front of him. His relief vanished, replaced by confusion, then dawning horror, and finally pure rage. His hand twitched. "[Infernal Thrall]?" he whispered, the words choked. His head snapped up, his eyes, now blazing with betrayal, locked onto David. "What the hell did you—" His movement was clumsy, weakened, but his intent was clear as his hand scrambled for his holstered weapon.
David didn't move. He watched him coolly. He sent a single, brutal command down the new tether, a mental sledgehammer wrapped in absolute authority.
Corbin's body seized up for a split second. The fury in his eyes shattered into glassy confusion. He blinked, his hand falling away from his gun to press against his own forehead as if a sharp pain had just come and gone. He looked around, disoriented. "I... is it over?" he asked, his voice slurred.
David gave a slight, casual nod. "Yeah," he said, his tone utterly neutral. "It's over."
He turned away from the dazed marshal. The fire was still burning.
And the award for 'Most Dramatic Performance in a Fire-Related Crisis' goes to... me. He dusted a bit of ash from his shoulder. Maybe I should start charging for this.
A quiet, profound relief washed through him. The biggest, most immediate threat was now a managed asset. Corbin's gun was the real problem. Hard to argue with a bullet. It's very persuasive. That was a big part of why he'd needed the fire—in case he got shot. The healer's magic was useless on him; their energy just clashed with his. It was like trying to put out a grease fire with water. But heat? Heat was universal. He'd needed a big, juicy reserve of thermal energy to siphon, a safety net in case the "surgery" went wrong and he needed to patch himself up in a hurry.
Now he held the energy right in the center of himself, a nice little stockpile for later. It was a solid plan, really. But trying to use one kind of power while sitting on two others was like trying to rub his belly, pat his head, whistle, and brush his teeth all at once. He'd definitely fumbled it during the whole thrall-making process, a bunch of that energy slipping out of his grip. The weird part was, the energy that got away had just sort of... seeped back into his circulation, leaving him feeling a bit patched up and stronger than before.
Well, that's a handy mistake. He figured he should probably get a handle on that. No time like the present. As he walked, he started practicing, trying to juggle the different energies in his mind without accidentally giving himself a tune-up.
Evans still had a gun, which was basically his entire personality as far as David was concerned. He was calmer than Corbin, sure, but a calm guy with a gun is still a guy with a gun. The same trick wouldn’t work twice. Not without another colossal as an excuse. And David distinctly felt a hard limit—currently, he only had the space for one more thrall. One problem at a time. Corbin was the gun to my head. Now he's the one holding it for me. Employee of the month.
He looked at the group—Evans helping a dazed Corbin to his feet, Rhea watching it all with her unsettling calm, Jamie just looking confused.
"Alright, field trip's over," David announced. "The food and water isn't going to walk here. Neither is the gear. Grab your pointy sticks and get packing. We're moving out."