The Crack In Heaven [A LitRPG Progression Fantasy] Chapter 52: Chapter 52: A Walking Arsenal

Read chapter 52 of The Crack In Heaven [A LitRPG Progression Fantasy] by Adamus_Auguste on NovelPedia.

Chapter 52: A Walking Arsenal "All that is cast off is mine. Not eventually, not later. Now." Old Fen's scream thundered across the shards reflecting his past. His malnourished, teenage self shook his head. The version of him that forsook humans to live with dogs sighed, and the smirking him who stood over the ashes of his village bit his lip. Finally, the most accomplished past version of him, the leader of the Sump Dogs, gazed at him. With sadness. With regret. With pity. Why? That was what he had always wanted. Or... did he? It closed its eyes, and when it did, the suspended rot devoured every shard. From Fen's chin, it stormed to his head, shattering the meaning of his truth, his questions. And his personality with them. Silma's braid fluttered when the lost meaning of his truth blasted into a concentric shockwave from Fen's rotten body. Her men staggered, leaning against the gales of Fen's crumbling frame. "He..." One of them swallowed the horror that seared his throat. The red tassel of his sword fluttered as he charged Old Fen. "Anchor-Ghast! Kill him!" Silma tilted her head toward him. Her smile twisted as the back of her hand slammed the man away. "Old dogs listen, but they forget to question. Why do you think I entertained his foolishness? You chose the same ending as dozens before you had. Predictably pathetic." She jumped behind the dark shields raised against the wind. Under her men's wide eyes, she threw her head back. "Hahaha! Let his truth warp. Let him build a core of rot and madness to sustain his own downfall. We're no priests. We do not fear heretics turning anchor-ghasts; Garrick seeks it, and your core will be his. Come! Show me what you'll become!" The bearers pushing against the wind froze. A shiver crawled down their spines before their knuckles whitened on their weapons. No one spoke, but they all understood. The gang war's real purpose—its only purpose—had always been to push Fen toward the cliff until he broke his anchor in a last try to drag them into the abyss with him. Now, they couldn't tear their eyes from the pile of rot on the ground. Fen was lost. Not his truth. It shuffled the rot without knowing what it meant anymore. Or rather... it rebuilt its definition on the ashes of the previous one. Everything will rot back to me. Rots to me. Me. The crawling heap. The rot surged upward, a green wave as noxious as the most lethal gas. From the cracked core at its center, tentacles latched onto the forty corpses sprawled on the ground floor of the tannery. Weaponry and flesh dissolved in a heartbeat before the tentacles snapped back to the growing wave. It swirled into a distorted sphere that didn't harden just yet. Most of the tentacles were still outside. On the dogs' carcasses. Dozens of them, all drawn into it, leaving the wet street clean of even the slightest drop of blood. The sphere swelled once they entered it. From the rippling right side, an arm emerged. Covered in cracks, pestilential green, it ended in a broadsword longer than two men. The left side dripped into an oversized, boneless limb, like a whip. A torso formed, arched with crooked limbs jutting out from its back. The four legs of a dog supported its corrupted frame. The anchor-ghast towered in front of Silma. Her men trembled in its shadow. Heads sprouted right beneath the high ceiling. An old one first, with empty eye sockets in which greed still glinted. Two dogs' heads followed on each of his shoulders... then dozens sprouted across his torso like a gown. Some cursed in betrayal. Others wept blood, pleading for death. A third group sneered that they'd kill every last one of the Black Cask members. "A-AHH!" The man wielding the paper umbrella plugged his ears. He dug his fingers into his head as if pain would dispel the nightmare. His eyes only found the giant monster, though. CLANG A deafening clang broke the curse of fear tying every man. They lowered their gaze to Silma, who had slammed her knives against each other in front