Chapter 65: The Soul-Stealing Essence

Nightfall descended, and the Ifen River surged from west to east, its broad waters cleaving the primordial forests of Virnoa into two great realms. To the south lay the ever-green, song-filled "Yalf Great Jungle," where birds and flowers flourished year-round; to the north sprawled the "Hangman's Forest," a domain of monsters shrouded eternally in mist.

The contrasting atmosphere of the riverbanks owed little to nature's temperament. In truth, before the Hangman's Forest was claimed by the Conquest Order, it too was a vibrant haven, where the residents and beasts of the dense woods differed little from those of the southern shore.

Everything changed with the outbreak of the Black Wither Disease. At some indeterminate moment, the northern forest became like a moldy loaf of bread, patches of decay—like fungal blight—appearing amid the lush greenery. At first, these withered areas were rare, each covering no more than a hundred feet in radius, insignificant against the vast expanse of forest. The elves and fairies dwelling there paid little heed. Yet, as time passed, the blight multiplied, the spots congealing into a jagged scar, stretching from north to south, reaching the banks of the Ifen.

This dramatic shift caught the attention of the southern shore's inhabitants. In the shadowed woods along the river, a slender figure stood atop a leafy branch. Barely two feet tall from head to toe, it bore a tiny composite bow slung across its shoulder, wore a cloak woven from leaves, and sported a pointed hat twisted from foliage. Perched amid the dense canopy, even the keenest-eyed hawk would fail to spot its passage.

This creature was a Pick Sprite, a small forest fairy. Unlike its aquatic kin, the Nick Sprite, the Pick Sprite bore dragonfly-like wings, granting it free flight between the trees. Though mischievous by fairy nature, it possessed a justice that belied its stature. Whenever evil threatened the woods, the brave and virtuous Pick Sprites were always at the forefront, their toy-like bows firing arrows imbued with sleep magic, causing even the largest and wildest foes to collapse in slumber.

The little Pick Sprite was serving as a voluntary sentinel upon the riverbank. Its face, usually bright with laughter, was now grave, its gaze piercing the night toward the opposite shore. Only a week prior, it had accompanied a party of Asa cavalry from Powhatan Village, crossing the river by canoe to scout the northern woods. This was not its first crossing, yet it left a lasting impression.

The northern bank had fallen to the cultists’ grasp; the devastation wrought by Black Wither Disease worsened daily. Generations of mountain folk were forced to cross the torrent in flight, abandoning their ancestral homes for the southern shore to rebuild anew.

During that reconnaissance, the Pick Sprite witnessed the disease’s monstrous offspring: a horde of evil, animate plants known collectively as Withered Horrors.

The Black Wither Disease destroyed green life, but the Withered Horrors spared neither beast nor man, slaughtering any living thing they encountered. The Algonquin warriors confronted the Branch Fiends twice, and though they repelled them, their own losses were steep. For safety, their leader, Magni Powhatan, withdrew his party to the southern bank. There, the Pick Sprite parted from its Asa friends, entrusted by Magni with a task: to vigilantly observe the opposite shore, and if it saw signs of the disease or the monsters crossing the river, to fly at once to Powhatan Village and report.

The Pick Sprite diligently fulfilled its duty, eyes alert for any stir across the water. Its only comfort was the hundred-yard-wide Ifen River, a natural bulwark against disaster, keeping the Black Wither and its monsters at bay. Unless those abominations could fly, they’d never cross the swift current.

The Withered Horrors, of course, could not fly, though their woody bodies could float and, in theory, swim. Fortunately, they were hopelessly clumsy, ignorant of swimming, and attempts to cross resulted in collisions and, ultimately, the current sweeping them downstream. The Pick Sprite, amused, imagined those fools drifting to the river's mouth, crushed to splinters by the great ships traversing the bay.

As the Pick Sprite thus mused, a shadow suddenly swept across the sky above the riverbank. Startled, the fairy sentinel raised its bow, scanning for the source. Cloud obscured the moon, and the night was silent, showing no sign of danger.

"Probably just an owl..." The Pick Sprite shrank back, wary of becoming prey to nocturnal raptors.

At that moment, a sudden gust rushed from behind, reeking of blood. Sensing trouble, the Pick Sprite spun and drew its bow, but it was too late—a talon darted through the branches, closing tight around its throat.

Whizz! The tiny arrow loosed from the string, tracing a crimson arc into the night before vanishing deep into the woods.

"Bah! Stupid little thing, still dares to resist!"

The Soul-Stealer Sprite, Chaniquay, cursed, feeling the torn flesh of its left ear. It greedily licked the blood from its fingers, smacking its lips, and leapt to the ground, carrying the limp Pick Sprite whose neck it had twisted.

This evil fairy, possessing a mythic power level, stood nearly three feet tall, resembling a hybrid of Pick Sprite and vampire bat. Its naked skin was dark red, small eyes, hooked nose, and a mouth full of needle-like teeth gave it a cunning, cruel aspect. Its long, sharp claws allowed it to climb and leap through the trees like a monkey. As it dropped from the branches, it unfurled broad, bat-like wings, gliding gently on rising air until landing smoothly.

Dragging its prey’s corpse, the Soul-Stealer Sprite hummed a hoarse tune as it prowled the woods, leaving a trail of blood-specked footprints. Like an excited hound, it paused to sniff about, suddenly burrowing into a tree hollow to gather a pile of black-spotted poisonous mushrooms, then scaling a tree to eye a wasp nest suspended in the branches.

"Heh heh~ Look at my luck—whatever I want, it appears." The Soul-Stealer Sprite grinned wickedly, reaching for the nest, but hesitated and withdrew, muttering to itself:

"No, that won’t do. These buzzing darlings never relax their guard, not even at night. Getting stung all over would be unpleasant."

Its mythic power granted the Soul-Stealer Sprite an intelligence beyond ordinary fairies—or rather, a cunning. Unwilling to risk angering the wasps for honey, it retreated to the shelter of leaves, chanting an incantation in the language of the woodfolk, narrow eyes gleaming with arcane light.

The spell complete, the Soul-Stealer Sprite pointed at the wasp nest. Invisible magic surged forth, instilling profound terror in every creature within a thirty-foot cone. The wasps, panic-stricken, fled the nest with desperate buzzing. As the Soul-Stealer Sprite parted the branches and swaggered toward the nest, the wasps realized the evil fairy was the source of their fear. Abandoning all thoughts of defense, they flew off in all directions, many paralyzed in terror, cowering in the nest.

Satisfied with the spell’s effect, the Soul-Stealer Sprite yanked down the nest, overturned it overhead, spilling honey and stunned wasps alike. It opened wide and gulped down both, crunching the wasps with relish.

After devouring the nest’s inhabitants, it patted its slightly bulging belly, hopped down, and rummaged its leather skirt for a flask-shaped copper bottle and a cord strung with several tiny, pale skulls—the size made clear they were fairy skulls.

It uncorked the flask, releasing orange smoke with a pungent, nitrous odor that spread through the woods. Taking a gulp of the magic potion, it spat a jet of flame, setting the nearby brush alight.

It recorked the “fire-spitting potion,” tucked it away, and drew its knife—little more than a paper-cutter to a human—savagely hacking off the Pick Sprite’s head and tossing it into the fire.

The dreadful ritual was just beginning. The Soul-Stealer Sprite positioned the honeycomb before the corpse, using it as a vessel to catch the blood. It tore up the poisonous mushrooms, tossing them into the bloody nest, then fished out the charred head with a stick, dumping it all into the honeycomb, which it set to simmer over the fire.

The blend within the honeycomb boiled, emitting a nauseatingly sweet stench. The Soul-Stealer Sprite inhaled with satisfaction, then overturned the boiling concoction with a wooden stick, extracting the white skull, now stripped of flesh, and threaded it onto the cord, tying it around its waist. These fairy victims’ skulls were not mere trophies of brutality; after the complex boiling, they were infused with evil magic, becoming the Soul-Stealer Sprite’s most potent weapons.

With its tasks complete, the Soul-Stealer Sprite retraced its steps to the Ifen riverbank, awaiting its master’s imminent arrival.