Chapter 1: The Reincarnator
The flames in metal brazier danced languidly like tattered cloth, barely illuminating the gloomy prison with flickering red light. Everything else was shrouded in darkness, and through the metal doors of small window, no larger than a palm, one could see a butcher wearing a sackcloth mask walking through the corridor.
The skin, turned inside out, burned with pain, the ankles were chafed raw, and the dislocated joints caused every muscle twitch. At first, he was not aware that he had awakened, until the face in front of him had become a head rolling on the ground—its neck torn open, adhering with coagulated blood, even the protruding edge of throat bone was visible.
If I haven’t gone mad, then it appears this reincarnation has dealt me an exceptionally ill-fated hand.
He slightly turned his head, attempting to shift his gaze away from the dead man’s head to survey his surroundings, and immediately felt a heart-wrenching pain.
I hate this unmodified body! He cursed from the bottom of his heart.
His pursuers had allowed no time for preparation, making this hasty reincarnation a catastrophe. If he could escape from this dungeon, he would at least have to complete the surgery to control nerve signals with his consciousness.
After calming his breathing for a while, he began to extend his spiritual tentacles into his body, barely igniting the last bit of soul residue in this broken body—the soul of the original owner, and without any gratitude, burned this dim flame to ashes. As an offering, he uses it to communicate with the Warren of Tsathoggua.
At the end of the faint glow resembling rotten matter, there was unimaginable darkness. The corners of the cell were gloomy and deathly still, filled with a damp stench. A rustling sound came from the darkness, and amidst spine-chilling low chanting, a strange, ink-like black viscous fluid flowed down from the crevices and converged into a wrinkled black flat sphere, like the shriveled skin of an old woman.
Its diameter was about the length of a human arm, its damp skin constantly squirmed, changing shape slowly like a block of sewer sludge. After a while, more than ten underdeveloped slender limbs extended from its amorphous body, looking like the atrophied appendages of a deformed infant corpse, slightly flailing around as if agitated.
As he watched the summoned creature condense its form expressionlessly, a frail female voice came from behind.
"Are you a dark wizard?"
...Why are there still living people here?
He did not turn, for his body was too damaged.
The woman’s voice carried on, the raspiness fading as her tone steadied, she seemed unfazed by the current situation.
"This—should be what they call a Lesser Race? Minions of the evil gods, I've heard of them when burning heretical texts."
This statement gave him an ominous premonition.
"Are you an inquisitor of the Holy Cross Church?"
"Of course I am, reincarnator," her voice emerged with an unexpected trace of delight, "The body you're squatting in belongs to one of my guardian knights. Best not get any fancy ideas in your head, or the Church's interdiction will fling your soul into holy flames, to be burned till the end of the world."
The premonition came true, damn the Holy Cross Church.
A worse mood enveloped him. Aside from the Empress’s decree of extermination, the Holy Cross Church was his most fervent adversary in the hunt for those who dabbled in the dark art.
"You’re nothing but a prisoner too," his voice was deep and hoarse, like sandpaper on a wall, "Scorcher of the Church."
“Got it, ‘Scorchers’ must be the nickname you slapped on us—what’s the story, eh? Your heretic kin got crisped up by our holy fire, or was it your friends, or mentors? Bet you shed tears of joy when they went up in smoke, mumbling prayers to our supreme deity, begging forgiveness for flirting with those evil gods, ratting out the rest of your stubborn lots?”
This woman talks too much, had confinement left her starved for conversation for too long? “Your loquacity,” he spat with disdain, “is it a product of prolonged solitude, or is it simply woven into your being?”
At this moment, hoarse footsteps approached and then receded.
The butcher dragged a large axe along the damp corridor, its edge grating over the cobblestones, mixed with the echo of human bodies rubbing against the rough ground. As the sound entered the cell, he could almost imagine himself being cut by the giant axe.
Silence, the woman behind him ceased her chatter, perhaps haunted by memories the sounds evoked.
After the butcher walked away, the woman restrained her tone.
"...Alright, let's discuss escape, heretic. I’ve no desire to perish in the Demon nest of outsider races. But hey, manners first, right? How about we swap names?”" She didn't change her tone to a softer one, perhaps she simply didn't understand the concept of gentleness.
"Feel free to use the original name of this body." Are you kidding me, who would bother with manners when dealing with a Scorchers.
“Sorry, this knight only fell under my command mere days ago, and his name hasn’t stuck. Ah—what a pity, it seems I won’t have the chance to pray for his miserable soul. So be it, let’s just hope his corpse doesn’t end up as chow for the dungeon mutts.” She paused briefly, not long enough to seem thoughtful, not short enough to seem dismissive, he concluded she was utterly insincere. After a beat, she added, “Alright, enough of that. Now, spill it, what do they call you, heretic?”
"Mind your words, I'm using his body now."
"Uh oh, you're really troublesome, shouldn’t we be joining hands in prayer by now? Even I can muster a shred of empathy on occasion. Or is it that a dark wizard’s heart knows no such thing?”
"Salser Bettrafio." When he said this name, his voice was filled with feeble annoyance. A strange spell bound this body, preventing him from uttering the other, meticulously devised alias that was meant to follow.
"That name doesn’t ring any bells—probably just some obscure wizard. And here I am, having to rely on a dark wizard reborn into a death row inmate to pull us out of this pit,” she said sarcastically, "You can call me Jeanne d’Arc."
His expression remained untroubled, a testament to seven years spent as a fugitive, skulking in shadows like a rat. With a mocking tone, he retorted, “Your name has never graced my ears either. Perhaps you’re naught but a peasant girl elevated to some obscure rank of inquisitor, the kind who knows nothing but burning heretics like a fanatic.”
“Enjoying the shackles of interdiction, are you? Can’t lie about anything that actually matters, and your pathetic life is chained to mine,” Jeanne replied with the same mocking tone, “This is the power from my Lord, does it please you? Poor heretic, you’re nothing but a fool, reborn into a prisoner of the outsider race, awaiting execution.”
"Truly remarkable." Salser replied expressionlessly and proceeded with the next operation.
He controlled the Formless spawn to crawl towards the undecayed corpse, piercing the deformed tentacles into the subcutaneous blood vessels to begin absorbing life force.
The woman behind who went by the name Jeanne d’Arc didn't speak, observing without utterance. Salser inferred her quietude was not due to physical revulsion but a psychological unease. As an inquisitor, she had burned countless heretics; such a scene would hardly cause her to feel queasy—it was a matter of the mind, not the flesh.
His spiritual tentacles began to dance, finding the fulcrum that extended along the summoned creature, and grasped it. In an instant, he felt the 'energy'—a blend of countless ethereal black mists—slowly flowing, forming waves and waves invisible to the mundane eye, flooding into his body, mending his broken wounds.
It was a forbidden act, a defilement of the soul, yet he had long ceased to be human.
Darkness made him feel intimate, like returning to his mother's embrace. Under the gaze of the inquisitor woman behind him, his wounds gradually healed, his withered muscles regained their vigor. Meanwhile, the corpse on the other side, like it had been placed there for hundreds of years, shrank into a fissured husk, and with a final snap, crumbled into black ash.
"I take back what I said earlier, you are the most disgusting heretic I've ever seen. Your soul’s twisted beyond any human semblance, right? If fate had you fall into my grasp on the battlefield, I’d haul you and your cronies to the Inquisition, wring out every last sin from you with my own hands until confession was the only option left.” Jeanne’s words cut through the air, a fierce declaration as she spoke once more.
“Quit your defiance; it won’t serve you well dangling from the ceiling.”
He turned around and saw his reflection in the girl's golden pupils—a more robust figure than imagined, rough and smooth straight black hair, but covered in a lot of dust; a short beard, and a pair of very enigmatic black eyes—not because the eyes themselves were enigmatic, but because his soul revealed quite complex emotions: ever-changing, calm yet slightly morbid, at times bordering on the brink of madness.
Then, he began to examine the Inquisitor in front of him who called herself Jeanne d'arc:
She possessed light golden short hair that matched the hue of her eyes. Her complexion was fair, and despite the evident lack of nourishment, her physical features retained a softness that belied her condition. At a glance, one might perceive her as a young woman of grace and serenity. However, it was the duality of her expression—alternating between a frigid aloofness and a feverish mania—that left a lasting impression. Even someone not good at observation could conclude that she was extremely difficult to get along with.
In that moment, Jeanne was garbed in a dusty black attire, her arms shackled and suspended from the ceiling, her lips slightly parted, chapped from the thirst. Yet, it was the tight curve of her lips that indicated how terrible her mood was.
My mood is also terrible, Salser shook his head, collaborating with a Scorcher... simply inconceivable.
"Look enough? How about you let me down? What’s the matter, haven’t been close to a woman in years? Need me to chop off a few heretic heads to help you out with your… carnal frustrations?”
He ignored the Inquisitor lady who was uttering malicious curses.
"Of course, I have no problem with letting you down," he snapped his fingers and communicated with another ancient Warren. Then, Jeanne saw the heretic unfold a scroll of illusory parchment in his hand—without a pen. Following this, he walked up to Jeanne, his expression blank as he said to her, "I’ve always put a high value on life, and I am not very reassured by unilateral constraints. So, how about you sign this contract? It’ll be our guarantee for a newly established friendship."
"...I can't read."
Translator's note:
Warrens: a concept from the series Malazan
The Formless Spawn: amorphous entities in service to Tsathoggua, part of Cthulhu mythos.
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