Path of the Forsaken Sigil

Chapter 49

Bruce Thompson lay flat on the wet, cold cobblestones. 

The holy net of pure, burning hard-light was wrapped tightly around his body. The magic acted like glowing ropes of fire, pinning his arms to his sides and his legs together. Every time he took a breath, the net burned deeper into his wet clothes and his skin. He could smell the sickening scent of his own burning flesh. 

He was completely trapped. 

Above him, the giant, mutated monster that used to be Lady Hestia looked down. She was fused into the massive, eighty-foot Northern Gate. Her giant iron face twisted into an ugly, jagged smile. Her eyes burned with red, stolen blood-magic. 

She raised her massive foot, which was made of heavy iron beams and sharp spikes. She hovered it directly over Bruce’s head, ready to stomp him into a bloody paste. 

"I have you now!" Hestia’s monstrous voice roared. The sound shook the heavy rain in the air. "You are nothing but a trapped rat, Bruce! A little, dirty rat caught in a trap!"

But before Hestia could bring her giant iron foot down, a loud, booming voice echoed across the plaza. 

"STOP!" High Inquisitor Bontus yelled. 

Bontus rode his golden horse of sunlight into the center of the plaza. He was surrounded by hundreds of elite Inquisitors in shining white and gold armor. Bontus’s face was still wrapped in thick, bloody white bandages from when Victoria had blinded him. But his holy magic allowed him to sense exactly where Bruce was lying. 

Bontus pointed his flaming broadsword at the giant, mutated Hestia. 

"Do not crush him, Matriarch!" Bontus commanded. "That boy is a heretic of the highest order! He has attacked the church! He has summoned a demon! The Order of the Solar Flame claims his life! I will cut his head off myself!"

Hestia let out a terrible, grinding laugh. She did not lower her giant iron foot, but she did not stomp Bruce either. She looked at the blinded High Inquisitor with pure hatred. 

"You command nothing in my city, Bontus!" Hestia screamed. Her red eyes flashed brightly. "You let him escape the Deepest Vault! You failed! He is Iron-Heart property, and I will smash him to pieces!"

"If you touch him, my army will burn your gate to the ground!" Bontus threatened. He turned to his men. "Inquisitors! Raise your weapons! Prepare to attack the gate if the monster disobeys the church!"

Hundreds of golden swords and spears were raised into the rainy night air. 

Bruce lay on the ground, listening to the two monsters argue over who got the right to kill him. 

He felt a deep, boiling anger rising inside his chest. They were so arrogant. They thought they were the gods of the world. They thought Bruce was just a piece of meat on the ground, waiting for them to decide his fate. 

The glowing blue medicine that Elara had poured on his arm was fading quickly. The intense holy heat of the hard-light net was burning the medicine away. The sharp, stabbing pain in Bruce’s cracked mana core returned. He was bleeding from his mouth. His energy was completely drained. 

"Master," a weak, vibrating voice whispered inside Bruce’s mind. 

It was the Ashen Seraph. The giant angel was trapped deep inside Bruce’s shadow, pinned down by the holy light of the net. The pure divine magic was acting like a poison to the creature of the Void. 

"Master, my strength is fading," the Seraph whispered sadly. "The light is too heavy. I cannot break the net for you. I am sorry. I have failed my promise to your mother."

Bruce closed his eyes. The freezing rain hit his face, mixing with the hot tears of pain. 

He thought about his mother, hanging in the Golden Cell. He thought about old Martha, floating in the green glass vat, having her soul slowly sucked away. He thought about the brave slum girl, Elara, trying to help him. 

"No," Bruce whispered into the wet stones. 

"Master?" the Seraph asked. 

"You did not fail," Bruce said quietly in his mind. "We are not dead yet. And I refuse to die as a trapped rat."

Bruce took a slow, deep breath. The holy net seared his chest, but he ignored the pain. He focused entirely on his broken, bleeding mana core. 

He had an idea. It was a crazy, dangerous idea. 

During the fight, Bruce had only used his Devour skill to eat magic from the outside and pull it in. But the Brand of the Void on his shoulder was not just a mouth. It was a doorway. It was a bridge between the mortal world and the absolute darkness of the Void. 

"Seraph," Bruce called out in his mind. His voice was no longer shaking. It was cold and hard like steel. "How much magic do you have left?"