Eternal Undying Chronicles

Chapter 56 Price Of Immortality

Alicarde rolled on the cold floor of the lab. The infernal flames burned not just his body but also his soul and mind. Their insidious effects sent him into agony, as if every nerve ending was being scorched and every thought seared by the relentless heat, he felt a part of his mind greatly diminish from the effects of the violet flames.

The pain was indescribable, an all-encompassing torment that clawed at his very being—body, soul, and mind—an itch he had no way to scratch. His flesh blistered and peeled away, leaving raw, exposed tissue that sizzled under the flames.

His bones felt like they were cracking from the intense heat, and his blood boiled within his veins. He screamed in agony, his voice reverberating across the walls.

Wrath followed with a series of vicious hoof strikes. Each impact shattered bones and ruptured organs, leaving Alicarde's body a broken mess. His body was mangled and misshapen, his innards spilling onto the floor, his blood sizzling as it boiled on the heated floor.

The next kick sent him flying across the lab, crashing into the walls and damaging equipment. His ribs were crushed, and his spine cracked under the force. The impact caused him to lose more blood, and a strong sense of vertigo overtook him from the blood loss. While his body could regenerate lost blood, it took longer than healing flesh, so he was still subject to the effects of blood loss.

"Ahhhh, that...hu...hurts," he groaned in pain, as his body tried to regenerate away from the broken walls.

He needed to find a way to get Wrath to step on his shadow—the only way to gain a fleeting moment of control.

'I have to think, have to move, have to survive...' The thought pounded in his mind, mingling with the cacophony of pain.

Wrath wasn't going to wait for him, and with a movement in the form of a black blur, it teleported towards him with strong momentum.

Alicarde maneuvered out of the way of the teleporting bicorn and its sharp, spear-like horns. Using his innate ability, he made himself weightless, reaching the ceiling in hopes of using the lights to cast a deeper and larger shadow. He positioned himself above, calculating the angles, trying to outsmart the relentless beast.

Yet Wrath noticed it. The creature roared as infernal shadow wings grew from its back, making it look akin to a Pegasus if the Pegasus had raven-black wings.

The wings beat with supernatural power, filling the room with a dark, oppressive wind. Wrath's eyes glowed with malevolent intelligence as it took control of the shadows.

All the shadows in the room moved toward Alicarde, converging on his position. They didn't attack but merely covered his own shadow, overlaying and overlapping it with Wrath's dark power. His face paled as he watched the bicorn control the shadows.

'Shit, what an asspull... since when did it have that power?' Alicarde thought, distraught by the sight. His one hope was now dashed.

Wrath snarled in mockery, as if to say, That won't work this time. His face paled, knowing he was in for the fight of his life.

Alicarde cursed in his heart. 'Damn it, how is this monster so intelligent? I'm running out of options, out of time... the longer I waste, the more damage I will take. It won't let me escape.'

He thought back to its flames, they had the ability to damage both mind and soul, and of course, his physical body wasn't spared either.

He was frustrated and in pain, mentally exhausted. His soul and mind had taken brutal abuse from the bicorn's infernal flames.

The agony on his soul was unimaginable, a gnawing, relentless torment that eroded his very essence. Yet his soul regenerated. The problem was his mind was being slowly shredded, each piece lost to the consuming flames. If he wanted to survive, he had to avoid the flames or any mental attacks.

He gritted his teeth as he observed the bicorn. Despite literally sprouting wings, Wrath remained on the ground, its eyes full of rage and mockery.

Alicarde frowned. 'This creature is too intelligent. If I don't find a way out, it will fly up here and burn me again.'

Alicarde coughed, choking on blood as he staggered to his feet. His body, despite being repeatedly destroyed, had no choice but to rebuild itself again and again. He was trapped in this cycle of torment.

The price he paid for his undying nature was not just in physical pain—it was the psychological torture of knowing that no matter how much suffering he endured, he would always regenerate, only to face the next wave of torment.

In the Evernight Empire, the undying feared capture more than death, knowing their enemies had perfected the art of inflicting unimaginable pain to break their will. Immortality did not spare them from suffering, instead, it became a tool for their tormentors, a way to break their minds, piece by piece.

Regaining his bearings, Alicarde forced himself up, ignoring the searing pain in his throat. His eyes flicked to his sword lying just a few feet away.

Without hesitation, he darted toward it, rolling just in time to avoid a burst of infernal flames that erupted from Wrath's maw. The violet fire scorched the ground where he had stood moments before, leaving a smoldering crater in its wake.

The sword felt heavy in his hand, almost useless against the monster he faced. Wrath was more than a beast—it was an infernal force of nature, and Alicarde's attacks had done little to slow it down.

His mind was on the verge of breaking, the endless cycle of pain pushing him to the edge. He could feel the burning of his immortal soul, the violet flames searing not only his flesh but also his very essence.

The room was a grotesque canvas, painted in streaks of blood, charred flesh, and mangled organs. His organs spilled from his body, blood splattering the floor in vivid sprays as he struggled to hold himself together.

The macabre scene would have been enough to break a lesser man's mind, but Alicarde was long past the point of shock. He was numb to it now, his mind too worn down to react with anything more than a hollow sense of dread.

His body healed, but it was his mind that suffered the most. Each time he was torn apart, something in his soul cracked a little more.

The flames weren't just burning him—they were eroding his will to fight, his very desire to live. Yet, even as he teetered on the edge of giving up, he was forced to regenerate, forced to endure more pain.

Wrath stomped forward, its hooves crackling with violet flames. Alicarde barely had time to react before Wrath brought its hoof down on his skull with a sickening crunch. His head shattered like glass, blood and brain matter splattering across the floor.

The flames licked at his exposed flesh, searing the remains of his brain as his skull began to slowly reform. But Wrath gave him no reprieve. Again and again, the bicorn stomped down, crushing his skull into a pulpy mess.

Each stomp was brutal and unforgiving, splintering bone and sending fragments of his skull flying in all directions. Alicarde's brain was reduced to a mushy paste, sizzling under the heat of the flames.

His body, despite its incredible regenerative power, took time to heal, leaving him vulnerable to the repeated attacks. For brief moments, there was nothing but a bloody pulp where his head had been, only for it to painfully reconstruct itself before being obliterated again.

Wrath's infernal flames continued to scorch his mind, corroding his thoughts, his memories. Alicarde tried to think of something—anything—to fight back, but the pain was too much. His mind was being chipped away, piece by piece. The violet flames ate away at his will, reducing him to nothing more than a vessel of agony.

"Why... why can't I just die?" Alicarde thought, his mind a blur of disjointed memories and searing pain. "Please... someone... make it stop."

Each thought was fleeting, barely forming before it was consumed by the flames. His soul, though regenerative, couldn't shield his mind from the torment. It was being broken down, shattered into tiny fragments, each one fading into the dark abyss of his suffering.

Wrath roared in satisfaction as it stomped again, and Alicarde's vision blurred. His consciousness was slipping away, but Wrath wouldn't let him. Each time he tried to succumb to the darkness, to give in, the bicorn dragged him back, forcing him to experience the pain anew.

His memories flashed before him—moments of happiness, of sadness, of a life he could barely remember. He saw himself as a child, playing, laughing, and in the distance, a young girl's voice called out to him.

"Ali... Ali, stop that..."

Who was that? Whose memory was this?