Damien stalked through the mists, ignoring the whispers in the back of his mind. Nothing more than an inferior imitation of his own abilities. Just like the way it uselessly tried to sap at his strength. Yes, it had been somewhat alarming at first, but he'd grown used to it, and now it hardly impeded him at all. He did have to admit, though, that he was completely lost, with no idea of the direction he was heading. Fog dense enough that he couldn't even see his own feet, combined with a complete lack of landmarks, tended to have that effect on people. Even the source lights were blocked from view.

His tendrils of blood whipped out, bisecting half a dozen of the smaller spider monsters while he drove a couple of spears through the eyes of a larger monster. There seemed to be an unending supply of the things, emerging silently from the fog, but they were weak. Insufficient for proper levelling. What he really wanted was to meet the source of the mist and the whispers. Something capable of exerting its influence across an entire island would surely be worth plentiful levels. It was just a pity he had no idea how to find it.

Hoping to get a view from above, he wrapped his blood around himself, lifting from the ground and rising high above the surface. Ten seconds later, he crashed, and a few more seconds were enough to realise what he had crashed into was the ground.

"What?" he asked uselessly, spearing another couple of monsters that tried to take advantage of his prone position.

Another attempt at flight had the same result. Apparently, reality disagreed with his senses about the direction of 'up'. A third attempt—taken more slowly and with the aid of tendrils of blood sent out as feelers—fared equally poorly.

For a fourth attempt, he spammed [Itinerant Eyes], stacking blobs of blood closely enough that each could keep the next in view. At first it seemed successful, with the topmost blob emerging from the fog, but the moment he started to climb them, the mists thickened. His beacons lost sight of each other, and he them, and despite being able to feel them with [Bloodwave], heading towards where the next should have been once again sent him careening back to the ground.

The fifth attempt, using a pole instead of discreet blobs, finally proved successful, climbing it taking him up and out of the mist, despite the way the pole appeared bent to his vision, and that he spent most of the climb with a nagging feeling that he was heading downwards.

"At least I know I can escape if needed, but that cost me a lot of blood..." muttered Damien. It wasn't as if [Bloodwave] consumed his own blood, or he'd never be able to create constructs as large as he had without exsanguinating himself, but that didn't mean his supplies were unlimited. Creating more sapped at his mana. "Now, where's the source of all this?"

He flew over the island, heading towards its centre, but the island seemed unhappy about that fact. Great waves of mist rolled over it, rising far above the existing fog and threatening to engulf him. Smaller tendrils leapt up to grasp at his ankles, almost as if alive. Compared to ground level, the mists were impotent, though, and dodging was trivial.

In the centre of the island, the mists turned black. A bulge of foul darkness, a blight upon the bowl, the simple sight of it causing the whispers at the back of his mind to grow louder.

"S̶̲̓h̸̫͗ȏ̴ͅw̶̦͝ ̸̢̕y̵̩͝ọ̶̇û̷̲r̴̡̋ş̵̾è̸̜l̵̖̋f̵̰̊,̸̹̈́" demanded Damien, but the only response was distorted laughter, echoing in his mind without arriving via his ears.

It was no demon he faced. No great intelligence guided the evil shadow—only hunger. Unthreatened in centuries, wielding power beyond any other monster of the bowl, it laughed at the little fly willingly entering its webs. Such succulent prey; it had been feeding continuously for hours, and yet the fly still dreamed not merely of escape, but of victory. Only once before had it drawn so much sustenance from a single morsel, and it almost dared to dream that it had found a replacement for the unending meal it had foolishly let escape in the distant past. Never again would it make such a mistake. Never would it let satiation dull its instincts. It made a few further half-hearted efforts to strike, uncaring that they missed, as the little fly flew directly towards the excited spider of shadow and death.

If only Damien knew that he hadn't grown resistant to the strength-sapping effect at all, his seeming immunity—and indeed, his continued life—due only to the constant activation of [Eternal Flesh], and his increasing ability to withstand it sprouting from the skill levelling under the constant strain, perhaps he would have been less confident. Fled the island instead of approaching its heart. But he didn't know, and so he approached the island's evil core, looking for a target to strike.

He looked in vain, for there was no physical beast there to attack. The nameless monster had consumed its own flesh centuries earlier in its doomed efforts to satisfy its hunger, and the darkness was all that was left. Damien whipped tendrils of blood through the air, through the black cloud, but they hit nothing and met no resistance. He formed his orbs of blood, combining [Bloodwave], [Itinerant Eyes] and [Foresight], but whatever the path on which he sent them, they encountered nothing but hungering darkness.

"S̶̲̓h̸̫͗ȏ̴ͅw̶̦͝ ̸̢̕y̵̩͝ọ̶̇û̷̲r̴̡̋ş̵̾è̸̜l̵̖̋f̵̰̊,̸̹̈́" he repeated, and this time the monster did. Not because it was forced, but because it deemed the time right. Damien was hovering directly above what substituted for its body, low enough to be in range. His [Foresight] was wasted looking for that which didn't exist and couldn't be found, leaving him blind to the true threat, unseeing of the way the monster would react to his provocation. And so the monster erupted with sheets of shadow. Launched from all around Damien, arcing over his head, enclosing him in a dome of black shadow, cut off once more from the source lights.

Too late did Damien realise that the monster had never hidden itself in the first place.

"Damn," he swore as his tendrils sliced and spears pierced, both useless against the intangible fog. He darted upwards, heading for the ceiling of the dome, but the black cloud billowed inwards, and the moment it made contact with his skin, he screamed. The life-draining effect the monster could impose on the edges of its territory was nothing compared to what its true body was capable of.

Arrogance was not a trait uniquely held by humans, but that didn't mean humans didn't hold on to their own fair share. Trusting in his newly discovered immortality, skills that let him punch far above his level, and the ability of [Foresight] to warn of any dangers, Damien had set foot in a realm long since lost to humanity. Fed by his anger at the Five, and his fear that they'd strike again, he'd believed that no mere monster could pose him a threat.

He was wrong. The blood he used to fly clotted and decayed, and he tumbled from the air into the waiting grip of the hungering darkness. Even his screams cut off as his melting lungs filled not with air, but with the ethereal form of the monster.

Shigeo grunted as he rubbed his head. "Bloody ouch," he muttered. "Damn woman punches like a brick privy."

Mentioning Valerie reminded him of his assumed current situation, and he sprang to his feet, looking around wildly for his attacker. Instead, he found himself surrounded by a dozen grim-faced men and woman, wearing nothing but scraps, along with one much neater lady in pure white robes, looking at him with eyes full of concern. "Shit. What did I miss?" he asked, assuming he'd been knocked out, and the woman was a healer. He couldn't place the others, though. Even bandits had better equipment than them.

No-one responded immediately, and the next few seconds were enough for him to notice the putrid stench of burnt flesh, along with the smoke in the background. "That bitch attacked Thale?! Are you lot with her? Fleta?! Where are you?"

"Please move on to the next," said one of the encircling men to the white-robed woman. "I'll explain to this one."

The presumed healer nodded and walked off, the circle parting to let her out. Fleta and Shigeo had not been in good condition, with their corpses burnt almost beyond recognition, and they had been dead long enough to stretch the abilities of Kari's [Resurrection]. Lana and Grace were in better condition, but had been hanging for even longer, once again pushing her limits. She found herself needing to resurrect them one at a time, with significant effort applied to each.

It was fortunate the demons had left them alone, else they wouldn't have been resurrectable at all. Thankfully, the demons had strongly approved of the idea of decorating the surroundings with corpses. In fact, they'd started decorating the city walls in a similar fashion.

"Please do," demanded Shigeo, anger fighting against the suspicion that these people, whoever they were, had just healed him. That bought at least a small amount of tolerance, as did his realisation that he was utterly naked. "Where's my family? Where's my equipment?"

"What's the last thing you remember?"

"I thought you were going to answer questions, not ask them," he snapped. "Valerie Spiratine attacked us. Didn't say a single word about why. She landed a clean punch. Must have knocked me out. Now, where's everyone else, and what happened to Thale?"

"Your wife is still in the process of being healed. And no, Valerie did not attack Thale, although I suppose you could blame its fate at least partially on her."

"Then who did? I can smell the burnt flesh from here. Who else could do that?"

"Demons," he answered simply. "Summoned by your son as revenge for your death."

"My death?" snapped Shigeo. "I'm damn well not dead, and my son would never do something so evil as burn his home-town."

"If you'll please wait for your wife to join us, I'll explain in detail what I know."

"Like hell I'll wait! Where is she? Where's Damien?"

"Fine, follow me, but please don't interrupt Kari, or your wife may be lost forever."

The circle once again parted, and an impatient and untrusting Shigeo followed the [Mythril Fist] to where the healer, Kari, stood over a horrifically burnt corpse. Shigeo's eye's opened wide, but the [Mythril Fist] held an arm in front of him before he could react further. "Wait quietly," he demanded.

Kari was staring at the corpse intently, seemingly unmoving, but anyone sensitive to the flows of mana would be able to tell how much she was straining. Something gave way, and she stumbled, but one of the surrounding guards caught her. "Resurrection!" she shouted, before falling to her knees, panting, but Shigeo's eyes weren't on her. His gazed was fixed upon the corpse as scorched flesh healed and knitted itself back together. Within seconds, what had once been a barely humanoid mass of red and black had become the naked body of his wife.

Her eyes fluttered open, a mere second of disorientation before they snapped open fully and she bounced to her feet. She looked around wildly, spotting Kari, who had likewise returned to her feet, and then Shigeo.

"What did I miss?" she demanded. "Did you win? Who are these people? And for goodness' sake, find yourself a towel. There are ladies present!"

"You aren't wearing much yourself," countered Shigeo, wishing he had time to admire the view. Alas, more important matters demanded his attention. It was hard to argue with resurrection when it happened before his eyes, and did he really want to bet on how Damien would react if he'd been killed?

He imagined how he'd react if Fleta and Damien had been killed in front of him, and found himself unable to swear with certainty that he wouldn't rampage. More things were hereditary than classes.

"Now can you explain what's going on?" he demanded.

"Of course."

And so, as Kari began work on Grace and Lana, the [Mythril Fist] passed on the word of Gaia the Mother. The only one of the Five prepared to sacrifice herself to protect the humans of the bowl.