The white glow from the rats painted the large cavern in sickly hues. It lit up the mossy bricked walls and ceilings.
The sewer water below was a swirling concoction of filth and shadow. But it offered the only reflective surface. In the rat-infested chamber.
Jack, in his ethereal form, focused. He manipulated his spectral essence. [Bloody Mary's Mirror World]. The filthy water surface rippled. And he slipped into the antiseptic plainness of his Mirror Room.
Here, the transformation began. As always, it was a slow process. Bones creaked and shifted. Flesh hardened and toughened. And the ethereal Jack faded. He was replaced by the tall, gaunt frame of Jack Deathspark.
Torn remnants of a grim reaper's outfit clung to his decaying form. The hood was pulled low. The torn clothes and robe emitted thin black smoke. With his iron scythe in hand, Jack stepped back through the shimmering mirror.
The rats were previously oblivious to his ghostly presence. But now, they erupted in a frenzy.
Dozens, maybe hundreds, of the mutated creatures swarmed him. Their three-eyed heads bobbed. Their unholy white light was burned against the darkness. They surged forward, a tide of teeth and claws. Their high-pitched squeals echoed through the chamber.
Jack didn't hesitate. His [Draugr's Combat Instinct] took over. His movements were brutal, efficient. The scythe became an extension of his will, a gleaming arc of death.
He swung it in wide, sweeping motions. It cleaved through the rats. Their bodies were slammed and pulped against the tunnel walls. He reinforced the slashes with brutal kicks and stomps. Crushing skulls. Snapping spines.
Soon, the air was filled with the coppery tang of blood. And the sickening crunch of bone.
The rats, driven by whatever dark magic fueled their mutation, were relentless. They clawed at his legs. Their teeth tried to sink into his flesh.
But his body was just iron-hard bones, very tough muscle fibers, and super resilient skin. More importantly, they were technically dead.
The curse clinging to their bites had no purchase on him. A being already beyond the veil of mortality. It was like spitting venom on a stone.
Jack Deathspark, the draugr, was a whirlwind of death. He was a force of nature, unleashed in the claustrophobic confines of the sewer.
The rats, despite their numbers, were no match for his undead strength and skill. Each swing of the scythe thinned their ranks. Each kick sent them flying. Each stomp broke their bones. Each move turned them... lifeless.
Draugr was always a machine of war. One that was honed by beyond-the-death instinct. And fueled by a burning inextinguishable obsession. And Jack Deathspark... was a draugr.
The killing went on. The floor became slick with gore. It was a gruesome tapestry woven from rat fur and viscera. The stench was overwhelming. A cocktail of blood, decay, sewage, and the sickly-sweet smell of cursed flesh.
But Jack Deathspark pressed on. He was a grim reaper wading through a river of the damned.
Finally, he saw it. A flicker of unholy white in the chaos. A beacon of unnatural purity amidst the carnage. The Rat Boss.
The creature was no larger than its underlings. But there was an unsettling perfection to its form. Its fur shone with an almost ethereal light. And the third vertical eye on its forehead pulsed with raw power.
The rat lunged, faster than any of the others. It dodged Jack's scythe. Its movements were unnervingly fluid.
It opened its maw. And unleashed a gout of white fire. A searing blast of cursed energy.
The fire roared, engulfing Jack. It burned through the tattered remnants of his robes. It left him practically naked.
But the fire did not burn his flesh. It crackled harmlessly against his dead skin. It was unable to penetrate the veil of undeath.
Jack roared in rage. He emitted a guttural sound that echoed through the chamber. That was one of his only three sets of clothing.
He angrily swung the scythe, aiming for the rat's head. The rat dodged again. Its movements were preternaturally quick. It spat another blast of white fire. Forcing Jack to evade.
The rat boss was cunning. Its attacks were relentless. It weaved and danced. It was a blur of white fur and deadly teeth.
Jack struggled to land a blow. His undead strength was almost useless against such agility. He was forced to rely on his [Draugr's Combat Instinct] to guide his movements. It worked for defense. But not as much for offense.
He needed a plan...
Jack feinted. He lunged to the left. But then, he reversed his momentum. Swinging the scythe low to the right. It surprisingly worked.
The rat boss, who was about to ambush from that direction, clumsily jumped up to evade the attack. It was momentarily thrown off balance. Jack seized the opportunity.
He rotated his body following the direction of his swing. While quickly adjusting his grip on the scythe, he used it as a bludgeon. He swept low. And slammed the flat of the blade into the rat's side, who was just landing.
The creature yelped. A high-pitched squeal of pain. It flew across the chamber, slamming into the brick wall.
It lay there for a moment, stunned. It was struggling to its feet. Its white fur was singed and matted. Its third eye was flickering. It glared at Jack, with gaze filled with hate.
Jack Deathspark advanced. His scythe was held high.
The rat boss snarled, ready to fight to the death. It gathered its remaining strength. And launched itself at Jack, with teeth bared and claws extended. But it was no longer as fast.
Jack was ready. He sidestepped the slower attack and brought the scythe down with all his might. The scythe blade connected. There was a sickening crunch as it severed the rat's spine.
The creature spasmed. Its white fur was stained crimson. The light in its third eye flickered. Then... it died.
Even with the rat boss dead, the remaining mutated rats didn't seem to lose their ferocity. They continued to attack. But compared to the rat boss, their movements were sluggish. Their bites were less ferocious.
One by one, they fell before Jack's scythe. Or stomp. Their numbers dwindling until only silence remained. Broken only by the drip of water. And Jack's ragged breathing.
He stood amidst the carnage. The stench of death clung to him like a shroud. His tattered robes afforded little modesty. He was almost naked. And covered in blood and grime.
But he had won. The sewers of Highcliff Town were safe. For now.
With a sigh, Jack began to search for the source of the mutation. He waded through the piles of dead rats. His eyes were scanning the chamber. It didn't take long. He found it quickly.
In a small alcove, hidden behind a cascade of water, stood a statue. It was made of pure silver, polished to a mirror sheen. And it emitted eerie glow.
It depicted a beautiful woman seated upon a blooming lotus flower. At first glance, she looked serene and graceful. The Goddess of Purity.
But as Jack continued to observe, he noticed it. Her exquisite face was strangely unsettling. The beauty of the statue felt cold and artificial. It was an disconcerting mockery of true purity. Jack felt a chill run down his spine.
He was right. This was no simple mutation. This was a deliberate act, an unholy ritual performed in the depths of the sewers.
The Cult of Purity was at work here. They twisted and corrupted the natural order. And Jack knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his spectral bones, that this was not over yet.
Jack raised his pale hand to grab the glowing statue. However...
The moment his decaying fingers brushed against the cool silver of the Goddess of Purity statue... the unseen interface flared to life.
[OBJECT OF POWER DISCOVERED!]
[AVAILABLE CONVERSION TO PERSONAL ARTIFACT] CHOOSE ONE:
[GRIM REAPER SCYTHE]
[GRIM REAPER ATTIRE]
That was new. Jack hadn't suspected his weird ghost-level-up-whatever power could do this. Personal artifacts? It sounded useful. Especially considering his current state.
He glanced down at his ragged, tattered remaining pieces of clothing. Naked draugr wasn't exactly intimidating. It was more like… pathetic.
Then he looked at the now-chipped iron scythe he'd used. It worked so far, sure. But it was hardly a weapon befitting a harbinger of vengeance.
He wanted both. Badly. Decent clothes weren't exactly easy to keep intact during his fight. And a decent scythe? That was a game changer. More power, less likely to break at a crucial moment.
Jack stared at his choices. The unholy glow of the mutated rat corpses casted eerie shadows on the sewer walls. Scythe or clothes? Clothes or scythe? It felt like choosing between eating and breathing. Both were kind of necessary for survival.
He cursed under his breath. The sound a guttural rasp reverberated in his undead throat.
Jack contemplated. Clothes would be nice. But they wouldn't win a fight. A better scythe would. Besides, he could always find more rags, eventually. This was a one-time deal, probably.
With a sigh of reluctant resignation, Jack made his choice. He mentally selected [Grim Reaper Scythe].
The silver statue pulsed with reddish light. The sewers were momentarily flooded with an almost blinding radiance. Jack squeezed his eyes shut. He was bracing for… something. A searing pain? A surge of power?
But nothing like that happened.
He opened his eyes. The silver statue was dull, lifeless, devoid of its previous glow.
And clutched in his dead hand was no longer a common scrap of iron scythe. It was a wickedly curved scythe.
Its blade was obsidian black in color. The handle was wrapped in what felt like cold, smooth bone. It hummed with a dark energy. A promise of death delivered with terrifying efficiency.
He grinned. A chilling display of skeletal teeth. Clothes could wait. This… this was going to be fun.