Chains of Vengeance

Chapter 69: Scars on the ears

Narinder lifted his gaze to the starry sky, aware that dawn was still hours away. The stars shone indifferently, but their cold light did little to calm the emotional storm swirling within him. With a sigh, he decided to leave his cult behind for a moment; his followers were either asleep or too occupied to notice his absence.**

Without hesitation, he headed toward the portals and chose the one that would take him to Anchordeep, the aquatic realm where Kallamar ruled as the Bishop of Plague. Anticipating what was to come, Narinder prepared his scythe, feeling the familiar weight in his hand, and activated his relic. The sensation of power flowing through him filled his being, but it couldn't drown out the lingering melancholy.

His steps were steady, determined. As he moved through Anchordeep, no marine creature dared approach him. There was a palpable sense of fear in the water, with the eyes of beasts gleaming from the darkness of the depths, yet not one stirred to attack. Simply being in Narinder's presence—the embodiment of Death itself—was enough to paralyze them. His aura was oppressive, dense, as if all life around him knew he could snatch it away in the blink of an eye.

On his way, Narinder passed several chambers offering tempting distractions: Clauneck, the wise card reader, watched him from his shop, his gaze fixed on him, perhaps hoping to offer his services once more. Further ahead, a worm selling exotic fruits displayed its wares with a nervous smile. But Narinder was not interested. Each step brought him closer to his true goal: Kallamar's temple, the Temple of Plague.

There was no room for distractions. The fear that his elder brother had planted in his heart needed to be eradicated, and the only way to do that was to confront him. Kallamar had always been the most cowardly and fearful of the Bishops, but even cowardice could become a dangerous weapon when mixed with desperation. Narinder knew this, and he would not underestimate his brother.

His thoughts remained clear and cold as he pressed deeper into the watery depths, the sound of his footsteps echoing against the wet rocks and sand. The temple awaited, and soon, Kallamar would face his fate.

The atmosphere within the Temple of Plague was suffocating. The temple doors opened slowly before Narinder, as if some unseen force was welcoming him. The long corridor leading to the Bishop's chamber was lined with strange statues of deformed sea creatures, their bodies covered in algae, their flesh pulsing with corrupted life. The humid air mixed with an unbearable stench of rot, but Narinder showed no signs of discomfort, his steps resonating through the cursed place.

At the threshold of the inner chamber, Narinder came face to face with the corrupted version of his brother, Kallamar. His form was grotesque: a bloated mass with tentacles sprouting from his body, multiple eyes darting nervously around the room, and black ichor dripping from his limbs. Narinder's fur bristled, not from fear, but from the gravity of the moment.

Before Narinder could speak, Kallamar's trembling voice broke the silence:
"Stay back! Stay away! Mercy, Red Crown... mercy..."

Kallamar's plea surprised Narinder. He had not expected his brother—always cowardly but proud—to beg so pathetically. It sparked a flash of anger mixed with a twinge of compassion Narinder did not want to acknowledge. But there was no time for hesitation. The battle began.

Kallamar unleashed a swarm of deformed crabs that charged toward Narinder. But the god was not fully focused. Unlike his previous fights with Leshy and Heket, his mind was elsewhere, distracted by the recent loss of Heket and the lingering echoes of his betrayal of her. That distraction came at a price. When Kallamar fired a volley of explosive projectiles from a safe distance, one struck Narinder, searing pain coursing through his fur.

The bishop continued to exploit his advantage, disappearing into darkness only to reappear at the far end of the chamber. In his cowardice, Kallamar stayed as far from his brother as possible, letting his minions handle the dirty work. Narinder, though powerful, struggled to focus. At times, he saw Leshy's face instead of Kallamar's—a sad, resigned expression clouding his judgment.

A group of crabs tried to surround him, but Narinder, regaining a sliver of concentration, swung his scythe and sliced them in half. Yet once more, Kallamar's bullets found their mark. The pain made him growl, but he refused to fall. Chaos filled the chamber as Narinder dodged attacks and crushed endless waves of minions. Fireballs and explosive attacks littered the battlefield, forcing him to stay in constant motion while Kallamar kept him at bay with ranged strikes.

With each of Kallamar's attacks, brief moments of vulnerability emerged, and Narinder took advantage, closing the distance between them with swift movements. Slowly, the tide began to turn, though the emotional turmoil within Narinder continued to distract him. Blow after blow, Kallamar's plague-infused power began to crumble.

Finally, in a decisive moment, Narinder got close enough to land a devastating strike with his scythe, cleaving deep into Kallamar's corrupted form. The bishop shrieked in agony, his monstrous body convulsing as black ichor spilled from his wounds. The chamber filled with the stench of defeat, and Kallamar's shadow unraveled before him.

As Kallamar collapsed, his form shifted. The corruption melted away, revealing his small, frail, and terrified mortal self. The former Bishop of Plague lay trembling at Narinder's feet, his divine power stripped away.

Narinder gazed down at him, his expression cold, while Kallamar gasped, pleading for mercy once more, his voice broken and hopeless.

Without a word, Narinder raised his hand and, with an almost careless gesture, teleported his brother's body back to his cult. Silence filled the temple, and the echo of victory reverberated through the chamber, though it brought no satisfaction.

The moment Kallamar's body vanished, Narinder fell to his knees. His hands pressed heavily against the wet floor, coated in black ichor mixed with his brother's blood. His breath came in ragged gasps, as if his chest were struggling to draw air. The stench of ichor clung to him, its sticky presence deepening his disgust.

Despite his victory, Narinder knew this had been one of his worst battles—not because Kallamar was stronger, but because his own mind had betrayed him. His thoughts had been clouded by memories of Heket, Leshy, the Lamb, and everything else he was willing to sacrifice. Every move had been clumsy, every decision delayed. He had not fought like the god of death, but like a lost soul trapped in his own demons.

For several minutes, he knelt in silence, struggling to catch his breath and calm his mind. The physical and emotional filth overwhelmed him. Finally, when his breathing steadied, he snapped his fingers, and with a flash of magic, his body was cleansed. The black ichor vanished from his fur, and though the scent of decay was gone, the disgust lingered deep within him.

With his eyes closed and without another word, Narinder teleported back to his cult, ready to face what awaited him, though the weight of his emotions still pressed heavily on his shoulders.