Extra's POV: My Obsessive Villainous Fiancee Is The Game's Final Boss

Chapter 194 194: Die, Swordsman!

Thorn swore as he hit the front bone of his calf on a stool that had definitely not been there a second before. He'd been moving so fast, trying to clear out of the area before the fight destroyed the whole place, and hadn't seen the stool until he'd actually hit it.

He'd been so focused on getting out of there, as he could already hear the sounds of Ren and Vesper beating each other black and blue.

He hissed, hopping on one foot as he massaged his ankle. Vesper's words rattled in his skull. He trusted Ren. With his life. And he more than trusted him to win this battle. But how does one kill a tree of power?

Thorn has only ever heard of two dead Trees in his life. The first was the White Trees. No one knew how they all died, so no one actually knows how to kill one.

And the second was the Tribe of Three's Green Tree. But they hadn't killed the actual tree. Lilith and Lord Abram only killed the Dryad that lived within it. That just had the benefit of killing the Tree.

Although he'd heard of dead Trees beyond the Arondale mountains, he'd never heard anything about anyone killing a Tree.

He kicked the stool out of the way with his boots, continuing on his race out of the red cage.

He dived out the window and into the next building, taking a quick look at the street in the space between the two buildings. The infected still shambled along the streets, but they were not much. As if most of them had gone somewhere else to do something more important.

Maybe this meant....

He finally crossed the threshold, moving out of the cage. He climbed the stairs down the building as he caught the trail. Time to rejoin the main group.

He jogged down the street, his gaze roving and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. The sound of the explosions coming from where the church had been standing minutes before, and the screeches of the birds told Thorn where most of the infected had gone.

But that couldn't be right.

There were hundreds of thousands of people in Rainhold. If even just half of them had been turned, you didn't need that many to destroy everyone in the church. So, where was everyone else?

And more importantly, why wasn't he being attacked?

The moment the thought crystalized in his head, someone stepped out of the narrow alley ahead to stand in the middle of the road.

Thorn slowed his jogging down to stare at the man, both of them appraising the other from where they stood.

"I was kinda hoping you'd forgotten about me, actually." Thorn grinned, his hand moving to his sword and unsheathing it. "It would've been nice to not be so memorable for once."

The Red Prophet tilted his head, his bright red eyes standing out against his incredibly pale skin. Where it looked beautiful on Lilith, it just made the man look unsettling. "Thorn." He said simply.

"Oh." Thorn raised his brows in mock surprise. "You know my name? That's an honor. But if I may ask, are you the Red Prophet or Vesper?"

The tall, pale man stared at Thorn for a few seconds before answering, his tone incredulous. "I'm Vesper, you idiot."

"Oh!" Thorn nodded. "Hive mind. I see."

The Red Prophet stood there for a second, before shaking his head as if clearing away the nonsense that just happened from his memory. A twisted grin appeared on his face as he focused back on Thorn, who had been wondering if this would be the perfect time to sneak away.

"I hope you enjoyed your little detour, swordsman." The Red Prophet rasped dramatically. "Because no one—no one!—related to Ross is leaving Rainhold alive."

Thorn just stared. "Didn't you say that earlier?"

"Oh, yes." The Prophet continued, as if he didn't hear what Thorn said. "Ross destroyed everything. My life, my plans, my name. He humiliated me! But I came out stronger. As the Red Tree."

He threw his arms wide, red veins pulsing beneath his skin like writhing worms. "But that doesn't make his slate clean. I'll return the favor he did for me. I'll carve it all away. His friends, his allies, his lover. Every tie he has to this world. I'll rip it all out, root by root, until the only thing he has left… is nothing."

A guttural screech echoed through the air.

From the alleys, from the rooftops, they came.

The infected poured in, shambling, twitching, and grinning, their eyes hollow. Some clambered along the walls like insects, others sprinted on all fours across the street, and the remaining were on the rooftops high above.

Dozens, then hundreds. Surrounding the two men like a closing bird trap.

Thorn stood in the center of the street, cloak fluttering behind him, and his blade held loosely in his hand.

The Red Prophet stepped back, arms crossed like a ringmaster awaiting the show. "Let's see how long you last, Thorn."

Then the horde descended.

Thorn moved.

His sword rippled, lengthening, curving, snapping short, lashing out like a whip and cutting like a guillotine. He spun, ducked, struck low and high, every move a routine perfected over years on a battlefield. He spun, avoiding the blood as it sprayed the air, bodies falling around him in waves.

His cape shimmered slightly as he used up more of his blood, pouring the energy into it. It twisted in mid-air, hardening into a shield that caught claws and teeth, then softened again to move with him, blocking attacks at impossible angles.

But there were just too many zombies.

He gasped, sweat pouring down his brow as he cleaved through another charging brute. His cloak shuddered as it caught a blast of blood from an infected rat-creature, the fabric blackening. With a hiss, it repaired itself, but it cost him more blood. More strength.

The Prophet's laughter echoed over the rooftops. "You're slowing, Thorn! All that flair, but can you keep up?"

Thorn gritted his teeth, slashing three more in a single arc. But he could feel it. The strain.

His cloak's protections were draining his vitality. He had always known that the deeper he called on its shielding, the more of his lifeblood it demanded. A fair trade. But not one he could afford forever.

Then he saw it.

The twitch. The swelling bodies.

"No—"

The first explosion sent him flying, even through the protection of his cloak.

He slammed into the side of a wall, curling inward as he wrapped himself completely in his cloak. It hardened instantly, sealing him in a cocoon of living fabric just as more infected exploded around him. Fire and force battered his defenses.

Then another wave of them detonated.

The cloak strained. He could feel it. Feel it drinking deeper, siphoning his blood faster than he could replace it. His heartbeat stuttered. His breath came in gasps. He was losing.

The Prophet's laughter became a roar.

"You can't protect anyone! You can't even protect yourself! This is what it means to die! DIE!"

Another detonation. Another impact.

Thorn's vision blurred. The cloak tried to stay firm, but he could feel it weakening. He was going to die. Right here. Right now.

And then—

The world trembled.

There was a loud sound as the earth shook, the street splitting beneath his feet.

All he heard was the sound of choking as flesh was struck, and then the world turned white in pain.