“Tariq… kill me. Please. Kill me before I… I murder you.”
The brassy light in Farrah’s eyes flared, then snapped still. The faint smile stretched wider, a grotesque mask on her face. Her body moved with a fluid grace that wasn’t hers, a predatory coil that rippled through her limbs. There was no hesitation, no hint of the woman he knew. Just cold, alien intent.
She lunged. Not with a warrior’s roar, but with a silent, terrifying efficiency. Her hands, calloused from years of gripping a spear, became blunt weapons aimed directly at his head. The air crackled around her skin, an amber halo sharpening the edges of her silhouette as she closed the gap.
Tariq threw himself backward, pure muscle memory from grease-pit fights snapping his spine clear. Her fist, imbued with the raw, uncontrolled power of a foreign entity, smashed into the rock wall where his head had been moments before. The solid stone cratered inward, dust and fine debris exploding outwards.
“Well, that’s just rude,” Tariq muttered, scrambling away, his back scraping against the rough cavern wall. “Did the Gods teach you manners? Because clearly, they skipped that lesson.”
Jalil, who had been observing from a respectful distance, made a soft, tutting sound. “My dear Tariq, she isn’t Farrah right now. She’s a vessel. And the entity driving her has no concept of human etiquette, only… functionality.”
Farrah didn't acknowledge the words. Her eyes, solid disks of yellow, tracked Tariq’s every move. She moved again, a blur of motion, closing the distance in a single, terrifying stride. This time, a kick swept out, aimed low, at his knees. Tariq stumbled, catching himself, but not before another fist slammed into his chest. A sickening crack bounced off the reinforced stone corridor.
Pain blossomed, sharp and searing. Tariq grunted, his breath knocked clean out of him. He felt ribs shift, the impact radiating through his entire frame. He staggered, fighting to stay upright, unwilling to bring forth his own darkness against her. This wasn't a fight. This was an execution, and he was the unwilling participant.
“Farrah,” he choked out, clutching his chest, “stop this. You can fight it.”
The metallic voice hissed again, a dry, rasping sound from her throat. “*There is no ‘Farrah’. Only the will of the Pantheon. Your essence… will be absorbed.*”
Her movements became a relentless assault. Each strike landed with bone-jarring force. A knee to the gut doubled him over, and a follow-up elbow caught him across the jaw, snapping his head back. Blood welled in his mouth. He tasted copper and dust.
“Right,” Tariq spat, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip, “so we’re past the ‘asking nicely’ phase. Got it.” But even as he said it, he didn’t raise his own hands, didn’t summon the swirling void. He couldn’t. Not against her. He just couldn’t.
Vazgarok, who had been standing rigidly by, holding a meticulously prepared Earl Grey on a silver tray, suddenly shifted. His enormous, leathery frame, usually a picture of stoic servitude, trembled. He took a hesitant step forward, a low growl rumbling in his chest. The frilly apron seemed to shimmer, out of place, almost absurd, on the hulking demon.
Farrah, or the entity controlling her, noticed the movement. Her head tilted, the yellow eyes fixing on Vazgarok as if seeing a nuisance. Tariq was reeling from another blow, his vision blurring, but he saw the shift in her stance, the coiled power gathering for a finishing strike. It wasn't aimed at him anymore.
It was aimed at Vazgarok.
“No!” Tariq yelled, but it was too late.
With a roar that tore through the confined space, Vazgarok threw his monstrous body in front of Tariq. Farrah’s fist, now a glowing projectile of pure, radiant force, slammed into the demon’s chest. The impact wasn’t just physical; it was an expulsion of raw energy. Vazgarok’s roar cut short, replaced by a gurgling gasp. His massive body spasmed, then crumpled, slamming into the ground with a force that shook the sub-level. The silver tea tray clattered, Earl Grey sloshing across the grimy floor, the delicate porcelain shattering.
“Vazgarok!” Tariq pushed past the searing pain, scrambling to the demon’s side. The Annihilator, reduced to a heap of shadow and bone, shuddered. A faint, almost imperceptible *whimper* escaped his lips, a sound so utterly out of character for the terrifying demon boss, that it twisted something inside Tariq’s cynical heart. Vazgarok’s eyes, usually pools of malevolent red, glazed over, then faded to a dull, lifeless grey. The frilly apron lay askew, soaked in spilled tea and something darker.
He was gone.
The sight of Vazgarok’s lifeless form, coupled with the brutal clarity of his sacrifice, snapped something in Tariq. The pain, the hesitation, the reluctance—it all vanished, replaced by a cold, searing fury. Farrah stood over them, expression flat, the gilded radiance around her intensifying as she readied another strike.
“You… absolute… *bastard*,” Tariq ground out, his voice raw, not at Farrah, but at the unseen forces manipulating her. His hands shot out, not to defend, but to create. From the shadows coiling beneath him, a blade of pure, obsidian darkness solidified in his grasp. It hummed with ravenous void-power, black ash sloughing off the edges against her blinding glare.
Farrah moved again, her hands reaching for Tariq’s neck, intending to crush him, to complete the Pantheon’s will. But Tariq was faster, fueled by a rage he hadn’t felt in years. He met her lunge, not trying to dodge, not trying to block. He lunged *with* her, using her momentum against her, his body a conduit for the void.
The shadow-blade plunged, clean and true, directly into her chest. It sliced through flesh, bone, and whatever infernal beacon pulsed within her, cleaving through the divine core.
Farrah froze, eyelids parting wide, the brassy light flickering wildly. For a split second, a flash of her familiar hazel returned, a flicker of pure terror and recognition. A gasp escaped her lips, not the metallic hiss, but her own voice, soft and human.
Then, the light in her eyes extinguished. Her body went limp, the gilded halo around her dissolving into faint dust. She slumped forward, collapsing into Tariq’s arms, the shadow-blade still buried in her heart. He lowered her gently to the ground, her face peaceful in death, the faint, unsettling smile finally gone.
[ *ASCENSION GIFT: SEVERED. HOST DECEASED. PURGE COMPLETE.* ]
The booming voice of the Divine Wager system echoed through the underground passageway, ratifying the kill. She was gone. But Tariq didn’t care about the system. He didn’t care about the Pantheon. He only saw Farrah, still, lifeless, and too quiet.
“No,” Tariq whispered, his voice cracking. “Not like this. Not you.”
He knelt beside her, fingers hovering over her quiet chest. The void churned beneath his ribs. He had raised beasts and elite dungeon terrors; he could pull one stubborn mortal back from the brink.
“Come back,” he urged, his voice barely audible. “Come back, you stubborn idiot.”
He plunged his hands into her chest, not to pull out the blade, but to channel the raw, unadulterated power of the void. Dark tendrils erupted from his fingertips, weaving into her cold flesh, seeking, searching for the severed connection, for the spark of life that had been so cruelly extinguished. He poured everything he had, every ounce of his being, into her. Frost crept along the stone floor, the shadows deepening as the necrotic draw pulled heat from the room.
[ *RESURRECTION DENIED. VOID CAPACITY EXCEEDED.* ]