The Keep Of Ruin - Ⅲ

"Hey asshole, you died or something?" His sharp, sandpapery voice brought me out of my thoughts.

"Are a few moments of silence making you miss our little chats already?" I quipped. 

"Totally." His voice was full of lampoon humour. "I am so in love with your self-absorbed analysis of everything and your ability to get on my fucking nerves. What will I do without it!?"

"That was a bit over the top." I admitted as he made a grumbling sound. "Although I do agree. Majority of the people we are passing by have horns."

"Yeah, that's what I just fucking said. Are you seriously going to repeat after me and think you did something?"

I already knew it, but how can someone be so insufferably annoying? It's honestly astonishing how people around him are still alive and have not committed suicide just by being in close proximity of him. A week of Michael is enough to drive me to the precipice of contemplation about ending my life. 

"What do you want me to reply with then?" I shot back. "It's not like anything I say is going to go through that thick cranium of yours. You are too self-centred to work with." I paused as I saw him glaring daggers at me. "If you want something from me, or want me to say something, just ask it directly. Don't talk in circles or rhetorics."

He stopped, his boots digging into the rocky-muddy pavement. "Alright. I will ask away." He spoke through clenched teeth and his Arcanum started to somewhat bloom. "I was going along with your plan because it made sense. Right now, it's senseless venture into an unknown territory where we are going to get captured before we even make it inside."

Removing the hood just enough to let him see my face, I slightly grinned. "Well then…" I paused and got closer to him. Close enough that our faces were just inches apart from each other. "…fuck off you pussy." 

The feeling of a curse rolling out of my tongue––out loud––was like puking bile. I can't even begin to imagine how this foul-mouthed creature curses in every sentence. Although after probing for the right moment, I was finally able to use his own words against him. 

For the first time he was totally silent. The bloom of Arcanum dissipated like a balloon deflating after getting poked by a sharp object before totally disappearing. He pulled his hood up for a fraction of an inch. "I will kill you once we get out of here."

"You are welcome to come and try." I replied, taking a step forward. Pausing, I looked back. "But don't expect to come out of it alive."

He only pulled his hood back to cover his face. Taking hurried steps, he walked past me, picking up pace. I did the same and caught up to him. 

As we were progressively getting closer to the entrance, someone came from the opposite direction, walking in the same lane as us. 

It was a short woman. She was wearing a long robe, much like us. However, while ours was of thick quality, practically boiling us inside, her robes were quite light––both in material and colour––and seemed to refract sunlight quite well. 

She was a rather old woman with a huge sack on her back. Long violet hair with multiple streaks of white and silver lined her hair, diluting most of the otherworldly colour in her hair. 

The skin on her whole body, especially around the eyes, was quite loose. Albeit that failed to mask the beautiful features––straight nose, almond-shaped violet eyes and an unblemished skin––that were now marred by the passage of time. 

Although she had no horns. 

If I had to guess she was no taller than 148 cm. 

As for the age, it works differently for different races. But a rough estimate would put her around 10,000 years. Give or take. 

Or I might be totally wrong. 

Her appearance and overall aura gave out the energy of a very kind grandma who loves to distribute cookies. 

Not like I ever met my own grandma, and she gave me anything of that sort.

But according to Astrid, her grandma used to do this every week where she would make her cookies in a jar. A practice she continued until eventually she died 2 years prior to her parents' death.

The woman was wearing a long robe with some kind of metallic chain connecting the two sides of her robe together. 

She looked up at me and then at Michael. Placing the huge sack on the muddy ground below, she sported a gentle smile before talking out loud. 

"Are you going to 'The Keep of Ruin'?" She asked, her voice unsettlingly kind and sweet. 

So, it's called "The Keep of the Ruin," huh? I suppose I can stop calling it Eden's Canyon. 

I felt Michael shudder right beside me. Taking half a step in my direction without facing me, he whispered. "Abrahamic?"

The woman looked at me and then at Michael confusingly. 

Abrahamic was not a recognised language. Although it was known as a language that "once existed," multiple religions deemed it to be a divine language in which the God communicated with Adam before banishing him from Eden. 

However, in reality, it was the original language of Eden. 

Since it has been a few million years, one would expect from even people in Eden to change their language, or have some off-shoots of it or develop some accents, however, it was still the same. No changes. 

They really do love their history. 

"Seems so." I replied. 

Suddenly, Michael took his hood off. I almost instinctively reached out for him; however, I bit the reflex. The woman doesn't seem to be fazed. If I had reacted that way, she would've thought of this as suspicious. 

"Yes, we are." Michael replied with a smile, crouching down as he supported himself by placing his hands on his knees. "Is this right path, granny?" His voice––that had usually a cruel, raspy touch to it––was awfully toned down. 

The woman smiled gently and then turned around. "Go straight and then take a sharp left. There you will meet Hagrid, a troll, who will give you a ticket of entry into the inner walls." She explained. "Be sure to not pay more than 1 glimmerstone though." She added a free advice at the end. "That guy is a major swindler. Especially when it's people who are visiting for the first time."

"1 glimmerstone is a lot." I shot an arrow into the dark. 

She turned towards me with the same kind, gentle smile. "It is dear child." She paused and clenched her chest, coughing a few times before continuing. "But it's hard times. I heard this area is going to face the wrath of Gods." She leaned in as she spoke, as if sharing a secret. 

The warm smile was suddenly replaced by a sad look. "I only came here to see my son off." 

See her son off? What does she mean by that? 

Her voice turned heavy, and she mumbled under her breath. "If only I could replace him." Her hand moved upwards, and she rubbed the side of her nose, smudging a trail of moisture. "Ah, sorry." She looked up and blinked several times, nervously chuckling. 

Although not fully understanding, presumable, Michael placed a hand on her shoulder regardless. "It's fine, granny. Shit happens." 

The old woman looked up to him as if not understanding what he had just said. 

Abrahamic doesn't have slang for 'shit'. He literally just said it in English. 

"Oh-uh, I mean, stuff happens." He patted her shoulder one more time. 

The old woman made a face as if she understood what he was trying to say. And then placing her own hand over Michael's that was resting gently on her shoulder, she squeezed it. "Thank you."

He removed his hand after a nod and picked the sack up from the ground, putting it back on her bag. While comparing his strength using average human benchmark would be extremely unfair, it was still quite clear that the sack she was carrying was mostly empty and was simple inflated. 

"Uh, excuse me." I called out for her this time. Michael shot me a vicious look, as if even talking to this woman will make him kill me. Disregarding it, I looked down at the woman. "Is the price negotiable? I mean, can we bargain with this Hagrid fellow?"

She tilted a bit to the side from the weight of her sack as Michael helped it up. "I am afraid not, since the fee collection is done directly by Deford Kingdom's Crown Taxation Authority. Those Imperial bastards have no regard for the poor." She paused and a bitter smile formed on her face. "Well, this place isn't meant for unnecessary people anyways." 

I was running out of luck however; I needed to collect the most I could from her. "It must've cost you a lot."

She looked down and patted the bulge that stuck out from the inside of her robe. "4 glimmerstones were my life savings. Used 1 to get in there."

So, she has a few more. 

"Alright, thanks." I bowed a little. 

"Ah, no need for your lordship to bow." She spoke, slightly panicking. 

I tilted my head and Michael too had a confused look on his face. 

"I can tell by how refined you are." She spoke as if she knew the secrets of the universe. "And no way someone as good looking as you both would be in the boonies like this. And besides…" She paused for a while before speaking again. "Only the Cromwells have white hair and such piercing golden eyes."

Michael flinched beside her. 

I bent my back a little. "You are a wise woman. This here is the heir of the Cromwells. And I am his lordship's humble caretaker."

She suddenly glued herself to me, holding on to my arms for dear life. "Please, my lord, you have to convince the young lord to spare my son."

Woah, woah. Stimulation overload. What on Earth—I mean, Eden is going on?

Grabbing her by the arms and supporting her weight, I helped her on her feet. However, she refused to let go of me or my robes, breaking into a relentless fit of sobs. 

"My— my son. I was sick and—" she paused midway, "—he's so young. You can take me instead! He only robbed the Baron because he was worried about me. If anyone should be executed for this crime, it's me, not him."

Michael walked over to us and patted her back. 

"Stand." He spoke. 

He's already in character. 

As she did, wiping her tear and sweat caked face with the sleeve of her robe, he continued. "What's the name of your son?"

"Ed. Just Ed." She spoke between sniffles. "Please, your lordship, you have to leave him. I won't be able to continue living without him. He's all I have."

Michael nodded. "I will try to break Ed out of there."

"B-Break out?"

This idiot. 

"I mean, release him." 

She casted a rather sceptical look at Michael, which made me a little uneasy.

After a while of back-and-forth and some reassurance, she decided it was time to leave. Although the sadness of losing her son still was there, she seemed to be better than a while before. 

But this doesn't make sense. Her son is more than likely dead. The way the prisoners were limping with that horned man, I am pretty sure a lot of them died just from the journey. And it has been quite a lot of time since left that place. 

Even if her son was not in the caravan of prisoners, he would be long dead by now. 

I tried to spread my Arcanum and the primary node suddenly fluttered as the purer form of Arcanum coursed through it. Trying to reach for a tether, I grasped it, delicately. 

I am not very fond of this application of our Arcane Arts; however, desperate times call for desperate measures. As I reached out for it, my consciousness was pulled somewhere for a brief moment before returning back to me. 

By then, she had already bid her farewells to Michael and then nodded her head towards me. As she started walking, I suddenly called out to her. 

"The path out is that way." I pointed in the direction she was walking previously. 

"Hoho, I might be going senile." She let out a light-hearted, girlish giggle before wobbling and turning around. Michael also let out a warm chuckle, looking at her with a rather soft gaze from behind the snow-white strands. 

I breathed in shakily.

Morphing the chain that connected the two parted sides of her robe into a makeshift blade, I caught her from behind. The blade manifested as an extension of my four fingers combining into one as I slit her throat deep enough that it cut her wind pipe cleanly and placed my hand on her mouth to muffle out any sound. 

From the corner of my eye, I saw Michael standing in a daze, looking at me with wide eyes. 

Her body flailed in my grasp as I kept her in place. 

Desperate times call for desperate measures, right?