Chrollo's sharp eyes flicked across the battlefield, analyzing every detail in a fraction of a second. The caravan, once a symbol of hope of opportunity for these merchants , now lay in disarray. The once-strong figures of guards had crumpled in the face of the Tyrant's relentless assault. The caravan itself—its mismatched wagons, crates, and barrels—became little more than debris scattered across the field of battle.
At the edges, the merchants were huddled together, their faces pale with fear, eyes wide with the kind of terror that only a creature of this magnitude could inspire. They were useless. They offered no help. Their lives were no more than fleeting seconds in the shadow of the beast.
Chrollo shifted his focus, scanning the crates and bags strewn across the ground. Bags of dried herbs, barrels of salted meat, crates of finely woven cloth, and other goods remain a mystery Could any of it be turned into a weapon? His mind worked rapidly, dismissing most of it. None of these mundane objects held the key to survival, at least not directly.
The Tyrant's deep, guttural growl rumbled through the air, a reminder that time was slipping away.
Chrollo methodically scanned the battlefield, his gaze sweeping over the field teeming with grotesque, centipede-like creatures—far too large to be considered mere insects, unnaturally composed of flesh that squirmed and twisted in erratic motions. The majority of the creatures were contained by the guards, who appeared more than capable of fending them off. Yet, some managed to slip past the desperate line of defense, breaking through to reach the merchants.
Mira stood her ground against one such Mawspawn, a grotesque centipede birthed from the Tyrant, as it lunged toward her. In a moment of intense focus, Chrollo seized one of the small crates nearby. The wooden box flew through the air, arcing gracefully before crashing into the Mawspawn with a violent crack. The frame splintered, and the glass bottles inside shattered, spilling a viscous, dark substance across the ground. The fluid shimmered faintly, catching the flickering glow of the campfire's embers.
Was that oil? Chrollo thought, eyes narrowing as he observed the slick, gleaming liquid.
Mira seized the opportunity without hesitation, snatching a torch from one of the many set up near the merchants' supply wagons. The creature twisted toward her, its grotesque form writhing, but she didn't falter. Driving the torch forward, she stabbed at the Mawspawn—not to pierce it, but to ignite it.
The moment the flame kissed the oil-slicked flesh, a spark took hold. Within seconds, fire roared to life, crawling hungrily across the abomination's body. The Mawspawn screeched, its frantic thrashing sending embers scattering into the night as the flames consumed it.
The creature writhed in agony, its grotesque body bloating, swelling—until it burst. Flesh and viscera sprayed across the field, some fragments landing on nearby crates of oil, the spilled contents catching fire and slowly igniting into a spreading blaze.
Chrollo knew this opportunity couldn't be wasted. The merchants were non-factors in combat, and from what he had observed, fire was the only sure way to kill these dormant beasts. There was only one logical choice to maximize his survival.
Silently, he entered Zetsu, his presence fading as he moved toward a burning wagon filled with silks and cloth. Once luxurious, the fabrics—once shimmering with wealth—were now reduced to ashen ruins, their brilliance tarnished by the relentless flames.
He reached for a burning plank that had been dislodged from the wreckage, its embers blazing, radiating a pungent heat. Even with Zetsu, the fire's glow would reveal his position. He had to act quickly.
With a desperate throw, he hurled the burning wood toward a wagon adjacent to where the merchants were hiding—the very one filled with oil. Unlike the others, the crates carrying the fuel had been sealed with a thick, blackish tar, now dangerously volatile.
The flaming plank arced through the air and landed with a dull thud. Almost instantly, the embers took hold, setting the crates ablaze. Fire spread rapidly, licking up the sides of the wagon, engulfing it—and the Mawspawns that had wandered too close.
BOOM.
The wagon erupted in a fiery explosion, fueled by the oil and the Mawspawns' grotesque tendency to bloat before combustion. The creatures flailed wildly, their burning limbs grasping at anything in reach—other Mawspawns, the merchants—until the inferno consumed them all.
[You have slain a dormant beast,Mawspawn.]
[You have slain a Dormant Human, Name unknown .]
[You have slain a dormant beast, Mawspawn.]
[You have slain a Dormant Human, Name unknown .]
[You have slain a dormant beast, Mawspawn.]
[You have slain a Dormant Human, Name unknown .]
[You have slain a Dormant Human, Name unknown .]
[You have slain a dormant beast, Mawspawn.]
[You have slain a dormant beast, Mawspawn.]
A flood of messages from the spell invaded Chrollo's mind, overwhelming him with notifications. Most were insignificant, but a few stood out:
[You have received a memory: Fangpiercer.]
He had gained a weapon. Summoning the memory, Chrollo manifested a small dagger in his grasp—its jagged edge glinting faintly in the firelight.
[you have received a memory : Mawtouched Carapace]
Another memory surfaced—different from the last. This time, it felt heavier, more encompassing. Likely armor.
Chrollo summoned the memory once more. The same sparkling white particles that had previously formed Fangpiercer now coalesced again, but this time, the process was slower. The sheer size of the item demanded more time.
After a few seconds, a sudden weight settled against his body—unexpected but not overwhelming. It wasn't cumbersome, but he could feel its presence, solid and real.
Chrollo glanced down at himself, taking in the grotesque armor that had formed around his body. The Mawtouched Carapace clung to him like a second skin, its surface a twisted fusion of hardened chitin and sinewy, pulsing tissue. Deep fissures ran along the plating, lined with an eerie, dark red glow, as though something still lived beneath the surface.
The chest plate felt unnervingly organic, shifting slightly with his breath, as if it, too, were breathing. Strips of dark, sinew-like fibers connected the armor's segmented plates, flexing and contracting subtly as he moved.
Its color was an unsettling mix of obsidian black and dull crimson, resembling dried blood over polished bone. The pauldrons extended slightly outward, uneven and asymmetrical, giving the impression of a creature frozen mid-molt.
Mawtouched Carapace
A grotesque fusion of hardened chitin and sinew, pulsating faintly with residual life. Its uneven plates, blackened and slick with a dull crimson sheen, seem less forged and more grown. The armor shifts subtly, as if adjusting to its wearer's movements—uncomfortably natural.
Memory Rank: Dormant .
Memory Type: Armor.
Memory Description: From the depths of writhing flesh, countless maws cried out in unison—devouring, consuming, becoming one. Their hunger did not die with them. Now, it lingers, echoing through the carapace of those who would wear it.
Enchantments: [Echoing Silence] [Hunger of the Fallen]
[Echoing Silence]
Enchantment Description: When wearing this armor, the physical power of its wearer is augmented—only as long as they remain silent. The longer the silence lasts, uninterrupted, the greater the boon of power they receive.
[Hunger of the Fallen]
Enchantment Description: The armor responds to the wearer's actions, subtly growing in strength with each battle fought. It draws from the bloodshed around it, adapting and evolving over time. With each foe vanquished, the armor becomes a little more resilient, its presence a little more oppressive. Yet, when peace lingers for too long, it begins to lose its edge, quietly yearning for the conflict that once fueled it.
These two memories were more than enough, though his luck was quite remarkable. Chrollo Ashwin had received around six memories from the twelve Mawspawn and six merchants. But he had no time to dwell on these new acquisitions, nor the horrors he had just committed—actions so unfathomable for someone like him. However, his will to live far outweighed the weight of his humanity.
Zetsu had still minimized his presence, and now, with the Mawtouched Carapace equipped, his stealth provided a significant boost in strength. He began making his way toward the furthest wagons—the ones far enough from the fire to avoid suspicion for his actions, yet close enough to potentially assist with the Tyrant in a natural way, without drawing attention to himself. After all, he was merely a poor, thieving rat cowering in the corner.
But his plan was shattered as the Mawking swung its grotesque limbs, tearing the two Awakened in half. Miraculously, they lingered on the brink of death, and even more miraculously, they landed next to Chrollo. Seizing the opportunity to acquire a new memory and, in some twisted sense, redeem himself for the cruelty he had committed, Chrollo plunged his knife into their heads, granting them a merciful end.
Chrollo knelt beside the two Awakened, his expression impassive as he gently closed their eyelids, a final act of respect for their fallen bodies. The weight of their brutal end lingered in the air, but he said nothing. His fingers brushed against their skin, still warm with life's fading pulse. In a hushed tone, he whispered a small prayer, a quiet murmur of gratitude for their sacrifice and a brief wish for peace in the afterlife. Though his heart felt little, the gesture, however small, was an acknowledgment of their struggle—one even a cold soul like his couldn't ignore.
The Mawking let out an ear-piercing, wet growl, a sound that seemed to reverberate through the very air. Chrollo whipped his head around, his eyes widening as he saw its six gnarled limbs moving in perfect unison, propelling it toward him with horrifying fluidity.
"Shiit!" Chrollo cursed, panic surging through him as he bolted forward, not even registering the hollow almost metallic notifications from the spell. The wind howled around him, his black hair whipping wildly, his lungs burning for air as the terror flooded his system. He could feel the Mawking gaining ground, its grotesque limbs stretching out to seize him.
Before he could react, one of the creature's bony, finger-like appendages lashed out, slicing through his legs with sickening precision. Blood sprayed in a crimson torrent, a mixture of liquid and the mangled remnants of his flesh. Chrollo stumbled, gasping, as the Mawking closed in, its grotesque form looming directly in front of him.
The Mawking's cavernous maw split open, releasing a sickening, wet growl that reverberated through the air. From within its grotesque, twisted form, a stench of decay emanated, clinging to the very air around it. Its skull, an abhorrent blend of jagged bone and rotting flesh, bore dozens of eyes—twitching, shifting, and glowing with a baleful intelligence that watched Chrollo with unsettling focus. The creature's six gnarled limbs, each ending in bony, clawed fingers, moved with terrifying grace, flowing like liquid as it advanced toward him. Despite its massive, imposing bulk, the Mawking moved with unnatural fluidity, every step calculated, its every motion as inevitable as death itself. The creature's presence was suffocating, its malice almost palpable, and in that moment, it was clear—it was no mindless beast, but a relentless predator.
Chrollo stood at the precipice of death itself, realizing too late how foolish he had been to think he could escape. The Mawking loomed before him, its grotesque form a harbinger of his inevitable end.
Swoosh.
Suddenly, a thick, oppressive mist poured in from all sides, its presence suffocating the very life out of the once-terrifying forest. The plant life withered, the vibrant terror of the woods replaced by an eerie stillness. The Mawking paused, its grotesque limbs halting in mid-motion, an unfamiliar sensation washing over it. Was it... fear?
For the first time since Chrollo had entered this nightmare, the oppressive grey sky cleared, unveiling an ominous mountain that towered above them. Its surface was obscured by a dense, swirling mist, the sight both awe-inspiring and horrifying. He was on the edge of the Hollow mountains—trapped between two forces far beyond his control.
The mist surged forward, a relentless, consuming wave that devoured everything in its path—Chrollo and the Mawking included. He felt the Mawking's presence begin to dissipate, its massive bulk fading into nothingness, leaving only its crippled arms behind. Those arms, twisted and writhing as if they still carried a life of their own, coiled toward him with a chilling intent.
Without hesitation, Chrollo reached for his Fangpiercer dagger, which had been knocked to the ground beside him. He gripped it tightly and, in one swift, smooth motion, severed the arms in half. The mist, ravenous and hungry, swallowed them whole, along with the Mawking's remaining limbs, and Chrollo himself—if not for the protection of his nightmare spell. The world around him seemed to fade, his heart racing as the mist closed in, and for a brief moment, he wondered if he, too, would be lost to it forever.
[You have slain an Awakened Tyrant, Mawking.]
[Wake up, Chrollo! Your nightmare is over.]
[Prepare for appraisal...]