Chapter 48: The Azure Mask Brotherhood

Normally, as long as one advances as a professional, their body will be strengthened, and as long as they don’t directly touch a source of corruption, they won’t be tainted. Yet what makes evil corruption so insidious is its effect on the soul—it amplifies the darkness within a person’s heart, driving them toward extreme, anti-social, and even anti-human behaviors, sometimes to the point of madness.

Every Corrupted Avenger is the tragic protagonist of their own story, having suffered firsthand violence, betrayal by loved ones, or even cruel punishments—ordeals that could drive anyone to despair. Though they survived, despair transformed into all-consuming hatred for the world, and they vowed vengeance against anyone or anything responsible for their suffering—be it a specific group or an entire species. For revenge, they would pay any price, even the loss of their soul.

From that moment on, they lived only for vengeance. Each brush with death made them stronger, and with corruption, their deeds grew ever more wicked. Their soul would fall, and, to use a term from games, their alignment would shift from good or neutral to chaotic evil. At that point, even if they refrained from murder or arson, any detection spell would reveal their evil shining black as pitch!

Of course, there are benefits to such a fall. As the saying goes: “A villain’s power triples, but redemption leaves them weakened!” This is especially true in film and television, where a character’s descent into darkness sends their combat prowess through the roof, turning them from a nobody into a fearsome mastermind. The power gained through corruption is indeed formidable!

Bourne’s heart stirred. He called upon his chip, blue light flickering in his eyes. “What’s this?” he murmured. Through the effect of Arcane Sight, he saw that the blood flowing from the corpse on the ground shimmered with crystalline spiritual energy.

This had been a high-ranking professional; after their ascension, their life essence underwent a transformation, and upon death, it flowed out with their blood. The Corrupted Avenger, meanwhile, was shrouded in a cloud of black mist, within which twisted faces formed and dissolved—apparitions of those who had died by the Avenger’s hand.

A corrupted Avenger becomes a new source of pollution, and the souls of those they kill are drawn in, feeding the corruption further. As Bourne watched from the shadows, it was as if he had stirred a hornet’s nest. The wraiths within the black mist howled toward him—pleading for help, or perhaps seeking to drag him into their own abyss of pain.

“Damn it!” Bourne cursed under his breath as the Corrupted Avenger slowly turned, fixing him with pitch-black eyes. The face, rotting and suppurating, was unrecognizable; only the build suggested its owner had been male.

“Sorry, I’m just delivering takeout and passing through. Please, don’t mind me.” Bourne raised his hands to show he meant no harm, smiling awkwardly as he stepped forward.

The Avenger growled lowly. Bourne thought he understood: “Takeout, right, it’s food delivery—very popular these days…”

As he spoke, Bourne pulled a box from his coat and tossed it over. The Avenger, distracted by Bourne’s rambling, caught the box and opened it.

A sly smile curled Bourne’s lips.

Bang!

A sudden blinding flash and deafening noise exploded, the intense physical shock affecting not just the Avenger but also the wraiths clinging to him. The Avenger dropped his longsword, clutching his head in agony, howling in a frenzy.

In the wake of the flash, Bourne quickly drew a bottle of holy water blessed by the temple priests from his pocket, using Mage Hand to pour it over the Avenger’s head.

The holy water sizzled like concentrated acid; the Avenger writhed and screamed, his body rolling and billowing with thick white smoke.

After emptying one bottle, Bourne poured a second over him. The Avenger’s agonized screams echoed down the alley.

Bourne’s expression remained impassive. He raised his right hand, and a burning, dark-red fireball appeared.

Third-level spell: Fireball!

Boom!

The fireball struck the Avenger’s head dead-on. Bereft of his head, the Avenger’s body slumped, silent and still.

Bourne, just to be sure, cast several more fireballs, reducing the Avenger’s body to charred remains before finally relaxing.

“Damn it… I refuse to believe there’s anything left after that!”

With the Avenger dealt with, Bourne approached the murdered corpse. The clothing was that of a typical adventurer, but the fine tailoring and lining betrayed a custom-made garment.

Judging by the jewelry, the deceased was a noble.

Though the Corrupted Avenger had fallen, he generally wouldn’t kill at random before slaying his “enemy.” He would hide in the city’s shadows, only emerging at night to exact revenge, holding onto the last shreds of sanity until his vengeance was complete—only then would he become a mindless killer.

That was why he hadn’t attacked Bourne immediately, giving Bourne the opening he needed.

The victim was high-ranking—but a false one, much like the lizardman chieftain before, likely promoted through some secret method. He had only recently advanced, his body not yet fully strengthened, and had foolishly ventured out.

The Corrupted Avenger was not yet high-ranking—mid-tier at best. His ability to kill above his rank was due both to his victim’s inexperience and his own corrupted advantages—what one might call “buffs” in gaming terms.

A professional tainted by corruption becomes a new source of pollution. Anyone engaging a Corrupted Avenger in close combat is at risk—even holding their breath offers no protection, as the corruption seeps in through the skin, lurking within and slowly corroding the soul.

That’s why Bourne never got close. Such is the value of good intelligence!

Clearly, this noble had no idea about the Avenger’s traits. If he’d known, he might have escaped, but instead he was easily slain.

Bourne shook his head, reminding himself to be more cautious in the future.

In the world of Tor Dandil, not only are magical items bizarre and plentiful, but the variety of professionals is staggering. Bourne cast a few more enhancement spells on himself, then vanished from the alley under an invisibility spell, uninterested in the feud between the noble and the Avenger.

On the continent of Faerun, melodramas like this were all too common—Bourne could have written a dozen versions himself.

Not long after Bourne left, two bald men in gray robes and long white gloves entered the alley. Each wore a white mask shaped like a mantis. Had Bourne been there, he would have recognized them as priests of the Azure Mask Brotherhood.

(The Church of Jergal is divided into two main orders: the Azure Mask Brotherhood and the Hand of Jergal. The Azure Mask Brotherhood is a group of priests who specialize in combat and the manipulation of the undead. They eliminate unapproved undead, as well as those considered troublesome, and serve as overseers for the church’s labor operations using skeletons and zombies. The Hand of Jergal is an elite order of fanatical priests who, under the direction of high priests, exact revenge on those who slight the Church of Jergal by using controlled agents. They punish anyone who performs resurrection rituals without offering proper tribute to Jergal, or those who desecrate or rob graves—so long as it’s within the church’s jurisdiction.)

One priest closed his eyes, nostrils flaring beneath the mask as he spoke: “The scent of holy water—the presence of the Lord of Radiance.”

He then produced a highly polished skull container, sprinkled a little unknown ash, and green motes of light appeared, drifting toward him.

After a moment, he opened his eyes and continued, “A spellcaster, likely an arcanist.”

“An arcanist? Those arrogant fools using holy water?” the other priest scoffed.

“Not a high-ranking arcanist, and the fight was entirely one-sided—the fallen had no chance to retaliate. He was slain with holy water, which means our friend here was familiar with the fallen’s traits.”

“What an interesting arcanist,” the other priest said, a green light flickering in his eyes.

The priest with the skull container stomped on the charred remains, sighing, “What a waste. Burned to nothing.”

“Ground to powder, it’s still useful—better than nothing.”

After agreeing, they split the ashes between them.

Once done, one pointed at the noble’s corpse. “Shall we take it?”

“Let’s. I know some people among the Justicars—whether for burial or ‘resurrection,’ it’ll bring a tidy sum.”

“Oh!”

Heh heh heh…

The two exchanged a chilling laugh, then summoned a pair of skeletons to carry the noble’s body. Together, they disappeared into the depths of the dark alley…

(P.S. A humble request—any votes?)