Chapter 4: Cadaver

Taking the first step through the shadowy doorframe, he faltered; now leaning on his left leg, Henrik gasped as if he were losing control over his body. The now-notorious miasma had once more returned for its final act: permeating every inch of his skin and coursing through his form. It rived him apart with hands intangible, keeping him intact yet scrutinising every part of him via contact. Had it been visible, he would have become nothing but a blob, immersed in the goop that sought to judge him for something - but what? Ultimately, with the same virulence it entered, it left, presumably dissatisfied. What felt like his Soul resonated within him; it called out twice, even thrice, yet to no avail. That whose attention it sought had already departed in disinterested haste.

Henrik slowly stood upright, blinking the blurriness out of his vision and narrowly missing a few rays of golden light. He tried to inspect it the best he could before it dissipated into oblivion: a four-pointed star with no perceivable volume. Alas, its reclusive nature returned after a momentarily reveal, with it collapsing into its centre as it vanished. It gave the slightest tug at Henrik's Soul in its departure as if giving him a message: Henrik was not seeing it for the last time. In response, he only blinked hard before proceeding onward, crunching curled crimson leaves under his boots as he crossed the room: a purple-bricked entrance room. The entire area was well-maintained, with the leaves being left behind solely for aesthetics - feeling mildly guilty, Henrik stepped away from the square of delicately-arranged leaves, walking instead on the white cobbled path surrounding it.

Until a particularly long branch had struck him in the head, he did not notice the large tree standing in the middle of the room. It was a thick ebony, short yet stout in stature with a diameter of a metre; however, it bore no leaves. He speculated that it had simply shed them on the ground, and someone had swept them into a neat square around its trunk. Nevertheless, he progressed to the opposite end, avoiding any low-hanging branches.

"Not sure who made these rooms, but they love doorways to an unhealthy extent. You could make things more spacious and cut building costs, but apparently not."

Fortunately, his question - rhetorical as it was - would not be left unanswered for long. He tried to walk through the final purple doorway, only to be bashed back onto the ground, landing on his rear. Fortunately, the rucksack on his back had cushioned most of the impact, leaving only his ego bruised. Quickly lunging up to his feet, he drew his gun and aimed it directly in front of him - into the face of a previously concerned and now terrified skeleton. It did not seem to know what Henrik wielded but feared it all the same, raising its skeletal hands in submission.

"I'm sorry! Please forgive me for not watching where I was going!"

Soon realising the skeleton was hardly a threat, he lowered his gun and held it by its side. He only raised an eyebrow at it now, inspecting it from top to bottom: a figure standing five feet, six inches tall and wrapped in a dull silver cloak. Sown from the cheapest fabric the skeleton could find, its clothing was minimalism taken to its extremity. Perhaps the only reason it maintained its coverings in such a state was for dignity alone, or it would have been in tatters from age. It only wore brown sandals, questionably pristine given how frugal it seemed. Moving upwards to the skeleton's face, it looked freshly dried after extraction from a human body, followed by the cleanup of residual blood. Not the slightest sign of oxidation was visible - only the powdery white "substance" that formed its hard surface. It was not bone, for this being was anything but comprised of organic compounds.

Regardless, it moved a hand backwards to scratch its skull as Henrik recoiled a few inches; dots of light had now appeared in its previously-hollow eyesockets, granting it a gaze to look away abashedly. It no longer felt threatened as Henrik had lowered his gun but was apologetic, introducing itself.

"Well, my name is Spinefeld - Lewis Spinefeld." He warily held out his left hand for a handshake, continuing: "You seem to be a new face around these parts. Perhaps I could give you a tour of our city as an apology? It's beautiful but impossibly large; I used to get lost just delivering pizzas!"

His "eyes", noticing Henrik's blank expression, shrunk in panic as he started to inch backwards - only to stare in semi-relieved surprise as Henrik suddenly grabbed his hand, accepting the handshake.

"My apologies. I would appreciate a tour of these lands, thank you very much. I'm not quite from around here."

Spinefeld, giving him a long stare, nodded after a few seconds. He could not figure out what to make of Henrik's comparatively fleshy appearance, instead choosing to ignore it. He broke out of the handshake, turning to go through the doorway as he beckoned Henrik to follow. The latter walked behind him into a (thankfully) light-grey room with five corridors, each pointing in a different direction.

"Welcome to one of the largest residential areas here, "Home". Our king is not the best at naming things, but you'll find it a livable place regardless. Everything you'd need can be found within this region: furniture, groceries, inns and houses, vacation destinations, and religious chapels if that's what you like."

"Religious chapels?"

"Yeah. Most people here believe in the natural law of magic and leave it at that, but some worship the supposed creator of monsters: Gesenius, Fortune's Herald. Nobody can agree on his original form, but many depict him as a white slime - unsullied by mortal sin and proof that power can reside even in the most humble physique."

"Wait, did you mention... monsters?"

Spinefeld stopped cold in his path, mechanically turning around to face Henrik. His orbits were pitch black, devoid of their previous eye lights, as he lowered his jaw to exhale charcoal-coloured fumes. Henrik blindly fired at the rogue skeleton, blasting off the tip of a floating rib. Gasping in pain, he clenched a skeletal fist and landed a left hook at Henrik's jaw, knocking him to the ground. The latter involuntarily let go of his gun as his parietal bone crashed on the floor; Henrik could only gaze helplessly at his guide-turned-assaulter, the smoky flames enveloping his sight entirely. The last thing he saw before entering the abyss of visual oblivion was Spinefeld's shadowy figure, his jaw aggressively articulating:

"Your kind is far from welcome here."