22. The Fibrinous Canyon


    On this occasion, their Path led them straight to a dead end.


    The desert, as it turned out, wasn’t as vast and infinite as it’d first appeared to Serac. For a line ran through its middle—literally—in the form of a dried up Sanzu River and its Fibrinous floor that, according to Trippy Version 2 at least, blocked any attempt at further progress.


    Serac, exhausted and bereft of much of her earlier enthusiasm, looked over the edge of the Fibrinous Canyon with a sinking feeling.


    The cliffs here were dizzyingly high and their walls uniformly sheer, with nothing in the way of footholds to aid a Wayfarer’s descent. Far below them stretched the canyon floor, the entire expanse of which glistened with a dense network of sickly-white ‘webs’.


    “What you see here is Fibrin,” Trippy explained in a perfectly polite and friendly tone that still managed to give Serac whiplash. “There are several different theories as to its nature and origin, but the one I’d personally endorse is the Sanzu Repository Model. As you may know, this area used to be the basin that represented the lowest part of the Sanzu River, which flows from the peak of Mount Meru and through the Six Realms. The belief is that Fibrin are simply the aggregate remnants of all the sediments, pollutants, and—hm, shall we say ‘miscellaneous materials’—that the river collected throughout its course. Now that the river has dried up in these parts, it’s left only this field of Fibrin as its lasting legacy.”


    “In other words, it’s sewage,” Serac paraphrased, sharing not an iota of Trippy’s respect for the subject, “made up of the entire world’s unwanted rubbish. But what’s so bad about it that makes this whole canyon impassable? I don’t mean to brag, but as a recent escapee of the Damnatorium, I have pretty high tolerance for yuckiness.”


    “I think we’re about to be treated to a demonstration,” Zacko cut in, pointing into the depths directly below him as he did. “Look.”


    Serac followed Zacko’s gaze and caught sight of movement on the canyon floor. The movement belonged to a lone creature—a Flesh-fiend to be exact—as it writhed and wriggled its vermiform body through and over the web-like structures. Its progress was slow, obviously impeded by the uneven and sticky surface. Well, that looks inconvenient, but not exactly impass—


    Suddenly, the canyon floor itself came alive. The webs of Fibrin rearranged themselves in real time, separating and sliding out from under the Flesh-fiend before reintegrating into a new pattern that spread over the creature and pinned it in place.


    Serac watched as the Flesh-fiend continued to writhe and wriggle, now unable to make any progress whatsoever. It didn’t take long before it stopped struggling altogether.


    The fact that the Fiend retained its physical form meant it hadn’t died yet—not that it made a difference at this point. The newly reconstructed Fibrinous web showed no signs of shifting itself again, and it’d only be a matter of time before its captive Aberrant dissolved into Souldust.


    “Yikes,” Serac uttered her honest reaction. “It’s like it’s got a mind of its own. Like it’s waiting for more poor souls to trap.”


    “Some say the Fibrin are a collective that grows and reinforces itself by feeding on Souldust,” Trippy offered in a tone that was entirely too cheerful for the contents of his speech. “It follows a certain kind of logic. Now that the Sanzu River no longer supplies it with new material, it must seek out its own source of sustenance.”


    Serac nodded grimly. “Not gonna lie, that kinda sounds like us Wayfarers in a sense.”


    “I guess it’s to be expected of a place called ‘hell’, but it’s all a bit shit, isn’t it?” Zacko chimed in with a sardonic smile. “You think you’ve just escaped a life of torture, then you run straight into this mother of all torture devices. Maybe even more unpleasant than anything they had down in the Damnatorium.”


    “What’s more, this thing acts like a gigantic jail cell,” Serac observed, equal parts dismayed and fascinated. “It’s penning in anyone that started out on this side of the Sanzu River. Me, you, any other Penitents who might’ve managed to escape—even the Jailers and Wardens. You think the whole world just opened up, then it turns out even mother nature has conspired to keep us stranded on an island.”


    “Didn’t take you for a poet, Horn-girl.” Zacko’s smile widened into one that looked almost genuine. “You read much literature while you were holed up in the meanest prison in hell?”


    “Careful. Your bullshit meter is filling up. And who gave you permission to start calling me that again?”


    Zacko’s eyes lit up, no doubt cooking up another snide retort. But then his expression suddenly turned serious as he leaned in and lowered his voice to a whisper.


    “Keep your eyes pointed to the canyon, but we’ve got company.”


    Serac tensed. The last time her Manusya companion said these words, the two of them had been visited by a Karmic Level 185 Deva. But as she attuned her senses, she soon realized that this latest presence didn’t inspire nearly as much dread—or really any alarm at all.


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    “Two of them, right?” she whispered back, leaning over the cliff edge and pretending to be still interested in the fate of the lone Flesh-fiend. “What do you want to do?”


    Despite the low-level threat, the question was a pertinent one. The desert crossing had run the two Wayfarers through more packs of Flesh-fiends and even several Frenzied stragglers. It meant that Serac herself was nursing the last third of her HP while her Cartridge was also down to just a handful of bullets.


    One mistake could mean the difference between life and reconstituting all the way back in [Laceration Gorge North], undoing the vast distance she’d traveled while also forcing her to hunt for lost Liminal Karma. That was an outcome she very much wanted to avoid.


    “At least two,” Zacko agreed in a low whisper. “As for what to do about them… just hang tight for a second. From the looks of it, I’d guess these guys would want to use the terrain to their advantage. I say we let them, then give them a taste of their own medicine.”


    Zacko, while considerably friendlier than Trippy Version 1, was no less in love with roundabout speech. Serac was getting good at interpreting such riddles from men who were in love with their own voice, and she cottoned onto the Manusya’s meaning readily enough.


    The newcomers’ footsteps and ragged breathing grew perceptibly louder—far too sloppy in their approach. The would-be sneak-attackers lunged simultaneously, no doubt intent on pushing the two Wayfarers over the cliff edge.


    Serac and Zacko were ready for them, however. They split apart and dodged away from each other at the same time, causing both ambushers to whiff and—


    “Whoa! Watch out!”


    Serac instinctively reached out and grabbed hold of her attacker, just in time to stop them from falling to their own death. She got a good enough look at them to see that it was a Rakshasa woman—eyes wide with horror, which thankfully meant she wasn’t Frenzied.


    But Serac was forced to immediately turn her attention to the second ambusher, a male Rakshasa who’d been unfortunate enough to choose Zacko as his target. For the Manusya had simply stepped to the side, content to watch his attacker stumble over the cliff edge and flail his arms at nothing but air.


    Serac flung the woman off herself and dove to the ground. Her right hand managed to grab onto the man’s in the last possible second, but she had to hang half her own body over the edge to do so.


    An adult Rakshasa could be deceptively heavy despite their slim build, with most of their weight concentrated in their onyx skeleton and horns. This specimen certainly proved too heavy for Serac and her atrophied muscles (and her measly [Substance] of just 6), and she felt her grip loosen even as she dug PULVERIZER into the ground for additional purchase.


    “What are you waiting for?” she screamed into the open air, meant for Zacko’s ears. “Help us up already!”


    “Uh,” Zacko’s reply sounded somewhere above her head, infuriatingly casual, “couldn’t you pull yourself up if you just let go?”


    “If I let go, this man will die! Now hurry and pull us up!”


    “But…” Zacko began to argue, then seemed to think better of it. Serac felt a firm pair of Manusya hands reach under her armpit, then the next thing she knew, she was up on her feet in an instant.


    The momentum of it also proved enough to fling the Rakshasa man up and back over the edge. Man, say what you will about Zacko, but he’s strong, I’ll give him that.


    If Serac thought she’d survived the worst of it, however, then she’d learned nothing from her preceding adventures in hell. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. For as soon as the Wayfarers had foiled their ambushers and regained their footing on solid ground, they found themselves surrounded, this time by a whole gaggle of newcomers.


    Rakshasas. At least a dozen of them. In various states of health—with cracked horns, prominent scars, and even missing limbs—but all united in their looks of fearful desperation.


    Some held weapons in their trembling hands, each flimsier and less threatening than the last. One had a six-shooter, probably stolen from a Jailer, but it was so rusted and bent out of shape to be clearly useless. Another had a ‘club’ that was just a stick tied together with a rock. Still others simply held their fists up in awkward stances, looking like they’d never been in a fight in their lives.


    Rakshasas, all of them—and they all looked terrified out of their minds. And yet, despite their obvious discomfort, they inched ever closer, spreading into a semicircle to pen the Wayfarers against the edge of the cliff.


    Serac, for her part, was more bewildered than alarmed. She glanced over at Zacko and saw that he’d already lowered himself into one of his NINEFOLD stances, perfectly happy to ‘defend’ himself.


    Resigned, Serac sighed and unholstered REVOLVER. Only a handful of bullets left, but she wasn’t so sure she even needed to expend any ammunition on this lot.


    “Stop, all of you!”


    The sudden exclamation—a rather feeble-sounding one despite its urgency—came from somewhere behind the reinforced troops. At least several members of the Rakshasa gang appeared to hesitate for a moment before resuming their advance.


    “Stop, I say, stop! It’s no use. Can’t you see that she holds an Instrument in her hand?”


    At this, the gang did stop for good, with some of them now recoiling in horror at the sight of REVOLVER. Serac felt herself sigh again, this time in relief. Not quite how she’d pictured this to go, but she’d gladly avoid shedding the blood of fellow Rakshasas.


    The Rakshasas in question now parted to let the speaker through. It was a man, wizened and shrunken in appearance, with a pair of crumbling horns that had long lost their onyx luster. He now slowly approached the two souls his people had just tried to kill. His back was bent and his knees buckled with every step.


    “Can it really be?” he spoke in the same feeble voice. His ancient eyes—Naraka-red clouded by cataracts—shone with tears as they trained upon Serac and her REVOLVER. “How long have I waited for this day? A Wayfarer has risen from among us Penitents. Tell me, young soul: are you here to hasten our doom, or to deliver us salvation?”