ã€ŠMad Moonã€‹


 Chapter 1

    "If madness is inevitable, why fear it? Better to make a festival of it, and delight in our descent."

    -Alfonse Vivald, astrologist and philosopher, in his first proposal for the Lunar Carnival

    The world had been a hundred colors all at once, and then every color was overtaken by red. For days the city had drowned in debauchery, throwing a grand Lunar Carnival to delight the mind and body before the Mad Moons light, that most crimson of crimsons, came to warp the mind and twist the body. The moon had passed, but the crimson remained -the once colorful banners of celebration now bathed in the red blood of the celebrants.

    The music was still ringing in Gaspard''s ears as he awoke. The last thing he remembered was dancing with a woman. Neither had expected to see the next dawn, and they had danced with wild abandon until the moon began to rise. Gaspard had never bothered to learn her name. Given that one of the corpses surrounding him was wearing the tatters of her ornate ballgown, it had been a prudent decision. She was just another corpse; one of hundreds, no doubt. All of them luckier than Gaspard.

    After the Mad Moon passed and took the sanity of man with it, there were always a rare few untouched by it''s lunatic light. The few unfortunate survivors stuck with the unenviable task of cleaning up the gory messes left behind by the Moon''s corruption, to rebuild the world until the Mad Moon returned many centuries later. Gaspard took a look around at the corpses he was lying among and sighed. The dead were the least of his worries. As the sound of the festival''s music faded from his ears, he could hear movement -and chewing.

    Gaspard recalled last night''s festivities once again, specifically one of his fellow celebrants. An old man, a once-esteemed general of some sort, brandishing an antique weapon. With a pitcher of wine in one hand and his blade in the other, the general had delighted in describing how he would disembowel his fellow guests once the madness took him. Gaspard remained on his back amid the corpses, not daring to attract the attention of whatever crawled behind him, but he scanned the room with his eyes. There, on a far wall, was what remained of the general, his torso pinned to the wall with his own sword. His night had not gone as planned, it seemed.

    The crawling thing behind Gaspard crunched down on something hard enough to snap bone. It sounded close. He judged his distance to the sword, contemplated his odds, and came to the conclusion that the odds didn''t matter. He remembered the events of the previous night, and what he had learned from his host. There was yet unfinished business in this world -and Gaspard would risk more than death to see it finished.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    With some difficulty, Gaspard pulled himself free of the pile of corpses and made a dash for the sword. The crawling thing let out a choked grunt of surprise and then scrambled after him. Gaspard resisted the urge to look over his shoulder. The ground was littered with scattered limbs and slick with blood, and seeing some monstrosity nipping at his heels would only make Gaspard more likely to trip and fall face first into death.

    His feet splashed through a pool of blood as Gaspard took the last few steps towards the dead general and his sword. He grabbed the ornate hilt with shaking hands and pulled with all his might. The blade cracked and Gaspard pulled free half of a sword. It would have to do. The corpse of the general slid towards the ground as Gaspard spun and swung his half-blade. By luck alone his wild swing connected with his opponent, and the creature reeled back from the blow, giving Gaspard enough time to appraise it.

    The philospher¡¯s had said that the Mad Moon was a mere cosmic coincidence, a convergence of celestial energy with unfortunate side effects, but Gaspard looked at this monster and could only believe that the Mad Moon was not only aware but malevolent. What else but a cruel and malicious sense of irony could have crafted such an abomination? Gaspard recognized not one but two faces in the creature now hunting him: two lovers who had held each other close and sworn never to be apart as the Mad Moon''s light had washed over them. Now their promise was kept, as misshapen flesh and bone fused together into a slavering predator, with the two heads of the lovers merged into a single pair of hungering jaws.

    Gaspard swung his half-sword again, wanting nothing more than to see this creature dead, both for his own safety and to put the abomination out of its misery. The fused beast didn''t have the cunning that the two heads might imply, and it struggled to avoid strikes from even half a sword. Striking down again and again, even stabbing with the broken point of the blade, Gaspard''s desperate strikes finally cut through something vital and the beast fell limp to the ground. Gaspard stepped away from it, broken blade still at the ready, watching and waiting for it to make even the slightest move.

    Time passed, and Gaspard gradually realized that it was, in fact, dead. The final echoes of last nights music faded from Gaspard''s ears, and he confronted the silence of the ballroom. He was alive, and cursed with sanity in the wake of madness. The city was bathed in blood and beasts, with only a few scattered survivors still human enough to feel terror. Gaspard looked at the half-blade he held, and the ragged, bloodstained festival clothes he wore.

    He needed a change of outfit, and a much better weapon. The long red night had ended, but many red days were ahead for those who yet lived.

 Chapter 2

    "If you fall beneath the Mad Moon''s light, pray you fall together, for man should face his end alongside his fellow man.

    If you wake, pray that you wake alone, for what wakes with you will not be your fellow man."

    -Father Michael, in his final sermon

    After a few deep breaths, Gaspard realized how heavily the scent of blood hung in the air. Every breath carried a taste of bitter iron. Clutching his half-sword in a trembling hand, Gaspard stepped past the body of the fused beast he had slain and made for the center of the banquet hall. There was something he needed to check on.

    Still draped over the seat of honor at the table was the bloody viscera of the wealthy landowner who had been their host. It was not out of place amid the crimson gore that now choked the hall, and no doubt the entire world, but this sanguine stain upon the festivities had a significant difference. This brutality had been done before the moon had rose, as the guests had risen up against their host of their own free will, tearing him limb from limb.

    Gaspard checked his hands. The red that stained his palms no doubt came from many different sources, but the bulk of it was the hosts. He looked at the dismembered corpse and felt no regret. The host had confessed to a crime that could not be forgiven -and he had implicated others.

    In a moment, Gaspard found a purpose in the bloody mess the world had become. The host had surely paid for his crimes -the stains of blood upon Gaspard¡¯s hands testified to that. But his co-conspirators were scattered about the city. The painter, the merchant, the preacher, the astrologer, the philosopher, and the king.

    Gaspard looked at the corpse he had torn apart with his own two hands, and knew that his work was unfinished.

    The incomplete labor beckoned, and Gaspard headed for the door. He paused a few steps away from the banquet halls entrance and looked at the grandiose double doors from a distance. There were corpses piled up against it, the bloody remains of those who had crawled atop one another to be closer to the exit. There were bloody trails in the door where their fingers had clawed at it desperately. Gaspard withheld his pity. Under the Mad Moon''s light, it was more likely that these poor souls had been seeking new victims, not an escape.

    After appraising the pile of corpses and their claws against the door, Gaspard decided he was better off seeking a different exit. Given the failure of the dead to escape, someone had likely barred the door from the other side. He stepped back from the pile, pausing cautiously as a single arm slipped out of place. He froze, expecting another risen corpse, but no such beast arose. Just a blood-slick corpse slipping out of its precarious position. Gaspard loosened his grip on the half-sword and paced around the outer wall of the ballroom. The walls were just as blood-soaked as everything else, and it was difficult to make out where a door might be.

    Gaspard''s memories of the festivities were blurred, but he recalled food being brought in from somewhere. Cheap, easily prepared food, as no one had been too interested in cooking as the apocalypse approached, but food nonetheless. Gaspard ran a hand along the wall, peeling away a layer of partially dried blood as he traveled. He took a few steps past the other half of his sword, still stuck in the wall, and felt a ridge. He stuck his fingertips against the wall and felt a seam, then examined the rest of the wall more closely. Sure enough, buried beneath a layer of gore, there were the hinges of a door. Closer inspection revealed the hole where a doorknob had been broken off. Gaspard took hold and pulled, and the door cracked open, shedding flakes of dried blood as the crusted layer broke free.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    The kitchen proved no more pleasant than the ballroom. The dead choked this room as well -and choked themselves. Driven to ravenous gluttony by the Mad Moon, the corpses in the kitchen had throats bulging with more food than they could possibly swallow, as they had gorged themselves to the point of choking. Gaspard couldn''t decide whether that was a more pleasant way to pass than the orgy of violence that had apparently occurred in the ballroom.

    Stepping past the ravenous dead, Gaspard took a look at a large basin. Hoping that it would be water to finally wash this blood from his hands, he was disappointed to find a severed head bobbing face-down in the wooden basin. Gaspard sighed and moved on.

    Moving around to the far wall, Gaspard found himself looking up a staircase. Up was as good a direction to go as any. He headed up the stairs, and cringed as the first step creaked under his foot. Noise attracted attention. He silently prayed that there was nothing around to hear and took a light step up. The next stair creaked as well, and he took another step, another creak, another step, another creak -and a slurp.

    Gaspard swung around, half-sword held high, to face the empty staircase behind him. He turned back to face up once again, and still saw nothing. Carefully, slowly, he looked back at the bottom of the stairs once again. He could still see the basin from this vantage point. There was no longer a head floating in it.

    The stairs creaked wildly as Gaspard stormed to the top of the stairwell. At the top, he pressed himself into a corner and gripped his half-sword with both hands, holding it towards some unseen threat that never materialized. After a few minutes of holding his ground, Gaspard realized that nothing was leaping from the shadows -yet. He paced with his back to the wall and the sword held out. There was a bright light coming from around the corner. It could only mean daylight. Gaspard edged towards the window. He muttered a curse as he saw it was thick, frosted glass. He wasn''t sure what floor he was on. He could hardly recall where in the city he was, much less if he had been in a basement or on the tenth floor. He knew one quick way to find out. He slammed the hand holding the sword back and hit the pommel against the window. He heard a crack, but the glass did not completely shatter. He slammed his hand back again, and heard another crack, and the muffled sound of something heavy and wet dragging against stone.

    Gaspard turned and grabbed the half-sword in both hands, and slammed the pommel into the glass with all his might. The thick glass broke entirely. He used the sword to push away the broken edges of the glass and stuck his head out, and thanked whatever higher power was listening. He was on the second floor. It would''ve been a manageable jump under the worst circumstances, but thanks to the Mad Moon, there was a pile of bodies outside the window to break his fall. Gaspard wasted no time in lunging out.

    Gaspard fell down and tried to ignore the squishing and crunching that accompanied his landing. His goal of self-distraction was made easier by a slight stinging pain in his arm. He''d cut himself on the glass as he fell. As he crawled off the pile of bodies, Gaspard rolled his bloodstained sleeve away from the wound. He had not survived the Mad Moon to be laid low by infection.

    A single drop of fresh blood fell from his arm and mingled with the coagulated blood on the street. Gaspard looked up and down the corpse-lined streets, at the tattered banners hanging from every building. There were shattered stages, broken stalls, all the remnants of the city''s final celebration. Once he had finished observing the graveyard of sanity, Gaspard looked back up at the window he had jumped from. There, in the broken window, a long black tongue dripping with thick saliva was licking his blood from the shards of glass.

    Gaspard glanced up at a nearby street lantern, and wondered if there was enough oil left in it to burn down a manor.

    There was.

 Chapter 3

    "Upon review of past survivors, no common thread may be found. The Mad Moon shows no bias for the pious or the wicked, the scholar or the fool."

    -Nico Voticel, in his essay "Historical Cycles of the Mad Moon"

    Gaspard appraised the figure heading down the street from a distance. They were walking upright, which was a good sign. Gaspard had seen other things, skittering on all fours or lurching forward with backs hunched, surely touched by the Mad Moon. Against his better judgment, Gaspard approached in the open, walking the other way down the street. Inevitably he crossed paths with the figure as they both made their way down the street. Gaspard stopped about twenty paces away, as did the stranger, and they held their ground as they silently appraised one another.

    From Gaspard¡¯s perspective, all evidence pointed to this stranger having his wits about him, as he had seen fit to arm and armor himself. The plate armor was of the sort one would find lining a nobleman''s hallways as decoration, but judging from the dents, conspicuously arranged in rows that resembled a bite from a massive jaw, it had earned its keep at least once. The mace hanging at his hip was also simple in appearance, but its effectiveness was made clear by the blood crusted on the edges. The armored visage looked up and down at Gaspard''s bloodstained garb. Any look of approval or disapproval was hidden under the visor of the helmet.

    "Sleep well?" the stranger asked. His deep voice resounded off the metal of the helmet.

    "Better than I ever shall again, I imagine," Gaspard said.

    The two shared a quiet chuckle. The stranger extended an ironclad hand, and Gaspard grabbed it and pumped it once in greeting. Among the festival''s bloody remnants there was a bench that was, somehow, untouched by blood, and had a respectable distance between it and the nearest pile of mutilated corpses. It was the closest thing either could hope to find to a comfortable seat, and they took advantage of that stroke of luck.

    "Gaspard," he said. "Until recently a counter of coin."

    The man introduced himself, and offered up his former profession: a humble farmer.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    "A banker and a farmer, and yet which of us is better off now?" Gaspard noted dryly. He tapped his knuckles against the farmer''s armor.

    "Mere luck," the farmer said. "I was drawn into a banquet with a former commander who kept rows upon rows of armor. His manor is only an hours walk away, if you seek arms and armor of your own."

    Gaspard looked down at the broken sword he still clung to, and his blood-stained festival garb. He had already torn the only clean portion of his shirt to bandage his wounded arm, so everything he now wore was stained with blood -either his or the blood of others.

    "I believe I will have need of it, yes," Gaspard said. The farmer provided more accurate directions, and a description of the manor in question.

    "As well, I would be happy to accompany you, and to have you accompany me," the farmer said. Reaching beneath the plate of his cuirass briefly, the farmer withdrew a silver key tied to a leather cord. "My host bequeathed this to whomever survived the night. A key to a fortified bunker within the city wall, with enough food and drink to last weeks. A fine place to wait out these beasts, yes?"

    Gaspard nodded, and stared into the distance.

    ¡°A generous gift,¡± Gaspard said. ¡°My host bequeathed me nothing but a secret I¡¯d rather not have known.¡±

    ¡°There is little cause to be troubled by secrets now, my friend,¡± the farmer said. ¡°No more maidens to gossip of affairs and scandals now. Think nothing of it.¡±

    The farmer replaced the key and gave Gaspard a hearty slap on the shoulder. Gaspard barely blinked at the attempted gesture of camaraderie.

    "Think on this, rather: I shall soon have no shortage of resources, but I shall certainly be lacking in company to wile away the hours with. What say we make for my inheritance together, Gaspard?"

    "I appreciate your generosity, good sir, but I have no intent to hide," Gaspard said. He stood, bowed politely to the farmer, and headed in the direction of the armory. "I intend to hunt."

    "To hunt?" The farmer stood, his armor clanking with every sudden movement. "Gaspard, a hunt is a death as sure as a blade through the heart. There are devils in this city the likes of which you cannot imagine!"

    Gaspard spun on his heel and threw his blood-stained arms wide.

    "I can imagine devils well, my friend," Gaspard said with a smile. "And more than I wish myself alive, I wish them dead.¡±

    With a flourish of his broken blade, Gaspard gave a low bow to the farmer and then turned once more towards the promised armory.

    "If we do not meet again, recall my name to others. I shall do the same for you."

    With that, Gaspard set out, treading with purpose towards the armory. The farmer watched him go, and tightened the belt that held his cuirass to his chest.

    "Godspeed, Gaspard," he muttered. He walked towards his promised bunker, seeking safety, while Gaspard walked deeper into the city, seeking death.

 Chapter 4

    ¡°My colleague Alfonse argues that madness is inevitable. I must protest. The Mad Moon is a trouble of this world, and a man can exit this world any time he chooses, as I shall demonstrate.¡±

    -Ciprian Nitalis, famed philosopher, in his suicide note

    Gaspard kept his eyes on the ground as he walked through the park. It had been a place of beauty amid the urban sprawl of the city once. In a way, it was still beautiful. The festival banners sprawled between every limb of every tree, complimenting the flowers below. The beautiful colors were notably undercut, however, by the nooses that also hung from every tree.

    Not all had embraced the hedonistic revelry of the Lunar Carnival. Some had sought refuge in piety, some had sought to shield themselves with the occult, and some had sought to not face the moon at all. The park was littered with those who had come to end their lives, to die with their sanity intact. Most by hanging, some by a blade, others laid seemingly untouched, no doubt having imbibed some manner of poison.

    Gaspard could only wonder why so many had come to the park. The hangings, Gaspard understood to an extent. Not everyone had a sturdy crossbeam holding up their roof. The blades and the poisons, though, confused him for a moment. One would think they would wish to die in the comfort of their own homes.

    Gaspard looked at the few flowers that remained intact, and at the ribbons and banners hanging from the branches. Streamers of every color blew in the wind between the dangling bodies. Perhaps they had come here to die among beautiful things. Then Gaspard looked to the dozens of bodies that lingered in the park. Perhaps, as well, they had come all this way to not die alone.

    The wind blew stronger, and the ribbons swung in the breeze -as did a single empty noose. Gaspard examined the limp rope and saw that the loop had been broken. There was no body beneath the broken rope. He muttered a curse beneath his breath.

    Some of the lighter banners fluttered as Gaspard dashed by. With a dancer¡¯s grace suddenly imbued into his exhausted body, Gaspard carefully wove swift footsteps between the tangled roots of the trees and the tangled limbs of the dead. He had no desire to see what monstrosity an awakened suicide would become. Better to leave this park and its legion of dead behind. He held his half-sword close at his side all the same. That he was even alive to see such horrors meant that luck did not favor him.

    The wind blew, the bloodstained banners waved, and between the trees Gaspard saw something else move. Something with long, narrow limbs, and reddened skin. His sprint stopped, and he pressed his shoulder against a tree, trying to put it between him and the monster. Hopefully he could remain out of sight. Experience had taught Gaspard that most of these creatures were not gifted with perception. Until he reached the armory the farmer had informed him of, Gaspard intended to stick to the shadows and stay out of sight.

    The wind blew, and one of the dangling corpses shifted in the breeze. Gaspard tried not to focus on them. Even through the decay that had set in, Gaspard could tell the corpse looked young. He shifted slightly to put the swaying corpse out of view, and so missed the fraying threads that began to split more and more as the rope turned in the breeze.

    With a snap, the tension gave way and the bloated corpse fell to the ground with a loud thud. Gaspard could hear a guttural grunt of curiosity from something on the other side of the trees, and he swore under his breath. Long limbs skittered through the undergrowth towards the fallen corpse, and Gaspard readied his half-sword. He swung the moment he saw one of its reddened limbs reach around the trunk of the tree. The bladed edge caught the long limb and severed it with surprising ease.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    The suicide monstrosity let out a yelp of pain and peered with dead eyes at its stump of a limb. Gaspard backed away, taking only a moment to glance at its full horror. It had a long, willowy body, with rough red skin and pale, sunken eyes. The most disturbing feature of the beast was its neck, elongated and limp, with a head dangling from it like a bauble at the end of a chain. Apparently whatever man this thing had been had just barely put himself to the noose when the Mad Moon¡¯s light had reached him, and his new, monstrous form retained the shattered neck. Gaspard hoped the limp throat would be as easy to cut as the arm.

    After a moment of staring forlornly at its severed arm, the suicide let out a low, mournful wail and reared up onto its hind legs. It was unnaturally tall, even by the standards of the monstrosities, as if hanging had caused its limbs to stretch. Its limp neck dangled and swayed along with the tree branches as the wind blew, and the suicide began to shamble towards Gaspard. He swore, out loud this time, and fled the park, intent on leaving the trees, and hopefully this abomination, behind.

    Even as he ran Gaspard could hear branches bending and cracking as the suicide shambled its way through the forest. It was moving slowly, relative to its size, but with great purpose, all the while continuing that mournful groaning. It sang its own dirge as it stumbled after Gaspard, trailing blood behind it.

    Gaspard broke through the treeline at the park¡¯s edge and looked around for an advantageous position. The area around the park was mostly an open plaza, which offered his long-limbed opponent far too much room to outmaneuver him. His eyes locked on to a large house with curved walls and a large balcony extending from the second floor. It would be his best bet. The balcony would force the creature to stoop low, and the odd angles would make it harder to strike. Gaspard made a dash for the wall, put his back to it, and stood in the shadow of the balcony, sword held high and waiting.

    The suicide lurched out of the trees, its head swinging like a pendulum on its broken neck. The torso turned to allow the limp head to examine the surroundings, and its sunken eyes focused on Gaspard and his blade. It¡¯s sorrowful howl grew louder as it lumbered forward. It leaned down, stooping low to crawl forward on its three remaining limbs. Slowly, howling all the while, it approach Gaspard.

    Then it stopped. It¡¯s blank, forlorn stare fixated on Gaspard¡¯s broken sword. The suicide held up its severed limb and wailed ever louder, gesturing towards the blade with its stump. Gaspard froze in uncertainty. He didn¡¯t know if this strange cry was a holdover of the Moon¡¯s madness, or some kind of hunting gambit. Perhaps it was to lull him into a false sense of security -or to distract him from some partner on the hunt. Gaspard glanced from side to side and saw nothing but the suicide beast, still howling as if it was crying for attention.

    Gaspard stared into the screaming face dangling from that broken neck. The eyes remained fixated on Gaspard¡¯s sword while the severed stump of a limp waved beckoningly.

    Realization struck Gaspard like an arrow through the throat. The monster was focused on his sword, on the wound, because it wanted to finish what it had started. It wanted to die.

    It remembered.

    With a bellow of horror he might have though impossible for any man, much less himself, Gaspard lunged forward, sword held high. The suicide offered no resistance as Gasperd made the first or cut, or the second, or third, onwards to the hundredth. Gaspard cut and cut and cut again until the broken neck and lanky limbs were bloody ribbons scattered across the plaza. Gaspard looked down at the slaughter he had wrought and saw the head of the suicide rolling in a pool of its own blood, with a look of relief on its twisted face.

    The tip of his sword plunged into the skull of the beasts head, shattering it. Gaspard turned his back on the bloody pool and ran, unable -and unwilling- to think on the matter any longer.

 Chapter 5

    "To those who retain their sanity, and inherit the daunting task of rebuilding civilization, I offer this reminder: Man is not defined by his institutions, the banks and monarchs who order our society. The dignity of man is born in small ways."

    -Ezio Kepri, artist and philosopher, in his final address to his party guests

    It had taken Gaspard the better part of three hours, and one slain well-dwelling beast, to find a well that didn''t have a body part, or an entire body, floating in it. It took even longer to draw the water and pour enough of it over himself to wash the blood off. He had reached the armory and looted himself a set of clean clothes and armor, and he had no desire to carry the scent of rot and blood from his previous soiled outfit to his new clothes. He didn''t bother himself with a thorough scrub, but he did pour bucket after bucket of water over his head to wash away most of the stench. It was one of the few standards Gaspard had set for himself.

    The weeks before the Lunar Carnival had been liberating, in a sense. With society''s collapse imminent, they had been freed from responsibility and expectation. All labor had ceased, all debts were forgiven, and even basic niceties like shaving had been set aside. Gaspard rubbed his chin. He didn''t miss shaving, but he''d gladly trade having to go back to work for not fighting monsters every few hours. Gaspard envied the dead. He even envied the mad monstrosities he faced. At least their troubles were over. If he even survived the hunt he''d embarked on, Gaspard would spend the rest of his life cleaning up after the Mad Moon.

    Gaspard removed his boots and shook some of the blood-tinted water out of them. He was now clean enough that he had no excuse not to get moving. The sun was setting. There would be no Mad Moon tonight, but that did not make the darkness safe. There streets were lined with potential respite, at least. Most of the population had been gathered at lavish parties, or out in the streets enjoying the pleasures of the Lunar Festival, and had not bothered to lock the doors behind them, knowing that they would never return. Gaspard kicked open the first door he came across and found an empty house. There was even enough food left in the pantry to tide him over for a night. He made a quick meal of it and got to the real work of the night.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    The kitchen table made a good barricade for the door, with the aid of some chairs propping it into place. Most of the other furniture got braced around the windows. It was harder to barricade those, but Gaspard didn''t need them to be fully blocked off. He only needed to ensure that anything trying to break through would make a very loud noise. He''d been a light sleeper even before the collapse of civilization.

    There was a bedroom already situated at the center of the building, which was convenient. Gaspard propped the bed frame against the door and laid the mattress on the ground. He removed most of his wet clothing and tossed it aside before preparing his new found clothing and armor for the next day. Stripped down to his underclothes, Gaspard took his sword in hand and laid on the humble bed, staring up at the ceiling.

    He didn''t know where his next meal was going to come from. What little food hadn''t been devoured by hedonistic party-goers or gluttonous madmen was going to spoil quickly. There was always the farmer and his supposed hoard of food. Assuming the farmer''s noble host had told the truth, there was months of food for the taking. Gaspard didn''t quite believe they had been telling the truth, though. He wouldn''t trust any of them, before or after the end of civilization. He''d spent too much time working with money to trust anyone who had too much of it.

    His own host had decided to be truthful, before the end, but that had lessened Gaspard''s trust in man, if anything. A man who confessed at the last minute was, if anything, more selfish than a man who kept his secret. The host had shared his secret believing it was somehow an act of redemption. He had sought only to unburden his own soul, not to share the truth or aid anyone else. Now Gaspard had to bear the burden in his place -to carry the weight of truth.

    As he laid in the growing darkness, illuminated only by a single lantern, Gaspard pondered his course. His hunt. Those liars he hunted were likely dead or mad. All those they had deceived shared the same fate, or didn''t know they''d been lied to in the first place. But Gaspard knew the truth. And the truth mattered.

    The lantern stayed on as Gaspard struggled to sleep. Outside, the occasional howl rang in the distance, and though it may have been Gaspard¡¯s imagination, he would swear he heard the sound of gnawing. Sleep eventually caught up to the exhausted Gaspard, and he drifted off into the darkness, hopefully not for the last time.

 Chapter 6

    ¡°The impurities that the Moon reveals can be cleansed by fire. To be spared on the darkest night, one must burn on the brightest day.¡±

    -Tenet of the Solstice Church

    Gaspard kicked a foot through the ashen remnants of the building. The last remnants of the flame had burned out long ago, it seemed. With one gloved hand he dug at a suspicious glint in the ash, and pulled out a half-charred corpse. The blackened skin flaked away at his touch, exposing charcoal bone beneath. There weren¡¯t many facial features left to go by, but thankfully gold endured flames that flesh could not.

    The finery of the church still hung loose around the neck of the charred corpse. Gaspard knew the sigil of the high priests on sight. While there remained the slightest chance that the golden vestment had been stolen or gifted to another before the Moon, Gaspard took it as a loose confirmation that the preacher was dead. While there would always be a measure of uncertainty, Gaspard could cross the preacher off his list, just as he had the host.

    Gaspard had heard rumors that the preacher had turned to the teachings of the sun cult in his final days. Rather than face the Moon, the preacher had chosen to face the fires of the Sun. Just as the Solstice Church said, he had ignited his home and all his worldly possessions, to cleanse himself of sin. Likely the house had burned down with him still inside. Gaspard had to wonder if the preacher had held to his faith in the final moments, and burned with dignity, or if he¡¯d changed his mind and scrambled for safety before the flames had taken him. If they had taken him at all.

    A scorched beam crumbled to ash as Gaspard kicked it in frustration. There was no satisfaction to be found here. Not even in the idea of the preacher¡¯s painful death, for if he had died at all, he had not died alone.

    This home, unlike the home Gaspard had burned not long after his awakening, had very close neighbors. The inferno had jumped from building to building, spreading across half the neighborhood. All told, there were about ten homes that had been consumed in the inferno. That made for a lot of innocent people who¡¯d been consumed for another man¡¯s sins. Just another reason the preacher deserved justice, and another reason for Gaspard to be frustrated he was unable to deliver it.

    This temporary disruption did not put an end to Gaspard¡¯s mission. There were other targets on Gaspard¡¯s list. The philosopher, the painter, the merchant, the astrologer, and the king. Gaspard trudged across the ashen ruins, heading for the guilty parties that still remained.

    Since the beginning of this harrowing undertaking, Gaspard had kept his mind, sharp, always expecting the unexpected. He assumed the worst in every situation and thus was never surprised when some new horror lunged from the shadows. The mantra of pessimism kept him mostly calm as the first hand emerged from the ashen ruins, and for the second as well. The third hand started to strain it. As three became four and four became five and five became countless, Gaspard began to admit that he was unpleasantly surprised.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    He cut away the ashen claws that grasped at his boot and stepped back, nearly stepping into two more grasping hands. Gaspard struck his sword down towards the source of the arms and watched it bounce harmlessly off a charred piece of wood. Burned flesh made it impossible to tell where the monster ended and the scorched ruins began. Gaspard hacked at another of the grasping limbs and surveyed the situation. There were dozens of limbs reaching up from the wreckage. It was doubly shocking because Gaspard had never seen more than one monster in the same place.

    As Gaspard stood in the field of ash and arms, he slowly came to realize that he wasn¡¯t looking at more than one monster. Beneath the charred rubble and ash, the fused flesh of dozens, perhaps hundreds, had melted into one. His stomach turned and he slashed at the nearest arm, trying to maim this monstrosity however he could. He would need more than severed limbs to slaughter this beast, though. Gaspard looked to the edge of the ashen monster¡¯s form and saw a single scorched remnant of the buildings that had once stood here. A heavy brick and mortar wall, burned black by the fire, still stood -for now.

    Hacking away the ashen limbs like a conquistador cutting through the undergrowth, Gaspard slashed his way to the wall. He could feel the fused flesh of the creature below shifting underfoot, unsettling it¡¯s shell of burned wood and wreckage. Gaspard shuddered to think of the true appearance of this creature. Better to leave it buried beneath the rubble and ruin.

    One limb managed to take hold of Gaspard¡¯s ankle, just a few steps from the wall. Desperate to be free of it¡¯s grip, he slashed with too much of his strength and set himself off balance. Gaspard plummeted down, landing hard on a sizable piece of charcoal. He grabbed it and pushed it aside in an attempt to right himself. The charcoal rolled away. Gaspard looked down, and a single yellow eye looked back up at him.

    Gaspard stabbed down at the eye with his sword and cursed the Mad Moon aloud. He abandoned his cutting path and dashed across the burned expanse, avoiding the grasping limbs as best he could. He reached the burned wall and kept his back to it as he edge around to the far side, out of reach of the blackened limbs, out of sight of the yellow eyes.

    Though he was out of reach, Gaspard would never be able to relax as long as the monster still lived. He grabbed a piece of fallen timber to use as a battering ram and slammed it into the charred stonework. The wall, lacking the support it had once had, shifted under the impact. Gaspard rammed into it again, and again, striking it with breathless blows, desperate to see it fall.

    With a final strike, the bricks of the wall gave way, and it tumbled towards the burned beast. Gaspard could hear gurgling cries of pain from hidden mouths as stone after stone tumbled down onto it¡¯s body. With one last single sickening lurch of it¡¯s unseen form, the ashen hands reached out to the sky and then fell limp.

    Gaspard took a few steps back, just to be safe, and collapsed against a wall that was yet standing. He flinched and pulled away for a moment, expecting hands to emerge from the bricks and grab him, but no such monstrosities emerged.

    In time, Gaspard allowed himself to sit and breath, and then to continue on his path.

 Chapter 7

    ¡°Of significant note is that man and beast are not alone in their inability to comprehend the Mad Moon¡¯s light. When faced with its image, mirrors will shatter and water will boil rather than reflect the sanguine red.¡±

    -Nico Voticel, "Of Moon and Earth: Lesser Effects and Interactions of the Mad Moon"

    Gaspard removed his blade from the spine of a misshapen wretch. He smiled with satisfaction as the emaciated beast fell motionless. Until recently, it had been chasing after him on spindly limbs, crawling at unsettling speeds on arms and legs that were little more than bone. Now those narrow limbs were motionless, and Gaspard had time to breath.

    The broken remnants of what had once been a circus stage served as his seat. The benches were broken and scattered, perhaps used as bludgeons by the riotous crowd whose corpses now littered the courtyard. Gaspard was glad he now had better tools at his disposal than half a sword or a wooden bench. The farmer¡¯s armory had been fruitful -he now had a blade hanging from each hip, one to wield and one to act as backup. He¡¯d acquired a suit of armor as well, though unlike the farmer¡¯s bunker of solid and cumbersome metal, Gaspard had drawn the line at chainmail and leather. None of the Moon-spawned beasts would be wielding weapons heavy enough to warrant plate.

    Gaspard adjusted the mail shirt he wore and looked up at the palatial estate sprawling out before him. He had helped manage the funds for the construction of this estate once, long ago. He had never been invited to visit. Now, he came of his own accord, to settle affairs with the estate¡¯s master. To confirm her death, or put down the monster she had become. There was also the chance she yet lived, and retained her sanity -if that were to be the case, Gaspard was uncertain what he would do. There was only one way to find out.

    He flicked his blade to cast off the tainted blood of the crawling creature and walked up to the door. Gaspard cast open the ornately carved entryway doors and looked into the lobby of the estate. It bore the familiar blood-stained trappings of the Lunar Carnival. A few shattered masks littered the floor. This particular estate had hosted a masquerade ball, it seemed. Curiously, though there were many masks, there were no bodies, only trails of blood, as if the corpses had been dragged out of place.

    All bloody roads led down the hall. Gaspard readied his blade and kept his back to the wall as he followed the red trails. Only a few steps in he glanced around a corner and saw a head that appeared to have been torn, not severed, from its body and thrown down the hall. Gaspard tightened his grip on the leather hilt of his sword. A prudent measure, as only a moment later the sound of tearing flesh from down the hall shook him enough to nearly drop it.

    The rending of flesh and bone echoed through the halls only briefly, and Gaspard continued on. After the ripping came a low mumbling, barely recognizable as words. No part of Gaspard mistook those barely audible ramblings for those of another survivor. With every step the shape of the words became clearer, though their meaning remained ominous and difficult to comprehend.

    ¡°Red,¡± the wavering voice crooned. ¡°I must have red.¡±Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

    There was another sound of tearing, quieter this time, and then a brief interlude of silence. Gaspard¡¯s hand trembled as there came another burst of noise, this time the sound of shattering wood and tearing fabric. Then the voice came again.

    ¡°Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!¡± It chanted. ¡°I must have red! True red!¡±

    As Gaspard came close to a doorway that seemed to be the source of the voice, he had to back away from the walls. Each side of the hallway was lined with portraits of men and women in noble garb, some of them standing aside bowls of fruits and others sitting in front of beautiful landscapes. It confirmed for Gaspard that he was in the right place. She had always loved to paint. Gaspard took his final steps towards the door, found a wall which was free of paintings and pressed his back to the surface nearest the door, gathering the courage to turn. He wrapped both hands around the hilt of his sword, took a breath, and dared to peer around the doorframe.

    The small, circular solarium was filled with wilted plants and torn shreds of human flesh. There was a small staircase descending into the room, though the stairs were now half-submerged in a pool of coagulated blood. The crowd of corpses that had once sprawled through every room of the house had been dragged here, one by one, to be piled in corners and slowly torn to pieces to serve the whims of the mad hostess. Their blood pooled at the floor, filling the room with the sickly smell of iron and decay. Discarded masquerade masks floated idly in the bloody pool, bobbing along with the ripples caused by the movement of the only figure in the room.

    The hostess herself stood at the center of the room, eyeing the detritus of a canvas she had torn to shreds only moments ago. Similarly ruined canvases littered the ground around her misshapen form, and she turned away from all of them in disgust to fetch a clean slate on which to paint. The painter half-stumbled on only one leg, the other having turned into a long, snake-like tendril that writhed through the blood behind her. Her arms were long and gaunt, with each finger of her pale hands nearly doubled in length, and unnaturally jointed by extra knuckles. Gaspard could not, as yet, see her face, tangled as it was in the thick, blood-matted locks of her hair.

    ¡°Red,¡± the painter mumbled. ¡°Must have red.¡±

    Gaspard took his first cautious step into the room, carefully lowering his foot into the bloody pool to avoid causing a noisy splash. The masks floating in the blood drifted in the wake of his movement as he crept closer to the beast. Heedless to Gaspard¡¯s approach, it reached over to the pile of corpses and tore off a chunk of flesh. It found a loose scrap of canvas and dragged the bloody fragment across it¡¯s surface in a circle.

    ¡°Bright, beautiful red,¡± the painter moaned. ¡°I must see it again, my perfect red moon, my red, red, red, red moon.¡±

    Ripples of blood lapped around the painter¡¯s misshapen legs as Gaspard approached, but she did not react. She was singularly fixated on her bloody recreation of the Mad Moon. She held out the red circle in front of her and tore the scrap of fabric in half, letting out a shrill cry of frustration. As she reached out for a fresh canvas, Gaspard raised his blade.

    In a single thrust, Gaspard drove his blade into the painter¡¯s back. She didn¡¯t even flinch as the sword pierced her heart and broke through the other side of her chest. Propelled by the force of the blow, a stream of blood ran along the blade¡¯s edge and flew forward, splashing a single dot of sanguine red onto the canvas.

    The painter looked at the lone red dot and let out a soft sigh before collapsing forward. The single crimson speck was lost forever as the canvas fell into the bloody pool below.

    Gaspard waded out of the room and stopped in the hallway to appreciate the portraits. For all her faults, she had been an excellent painter. While all were exquisitely painted, some of the people pictured here were strangers, and some of them were familiar. Some of them were on the list. Gaspard cleaned his blade and carried on.

 Chapter 8

    "By decree of the king, let all cells be opened and all crimes be pardoned. All should live their final days in freedom. What harm they may do is inconsequential in the face of the Mad Moon."

    -Royal Edict #11, "On forgiveness of debt and pardoning criminal elements"

    Gaspard kicked at the creature''s body, just to be sure it wasn''t just playing dead. The multiple bloody wounds were reason to suspect it was truly deceased, but Gaspard wanted to be sure. He''d seen too many corpses jump to their feet in the past few days to believe it was that simple.

    After a thorough kicking, Gaspard finally accepted that the creature would not try to eat him and stepped away from its body. He sheathed his sword and put his hands on his hips as he looked up and down the street. It was refreshing to know that someone else in the city was taking the initiative to slay the beasts that prowled the streets. Once Gaspard had crossed every name off his list, he desired a break, if not retirement. One could only slay so many monsters.

    With one final look to the dead beast, Gaspard turned to continue on his path. The center of the city, and the palace, awaited. The royal palace, and therefore the king, was the closest stop on his list. He could cross off another name and then make his way to the astrologer''s residence.

    "You are headed to death."

    Gaspard drew his blade again, turning his gaze back to the corpse of the monster. It had not risen, but a new figure now stood beside it. Somehow, Gaspard had not heard their footsteps, and it baffled him that someone in full carnival regalia could move so silently. His black and white outfit had ribbons of every color dangling from the sleeves, and he even wore a porcelain mask with a single painted-on tear. The new arrival gestured broadly towards the city center as he spoke.

    "I awoke not far from the palace," he explained. "That day was not the first time I have slain man or beast, but even I found myself challenged to slip from the jaws of the beasts that hunt there."

    "I have cut a path through this city already," Gaspard said. "I shall endure."

    "If death is what you seek, by all means proceed," the masked man said. "I shall watch from a distance, and upon your death, avenge you, provided that whatever slays you is not too large or frightening."

    Gaspard looked over his shoulder. The man bowed deeply.

    "My apologies if my manner disturbs, good sir. I am quite mad. Not by way of moonlight, mind you, but by birth. Or by way of neglectful childhood, should you ask the philosophers, or by way of devilish influences should you ask the preachers."The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    Gaspard turned around, mostly because he was uncomfortable having his back to the madman.

    "I''d heard the king had ordered the asylums emptied, but I didn''t think anyone would be fool enough to turn the key," Gaspard scoffed.

    "You wound, good sir," the madman said. "My comrades and I enjoyed the Lunar Carnival on our best behavior. Except for Maximillian, who attempted to gnaw the face off of a young man. He only got a bit of the cheek, mind you, and that same man was dead not an hour later regardless. Moon got to him."

    "Somehow your words offer no comfort," Gaspard said.

    "Then take comfort in the fact that we find ourselves in the same profession," the madman said. He gestured to the corpse at his feet. "We both have an interest in killing beasts."

    On that, Gaspard did agree. He''d rather let the madman face the jaws of the lurking beasts. He had only a few targets left before he sought what little peace he could find, and he would rest easier knowing someone else was culling the monsters of the city. The madman tilted his face, regarding Gaspard with the empty eyes of his mask.

    "Though you seem to have a higher purpose than mere violence," the madman noted. "I can see it in your eyes."

    "And you know this from a glance at me?"

    "Quite so," the madman said. He gave a flourishing gesture towards his own hidden eyes. "I have seen that look before, you see. It was during my time in the asylum. There came to be, in the room next to me, a man accused of most heinous crimes. I shall spare the gentleman the more impolite details, but suffice to say that he was rather unpleasant to a number of young children."

    "Choose your next words carefully," Gaspard cautioned.

    "Oh? Ah, I see. Fear not, the gentleman is not being compared to the criminal in question. Allow me to continue, I pray," the madman said. "You see, the criminal was also a rich man, and with his connections he saw that the punishment for his crimes was time in the asylum, a rather comfortable arrangement in comparison to the pits below. The point of comparison for you in this story, my friend, is the guard who took umbrage with this deceit."

    The madman clasped his hands together as Gaspard relaxed his grip on his sword. The madman took a deep breath of satisfaction as he recalled the stories end.

    "There came a day on which that guard took hold of a metal rod and marched his way down the hall to the criminals room. I saw his face as he marched, and I must say, the look in his eyes was the same look which is in yours even now. The look of a man on a grim mission to right a wrong."

    Suddenly very conscious of the way his eyes looked, Gaspard squinted. The madman nodded, satisfied that his story had reached it''s mark. He took a deep bow.

    "I imagine the gentleman has made the obvious assumption, but for my own pleasure I will clarify that the criminal met a rather gruesome end," the madman continued. "Why, for days afterwards I could taste blood in the air. And the bloody footsteps the guard left behind as he walked out, oh my, I imagine the stains are still in the ground to this day."

    Gaspard grimaced and backed away from the madman. He did not appear to notice Gaspard''s slow retreat, and continued to reminisce about that gory day, whispering of blood and viscera in wistful tones.

 Chapter 9

    "To draw the population together in a festival will lead to many unnecessary deaths. Simple logic regarding the mutations rates resulting from the Mad Moon informs us that a higher concentration of men will lead to a higher concentration of monsters."

    -Adele Vivald, in a rebuttal to her brother¡¯s proposal

    The puddle of blood didn''t splash as Gaspard stomped through it. It was thick and congealed, and for a moment Gaspard suspected he was going to lose a boot. Both stayed on his feet, and he thanked the fates for that. The usually minor inconvenience of losing a shoe could mean life or death today.

    He was currently being chased by what had once been a dog. Or at least Gaspard hoped it had once been a dog. It was lumbering forward on four bent limbs and had a long, canine-like snout full of sharp fangs, but in the wake of the Mad Moon, that meant very little. It had no fur, or even skin, and it''s misshapen muscles throbbed with every frantic heartbeat as it raced after Gaspard, chasing him away from the city''s heart.

    The madman''s warnings had proven quite prescient. The center of the city, closest to the palace, was brimming with monstrosities. Great mountains of corpses served as food for some of the most twisted and hideous abominations Gaspard had ever seen. Even the broken body of the suicide and the fused flesh of the burned abominations paled in comparison to the towering monstrosities surrounding the palace. They were greater in not only number but size, many of them swollen to unnatural proportions, or, more horrifically, formed from many corpses fused together by the Mad Moon''s light. Gaspard had briefly recoiled in horror at a large creature crawling forward on ten spiderlike limbs, each formed from what was once a man, before being forced to flee.

    The road curved ahead, and Gaspard turned to the unknown. He hoped he wasn''t charging directly towards another beast. He was trying to head back to the burned-down district he''d been in the other day, as he knew it to be clear of monsters, but he wasn''t there quite yet. There could be any number of strange things lurking between here and there. Gaspard tried to put that fearsome thought out of his head and focused on running.

    The street now was thick with the remnants of the festival, with banners and streamers choking the air overhead and abandoned carts and stalls lining the streets. Gaspard easily weaved his way between the stalls full of rotten treats, and hoped the more cumbersome hound would struggle to get by. He heard the sound of crashing wood behind him as the hound charged right through one of the many abandoned stalls. Gaspard resisted the urge to look over his shoulder and see if it had lost a step.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    Just ahead, some of the banners had fallen and were strewn among the corpses on the street. Gaspard carefully measured every stride to avoid slipping on a blood-slick banner or tripping over a rotting arm. He could hear the hound''s panting behind him, still unsure if it was getting closer or not. A cross wind rustled the banners that still hung overhead and carried the scent of ash to Gaspard. He was getting close to the burnt homes he''d passed earlier. For the first time on this chase he had some hope of salvation.

    Gaspard rounded the corner and saw the ashen ruins of the buildings in the distance. It was strange to think of those scorched ruins as his savior, but they were necessary for his plan. The massive hound required more than a few slashes with a sword to slay. Gaspard looked at one broad archway that was still standing, attached to one of the more intact homes.

    Just as Gaspard pondered his next move, a blast of hot air crawled across the back of his neck. Rancid breath crawled over his shoulders as the hound closed the gap and let out one loud huff of satisfaction before its jaws closed around Gaspard''s shoulder.

    Pain and adrenaline blinded Gaspard to what came next. He had brief recollection of being lifted off his feet and shaken for a moment. When he regained any ability for coherent thought, Gaspard had a bloody sword in his left hand, and blood dripping from massive gashes in his right shoulder. The hound was screaming in an unsettlingly human voice as Gaspard stumbled away from it. He dropped his blade, used his spare hand to support his wounded arm, and made a dead sprint for the arch he had locked eyes on earlier.

    Every step he took stressed the wounds in his shoulder, but Gaspard managed to stomp to the threshold. This room was still relatively intact, with all four stone walls still standing. The roof, however, was splintered and crumbling, as was the archway that held it up. Gaspard shouted over his shoulder at the hound. It had a gash across one eye, apparently from Gaspard''s blade, but it still managed to sprint forward towards its prey. Gaspard ducked through the archway and pressed his back against the wall. There was only one way in and out of this chamber. Hopefully this half-formed plan worked.

    The swollen head of the hound barreled through the ashen archway. The oversized shoulders of the beast caught on the edges, and the force of impact splintered the burned wood. The hounds forelimbs scraped at the stone as it tried to force it''s way through the narrow arch, heedless to the crumbling wood and stone around it. Gaspard watched the masonry crack and covered his face with his sleeve.

    The burst of dust and rubble bounced off his sleeve, but the cacophony of broken stone and splintering timber hit his unguarded ears. In the middle of the noise, he heard the dull, gruesome sound of something piercing through flesh, and a pitiful whimper from the hound. The crumbling continued, and Gaspard kept his face covered until the last stone had fallen and the room was quiet. He pulled his dusty sleeve away and opened his eyes, to no avail.

    The room was pitch black. He could smell dust and the fetid stench of the hound, and he could see nothing. There had been only one way into this burned chamber, and now there was no way out.

 Chapter 10

    There exist historical records of deep catacombs, dug to escape the light of past Mad Moon incidents. Even the deepest have failed to shield their occupants from madness and mutation. Darkness is no shield from the Mad Moon¡¯s light.

    - ¡°Historical Records of the Mad Moon, Compiled¡±

    Dust choked the air as Gaspard tried to breath. Even as he gagged on the taste of rot and debris, Gaspard struggled to keep his breathing measured and steady. He had no idea how much air he had. He could see no light in the small chamber, so he had to assume there was no airflow either. In retrospect, he probably could have come up with a better plan than collapsing a building with himself inside it. He was lucky any of this structure was still standing.

    Though he could not see in the pitch black chamber, Gaspard still knew exactly where the corpse of the hound was. It was giving off a surprisingly large amount of heat -as well as the sickly scent of decay. If it stank this much fresh, Gaspard could only imagine the horrific stench once it actually began to rot. He would have to get himself out of here, and soon. An escape plan could not be his first priority, however.

    Peeling the cloth and padded armor away from his wounds caused Gaspard no small amount of pain, but he grit his teeth and endured. The darkness prevented him from seeing the full extent of the injuries, which was perhaps a blessing, but they felt shallow. That slightly reduced his chances of bleeding to death, but did nothing to prevent infection, which was Gaspard''s real concern. He''d rather bleed out than slowly rot from gangrene. Unable to do much about either at the moment, Gaspard tore his shirt in half and used the cleaner half to blindly bandage his wounds. It was an ordeal, as his dominant right hand was limp by his side, but Gaspard managed. He unlaced a leather cord from his armor and bit down on it as he did the painful work of managing his wound.

    When the bleeding had been staunched to the extent of Gaspard''s blind ability, he shifted his focus to finding a way out. He ran his left hand along the walls, searching for loose bricks. It was a long shot, especially since disassembling the walls too much could collapse the building around him, but if he could open a small hole, it would be possible to squeeze his way out -or at least grant him enough light and air to find a better path to freedom. Gaspard pressed his knuckles against one stone and gave it a light push. He heard the scrape of stone against stone. It didn''t come from the brick.

    By force of habit alone Gaspard turned his head towards the sound. He saw nothing in the darkness. Gaspard began to think himself a fool just for looking. He held his breath and relied on other senses, namely hearing. Gaspard heard nothing. He turned back to his work, and no sooner had he turned than he heard a short but distinct series of clicks. He froze in place, and the clicking stopped.

    With his one good hand, Gaspard checked every buckle and belt on his armor, thinking some improperly secured clasp might have clicked as he turned. He finished his check by tugging at his belt, and just as he released it, he heard the clicking once again.

    Gaspard stood in place, motionless but for one hand that drifted slowly towards the sword at his belt. He took deep, slow breaths, ears perked for the slightest hint of noise. There was no sound, not until Gaspard put a hand to his blade and slowly dragged it out, breaking the silence with the slow draw of metal against leather. Gaspard waved the blade at the unseen threat as his mind raced with possibility.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    Man was not the only creature to be warped by the Mad Moon''s light. With every passing of the Moon, every other species shared a similar fate. Madness consumed most of the land''s creatures, and those that weren''t claimed by madness were often twisted into abominations much like the ones Gaspard now fought. They became horrors in the shape of what they had once been, from the flying birds down to the crawling insects. It was the latter that concerned Gaspard now. He swept the point of his blade towards the floor. It could be that some manner of mutant arachnid or beetle had tunneled its way through the wreckage and was now watching Gaspard through the darkness. He would not be prey to an insect, even one changed into a monster.

    With a cautious step back, Gaspard moved towards the corner. There was only so much he could do to stop the approach of a creature that could crawl up walls, or possibly even fly, but having stone to his back would comfort him. He took one more step back towards the corner and felt something sharp dig into his ankle.

    Gaspard turned and slashed at the ground behind him. The scrape of the blade against stone kicked up a single spark and made a horrid noise, but accomplished little else. Gaspard imagined he saw a shadow move in the light of that single spark, but it was more than likely his imagination. He kicked out with his foot and hit a small piece of debris from the crumbled wall. Hopefully the edge of that loose stone was what had stabbed him in the ankle. He kicked the stone again and let it roll across the darkened room. The click of stone against stone echoed through the darkness, followed by the rhythmic clicking in the darkness.

    In that moment, Gaspard would¡¯ve traded all his swords and armor for a single match -for anything to illuminate the darkness and reveal his unseen enemy. He headed for the sickly rot of the hound¡¯s head. The collapsed archway was the closest thing Gaspard had to a way out. He would rather face the risk of collapse than be preyed upon by some unseen insect.

    Groping at the rubble, Gaspard pulled away some of the looser stones. To his surprise, they came free fairly easily, and the wall showed no signs of fully collapsing yet. He reached out into the darkness and felt a large crossbeam overhead. Perhaps most of the rubble had been braced into place by its collapse. He pulled a few more stones loose, and to his delight, a single beam of daylight stabbed through into the dark.

    Gaspard moved with frantic energy now, pulling the stones away and tossing them over his shoulder one handed. More light rushed in, and he could now see clearly that a large wooden beam had braced itself against the hounds skinless corpse and was holding further collapse at bay. Gaspard pulled the stones away ever faster, letting them clatter loudly against the ground behind to muffle any chittering sounds from his unseen enemy. At last enough daylight poured through that Gaspard could clearly see the burned streets outside, and Gaspard forced his way through the hole. He grabbed a protruding bone on the hound¡¯s spine and used it as leverage to pull himself fully into daylight.

    With a triumphant step forward, away from the broken building, Gaspard stepped into the ruined streets. He had never been more pleased to see the corpse of the city he had once called home. He was even delighted to see the pools of thickening blood that still coagulated in the streets -though he was less delighted at the sudden shower of fresh blood that joined it. Gaspard looked to his wounded shoulder as the world started to spin ever so slightly.

    The bite from the hound was a shallow wound, but it had apparently cut into a sizable vein. The front of Gaspard¡¯s armor was stained a deep red. Even his makeshift bandage did little to staunch the bleeding -although the tightness of his poorly made tourniquet had numbed him enough to not notice the bleeding. Gaspard noted his own incompetence, and then fell forward into his own blood.

    In the darkness he had left behind, something chittered and retreated from the light.

 Chapter 11

    Hospitality is a virtue, but so is knowing when to leave.

    -a saying oft repeated by Gaspard¡¯s father

    Gaspard woke, which was surprising in and of itself.

    That he woke in a comfortable bed was a bigger surprise, as was the fact that his wound had been bandaged. Collapsing in the streets should have ended with him in the gullet of a beast. He wasn¡¯t sure if being alive was a pleasant surprise, but it was a surprise.

    While Gaspard was alive, for the moment, he was not unharmed. Somebody had cleaned and dressed his wound, but it still hurt like all hells. He did not bother trying to shift in bed or explore his new surroundings. Curiosity would only aggravate his wounds and make his recovery take longer. He still had a mission to complete.

    Or he thought he did. He¡¯d nearly died once already pursuing a vendetta from a world that no longer existed. Was it worth risking his life again, when most of his ¡°targets¡± were either already dead or no longer sane enough to recall their crimes?

    Gaspard¡¯s thoughts drifted to the suicide, and to the painter. They had recalled some fragment of their former selves -even acted on the thoughts and desires they¡¯d once had. His pale face bent into a scowl. If there was even a fragment left of those liar¡¯s guilty minds, it had to be snuffed out.

    His eyes were closed and remained closed, but he couldn¡¯t help but turn his head towards the sound of a door opening. A slight rattle and a gasp made it apparent that his movement was a great surprise to someone. Gaspard tried to open his eyes, and found himself blinded by the light in the room. He squinted and struggled to adjust as whoever else was in the room got their bearings back after the shock of seeing him awake.

    ¡°Goodness, you¡¯re awake,¡± they said. It sounded like an older woman¡¯s voice.

    ¡°Was I not expected to?¡± Gaspard asked. He struggled to open his eyes again, and could only make out the blurred outline of the figure he was speaking to.

    ¡°No, no, you weren¡¯t hurt quite that bad,¡± the woman continued. ¡°Your wound was severe if left untreated, mind you, but with some proper care you¡¯ll be on your feet soon.¡±

    ¡°Right. Feet. To that topic, how did I come to be here?¡±

    ¡°Another survivor dragged you to my door,¡± the woman said.

    ¡°An odd fellow in a harlequin¡¯s suit?¡± The strange jester had claimed he¡¯d watch Gaspard from a distance, and he was curious to see if he was being stalked by a madman after all.

    ¡°What? No. Red-haired woman. Brings me food and checks in from time to time, I think she sneaks about keeping tabs on survivors. She happened to come across you, and knowing that I was a nurse once, brought you to me.¡±This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

    Gaspard tested his uninjured arm and, finding it fit to move, rubbed his chin. His stubble didn¡¯t feel any longer, so he probably hadn¡¯t been out for that long. A night or two at best.

    ¡°Does my savior have a name?¡±

    ¡°Not that she¡¯s told me,¡± the woman said. ¡°She doesn¡¯t talk to me if she can avoid it. I believe she wants to avoid getting attached.¡±

    ¡°A sensible policy,¡± Gaspard sighed. ¡°One I will echo. I thank you for your care, madam, and the continued use of your bed, but I think it best that I heal in solitude.¡±

    His vision was still blurred, but Gaspard could tell the woman was giving him a long, silent stare.

    ¡°You intend to go out and get yourself bitten again, then?¡±

    Gaspard took a deep breath and felt the sharp pain in his chest wound. He recalled the words he had spoken to the farmer several days ago. He stood by them.

    ¡°There are things that need to die more than I need to live,¡± Gaspard sighed.

    The woman bowed her head and left the room, set down the tray she¡¯d carried in next to Gaspard¡¯s bed, and left the room without a word.

    That same cycle repeated itself for two days. The woman would walk into the room with food or clean bandages, exchange short pleasantries with Gaspard, and then leave. Following in the example of the red-haired woman, they never exchanged names. The only thing Gaspard learned about her was that she was a widow, something he might have easily guessed. Gaspard doubted there were many happily married couples left in the world.

    On the third day, just before he made his final preparations to sleep, Gaspard dared to move his wounded arm. It was incredibly painful, but possible. When the widow came into the room, Gaspard removed his own bandages.

    ¡°I believe I will have no further need of your care soon, madam,¡± Gaspard said. He tended to his own wound while she watched. ¡°You have enough troubles in this world without a stranger bleeding on your sheets. I shall be on my way tomorrow morning.¡±

    ¡°You intend to fight again so soon?¡±

    ¡°To fight? No,¡± Gaspard said. ¡°I am determined, but I am no fool.¡±

    He finished wrapping the new bandage and cleaned his bloody hands with a wet cloth the widow offered.

    ¡°I simply mean to leave your care, perhaps find a place of my own to bunker down and finish my recovery.¡±

    It was a bald-faced lie. While Gaspard did not intend to continue hunting, at least for now, he had no desire to sit still. The city center had overwhelmed him because he had gone in unprepared. This time, he would scout out his targets, and prepare for his enemy. He would not be caught off guard again. One of his targets was in the center of that mass of horrors.

    The widow looked at him and raised one thin eyebrow. Everything about her was thin-looking, and frail at that. Gaspard wondered if she had been that way before the Moon, or if the stress and starvation of this apocalypse had done it.

    ¡°You are clearly a man on a mission, sir, and I shall not interfere,¡± the widow said. ¡°But if you intend to leave, it would be unbecoming of me to not offer you one proper meal at my table.¡±

    ¡°This is hardly the time to be concerned with manners, madam.¡±

    ¡°Manners have nothing to do with it,¡± the widow said, with an oddly harsh tone to her voice. ¡°It is kindness to a dead man. If you are so intent on leaving, this will likely be the last home cooked meal you ever eat.¡±

    With a bow of her head, the widow turned and left the room without another word. Gaspard blinked twice and then laid down. For some reason, the words cut deeper than the bloody cut in his shoulder.

 Chapter 12

    All trials are to be suspended and all suspected criminals to be presumed innocent. In the coming days, the Mad Moon shall be our only judge, and our only executioner.

    -Royal edict #10, ¡°On the accused and the suspension of judicial authority¡±

    One of Gaspard¡¯s clients at the bank he¡¯d once worked at had been a retired explorer. He often boasted of old expeditions as he withdrew his funds and stroked a bristly beard. On one such occasion he had boasted of dining with cannibals on the southern isles, and claimed with a disturbing level of certainty that human flesh tasted of pork.

    Gaspard could not put the thought of that out of his head as he took a bite of what the widow claimed was bacon. Apparently the red-haired woman who had saved Gaspard¡¯s life had also found stockpiles of such foodstuffs around the city. Considering her apparent ability to save Gaspard¡¯s life, Gaspard chose to trust her ability to find bacon.

    It was a fine meal, Gaspard¡¯s suspicions aside. Finely shaped potato pancakes served with what was possibly bacon, and a loaf of freshly baked bread with plenty of butter to spread. There was even milk, albeit lukewarm. Gaspard had his suspicions that most of the widow¡¯s generosity was inspired by these ingredients being close to spoiling anyway, but he kept such thoughts to himself.

    It took only a few bites for Gaspard to appreciate the gesture more. The taste of warm, fresh food had fallen into the abyss of memory in just a few days. He had subsisted on stale bread, dry jerky, and fruit with the rotten bits carved off since the Mad Moon¡¯s rise. A warm meal was a luxury he had not dared imagine, and he enjoyed it to the fullest. The widow seemed to take some pride in his satisfaction.

    At the meals conclusion, Gaspard politely wiped his hands on a napkin. He realized midway through it was a pointless nicety, but he carried on the gesture regardless. It was nice to live in the old world for a moment. The widow nodded at his politeness.

    ¡°You seem like you were a well-mannered man, once,¡± the widow said. The mere word ¡°once¡± dragged them back into the cruel present. Gaspard¡¯s brow settled into its old, near-permanent scowl.

    ¡°I was a banker. A reputable one. With the clients I served, I learned manners quickly.¡±

    ¡°A coin counter,¡± the widow said. She sounded like she didn¡¯t believe it. ¡°And now you roam the streets with a bloody sword?¡±

    Gaspard pushed his plate to the side. Clearly the time for niceties was over.

    ¡°I will spare you the details, because I would not burden you as I am burdened,¡± Gaspard said. ¡°But before the Moon¡¯s rise, a great and terrible lie was told. A lie my host revealed to me before the Moon rose. The mob tore him apart for what he told them, long before the Mad Moon drove them to bloodlust.¡±This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    Gaspard leaned back in his chair, and nursed his wounded shoulder.

    ¡°There are others complicit in the lie,¡± Gaspard said. ¡°I must ensure they see their due punishment. If they are dead, I must ensure it, and if they live as twisted beasts, I must end them.¡±

    ¡°And if they live as men?¡±

    Gaspard paused and stared at the grease pooling on his plate.

    ¡°We shall see.¡±

    The widow folded her hands and held them close to her chest. Her narrow brows furrowed.

    ¡°Does such a lie still matter, after everything?¡±

    ¡°A murderer is still a murderer if he is never caught, and he still deserves the fate that would be otherwise delivered to him,¡± Gaspard said. ¡°Justice must be done, always, or justice does not matter.¡±

    The widow slowly recoiled. She stared at Gaspard, and Gaspard stared back. The woman blinked first.

    ¡°Always?¡±

    Gaspard nodded. At the slight gesture, the woman¡¯s composure broke. Red veins of sorrow found their way to her eyes, and she wept.

    ¡°Then kill me,¡± she pleaded. ¡°Please, kill me.¡±

    Gaspard put his hand on his sword, but he did not draw it. The widow wrung her hands as she tried, and failed, to look Gaspard in the eyes. Her next words came as a low moan, as miserable and pained as the howls Gaspard had heard from the suicide.

    ¡°I killed my children,¡± the widow wailed. ¡°My girls. I couldn¡¯t bear the thought of what the Moon would do to them. To see them savaged and torn apart, or- or driven mad- I couldn¡¯t-¡±

    The confession caught in her throat and she choked on it. Gaspard watched her sob into her hands. His grip tightened on his sword, more out of habit than anything else. He waited patiently as the worst of the guilt and misery worked its way out of her system. When she finally looked up at him again, he asked his question.

    ¡°How did you do it?¡±

    ¡°Poison,¡± the widow sobbed. ¡°I told them -they thought it was medicine. To keep them healthy for the festival -the party. I never told them what was happening. I didn¡¯t want them to be afraid.¡±

    She rubbed red eyes clear of the last few tears that remained. Her hollow face was still broken with abject misery.

    ¡°They were so excited for the festival. I promised them I¡¯d take them as they went to sleep.¡±

    The last of her tears had dried up, the sobs stopped racking her body, and the widow stared blindly at nothing.

    ¡°They were still smiling.¡±

    The widow continued staring into the void. Gaspard let her reflect for a moment. In time, he stood, The widow¡¯s eyes suddenly snapped to him, but her expression of misery did not change. Even as Gaspard drew his sword and pointed it at her heaving chest, she did not blink. Gaspard met her eyes. At last, she blinked.

    With a flourish, Gaspard withdrew his sword and sheathed it.

    ¡°I thank you again for your hospitality, madam, but I have overstayed my welcome.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡± The widow pleaded. ¡°Why not? For all your talk of justice?¡±

    Gaspard adjusted the sling that held his wounded arm and shook his head.

    ¡°For every crime there is a punishment,¡± Gaspard said. ¡°But not every punishment is death.¡±

    As he turned to the door to leave, Gaspard spared one more look over his shoulder.

    ¡°Give my regards to the red-haired woman, should you see her again,¡± he said.

 Chapter 13

    He tore out his eyes but he could still see it

    And it could still see him

    -scrawlings of an unknown survivor of the Mad Moon incident

    The compact estates of the riverside district made for ample cover. Gaspard was not fool enough to travel in the open now, with his arm still healing. He kept to the narrow passageways between buildings, slinking through abandoned halls when he could, and retreating to safety at the first sign of trouble, as he did now.

    Nothing of the creature was discernible from this angle other than its bulk. Gaspard had ducked into the antechamber of a long-abandoned estate and, rather comically, had hidden behind the curtains. It was hardly ideal, but there were only so many places to hide on short notice, and most of the Moon-crazed monstrosities weren¡¯t clever enough to notice anyway.

    The titanic shadow passed, and Gaspard poked more of his head through the curtains. Shambling footsteps eventually faded into silence, and Gaspard finally felt safe. He took one quick look around, just to be sure, and then stepped out of his hiding place. He was not immediately ambushed by some bloodthirsty beast, so he was off to a good start.

    Keeping low and slinking between shadows whenever possible, Gaspard left the home and headed back into the streets. Gaspard was unsure of his next targets exact location, but he knew he was in the right area. He wasn¡¯t too far from his old workplace.

    The bank where Gaspard had once counted the coin of far richer men was only a block or so away. He would go there eventually, for reasons of practicality rather than sentimentality. While Gaspard could recall from memory where the painter and the preacher had lived, and he had a vague idea of the astrologer¡¯s residence, the locations of other targets on his list were unknown. Thankfully they were all part of the same wealthy noble circles. The bank had records on all of them. Once he had settled with the astrologer, Gaspard would pay his old workplace a visit and find his next target.

    For now, he focused on the current hunt. He knew the astrologer lived close to the bank, in the nearby estates, but he did not know which estate specifically. While some of the houses had nameplates or elaborate statuary declaring the owners, others had no such markers. Some, though, had some more subtle indications of who the master of the house was. Gaspard looked up at the balcony of a nearby home and saw a large telescope leaning over the railing. A not so subtle clue that an astrologer resided within.

    Gaspard tried the door, and found it locked. The fact that it was locked was no surprise, as Gaspard had seen many locked doors -most of them swinging off their hinges after a ravenous mob had torn their way through. For some reason the Moon-maddened mob had taken special umbrage with those trying to hide. This one, though, they had left intact, and mostly alone. Where other homes had corpses piling up in the streets outside, the presumed home of the astronomer seemed almost pristine.

    After a quick glance up and down the street, and some deft shattering of glass with the pommel of his sword, Gaspard ducked through a now-broken window. Once inside, it became clear his assumption was correct. The study he¡¯d stepped into bore a large star chart on one wall, with most of the stars labeled and bright lines connecting every constellation.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    For an added layer of verification, Gaspard flipped open one of the journals laid out on a large drawing desk. The astronomer¡¯s name was signed within it, and within almost every book in the room. There was no doubt that this was the astronomers home.

    Knowing his target was near, Gaspard proceeded more carefully than before. While the odds were not in favor of it, there was a chance that the astronomer had been corrupted just like the painter. If the sun cult¡¯s teachings were true, and the Mad Moon¡¯s mutations were drawn to wickedness, then they might find no better target than the astronomer. He, of all the targets of Gaspard¡¯s rage, bore the most blame. He would have been the first to conceive the great lie, after all.

    Gaspard tempered his anger with caution and stepped forward slowly. With a hand ever to his blade, but an eye always on the exit, Gaspard ensured he was equally prepared to fight and to run. More so to run. Gaspard didn¡¯t want to risk confrontation in his injured state, but there was always the chance he would get cornered.

    Room by room, Gaspard proceeded through the house, carefully checking every corner and every nook and cranny. The home was oddly pristine. Many wealthy figures like the astronomer had spent their efforts in their last days concocting elaborate balls and feasts for the Lunar Festival. No such revelry had taken place here. It was oddly austere, even dusty in places. It looked as if it had been stripped and mostly abandoned long before the Mad Moon¡¯s rise. There were a few scant signs of habitation, but not many.

    As he picked his way through the astronomer¡¯s residence, Gaspard did avail himself of some of the astronomer¡¯s implements of choice. A single handheld spyglass as well as a pair of binoculars. Useful tools for one who intended to scout his foes from a distance. Gaspard tucked the various viewing implements into his pack and continued his search for the master of the house.

    With every room cleared, Gaspard turned his attention to the one doorway he had yet to walk through. The balcony on which he had first seen a telescope was before him, just beyond a door with an elaborate stained glass element. The inlaid pieces of colored glass depicted the solar system rotating in perfect harmony around the sun. Gaspard noted that the small silver disk representing the moon was shattered. Whether that was intentional or some manifestation of the Mad Moon¡¯s power, he would never know.

    Gaspard turned the brass knob and pushed the door outward slowly. It creaked slightly as it swung, but the noise drew no unwelcome attention. Gaspard gripped his sword so tightly his knuckles cracked and stepped through. He found no monsters, but the Mad Moon had left him an equally grotesque surprise.

    In a comfortable lounging chair, head craned towards the sky, was the corpse of what Gaspard could only assume was the astronomer. He had to assume because there was nothing left of the face to identify. Every identifiable feature had been flayed off, with scraps of his skin and muscle torn to narrow strips and blasted backwards as if by great force, stretching back across his skull and against the chair behind. The bare bone of his skull was tilted slightly upwards, held in place by the taut muscles that had fused to the chair behind him. Two barren eye sockets, empty but for the blackened coals that had once been the astronomer¡¯s stargazing eyes, looked curiously upwards.

    An astronomer to the end, Gaspard thought. He had spent his last moments looking up at the astrological phenomenon of a lifetime -the Mad Moon. He hadn¡¯t looked away even as it killed him. Gaspard almost respected the dedication.

    At the same time Gaspard wondered what the astronomer might have seen. Did he realize something through his doomed examination, gain some insight into the twisted nature of the Mad Moon? What had he seen that would cause such gruesome disfiguration?

    Gaspard did not trouble himself with such thoughts for long. There would be no answers here. The astronomers horrific death had robbed them of that -though it gave Gaspard some satisfaction. He could cross another name off his list.

    Onward to the next.

 Chapter 14

    Most creatures of the earth can see. It is only man who can see beyond the simple colors and shapes, to see the soul of what he gazes upon. It is man¡¯s greatest gift, to have both sight and vision.

    -Massachio de Vimme, in his essay ¡°The Gifts of Man¡±

    Gaspard held the spyglass to his eye and peered through it. After finding himself a suitably high perch, he was now due to begin his reconnaissance on the city center. He would not charge in blindly again. He had at least a week before his shoulder was recovered. He intended to make use of that time to prepare.

    The palace at the city¡¯s center was visible from any part of town, due to the ostentatious height of its spires, but there was a little to be seen in those marble parapets. The monsters abhorred those glittering heights; they lurked among the alleys and buildings, where shadows were never far away. Gaspard scanned what few open spaces he could see. The palace courtyard was clearly visible from this vantage.

    There, standing at the doors to the palace, was a beast with which Gaspard was all too familiar. A guard, of sorts, the one who had unleashed the hound upon Gaspard. Still clinging to some semblance of its former life, it patrolled the palace grounds and stood watch at the door. It was a grotesque beast, still wearing the armor it had worn in its former life, though it¡¯s bulging flesh now burst from seams in the metal. Red, distended veins were visible at every joint. Gaspard could only imagine what horrifically twisted face he might see if he lifted the visor of the guards helmet. If it could be lifted. Flesh and armor seemed as one now, a horrific fusion of man and metal forged under the Mad Moon¡¯s light.

    The telescope collapsed in on itself easily, and Gaspard put it away. He did not wish to linger long on the guard. Of all the beasts he¡¯d fought, the ones that retained a shadow of thought disturbed him the most. The horror had lingered in the back of his mind ever since his encounter with the suicide, and it had been refreshed by the painter. She had been able to form words. Crazed words driven by mad obsession, but words nonetheless.

    Gaspard wondered how much of the guard truly remained. It had enough of its mind left to patrol the grounds, yes, but was it repeating old habits? Or was there something in it that remembered loyalty, remembered what it had once been charged to protect?

    The guard had once sworn to protect the king. The king who was one of the co-conspirators in the great lie. Gaspard gripped his sword. He wondered if there was enough left of the guard that it might understand the king had betrayed it -betrayed everyone he ruled.

    The thought of having a conversation with such a monstrosity faded from his mind quickly. At best, the idea would torment it -and Gaspard had no desire to add to the indignities that any of these creatures suffered. They were twisted, foul things now, mockeries of the persons they had once been. Gaspard was doing them a favor by killing them all.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    With nothing more to see from this vantage, Gaspard moved on. He would locate another tower, a new angle on the city¡¯s interior, and find new avenues to approach the palace. He had already seen several holes in the guards patrol. It would be easy enough to slip past that lone creature. He simply had to ensure there weren¡¯t other surprises waiting in store. After being ambushed by the fused corpses under the burnt district, Gaspard would take nothing for granted.

    A home with a particularly high balcony beckoned. Gaspard carefully pushed aside a pile of rotted corpses that had piled against the door. Their attempts to batter it open had left the door weakened, and he was able to force his way in with relative ease. He benefited from a great deal more finesse than the average moon-crazed monster possessed. He stepped in over the broken skulls of the dead and was unpleasantly surprised to find that he had not left the smell of rotting meat behind when he had stepped inside. The closer he got to the balcony, the worse the smell became. On the highest floor, he could easily tell the source of the rot was coming from behind a nearby set of closed doors.

    Against his better judgment, Gaspard pushed at the door. It gave way under the slightest touch. He looked in, and took heart that it wasn¡¯t the worst case scenario. There was no monster lurking in the eves, feasting on rotting flesh. Just a few corpses, being feasted on by nothing but the flies. It sickened Gaspard that his standard for ¡°pleasant surprise¡± had shifted in such a way. Gaspard stepped into the room for a closer look.

    There were three corpses -two larger, and one much, much smaller. The two larger bodies were virtually indistinguishable now. The smaller was clearly a child. Gaspard bit his tongue. In their state of decay, he could not tell if these two large bodies had been embracing the smaller one, or perhaps savaging it in their final moments. The nature of the Mad Moon meant both were equally likely.

    Gaspard exited the room and slammed the doors shut behind him. Better to leave the dead where they lie. He headed for the balcony and drew his spyglass again. It took some adjusting, as always, as this spyglass had been designed for astrology, but Gaspard managed to get a clear enough view of the city center.

    The main thoroughfare leading the palace seemed surprisingly clear. There were mounds of corpses lining the left side of the street, but those were simply remnants of the Lunar Festival. Gaspard kept watch for some time but saw no abominations prowling the streets, no strange figures lurking in the shadows. The road was clear.

    Too clear. Something was wrong.

    Gaspard found a seat and watched. Long enough that his arm, and his eye, grew sore, and Gaspard had to switch the spyglass to his other side, gingerly holding the telescope in his wounded arm. His persistence paid off in the end.

    The corpses being aligned only on the left side of the road had seemed too neat for good reason. There were no corpses at all. As one, the rotting limbs suddenly found movement, groping out with gangrenous extremities to find the ground and push against it. On a hundred limbs, a serpent of rot found its footing and shambled forward, moving along the street.

    Gaspard folded his spyglass and moved on. Such a creature was a problem for another time. He left the three bodies he had found where they lay, as he left all such corpses. The dignity of the dead nagged at the back of his mind, but it was an instinct easily suppressed. In a time of such monstrosities, to be a simple corpse had a dignity all its own.

 Chapter 15

    There are few blessings in the coming of the Mad Moon, but we must take comfort in the proof of man¡¯s charitable spirit, and the forfeit of material wealth. At the end, let us all abandon our lust for wealth.

    -Father Michael

    Gaspard stood across the street and stared up at the familiar facade. The bank where he had once worked still stood, near identical to how it had been when Gaspard had last left it. He could still recall his final shift. He had done his hours, wishing all the while to return home, and signed off with his employer with a promise to see him tomorrow. They had never met again. That very evening, word had begun to spread of the Mad Moon¡¯s coming. After that, Gaspard had been unable to bring himself to work counting other people¡¯s money.

    After assuring the road was clear of beasts, Gaspard began to cross. The streets were empty here, bearing little marking of the Lunar Festival that had consumed the residential districts. Gaspard had not been alone in his instinct to abandon labor. The business districts of the city sat cold and abandoned. What use was there for coin counters and textile makers in the face of the apocalypse? Material goods would never save anyone from the Mad Moon.

    A wisdom apparently lost on some residents of the city. Gaspard stepped into the lobby of the bank and found it all but torn asunder, with every table upturned, every drawer emptied, and almost every vault opened. Gaspard scoffed at the very idea. He was here to take something as well, yes, but he sought to find something no looter would ever think to take: information.

    The many names on Gaspard¡¯s list all had one thing in common; they were all wealthy, prominent citizens, and as such they had all secured their coin in the city¡¯s most prestigious banking institution: the one in which Gaspard now stood. With a smile of satisfaction, Gaspard did something he had always wanted to do, and kicked down the door to the owner¡¯s office. The door gave way easily. It was empty, and untouched. The only things to be found here were records and documents, and as paper did not glitter, no looters had come tearing through this room.

    A single finger peeled away a layer of dust as Gaspard traced the spines of several notebooks. After finding the most recent records, Gaspard pulled the book from the shelf, took a seat at his employer¡¯s empty desk, and perused the contents. He found the documents for the painter first. It was useless now, but for the fact that it confirmed he was looking in the right place. He similarly found and skimmed past the documents for the host, the preacher, and the astrologer. The king¡¯s place of residence was obvious, leaving only the merchant and the philosopher to be located.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    As he scoured the contents of the book, Gaspard did feel some bitterness rising in his chest. The sums being transferred and secured in this book were astronomical. On a single page Gaspard could find record of more coin than Gaspard had ever claimed in his life. He took their rampant greed as simply another sin that they might be judged for and moved on. Beyond the sins of the past, there was a stench in the air that turned Gaspard¡¯s stomach and made him not wish to dwell in this place. He had gotten used to the smell of rot at this point, but there was some new acrid cut to this stench.

    Having found what he wanted, Gaspard made his way out of the offices, past the barren vaults. He could not help but notice that the stench grew in strength as he walked down the row of metal vaults. It grew stronger, hanging thick in the air as Gaspard grew closer and closer to one vault that remained sealed.

    Morbid curiosity overcame common sense. Gaspard turned on his heels and went back to the managers office, to retrieve a ring of vault keys from its hiding place. He held the keys with his injured arm, and kept his healthy hand on his sword. Just in case.

    With a quick turn and a pull at the metal door, Gaspard opened the sealed vault. The wafting stench of human filth and rot nearly caused him to vomit. As no misshapen beast lunged out to tear him limb from limb, Gaspard took a moment to step away from the vault and gag. After allowing his lungs, and the air, to clear, Gaspard returned to the vault to view it¡¯s contents, making sure to leave the cault door open lest it seal behind him.

    Most of the bank¡¯s wealth had found its way into this single vault. Stacks of coins of every denomination towered high to the ceiling, some having collapsed under their own weight into cascading piles of coin. Disorganized piles of jewelry and precious gemstones crowded the edges, forming a glittering barrier around the stacks of gold. Sitting atop it all, enthroned upon the wealth of a hundred kings, was a single emaciated corpse.

    Gaspard stared at the decaying body. It was fresher than most of the corpses he¡¯d seen, yet somehow in far worse condition. The paperlike skin was drawn thin over taut muscles, and the eyes and gut were sunken. This one had not died as a result of the Mad Moon. He had died days, possibly weeks later, slowly starving to death in a vault that could not be opened from the inside. Gaspard did not waste time feeling any pity for the fool.

    All the hoarded wealth in the world could not buy an ounce of common sense. The world had no need of a man too foolish to realize he could not eat gold. Gaspard moved on, leaving behind yet another corpse. The corpse of a fool this time, but the worms would not know the difference.

 Chapter 16

    While the moon is oft visible during the day, the celestial confluence of the Mad Moon only ever occurs during the night. Perhaps such vile influence can only take root in the dark.

    -Nico Voticel, in his essay "Historical Cycles of the Mad Moon"

    The beast was out of sight for now, but Gaspard could still hears it¡¯s jagged fingers clawing against the stone. Days spent dragging the creature¡¯s corpulent mass had worn it¡¯s fingers down to the bone, but still it crawled. Every grasping motion filled the air with the harsh, grating sound of bone against rock.

    It baffled Gaspard that such a bloated, awkward creature could move so fast. He looked over his shoulder and saw the wall of flesh still pulling itself closer to him. A mouth large enough to swallow a man whole bared jagged teeth as the pursuing mass of flesh barreled towards him. Gaspard turned his eyes to the halls ahead. He had sought to avoid the massive creature by diving into the tight hallways of a nearby manor, but it pursued him still. The pursuer somehow had little difficulty squeezing its massive frame into even the smallest spaces.

    The halls ahead split two ways. Gaspard went with a gut instinct and dashed to the right. He only made it a few frantic strides before realizing he¡¯d made the wrong choice. The only path forward led down into a basement -an unlikely place to find an exit. Gaspard looked back, and found that the pursuer was already choking the width of the hall behind him. Gaspard continued forward, forced to hope that he could find some cellar door -or at least a more defensible position.

    What little light filtered in through the windows of the manor faded as Gaspard descended into the cellar below. He had no time to light his lantern, and so he carried on in the darkness. He kept one hand on the right wall to guide him forward. The dull scrape of fingertip against stone still chased at his back, pushing him forward through the darkness.

    After a few minutes proceeding through blackened halls, the wall slipped away from Gaspard¡¯s hand. He groped in darkness and found it again, further back this time. A carved alcove in the otherwise smooth wall. He groped for purchase, and as his frantic hands sought a solid wall to guide them again, Gaspard felt out a shape in the darkness. Something long, smooth, and carved of heavy stone. A sarcophagus. Gaspard had wandered his way into a tomb. He did not have time to appreciate the irony in this.

    With nowhere left to run, Gaspard¡¯s primal instincts compelled him to hide. He chose the nearest possible hiding place. Insane as it seemed, even at the time, Gaspard pried open the lid to the sarcophagus and threw himself inside. The ancient skeleton within nearly crumbled to dust as Gaspard pushed it aside. His dead bedfellow raised no protest as Gaspard pushed the lid closed from within. He took the precaution of leaving a slight gap in the lid to allow himself a supply of (relatively) fresh air. He had no desire to choke on corpse dust as he hid.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

    As Gaspard pushed the lid into place, he could hear the bony scrape of the pursuer¡¯s skeletal fingers matching the stone scrape of the tombs lid. Gaspard froze in place. Every muscle tensed, fearful of the slightest motion that might rattle the skeletal remains Gaspard shared the sarcophagus with. While Gaspard remained quiet as the grave, the pursuer drew closer.

    Though nothing could be seen in the darkness, Gaspard could still feel the pursuer¡¯s presence. The shifting of it¡¯s gargantuan form could be felt even through the solid stone. The massive abomination drew nearer, and Gaspard could feel it¡¯s presence as much as he could hear it¡¯s scraping advance.

    With a final bony pull, the pursuer stopped. Gaspard could feel how close it was -the weight of it, and the ungodly stench of its decaying, corpulent body. The air was filled with the sickly-sweet scent of fresh rot, to match the dry, dusty aroma of ancient death.

    Gaspard took a long, slow breath. He heard the pursuer shift, and the breath froze in Gaspard¡¯s lungs. The pursuer started to grope at the walls of the long hallway. Skeletal fingers dragged against the lid of the sarcophagus, filling the small space with the quiet, grating sound of bone against rock. Gaspard tried to time his breathing with the groping motions, to better mask the sounds of life amid the quiet chill of death. What he could not quiet was the pounding heartbeat in his chest, which seemed to be as loud as thunder now.

    The groping motions of the pursuer came to a halt, and Gaspard was left with nothing but the sound of his own breathing, and the staccato cannon fire of his heartbeat. One misshapen hand still rested on the sarcophagus lid, weighing down heavier than the stone of the lid itself. Gaspard could feel the pressure of that single bony hand as clearly as if it rested on his own chest. Time passed slowly in the darkness, all the slower for Gaspard¡¯s singular focus on the oppressive hand resting above him.

    After a lifetime in the darkness, the weight of the pursuer shifted. The hand scraped away from the sarcophagus lid, and the harsh grating of the pursuer¡¯s motion again filled the cramped tomb. The sound of its advance rang out again and again, fading further into the distance each time, until it finally vanished entirely, and the silence of the grave settled in once more.

    Even as the deathly silence reigned, Gaspard dared not exit his hiding place. He could only see himself stepping out into the darkness, lighting his lantern, and coming face to twisted face with the pursuer lurking just around the corner. Gaspard allowed himself to relax his breathing, though he still held every lungful of dusty air in his chest for a moment, listening intently for any sign of the pursuer in the silence between breaths.

    Gaspard had no way of knowing how much time had passed in the dark. He started to count the seconds between breaths, and almost regained his sense of time. His count was lost when a dull thud reverberated in the dark. Something knocked loose by the pursuers passage falling to the ground, most likely, but Gaspard could not shake the thought of the pursuer still remaining there, just around the corner, with one of it¡¯s grasping limbs thumping idly to the ground.

    Perhaps for minutes, perhaps for hours, Gaspard lingered. He lingered until his bones began to ache from stillness and the miasma of corpse dust began to choke his lungs. When he could bear the stagnant air of death no longer, Gaspard lifted the sarcophagus lid and looked into the darkness.

    To his relief, only the darkness stared back. In such circumstances, dark was the best he could hope for.

 Chapter 17

    Purify the heart and soul, children. Leave no corruption for the Moonlight to take hold of, and you shall survive where the impure fall.

    -Mother Superior Violette, in a sermon to her followers

    The sound of singing distressed Gaspard as much as any bestial howling or bloody gurgling. A man, from the sound of it, was currently bellowing a religious hymn at the top of his lungs. Gaspard crept closer to the source of the singing, though not too close. Every beast within a mile would likewise be drawn to the cacophonous voice, and Gaspard had no desire to be at the heart of that feeding frenzy. He found his way to a nearby rooftop and tried to scout out the source of the song.

    Gaspard had great difficulty tracking the voice, at first. It echoed off every wall and resonated through the streets, a siren call for every abomination in the city. Eventually, Gaspard turned his spyglass towards the city outskirts. The madman¡¯s song was coming from a portion of the city that had caught fire during the festival. Most of the spires still stood, but crumbling masonry and collapsed roofs were visible even from a great distance. Gaspard ran a hand through the coarse hairs of his beard and wondered what madness would drive someone to sing a church hymn in such circumstances.

    As the sound of lurching footsteps sounded from the street below Gaspard, he chose to lie low for a moment. As the footsteps faded, Gaspard peeked over the edge of the roof and caught a glimpse of a massive creature hobbling its way towards the singing. One of many monstrosities headed that way, without a doubt.

    As the song continued, and the procession of monsters followed it, Gaspard contemplated how best to make use of this odd distraction. For the time being, the streets would be clear of monstrosities. Gaspard was not yet fighting fit, but he might find himself an advantageous position to hunker down and finish his recovery while gathering more information on his enemies. As he contemplated his course, the singing stopped. For a moment, there was silence.

    Then there was a thunder so loud it shook the earth below, sending tremors through the building Gaspard stood on. He nearly toppled over the edge, and fell to his knees for safety, clutching the tiles of the rooftop even as they came loose under his hands.

    The thunderous tremor passed as quickly as it had come, and when he found stability again, Gaspard looked back to the burnt spires. They were no longer there, and a cloud of dust was rising in their place.

    After finding his way back to solid ground, Gaspard found his way towards towards the dust cloud. By the time he reached it, most of the obfuscating dust had settled, but a low haze still hung in the air. Gaspard appraised a pile of rubble, and the bloody limb which dangled limply from it.

    As the pile of shattered masonry still settled, some noise was inevitable, but Gaspard still recognized the telltale gurgle of misshapen abomination when he heard one. He put a hand to his sword and crept closer to the sound, until he could barely make out the shadowed shape of a monstrosity¡¯s disfigured head, poking out from beneath the rubble. It struggled in vain to free itself, letting out low, pitiful groans as it did so. Gaspard drew his sword.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    Before the blade had even left its scabbard, a dull crack rang out, followed by the sickening gush of a crushed brain and burst blood vessels. A heavy mace fell upon the head of the abomination in a hammer blow, crushing it like a grape beneath the weight of solid steel. The mace drew back, extricated from the skull with a stomach-turning sucking sound, and swung back to its resting place on the shoulder of its wielder.

    A cold breeze blew through, and cleared enough of the dust for Gaspard to get a look at the killer. They wore the heavy plate armor of a crusader, and a tabard marked with the emblem of the sun. They shouldered their over-sized mace and appraised Gaspard from behind the metal wall of their helmet. After a tense silence between the two, the crusader let their weapon drop to the ground, leaning on it like a cane. Gaspard likewise lowered his drawn sword.

    ¡°It is good to see another man of purity,¡± the crusader said, as he saluted Gaspard. His voice echoed within his helmet, giving his voice an odd, tinny quality. Gaspard looked at his tabard, then back up at the helmet.

    ¡°One of the sun cult, I presume?¡± Gaspard said. ¡°I should tell you I do not share your faith.¡±

    ¡°Faith is not purity, my friend,¡± the crusader said. ¡°Were it so, many of my fellow worshipers would yet live. But they are gone, and we remain, because the light within us burns bright enough to cast aside the Moon¡¯s darkness.¡±

    Gaspard looked down at the crushed skull of the abomination at the crusader¡¯s feet. While the crusader¡¯s helm and hands were clean, his boots were coated to the knee with grime and blood.

    ¡°Were many of your church lost?¡±

    ¡°Of all the gathered, only I remain,¡± the crusader boasted. ¡°It is a shame more could not echo my purity, but virtue flows from one¡¯s own heart alone.¡±

    He pressed his gauntlet to his chest in what Gaspard assumed was a religious gesture. He had never understood the cult, nor any of their followers. In so far as he could tell, they were made up of those too fearful to let go their inhibition and partake in the Lunar Festival, preferring to cling to some sort of faith that might save them. The cult had arisen in a matter of mere weeks, with no consistent message and few figures of authority. Gaspard could not imagine their threadbare faith surviving such horror as the Mad Moon, much less to motivate a man to use himself as bait and then collapse part of a city in a trap for beasts. It seemed a plan equally as likely to kill the crusader as any beasts.

    A thought occurred to Gaspard.

    ¡°If you will indulge me for a moment, sir, but it has been too long since I looked another good man in the eye,¡± Gaspard said. ¡°Could I trouble you to remove your helmet?¡±

    With a nod, the crusader obliged, pulling away the layer of steel that hid his face. He was a rugged man, perhaps some kind of fighter or laborer in his life before the Moon, with a broad chin. On his face was a wide, bright smile -a smile that seemed to be held in place with pins. There was no sincerity in his smile, only a quiet desperation. It was the madcap grin of a man who had to smile, because all else he could do was weep. Gaspard nodded in return.

    ¡°My thanks, and my apologies for the trouble, however brief,¡± Gaspard said. ¡°I shall leave you to your work, as I attend to mine.¡±

    The crusader replaced his helmet, masking his forced smile once again. Gaspard wondered if the smile lingered once it was out of sight. He tried not to ponder it and took a few steps away.

    ¡°Light go with you,¡± the crusader said. Gaspard paused both his pace and his thoughts for a moment.

    ¡°And with you,¡± Gaspard said.

 Chapter 18

    The Mad Moon leaves many species on the brink of extinction, their population reduced to just a few individuals. This is of little concern to many scavenging insects, whose numbers swell by feasting on the flesh of the dead.

    -Richard Deguerre, naturalist

    The insufferable sound of buzzing filled the air. Gaspard kept a hand ready to swat any insects who mistook him for a meal and proceeded down the corpse-lined streets.

    Between his brief time spent unconscious and spending an unknown amount of time lurking in the dark, Gaspard had lost all sense of how many days had passed since the Mad Moon. It had apparently been long enough for the insects to start breeding. Clouds of swarming flies filled the air as they swarmed around the long rotted bodies of former festival-goers, feasting on rancid flesh.

    Gaspard drew his sword to strike down a beast -in this case, a large beetle that flew towards him. The massive insect bounced off the flat of his blade and fell to the street with a chitinous thud. It right itself indignantly and scuttled off to find an easier meal. In a matter of days the insects had completely forgotten their fear of man. Their audacity almost inspired Gaspard. They fearlessly dove into battle against a creature dozens of times larger than themselves. The fact that the beetle had been effortlessly swatted aside proved that valor counted little in the face of overwhelming force, however.

    A mosquito buzzed past Gaspard¡¯s ear, and he deftly swatted it aside. The streets held no shortage of blood, so he did not feel inclined to spare any for such a small beast. He restrained the strength of his swat, at the very least. The insects would be instrumental in making this city clean again one day. They would drink the foul blood and devour the rotted flesh, eventually scouring corpses down to the bone. For Gaspard, who had neither the time nor the soap to safely clean the detritus of thousands of dead bodies, the bugs were a necessary evil.

    Gaspard rounded a street corner, and saw ahead of him a great black mass in the distance. He saw motion, and ducked behind a nearby wall, out of sight. He peered out from his hiding place and observed as best he could from a distance. His fear was brief, and Gaspard stepped out after realizing that the mass itself was not moving, rather the layer of insects that covered it swarmed with the illusion of motion. At a slow pace, Gaspard moved towards the intersection where the great hulk rested.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    Of the many monstrosities Gaspard had seen, most had some form of exposed flesh or open wounds, and it seemed that the inevitable rot had finally set in. The colossal hulk of a once-fearsome abomination laid in the center of the square, it¡¯s long body curled around a fountain of fetid water. Insects crawled across skin that sloughed off it¡¯s massive body, while worms and maggots dug their way through decaying muscle. So thick was the shell of scavengers that at times it even seemed alive, as the layer of crawling insects produced motion where there was none. Gaspard appraised the feast of rot and shook his head.

    ¡°I do not envy you, nor the person you once were,¡± Gaspard said.

    With a lurch, the great hulk shifted. A great mass of flying insects burst from its hide as the swarm fled in fear, exposing the gnawed-upon flesh beneath. Gaspard took a sharp step back as well, hand to his sword. The apparently still-living creature lurched forward again, and the exposed muscles near its jaw flexed. No fearsome roar emerged from the maw of this creature, merely a choked gurgle and an explosion of bile flowing from between its teeth.

    Gaspard¡¯s brief, terrified retreat came to an end as the creature failed to move any further. It shifted again, and Gaspard could see severed tendons and devoured muscles struggle to move the beast¡¯s broad limbs. Smaller muscles shifted in its face, trying to move and focus eyes that had long since been feasted upon.

    Where there had been fear, now Gaspard¡¯s heart held only disgust. These monsters were sickening enough to begin with, and being gnawed on by scavengers did them no favors. Gaspard could see the stomach physically shifting through a gap in the creature¡¯s ribs as it struggled to vocalize again. Once more, no sound came forth, just a weak trickle of black bile from its limp jaws.

    As it struggled, Gaspard got the impression that it was trying to move towards him. He wondered if it acted on some remnant of predatory instinct, or if, like the suicidal monstrosity so many days ago, this beast felt that Gaspard was its way out. A chance to escape the indignity of its new, cursed existence.

    In either case, Gaspard¡¯s course was clear. He drew his sword and stepped forward, staining his boots with the thick black bile that still pooled around the creature¡¯s head. Another trickle of the foul vomit seeped forth, this time bearing a foul gurgle along with it. Gaspard tried his hardest not to hear it as a cry for help.

    With surprising ease, Gaspard¡¯s blade slipped through the creature¡¯s forehead and stabbed into it¡¯s brain. With a final lurch of relief, the creature¡¯s exposed muscles finally went limp. The trickle of bile quieted as a final sigh escaped the collapsing lungs of the dead hulk. Gaspard stepped away.

    No sooner had he done so than the insects returned, digging their mandibles into the flesh once again. Gaspard turned and moved away. He did not wish to linger near this macabre feast.

 Chapter 19

    ¡°Everyone¡¯s out drinking and whoring, but I¡¯ve done enough of that for ten men in my time. What my life really lacked was warm beds and long nights spent in them.¡±

    -an unnamed sailor lamenting his fate, three days before the Mad Moon

    Gaspard took the distant rumblings for the roars of a far-off beast at first. It took him far longer than he would ever admit to remember what thunder sounded like.

    The grey clouds that stood above the setting sun heralded a coming storm. From the sound of it, a large one. Gaspard had always relished a good thunderstorm -from behind a window. He resolved to find shelter and enjoy the storm in peace.

    The storm front nipped at his heels as Gaspard headed for a residential district to find his latest shelter. After disqualifying a few promising candidates due to the presence of rotting corpses, Gaspard settled on a large home with a spacious interior and a large window with which to view the storm. He settled into a sturdy wooden chair in front of the window and waited, treating himself to a meal of preserved fruits as he waited.

    The pitter patter of the rain against the window came first, as always, followed by growing darkness as the thick storm clouds and the coming night overtook the sun. Gaspard found an intact candle and lit it, placing it by the table as he waited for the storm to peak. To his great regret, this household had no books to read.

    As the storm, and Gaspard, settled in, he felt some semblance of peace. The circumstances were hardly ideal -the absence of a book and a warm cup of coffee proved that- but there was a comforting familiarity in a night spent by the light of a candle, waiting for the storm to roll past. Gaspard closed his eyes, and listened to the drumming of the rain against the glass.

    As the rain poured down, the tinny tapping of droplets against glass was joined by the dull thud of something larger slamming against the glass. Gaspard opened his eyes and looked out the window. Something was cast in a black silhouette by the candlelight. Gaspard put one hand on the candle holder and the other on his sword.

    Lightning flashed, and the brief moment of illumination did nothing to brighten the black silhouette, though Gaspard did catch sight of something else in the window out of the corner of his eye. He turned his full attention to the phantom, but it was as fleeting as the lightning, gone by the time he turned his head. He looked back at the corner with the black silhouette, and found it too had vanished.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    As the thunder rolled, Gaspard extinguished his candle. The light was comforting, but it also attracted unwelcome attention. Another burst of thunder roared, and Gaspard would swear he heard phantom footsteps shuffling just outside his shelter. He set the doused candle aside and kept a tight grip on his sword. He had been a fool to think he could relax and enjoy the old comfort of a storm. In the wake of the Mad Moon, even nostalgia could be corrupted.

    Another flash of lightning came, and Gaspard saw another black silhouette in the street outside. It had the same shape as a man, but with long, stretched limbs, standing at unnatural height. He grit his teeth and drew his sword. Perhaps the creature would be content to stay in the street, or perhaps it would come crashing through the window, driven by the scent of living flesh to consume. Gaspard could not claim to know the mind of the abominations that lurked the street, but he had a feeling he knew which it would be.

    The thunder boomed, and Gaspard stood still. He waited for another flash of lightning, listening to the rain come down, and finding no peace in it. Another flash came. Gaspard drew his sword and saw the shadowed figure move, reacting in turn.

    Gaspard¡¯s eyes narrowed. Curious, he extended his arm and waited for the next flash of lightning to come. It was a short wait, and Gaspard saw the silhouetted figure, standing, arm extended, in the same pose as he.

    With a sigh, Gaspard looked over his shoulder. There was a second, smaller window behind him. The illumination of the rear window had cast a shadow towards the larger window, creating the phantom that Gaspard had feared. He replaced his sword and indulged himself in a quiet chuckle. With that matter settled, Gaspard sheathed his sword and decided he had enough of storm watching for one night.

    Even as he chuckled, the initial reason for Gaspard¡¯s fear had slipped from his mind. Something had pressed its hand against the window. Something which now made its presence known.

    A humanoid figure, still wearing the tatters of of a jesters festival garb, dove through the window. Gaspard struggled to take hold of his sword and draw it as the jester lunged towards him. He just managed to pull the blade free as the jester held out clawed hands in a diving leap and tackled Gaspard to the ground. The jester roared for a minute, splitting open it¡¯s rotted skull to reveal massive jaws formed from either half of what had once been a human head. Gaspard roared back, managing to leverage his sword and drive it down the jester¡¯s open throat.

    Gaspard reached up with a sleeve to wipe some of the jester¡¯s blood from his face before throwing the creature¡¯s body aside. He cursed under his breath and spat at the limp body before retreating to a bedroom and barricading the doors. So much for allowing himself a moment to relax. Gaspard resolved to continue jumping at shadows, lest the shadows jump at him.

 Chapter 20

    The advent of so called ¡°scientists¡± has created a community which reasons to themselves that the Mad Moon can be studied and solved like an equation. I reason they¡¯re as mad as any who have stared into the crimson Moon.

    -David of Hellefonte, cynic philosopher

    Gaspard awoke after a night of fitful sleep. He unmade the barricade around the bedroom door and stepped back into the sitting room. The jesters corpse was still where he had left it, so he took comfort in that at the very least. Gaspard scoured the house for anything salvageable, and, when his search turned up nothing more than a few intact jarred foods, went on his way.

    The storm had faded during the night, leaving behind a bright sky above and a shockingly clean city below. During the festival, and in the many monstrosity-filled days afterwards, a layer of filth had accumulated on every imaginable surface. The city had likewise accumulated a miasma of rot and decay, an ever-present stench that hung like a fog throughout the city. Thanks to the rain, both the filth and the accompanying stench had briefly abated.

    Gaspard stepped onto a street that, for the first time in many days, was finally clear of blood, and took a breath of air that smelled only mildly of rot. It was refreshing, though after the events of last night, Gaspard allowed himself no comfort in this. Though the rain had washed away much of the external filth, the city would not be truly clean for a long time. The worm-ridden corpses that still lined the streets were proof enough of that. Trails of rusty blood on the cobblestones marked where the rain had tried and failed to wash away the stain of death.

    Wading through deep, rust-colored puddles as he went, Gaspard proceeded on his way back towards the city center. His wounded shoulder had recovered as much as it was going to. It was time to get back to work.

    From a distance, he could see the remnants of the festival now lying bare in the sun. Days of being bleached by the sun, and now being washed out by the rain, had drained the color from the once vibrant festival banners. The remnants of the Lunar Carnival were now as worn and ragged as the city they were meant to decorate. Gaspard appreciated the synchronicity, at least. The festive colors were often at odds with the horrors that lurked below them.

    Gaspard cracked his knuckles and splashed through a puddle of blood and water. He stopped midway through and listened. Splashing made too much noise, and made it too easy for something to leap from the shadows. Gaspard¡¯s instincts served him well, and in the silence, he heard the sound of clattering porcelain from behind him.

    Gaspard found his way to dry ground, in a patch of street mostly bare of puddles. Slick water could cost him his footing in a fight, and he could not afford such a fall. He was lucky to have kept a sword arm free when pinned by the jester last night. He could not rely on luck twice.

    With his sword clutched tightly in both hands, Gaspard stomped a foot on the ground. The sound acted as a beacon to the lurking monster, drawing it into the open. The lumbering creature was adorned with a dozen festival masks, hanging from it¡¯s shoulders by rows of fabric. In another display of the Mad Moon¡¯s macabre artistic sense, there seemed to be a unique face lurking behind each mask. Every face grew from it¡¯s chest like a tumor, though in some cruel twist of irony, the features on the creature¡¯s actual head was grown over with flesh, leaving it blank and faceless. Gaspard could see eyes appraising him from behind every porcelain visage, and see jaws flexing hungrily.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    For someone who¡¯s combat strategy amounted to ¡°aim for the head¡±, a creature with a dozen faces presented a challenging prospect. Gaspard tightened his grip on his sword.

    The masked creature shambled Gaspard¡¯s way, dozens of eyes locked on him. Gaspard kept his eyes locked on the creature in turn. It came close, and Gaspard aimed for the closest face. The porcelain mask shattered in two under the tip of his blade, sending the two halves falling to the floor. Before his blade split it open, Gaspard got a glimpse of an inhuman face; wide jawed, with teeth like needles, and two eyes with lids that closed vertically rather than horizontally. Gaspard sneered in disgust and dug his blade in a little deeper. The grotesque face warped in pain and let out a shrieking cry that was mimicked by its dozen brothers. Gaspard answered their cries with a blow from his sword, one for each of the myriad faces. One by one the twisted visages were sliced open, their monstrous gazes covered by a wash of red blood.

    The beast of many faces fell to the ground dead. Gaspard took a moment to breathe and drag a damp festival banner across his blade to clean off the tainted blood. As he did so, he heard the sound of rhytmic tapping behind him. Gaspard sighed and readied his blade once again.

    To his surprise, the source of the tapping was not the claws of some sneaking beast, but the cane of a heavily-robed human -or humanoid figure, at least. The thick fabrics obscured their body, and a plague mask with a curved beak-like protrusion obscured the face. The tapping of the cane continued to ring out as the plague doctor approached Gaspard and the corpse of the many-faced beast.

    ¡°My apologies if I alarm, sir,¡± the plague doctor¡¯s muffled voice said. Their voice was muffled and barely audible through the thick fabric, explaining their odd approach. Any further away and Gaspard would¡¯ve been completely unable to hear them. ¡°I wish to inquire about the corpse of the specimen you have so expertly slain.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a corpse, nothing more,¡± Gaspard said stiffly.

    ¡°Ah, then you will not mind if I collect samples?¡±

    Gaspard stared at the doctor. He could see no trace of their face behind the thick glass lenses.

    ¡°It¡¯s a corpse, it¡¯s not mine to claim. Do what you will,¡± Gaspard said. He sheathed his sword as the plague doctor drew a set of scalpels and other implements from the depths of their black robes.

    ¡°Excellent. Would you by any chance be interested in a joint observation of the specimen? I grow concerned that I may yet meet my end at the hands of a living specimen, and I do not wish the whole of my research to be lost.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m no man of science,¡± Gaspard said. ¡°I see nothing to be gained from this.¡±

    ¡°Perhaps there is nothing,¡± the doctor admitted. ¡°But an effort must be made. If ever we are to build a preventative to the Mad Moon¡¯s effects, those effects must be researched. To that end-¡±

    The doctor leaned down and made an incision on the stomach of the many-faced beast. Unlike Gaspard¡¯s crude slashes, this was a quick, expert stroke. The bowels of the creature soon opened for all to see, filling the air with a stomach turning stench. Gaspard faced away from the creature as the doctor began to remove and examine its innards.

    ¡°Your work is admirable, but you will pardon me if I admire it from a distance,¡± Gaspard said. The doctor gave a slight hum of acknowledgment before engrossing themselves in the work of dissection. Gaspard took his opportunity to leave. He though the doctor mad for even attempting to unravel the secrets of the Mad Moon. But then, what did they have to lose.

    ¡°If it interests you, doctor, there is a second specimen in a nearby house,¡± Gaspard said, indicating the home containing the jester¡¯s corpse. ¡°Though decay may have set in overnight.¡±

    ¡°There is something to be learned from everything, even rot,¡± the doctor said. ¡°My thanks.¡±

    The doctor gave a grateful bow, which Gaspard acknowledged with a nod before moving on.

 Chapter 21

    We die quickly yet gloriously

    or live long and victoriously

    -Lyric from a military marching song

    The sound of a creaking wheel from inside the building had caught Gaspard¡¯s attention first. The sudden silence afterwards was more suspicious by far. Gaspard drew his sword and stood in place, waiting for any sign of a beast. When none came, Gaspard bit his lip and held his ground regardless. He kept an eye on the direction the first sound had come from. Eventually, a curtain in a nearby waved slightly, as if someone was peeking out from within. Gaspard nodded, sheathed his sword, and proceeded to the door.

    ¡°My apologies if I¡¯ve alarmed you,¡± Gaspard said. He kept his voice low so as not to attract any undue attention. ¡°I¡¯ll be on my way. Do try to be more mindful of your noise in the future.¡±

    He turned his back on the door and headed on his way. He made it a few steps before a voice called out from the window.

    ¡°I need help,¡± a gruff voice said. Gaspard turned on his heel and headed back. The curtains had been drawn back, exposing a tired-looking, heavily scarred man sitting in front of the window. He beckoned to Gaspard and nodded towards the door. Gaspard let himself in.

    ¡°How may I-¡±

    Gaspard rounded the corner into the sitting room and began to grasp the problem. The man sat in a worn-down wheelchair, settling into it with a sagging posture. He wore a military uniform, with holes in the lapel were several medals had once been pinned. Abandoned marks of long service, perhaps, but there were some marks of service he could not abandon -both of his legs had been severed above the knee. His trouser legs were cut short and pinned together to hide the scars, so Gaspard could not guess if they had been lost to injury or amputation, but the result was the same. The veteran nodded to Gaspard and then gestured to a shelf in his home.

    ¡°I am as concerned about the noise as you, but as you can see, my solution is out of reach,¡± the veteran noted. Gaspard nodded and reached up to take a canister of oil from the top of the shelf. He then knelt by the side of the veteran¡¯s wheelchair and began applying it to both wheels.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

    ¡°Thank you,¡± the veteran said. There was an edge of wounded pride to his voice, but he was vastly more concerned with staying alive than being self-sufficient.

    ¡°It¡¯s the least I can do,¡± Gaspard said. ¡°I do not envy your circumstances.¡±

    The veteran looked down at his severed legs with a frown.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know whether to count myself lucky or not,¡± he admitted.

    ¡°I often wonder the same thing about myself,¡± Gaspard said. He finished oiling the wheelchair and sat the container of oil on a lower shelf, where the veteran could easily reach it in the future. ¡°I find myself admiring your tenacity, at the very least. I don¡¯t imagine I could¡¯ve survived under your circumstances.¡±

    ¡°Neither could I,¡± the veteran admitted. ¡°The only reason I haven¡¯t starved to death is a woman who brings me food.¡±

    Gaspard stopped for a second and wondered if this woman the veteran spoke of could be the same red-haired woman who had aided Gaspard and the widow. It seemed an unlikely coincidence in such a large city, but then again, there could be no more than a few dozen survivors. Gaspard¡¯s rumination on coincidences was interrupted by a deep, solemn sigh from the veteran.

    ¡°But we are lucky, both of us, stranger,¡± the veteran said. ¡°I was carted back from the front lines mere days before they announced the Mad Moon¡¯s rise. The journey took weeks -far longer than any messenger could possibly travel with news of the Moon.¡±

    The veteran looked out the window, towards the far-off battlefields. Men had fought and died, spending their last days serving nations that were now little more than mass graves. Gaspard looked out the window as well, gazing blankly into the distance.

    ¡°They never knew,¡± Gaspard said. The veteran nodded.

    ¡°At least we had the chance to drink and eat like mad fools,¡± the veteran sighed. ¡°All those poor bastards out there lived their last days like any other. Fighting a war even more pointless than most.¡±

    Gaspard¡¯s thousand-yard stare focused, his bloodshot eyes coming to rest on the palace that dominated the horizon. He gripped the handle of his sword so tight that the creak of leather drew the veteran¡¯s attention. The look of righteous indignation in Gaspard¡¯s eyes caught him off guard.

    ¡°I must be off,¡± Gaspard said. He did not wait for a response before thundering out the door, back into the gore-stained city streets. With a renewed intent on his mission of punishment, and a renewed hatred for those who would be punished, Gaspard set out.

 Chapter 22

    The charges made against the accused are merely the jealous libel of base men

    A merchant of his caliber would have no need to exploit those under his employ

    -Anri Valpais, arguing before the court

    Of all the estates Gaspard had scoured in this city, the one sprawled out before him now was by far the most lavish. The faded banners hanging from the gilded fences and the bloated, maggot-ridden corpses piled in every corner still did not entirely diminish the palatial grandeur of the merchant¡¯s massive home. With trading contracts in every corner of the world and connections among the nobility, the merchant had easily been the richest man in the city.

    Not a single coin of that hoard of gold had done anything to save him on the night of the Mad Moon. His severed head sat at the center of a shattered dining table, with one rotting arm dangling from a broken chandelier and a single leg sitting partially crushed on the floor. The rest of his body, presumably, made up the thin layer of crimson gore that coated the room and was now flaking off the walls. Gaspard appraised the violent end of the merchant, and was satisfied. He couldn¡¯t have done it better himself.

    As much as Gaspard appreciated the work, he did not wish to linger on it. Judging from the violence inflicted upon the merchant, something very large and very powerful had done the deed. Gaspard doubted the monstrosity would appreciate hearing Gaspard thank it for its handiwork.

    A hypothesis Gaspard might well get a chance to test, if the sudden shambling from a side room was any indication. Gaspard took quick stock of the room. There were three exits from the room, and, true to form, the noise was coming from the one that stood between Gaspard and the other two exits. He moved to the far wall and made for the next closest exit.

    ¡°Liar!¡±

    On queue, a twisting, emaciated form emerged from the other room. Three limbs reached out at once to take hold of the doorframe, and then two more hands braced against the floor to pull the tangle of bodies forward. Seven elongated human bodies, fuse and knotted together at the waist, crawled forward. Their lower extremities fused together, forming a snakelike tail that dragged behind the misshapen hydra as the long limbs of the flailing heads pulled it forward. The horror of the monster¡¯s mutated body was nothing new, but it¡¯s behavior was. This abomination seemed to have no interest in Gaspard. The long, serpentine extremities of the beast wound around the room, coiling across every wall, and blocking every exit, but they never reached for Gaspard.

    ¡°Cheater,¡± the hydra said, its seven voices raised in a discordant chorus. Putrescent limbs reached out to grab the scattered limb and savage it, tearing flesh from bone and clenching it in bony knuckles. Several of the heads dug into the scraps of flesh with broken teeth, while others focused on cracking the bones and extracting the marrow. Gaspard froze, and stared at the sorry sight. The hydra continued to make a feast of the merchant¡¯s long-rotted remains.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    Gaspard eyed the exit. A single arm, ten times longer than it should have been, and with ten times as many joints, was coiled in front of the exit, one bony hand grasping a nearby shelf for stability. It was still low to the ground, low enough that Gaspard could possibly step over it. He slowly edged his way towards the exit, careful to muffle every footstep to avoid attracting the attention of the hydra. He stepped up to the tendril-like limb, watched the taut tendons flex once, and then raised his leg to step over it.

    No sooner had Gaspard raised his foot than the stretched limb shifted beneath him. It swung wide, all ten of its joints bending unnaturally, striking Gaspard in the leg as it swung. He lost his balance and stumbled backwards, trying to catch himself before he fell completely to the ground. He failed, and fell to the ground with a loud clatter of the wooden wreckage beneath him. Where his hands had failed to find purchase to keep him upright, they now struggled for purchase on his sword to keep him alive.

    Gaspard wrapped one hand around the hilt of a sword he never got a chance to draw. A hand with unnaturally long fingers wrapped around his own, and then another monstrous appendage grasped him by the shoulder, then the waist, then the neck. The grip was thankfully not quite tight enough to keep Gaspard from breathing -though the pressure being exerted to keep him restrained told him this fused hydra of flesh was more than capable of crushing his throat if it so chose. Unable to move his sword, Gaspard went for a more desperate move.

    ¡°I came here to kill the merchant,¡± he spat. ¡°I came here to kill the man who cheated you.¡±

    Gaspard directed his panicked eyes towards the remnants of the merchants head. The heads of the hydra twisted in place, some of the bulging eyes examining Gaspard while others turned to face the merchant¡¯s remains. Gaspard did not know if the beast even understood his words, but the fact that it could speak gave him reason to try. It was either that or wait for the abomination to snap his neck like a reed.

    Hanging limp in the Hydra¡¯s grasp, Gaspard had little else to do but plead with what was left of the hydra¡¯s many former lives. Thankfully, he had a feeling that those few scraps of humanity were the scraps Gaspard needed: The rage, the bitterness, the hatred.

    ¡®There¡¯s more like him,¡± Gaspard said. ¡°More liars. More cheaters. I want to kill them too. Make them pay.¡±

    The seven heads of the hydra all turned as one to face Gaspard. He stared right back into their bloodshot eyes and choked out one more word.

    ¡°Revenge,¡± he grunted.

    The myriad misshapen bones of the hydra clicked loudly as it shifted, coiling it¡¯s bulk into a serpentine twist.

    ¡°Revenge,¡± the seven voices said at once.

    The constricting grip on Gaspard released. He had barely hit the ground before he turned and started to run, never daring to look back.

 Chapter 23

    To walk hand in hand across the Moureau-De Challette bridge is to assure a long and fruitful marriage

    -an old wives tale of the city

    Gaspard eyed the great arches of the bridge from a distance, and considered a detour.

    The sprawling expanse of the Moureau-De Challette bridge was his quickest route to his next destination, but that did not make it the best. It was one of the city¡¯s great landmarks, and would therefore have been a popular destination for the festival goers. Though they were now faded, tattered, and turn, Gaspard could see remnants of the Lunar Carnival decorations drifting in the breeze. Such a crowded locale would have been a breeding ground for monstrosities.

    A shame, as Gaspard had once enjoyed the occasional stroll across the famed bridge. Built more than a century ago, its construction entirely funded by two courting scions of wealthy houses who lived on opposite sides of the river, the Moureau-De Challette bridge had been designed to speed the travel of the two lovers, that they might see each other more often. It had become a famed destination for romantics of all sorts, and newly-wedded couples would walk across the bridge, hands clasped tight together, thinking such an act would impart a measure of the devotion that had existed between those two young lovers.

    Gaspard had occasionally indulged himself in such romantic sentiments, idly daydreaming of a day he might walk hand in hand with his beloved. No such dreams drifted to his mind today. Gaspard stepped past a pile of rotting offal and made his way across the bridge.

    True to his expectations, the bridge was littered with decaying festival remnants. Wilted flowers lined the bridges expanse, their crumbling petals blowing across the dried-out faces of paired corpses who clung tightly to one another in death. Even to the very end, the bridge had attracted lovers proclaiming their devotion, facing the end of the world together. A lovely sentiment. Gaspard wondered if the beetles feasting on the flesh of the lovers could taste the devotion.

    To satisfy his own curiosity, Gaspard stepped towards the edge of the bridge, stepping in a narrow gap between the paired corpses, and peered over the side. The water below flowed slow and thick, black with rot and choked with bodies floating in the current. Even the bodies that drifted below seemed to drift in pairs. Gaspard nodded to himself and stepped back.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    He stepped away just in time to see a corpse shift out of place below. Gaspard froze, glanced briefly at a set of blood-stained initials carved into the stone of the bridge, and then cautiously peered over the edge once more.

    The water that flowed below was black as midnight, but within, an even darker shadow shifted. Something below the water¡¯s surface -something massive- drifted through the rot-choked river, its mass shifting the corpses that bobbed on the surface of the water. Gaspard watched the tar-black water lurch as the bulk of the leviathan passed through, and then stepped away from the edge. He backed away until he stood dead-center in the bridge, and drew his sword.

    It was perhaps a result of Gaspard¡¯s carefully overgrown sense of paranoia, but he would swear he could feel the mass of the creature shifting underneath him. Even through the stone, he could feel the weight of the leviathan passing through the water. Gaspard took a deep breath, gripped his sword tightly in both hands, and waited.

    Whatever he was waiting for never came. Gaspard stood alone on the bridge, the lone living figure amid a horde of paired corpses, and stood in anticipation of a threat that never came. When Gaspard dared to move again, he moved slowly, taking careful steps towards the opposite side of the bridge.

    Gaspard took a vigilant glance to the left, and saw, upriver, the shadow of the leviathan passing through the water. As it came closer and closer to vanishing across the horizon, it also drew closer to a cluster of corpses tangled together on the water¡¯s surface. Gaspard bit his tongue.

    The hide that emerged from the water was slick and black, though marred in places by odd, bony growths. Gaspard was not close enough to see in detail the jaws that opened wide, and for that he was grateful. He was left to imagine the rows of teeth that opened wide around the tangled flotilla of corpses, swallowing entire corpses whole, and then disappeared below the water¡¯s surface again. The leviathan¡¯s back, black and rubbery, cut through the water briefly as it descended, and the last thing Gaspard saw of it was a broad, fluked tail.

    Gaspard had heard tales of massive creatures which dwelt in the deep, but to his understanding such massive beasts lurked out at sea, not in rivers. Gaspard did not know whether it was a misshapen version of some whale or undersea beast, or merely an amalgam of humans fused into the image of one, and Gaspard had no desire to know. All he thought, for now, was that he would not be going swimming any time soon.

    Gaspard turned on his heel and continued on his way, crossing the bridge alone.

 Chapter 24

    The mansion¡¯s highest point offered a clear view of the nearby castle, and a vantage point into the windows of the central hall. Gaspard found a comfortable position to sit while he kept an eye on the palace. He could only barely make out the interior of the castle through the blood-stained windows, but Gaspard took what he could get. He needed more information on what might await him in the palace.

    With the merchant currently being devoured by a many-headed abomination, that left only two targets on Gaspard¡¯s list. The king and the philosopher yet remained, somewhere in the city -perhaps long dead, or perhaps twisted into a beast. In either event, Gaspard needed to know. The matter needed to be settled.

    For now, his efforts focused on the king. He had ventured near the palace once and nearly been killed for the attempt. He had managed to escape the guard and its hungering hound, but only barely. If he hoped to penetrate deeper into the guarded walls of the palace, he would need to make a more careful approach.

    Gaspard had already seen the guard make several patrols around the grounds of the palace. Its polished armor was beginning to tarnish, but the bulbous red flesh beneath showed no signs of weakness. Even the flies and beetles that gnawed at the flesh of other abominations gave the guard a wide berth. The scavengers possessed a healthy fear of the hulking guard and the jagged blade he wielded. Gaspard shared in their fear, and kept to the shadows of the mansion he hid within.

    A resounding noise boomed out from within the palace. Gaspard pressed his back to the wall, but craned his neck to where he could still see the stained window. Other than the clanking armor of the guard, the area around the palace had been deathly quiet so far. The sudden noise warranted caution and curiosity in equal measure. Gaspard kept quiet and waited patiently.

    His patience bore fruit in a burst of motion. The window that Gaspard stood watch over exploded in a burst of glass shards. A blur of red flesh and exposed bone crashed to the ground, surrounded by shards of glass that rained down around it. Gaspard watched as the defenestrated beast righted itself, yowled in agony, and then dashed off, trailing blood behind it as it went. Gaspard paid no attention to it as it fled, keeping his eyes on the window it had come through.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    A single, massive hand curled into a fist, before retracting into the palace. Gaspard heard something massive shift on the other side of the glass, and what sounded like a voice. Gaspard leaned out of his hiding place as the hidden bulk continued to shift.

    Two lumbering footsteps thudded against the stones of the palace floor, and the hidden beast shifted into view. It was a towering, monstrous creature, taller even than the guard. Though it seemed at first to be a massive, bulky creature, closer examination revealed that this monster was thin and narrow, almost emaciated, its bones seemingly mere centimeters from tearing through its pallid white skin. The illusion of bulk came from what seemed to be a cloak of flesh trailing from its back: the corpses of dozens of individuals fused into a macabre cape that trailed behind the titanic creature as it moved.

    Gaspard took quick note of all of this, but the details swiftly faded into the back of his mind. His eyes, and the full measure of his attention, focused on a single glint of gold atop the bone-white head of the creature. A crown, dented, bent out of shape, and bloodstained, but a crown nonetheless. A crown once fit for a king.

    Gaspard clung to the shadows, and now the shadows clung to him. Another monster to kill in his pursuit of vengeance. Gaspard¡¯s fist clenched tight around the handle of his sword, but only for a moment. His tense grip relaxed, and Gaspard slipped into the shadows once again. He took one final look at the pallid face of the king before he retreated out of sight.

    Finding a hiding place far from any prying eyes, Gaspard took a moment to catch his breath and clear his head. No sooner had he done so than he heard the metallic footsteps of the guard approaching, responding to the earlier commotion. Gaspard held his breath and listened carefully. His silence proved an unnecessary precaution. The booming voice that rang out shortly after could not be missed.

    ¡°Find it,¡± the king demanded. His voice was carried out on ragged, gasping breaths, his speech slow, slurred, and uneven, but still it carried out.

    Gaspard was almost glad to hear that there was semblance of the old king¡¯s mind intact. It meant the king might remember what he had done. Why Gaspard had to kill him. Gaspard found some satisfaction in the thought of it, but he did not get ahead of himself. The king was not dead yet. Yet.

 Chapter 25

    <div>

    <div>

    Gaspard sharpened his blade. It was all he could think to do, for now. He knew that any attempt to infiltrate the palace and kill the beast that had been the king would be a suicide mission, at this point. Meagerly equipped as he was, Gaspard knew he might stand a chance to kill the king alone, but such violence would likely attract the attention of the guard. Gaspard could not imagine winning a fight against such a massive, armored creature.

    <div>

    Taking a moment to pause and listen to the city around him, Gaspard ceased scraping the whetstone against the edge of his sword. He waited for one breath, then two, then three, and when he was sure the silence reigned, her went back to sharpening his sword. He repeated the process, taking irregular pauses as he sharpened the sword. He never allowed himself to establish a pattern or rhythm, anything a wily predator might make use of to sneak up on him.

    <div>

    After taking a few passes along the edge of his blade, Gaspard took another pause. He smiled to himself as his cautious habit paid off. The unmistakable sound of a lumbering creature in the distance met Gaspard¡¯s ears. It was yet faint and far off, but Gaspard sheathed his blade and turned towards it regardless. He crept his way to the door of the home that sheltered him and tried to peer out the window, and saw nothing. Making doubly sure that the coast was clear, Gaspard danced his way through the streets, avoiding the slick, rotting corpses that choked the path.

    <div>

    He moved with purpose, ever close to the walls, and passed in and out of homes when possible. Gaspard kept an eye on the path ahead and saw movement ahead. He tested the door of the nearest home and found the lock was broken. He headed inside, hoping to find a good point of view on the beast lurking ahead.

    <div>

    A vantage presented itself, though it was far from ideal. While the broad window did have a view of the city street, it was also mere inches away from a rotting corpse. The former owner of this home was affixed to his kitchen wall thanks to several knives skewering his torso. In the days (or perhaps weeks, Gaspard had long since lost count) since the Mad Moon, his decaying flesh had begun to slough off his bones, but the knives remained deeply embedded in his body, and in the wall behind him.

    <div>

    Gaspard covered his mouth and nose with a clean cloth to try and stave off the smell, and took a post next to the pinned corpse. Any glass in the window had long since been shattered and fallen away, giving Gaspard a clear view to the outside world.

    <div>

    About five yards from the window, not one but two maddened beats lurked. Both roughly equal in scale, and appearing mostly unchanged from the men they had once been, though their leathery red skin and sunken eyes marked them as anything but human. One was on its hand and knees, feeding like a beast on the corpses that choked the gutters, while the other shambled forward on a badly broken leg, barely moving as it dragged itself forward. The shambler got closer to the feasting monster, and the feaster gave a rough snarl of warning as its meal was threatened.

    <div>

    Gaspard had rarely seen two monsters so close together. Gaspard eyed the corpse to his right, still pinned to the wall by knives. He had an idea.

    <div>

    It took no small amount of effort, but Gaspard managed to remove one of the knives from the body. The unfortunate former homeowner slumped slightly as the small blade slipped free, but the numerous smaller knives yet held it in place. Gaspard cleaned some of the blood and bile from the blade and tested the heft. He flicked his wrist once or twice. More than likely, he was going to make a fool of himself, but Gaspard wanted to try something.

    <div>

    He returned to the window and double-checked to make sure that neither of the beasts had noticed his presence. Confident that he was out of sight, Gaspard took aim, closed one eye, held the knife aloft in his right hand, and threw.

    <div>

    The metal blade bounced off a cobblestone once, rebounding off the stones before bouncing into the feasting monster, handle-first. The noise and the sudden impact at least succeeded in upsetting the beast, as Gaspard had hoped. He stepped aside, out of sight, as the irate demon began to vocalize its anger in the form of a hoarse, guttural growl.

    <div>

    From his hiding place, Gaspard heard the continued yowling of the feasting monster, followed by a sudden burst of movement -and then a sickening crunch, muffled thrashing, and finally, silence. Gaspard allowed the quiet to linger before he dared return to the window.

    <div>

    Where there had once been two creatures, there now stood only one -with the limp leg of the other dangling from its gullet. The shambler had somehow distended its jaws and swallowed the other beast whole. It¡¯s jaws, neck, and torso bulged at every side as they struggled to contain the mass of one full-grown man within the body of another. Seemingly unperturbed by the fact that it had swallowed it¡¯s own body weight in a single bite, the shambler shambled on. Gaspard allowed it to go about its business.

    <div>

    The beasts could be turned against each other. That held potential. Great potential. Gaspard sat at the barren kitchen table, stared at the corpse pinned to the wall, and contemplated his next move.

 Chapter 26

    The distant crack of ceramic confirmed that Gaspard¡¯s projectile had made impact. Whether it was on target or not, Gaspard didn¡¯t know. Nor did he particularly care. He wasn¡¯t in the business of precision.

    Gaspard rubbed a weary shoulder and checked his bag. Only one of his improvised projectiles remained. It was probably for the best. He was beginning to overstay his welcome. Gaspard took the small ceramic container in hand and lobbed it as far as he could. It cracked through a window of the palace, and Gaspard turned to flee immediately. The noise of broken ceramic was bad enough already, a broken window would only attract more attention. Gaspard was not ready to face the horrors of the palace just yet.

    Fleeing with an expertly balanced mix of speed and stealth, Gaspard withdrew from the city¡¯s center, returning to his hiding place further out in the city. A small shack, hidden amid the crowded alleyways of the city¡¯s poorest districts. The narrow streets were barely wide enough for Gaspard to pass through, which would hopefully dissuade large beasts from approaching the area.

    Once he was hidden in the relative safety of his lair, Gaspard worked to refill his bag. He had gathered every flammable object he could get his hands on; cotton, lantern oil, dry timber, hay, and anything else he saw that seemed like it might catch a spark.

    Gaspard meant to set a trap. He already had the bait, but now he needed the mechanism to strike the killing blow. He had decided on fire. A conflagration large enough to rid the city of some of its most loathsome beasts. The palace, being mostly stone, would need a little help to become the towering pyre that Gaspard intended. He was setting the stage by supplying as much tinder as he could.

    Once the jar was packed to the brim, he reached for a pot of melted wax, and found it meeting his hand sooner than expected. Gaspard spun sharply on his heels, drawing his sword with his offhand. It snapped into place, ready to strike, but paused midair as Gaspard halted his spin.

    ¡°What uncivil behavior,¡± the madman said. ¡°I was offering you assistance, good sir.¡±

    Gaspard took a step back. The madman stood in place, still extending the vat of wax. The carnival garb he wore was exactly as Gaspard had last seen it, with not so much as a tear or a stain upon the white robes, nor a single crack in the porcelain mask. Gaspard had to imagine the madman had found a storage room full of such garb at some point. No one could survive for so long in this city with their flesh unscathed, much less their outfit.

    The madman leaned forward, extending the container of melted wax further, and Gaspard took it from him. He did not release his grip on his sword, but he did relax slightly as he grabbed his packed jar.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    ¡°I must say, if one were to observe the state in which we find ourselves, said observer would believe you to be the lunatic,¡± the madman said. ¡°A sane man would try to bring down a castle with large boulders, not little pots of oil and hay.¡±

    ¡°And yet they are much easier to throw.¡±

    Gaspard disregarded the madman¡¯s scrutiny and put his vat of wax above a lit candle for a moment to soften it again. He melted some wax around the lid of the jar, to keep its contents from falling out as it flew. The madman tucked his hands behind his back and stepped closer to Gaspard¡¯s collection of flammable detritus.

    ¡°Where did you even come up with such an idea?¡±

    ¡°I made the acquaintance of a veteran, who offered me his knowledge of war when asked,¡± Gaspard said. He had asked the veteran for any strategies to bring a building down. Short of assembling a trebuchet, the veteran had said, Gaspard¡¯s best bet was fire. It had not taken much convincing to set Gaspard on the path to an inferno.

    ¡°A sensible answer,¡± the madman said. ¡°Now, would it trouble the gentleman if I were to ask an insensible question?¡±

    ¡°It would trouble me, but you may ask regardless,¡± Gaspard answered.

    ¡°Why is it you wish to burn down the palace? Were I you, I would seek to claim it.¡±

    Gaspard scoffed at the thought. He was surprised the madman had discerned his intent, but he still misunderstood. As the jars broke on impact, scattering hay and oil across the palace grounds, their flammability would offset the inflammable nature of the palace¡¯s primarily stone construction. Gaspard needed to ensure that enough fire would catch to eradicate the palace completely, hopefully destroying everything inside. No doubt there was still a wealth of gold and valuables inside the palace that could be claimed, along with the throne itself, but Gaspard wanted none of it.

    ¡°I¡¯ve had enough of kings for ten lifetimes,¡± Gaspard spat.

    ¡°A sentiment which would make you an ideal king, to many,¡± the madman noted. ¡°But I digress. If not you, then perhaps I shall be king. I shall construct a crown posthaste.¡±

    Gaspard nodded idly, double-checked the wax seal on his pot, and then launched it. Gaspard waited for the crack of the impact as the madman continued to rant.

    ¡°A mad king for a mad world shall be most appropriate, I think. If not kingship, shall I offer you a lordship? Perhaps a dukedom? Or perhaps a man of your skill with the blade shall be my captain of the guard?¡±

    Gaspard continued to ignore the madman and his rantings, keeping his focus on the task at hand. The madman took no offense at receiving the cold shoulder.

    ¡°What is it you intend to do after, your dire mission is complete, my dear friend?¡±

    As the madman had expected, Gaspard paused briefly. He stopped his work for some time, and the madman¡¯s question went unanswered. He stood, and bowed to Gaspard before stepping towards the door.

    ¡°I can see that I have distressed the gentleman,¡± the madman said. ¡°I shall leave you then, with my apologies and my best wishes for the success of your mission.¡±

    The madman left as silently as he had arrived, leaving Gaspard alone again.

    He did not know what came after. But as Gaspard stared at the single flickering spark of the candle, Gaspard put any doubts of the future aside. Before there could be an "after", there had to be an end. Gaspard snuffed the flame.

 Chapter 27

    The blare of the horn rang throughout the city. The acoustics of the palace were designed to carry sound far and wide, spreading royal proclamations across the massive courtyard, but now it carried the rallying call of Gaspard¡¯s horn. He threw the scavenged instrument aside and moved into position. The noise was already beginning to attract attention. He could hear the horde scrambling to answer his call.

    His plan was threadbare at best, thrown together from what scraps he had gleaned of the beasts nature, yet Gaspard felt no doubt in his heart. He had managed to sneak past the guard, infiltrate the palace, and find the perfect position from which to deliver his coup de grace. Everything was falling into place. Gaspard could not stop now, nor would he. Only death would dissuade him now.

    Gaspard found his way to the balcony which overlooked the throne room. A roiling horde of reddened flesh and protruding bone had overwhelmed the central chamber of the palace. Some were still in the shape and size of men, while some were towering and misshapen, but all were equally loathsome. The king, the pale, gaunt creature wearing a cloak of flesh, towered over them all, roaring with displeasure as he tried to cut his way through the crowd.

    ¡°Leave,¡± the king growled. ¡°Obey me! Leave!¡±

    The king now demanded the obedience it had known in life. Even now it still wanted loyalty from those it deemed its lessers. Only the guard paid any heed to its words, trying to force intruders out of the throne room. Some of the creatures nipped at him or encircled the armored guard to try and deliver a flanking strike, but none attacked just yet. Gaspard ended any disputes by delivering a hoarse cry. All bloodshot eyes turned to Gaspard.

    ¡°Intruder,¡± the king rumbled.

    ¡°Liar!¡± Gaspard shouted back.

    He leaned forward, clenching his fingers so tight against the balcony rail he feared he might crack the stone. Gaspard managed to pry one shaking hand loose to point accusingly at the king.

    ¡°This king, this monster, and all of his conspirators, told us that the Mad Moon came without warning, that they had discovered it mere hours before giving word to the city. They told us we had only a few weeks to make peace with our lives before the moon came to claim us.¡±

    There was a roiling tension in the crowd of beasts below. Gaspard knew that some of them were too far gone to make any sense of his words. He only needed a few. Even the most threadbare mind could still understand vengeance.

    ¡°And they lied,¡± Gaspard shouted to the horde. ¡°They knew! They knew months ago! They knew the Mad Moon was coming and they hid the truth from us all!¡±

    Perhaps it was mere coincidence, but a low rumble spread through the crowd of monstrosity¡¯s. The king remained silent, his pale, sunken eyes staring up at Gaspard.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    ¡°They knew for months, and did nothing! They knew our doom was coming, and they let us toil in ignorance so they could grow fat off of our labors, spend the wealth of our taxes. Then when their ruse reached its end and others discovered the Moon, they threw us their scraps and called it a Carnival. That king called called it generosity as he spent hoarded wealth he stole from us!¡±

    The king found himself the center of attention in the room. Those few beasts that still had some scraps of their past minds were staring at him with hunger in their eyes. The mindless beasts could merely smell the tension and the rage hanging thick in the air, their bloodlust drawn to inevitable violence. Of every blooddthristy beast and vengeful monstrosity in the throne room, none had a glare of pure, unbridled malice that could even hope to rival the hatred in Gaspard¡¯s eyes.

    ¡°You lied to us,¡± Gaspard hissed.

    The king drew his cloak of flesh close about him, drawing the bodies of others closer to hide his own withered frame. He looked at the gathered, hungering monstrosities, and kept his head high.

    ¡°I command,¡± it rumbled. ¡°Obey.¡±

    The low, rumbling growls of the beasts fell silent. The guard had made its way to the side of his king. Eyes hidden behind the metal walls of its helmet, the armored guard stood tall and strong, brandishing its sword as the hungering masses closed in.

    Then the corroded blade turned, and the guard sunk it deep into the chest of the king.

    The single drop of blood sparked an orgy of gore and viscera the likes of which Gaspard had never seen. Every bit of tension among the horde sparked at once, fang and claw and blades bared in a shower of torn flesh and spraying blood. Howls of rage and pain and hunger rang out in every direction. Though widespread, the violence was not wholly indiscriminate. Reaching claws and hungering fangs tore with purpose, all driving towards the center of the bloody orgy -towards the king. Every hungry beast desired recompense for cruelty, and they took their pound of flesh, in the most literal sense.

    A long tendril snatched the crown from the king¡¯s head. Razor-sharp claws tore away the cloak of flesh that disguised his frail frame. Blackened teeth dug into his throat and tore bloody streams of gore from his veins. The king howled and flailed and gave orders that were ignored by the bloodthirsty mob, until his withered, panicked frame vanished within the mass of flesh and bone. Gaspard watched the last vestige of the king¡¯s pale body swallowed by the horde, and felt a due sense of grim satisfaction.

    With the king consumed, Gaspard turned his back on the bloody display. He left the halls of the king, lighting a torch as he went, and dragged it along the tattered tapestries, held it to the shattered furniture, tapped it against every doorframe he found. Then he went to the exterior of the palace, found the tinder bombs he had lobbed against the palace walls, and ignited them as well.

    The fire rose as night fell. Gaspard wound his way through the city streets until he could no longer feel the heat of the flames burning his face. He doused his torch, sheathed his blade, and stood back to watch the palace burn. The crackling flames could not quite muffle the screams of the beastly horde within, too consumed by their bloodlust to bother escaping the flames. A palace tower crumbled, no doubt crushing dozens of monsters as it fell, and sent a shower of sparks surging high into the sky.

    Gaspard watch the embers fly skywards and flicker out one by one, like fireflies soaring into the night.

    The dim light of the distant inferno barely illuminated Gaspard¡¯s smile.

 Chapter 28

    Home is where you are wanted as much as you are needed.

    -an old colloquialism, origins unknown

    The cold of the night gladly embraced Gaspard as he drifted further from the inferno the palace had become. Even from this distance the pillar of flames cast a shadow in front of him, as the fiery illumination painted his back in orange hues. Gaspard kept the conflagration behind him, and a weather eye ahead of him. His gambit had likely attracted many of the beasts in the city, but Gaspard knew better than to assume he was safe.

    Driven by a need for shelter for the night -and by other, unspoken needs- Gaspard made his way to the eastern districts of the city. Gaspard had passed through this area more than once, but never made a detour to his current destination. He had told himself he was simply too busy to preoccupy himself with a pointless visit, but he¡¯d always known that to be a lie. A lie he told himself. Confronting the old world in such a way would only make the contrast with this newer, darker world more painful. A return to the familiar would be a new agony, not a relief.

    In spite of those thoughts, a deeper instinct pushed Gaspard towards his home.

    Gaspard stopped at the mouth of the street. The ravages of the Mad Moon were sparse here. The celebrations of the Lunar Carnival had been concentrated in the wealthier districts, where money was plentiful, or in the poorest slums, where the population was most concentrated. For those in the middle, those too wealthy to know hunger but too poor to have known plenty, there had been a quiet divergence. Some like Gaspard, sought to leech off the wealthy in their final days of life, while others had sought camaraderie in the masses. Gaspard was unsure if he¡¯d made the right choice.

    Refusing to contemplate the past to that extent, Gaspard pushed open the door of his old home. He¡¯d left the door unlocked after leaving for what he¡¯d thought was the last time. In spite of that, his home had seemingly been left untouched. The scars of the hedonistic lifestyle he¡¯d lived in his ¡°last¡± days alive were found in every room. The ceramics and silverware of gluttonous meals devoured were still left scattered around the kitchen, long picked clean of scraps by the insects. Unwashed clothes laid strewn on every floor.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    Gaspard ignored the mess. Even if he intended to clean it, which he didn¡¯t, he needed to rest. Gaspard passed through the empty hallways and found his bedchambers. Everything in the room was gathering dust. Gaspard had spent very few of the nights preceding the Mad Moon here, having no reason to return.

    Sleeping in his armor had been a custom for Gaspard for quite some time. It ensured he was never caught entirely unprotected should something choose to go bump in the night. In spite of that need for safety, Gaspard peeled the armor away. Flakes of crusted blood fell away from the buckles as he unlatched them. The room began to stink of sweat, but even that was a welcome relief from the smell of decay. Gaspard stripped down to his underclothes, locked the door behind him, and for the first time in an age, laid down in his own bed. The stiff sheets closed around him in a loose embrace, and Gaspard found his way to a fitful sleep.

    The sun rose, and Gaspard rose with it. He began the day with water. Buckets drawn from a well provided enough clean water to wash his armor, and Gaspard himself, scrubbing away the caked on blood and filth. The armor did not shine, and most likely never would again, but it was free of grime for the time being. Gaspard set the armor and weapons aside to dry and stepped into the street.

    The ever present towers of the palace had partially crumbled, and what remained was now a dull ashen black instead of their previous polished white. The flames had died down, but smoke rose from the ashen towers, indicating that there were still plenty of burning embers. It would likely be days before the last spark truly died. Gaspard nodded in approval and retrieved his belongings.

    His work was nearly done. Only one of the seven liars remained. Gaspard buckled on his armor and checked the edge of his sword. Here at the end, the urgency of his vendetta seemed even greater.

    The hollow home, the quiet neighborhood, were all reminders of the consequences of their deception. Had the king and his cohorts told the truth, there might have been a sense of community at the end of it all. People given enough time to face their fears and settle their differences could have come together, and faced the end with some dignity. Instead, they¡¯d been sped through a mad rush of panicked hedonism, and thousands had died clinging to fear and desperation.

    Gaspard looked back at his home. For a moment, he considered burning it as well, leaving it truly in the ashes of the past. Ultimately, he decided against it. The building had done no harm. It was simply hollow, and would remain that way.

    With his hand on his sword, Gaspard set out. He could not consider the past settled. Not yet. The philosopher was unaccounted for. Gaspard had one thing left to settle, and after that -the question the madman had forced Gaspard to ponder- Gaspard still didn¡¯t know. He knew of only one way to find out.

 Chapter 29

    Gaspard ran a finger along the dining table. It came up free of dust.

    ¡°I know you¡¯re here,¡± Gaspard cried out. Such a shout risked attracting monsters, but here at the end, Gaspard found he did not care. He stood in the philosopher¡¯s home ¨C the lair of the seventh and last great liar ¨C and all evidence indicated he still lived. Still retained his faculties. Gaspard had to face him -to see what such a liar looked like with his own eyes, to hear him defend his heresy in his own words.

    A short time after Gaspard¡¯s shout, the object of his hunt appeared. The philosopher himself tottered into view, his belly still rounded by gluttony, still wearing a fine silk robe and still adorned in jewelry, with his glittering hands raised. He regarded Gaspard with an equal mix of fear and concern.

    ¡°If it is food or wealth you seek, by all means, take what you can carry,¡± the philosopher said. ¡°I have enough to spare. There is no need for violence.¡±

    Gaspard pointed his drawn sword at the philosophers heart. The once-wealthy man took a step back.

    ¡°I¡¯m here for you,¡± Gaspard said. ¡°Only you.¡±

    To his credit, the philosopher did not flee. He was not a coward in addition to his many other flaws. Gaspard would have chased him wherever he ran regardless. He desired a reckoning, and he would have it.

    ¡°Ah. May I ask you what I have done to offend?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t play ignorant. I know what you did,¡± Gaspard said. ¡°You and your conspirators. You knew the Moon was rising.¡±

    For a moment the philosopher seemed baffled. He composed himself, knowing better than to show vulnerability to a man with a sword. He lowered his raised hands and folded them behind his back.

    ¡°And what would you have had me do?¡± He said. The philosopher never bothered denying Gaspard¡¯s accusation. The righteous rage in Gaspard¡¯s eyes made it clear he was certain of the philosopher¡¯s involvement. Now all he could do was argue that it was a matter of responsibility, rather than guilt.

    ¡°What would I have- I would have had you be honest,¡± Gaspard protested. ¡°Tell the truth to innocent people, let them live their last days in peace instead of panic!¡±

    ¡°I believe you place too much value on honesty,¡± the philosopher said. ¡°And place far too much faith in humanity.¡±

    Careful not to make any sudden movements, the philosopher took hold of a chair and sat down. He gestured that Gaspard should sit as well, though his armed guest refused.

    ¡°May I ask that you at the very least discard your weapon?¡± The philosopher requested. ¡°I have found that having a weapon already in hand makes men more prone to aggression.¡±

    After a long moment of consideration, Gaspard put the blade aside, resting it on a nearby table and stepping away from the blade. The philosopher was no unhinged beast -just an old fool in a robe too loose to be hiding any weapons.

    ¡°You speak of conspirators. Then the others-¡±Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    ¡°Dead. To the last man.¡±

    ¡°By your hand, or by the Moon?¡±

    ¡°By the Moon. Save for the first, the one who revealed your indiscretion. I cannot claim sole credit for his death, but I played a part.¡±

    ¡°Ah. And I doubt this mob gave him much time to explain his choices before they tore him apart?¡±

    ¡°Do you believe there is any explanation that justifies your cruelty?¡±

    ¡°If I did not, I would not have undertaken it,¡± the philosopher said. ¡°You speak of living in peace, sir, but who defines that peace? Faced with the inevitability of death, would the farmer continue to collect his crop? Would the doctor continue to treat the sick?¡±

    The philosopher paused, as if anticipating a response, and received none. He took Gaspard¡¯s silence as a moment of consideration and pressed on.

    ¡°Our ¡®lie¡¯, as you call it, kept society functioning in months where it would have otherwise fallen into anarchy and disarray,¡± the philosopher said. ¡°Whatever suffering you believe our actions caused, consider how many more would suffer from starvation or violence? We kept the mechanism that is society functioning.¡±

    ¡°Yes, how very noble of you to ensure that the systems that made you rich and powerful continued to function,¡± Gaspard said.

    ¡°You view this situation from the outside, hunter, and I cannot begrudge you your anger. But understand my perspective. This position of wealth and power that you so resent has afforded me ample opportunity to see the best and worst of humanity. Society requires guiding hands to avoid inevitable collapse. Man is not a noble creature.¡±

    Gaspard stayed motionless and silent. The philosopher once again incorrectly interpreted this as a sign of a willingness to hear more.

    ¡°He is not inclined to share what he has won without incentive-¡±

    Gaspard recalled the farmer, who had offered him food and safety, asking nothing in return but company.

    ¡°-Nor is he to act nobly unless threat of persecution for ignoble deeds is present.¡±

    Gaspard recalled the widow, who had confessed her sins without need, prompted only by her own guilt.

    ¡°Man undertakes labor solely in consideration of his own profit-¡±

    Gaspard recalled the doctor, undergoing dangerous research in the vain hope of a cure they would never benefit from.

    ¡°-and rarely takes risk on behalf of another unless they believe they stand to gain.¡±

    Gaspard recalled the red-haired woman, who had dragged his bloodied body to safety through monster-infested streets, not even leaving her name, much less the expectation of thanks.

    ¡°I have seen this all and know it to be true. The choices I made were not noble, I admit, but they were necessary. I assure you, hunter, that in my position-¡±

    Gaspard¡¯s fist clenched so tight his knuckles cracked.

    ¡°Any man would have done the same.¡±

    The first blow to the philosopher¡¯s face threw him from his chair. His seat toppled backwards, as did the man who sat in it, his nose trailing a streak of blood through the air as he plummeted.

    Gaspard fell upon him with a predatory pounce, his fists taking the place of fangs as he mauled the philosopher with savage fury. Muffled cries for mercy became choked, bloody gurgles as blow after blow rained down on the philosopher¡¯s head. With every impact, Gaspard considered his sword, resting mere feet away. It would have been swifter. It would have been cleaner. But Gaspard did not want this to be swift or clean. He wanted to feel every impact, and let the satisfying pressure of every blow rumble through his aching arms. That pressure he felt faded after the first dull, bony crack rang out from beneath Gaspard¡¯s fists.

    The pleading cries had become dull grunts of pain, and now they became silence. Gaspard did not stop. He did not hesitate for a moment. Not until he felt the first shards of bone and broken teeth began to stab into his knuckles, the fragmented splinters of a skull taking one last stab at Gaspard as their jagged edges threatened to pierce his gloves.

    Taking a deep breath for what felt like the first time in days, Gaspard stood and stepped away from his bloody work. Anything recognizable as a face had been crushed into nothingness, lost in a sea of gore that grew even larger as Gaspard stood and stared.

    As an afterthought, Gaspard looked down to his gloves. They were stained a deep, muddy red, and a single sliver of skull was embedded in one of the knuckles. With a slow, steady motion, Gaspard pulled the crimson gloves off. Underneath, his hands were clean.

 Chapter 30: Finale

    Gaspard took a moment to think himself a fool.

    He had stepped out of the dead philosopher¡¯s manor for a moment, to breathe air that was relatively free of the iron-heavy stink of blood. He had forgotten, carelessly, that the bloody air he fled from was sweet ambrosia to other things lurking in the city. Far more idiotically, he had left his sword inside.

    The universe had showed him some mercy, in that the creature which jumped on him was relatively small. It had likely been a dog once, in some other life, and had not been swollen to monstrous size like the hound that had nearly claimed Gaspard¡¯s arm. This beast dug it¡¯s fangs into Gaspard¡¯s forearm, but they did not pierce the armor he had been smart enough to keep on. Rolling away from the beast and kicking at it with one leg, Gaspard managed to dislodge it from his arm. While it rattled from the impacts, Gaspard dove atop it.

    The beast was sickly and starved, barely capable of mustering the strength to bite Gaspard, much less to wrestle him off it¡¯s back. It struggled and gave out a bloody gurgle as Gaspard dug his bare hands into the stringy flesh of its throat. His fingernails pierced the surface without even trying, leaking dark blood onto Gaspard¡¯s hands.

    The beast that had once been a dog struggled under Gaspard¡¯s grip, letting out a single panicked whine, long and slow. The sound of it almost made Gaspard relent, but the twisted visage before him reminded him that his foe was no longer the beloved household pet it had once been. Only for a moment, as the last gasps of life choked out of it, did Gaspard see even a shade of the loyal companion it had once been.

    As the beast fell silent, Gaspard stepped away, and cleaned bloody hands. With silence once again returned to the street, Gaspard found a safer place to rest, and dared to close his eyes.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    In the absence of sight, the stench hit him first. The beast had brought the miasma of decay with it. When the wind changed, some relief from the inescapable rot presented itself in the form of the sulfurous scent of ash and burnt flesh. A reminder that the ruins of the palace still smoldered. Yet the fire had not purified it, not in any way Gaspard might have hoped for.

    He had seen fire as some form of purification. But in the end it proved to be just another form of decay. Faster, perhaps, and cleaner, but just a more accelerated form of the entropic rot that was consuming everything around Gaspard. Like that which would soon be settling into the brutalized corpse of the philosopher, left to rot in the dining hall.

    Only now, with his bloody mission complete, did Gaspard feel any hesitance towards his objective. It had been a goal, yes, but now Gaspard wondered if there had been any purpose. The stench of decay and ash on the wind proved that his crusade had changed nothing. The world was still choked with death and fire. The dead hulk of the beast and the blood on his hands proved that his revenge had made nothing better.

    But there was silence, at least. Within and without.

    Gaspard supposed that was enough. The death of the beast had earned him silence without, and the death of the liars had earned him silence within. He no longer lived with the burden of their deception, no longer had to pursue some blind justice.

    Gaspard had not brought any good into the world -but he had removed evil.

    With that small satisfaction driving him forward, Gaspard rose, and went to retrieve his sword. There was still a great deal of evil left to be faced -though Gaspard had little reason to pursue it. Better to find himself a place place in which to hide and wait out the world¡¯s decay, leaving the monsters to consume themselves or starve, as they most certainly would without his interference.

    But perhaps before taking that well-deserved break, Gaspard would see to a few other things. He had yet to thank the red-haired woman for saving his life, after all.

    With the corpse of the lying philosopher behind him, his sword at his side, and a city of death in front of him, Gaspard set out. This time on a mission of gratitude, not vengeance.