Death Cultivator 2 by eden Hudson (top 10 best books of all time txt) 📕

Heart Spirit glowed as it passed into the redhead’s body. His flames of Burning Hatred flared brighter than the white sun, and his strength tripled.

Bearing down, he forced the haft of the scythe down...down...

That wide Selken hand slapped onto my exposed shoulder bone, pouring Warm Heart Spirit—not into me, but into the Death cultivator’s consciousness, bolstering him. I tried to shake the Selken off, but his fingers clung to the rime-covered bones as he sent more glowing orange Spirit to the Death cultivator.

With renewed energy, the Death cultivator inundated my arms with icy Miasma straight from my centuries-old stores, freezing the marrow solid, destroying the tissues.

There was a snap like ice floes breaking up—the frozen long bones in my upper arms shattered. The scythe’s bone handle slammed down into my throat, pinning me to the dirt. My hands fell limp, and the scythe ripped back into this body, returning its flesh to the bone.

The Burning Hatred cultivator launched into a volley of burning punches, raining them down on my newly won face and head. Blood flowed. I struggled to kick my way free, but the Death cultivator’s consciousness was regaining control over his body. The Warm Heart Spirit had strengthened him enough to fight my possession. He didn’t allow me to move as the Burning Hatred cultivator grabbed my throat and began to squeeze the life from me with his bloody hands.

There was no point to fighting for this dying body. Not when only moments remained in its life. Killing the Death cultivator’s friends would break our covenant, returning me to the grinning skull stone, but it would also save me from dying with him. I would lie in wait for the next Death cultivator.

I gathered myself to return to Spirit apparatus form and reached with two fists of Death for the Burning Hatred and Warm Heart life points.

No! The Death cultivator wrenched control of the Dead Man’s Hand away from me. You’re never doing this again.

A Miasma technique I had never conceived of or witnessed in all the centuries I’d existed closed around my soul like a casket, walling me in.

What is this? I demanded.

Jealous as the Grave, the Death cultivator whispered, sealing and solidifying the prison with a name. If I die again, you’re coming down with me.

In a final burst of will, the casket of Miasma clapped shut and mountains of grave dirt piled on top of it, burying me alive inside the Death cultivator’s mind.

Last Light, Last Breath

“IT’S ME!” I CHOKED out. My lungs were stiff and heavy with Miasma, and Warcry was crushing my windpipe. Agony screamed through me like Hungry Ghost had been holding the pain off through sheer will, and now I was paying it back with interest. My whole body was broken, bleeding, and necrotic, but at least I was back in control. “Warcry, it’s me, Hake!”

He scowled and squeezed harder. “Prove it.”

I couldn’t answer. Breathing was hard enough through the pain and the frozen lungs.

But my friends were okay. Tons of Contrails and a small army of Dragons were dead because of me, but Warcry and Rali had survived.

“It’s him.” Rali was facedown in the dirt beside me, still clutching my broken arm. “I can feel the other aura walled up inside him somehow. Hake beat it.”

Yeah, not really. He and Warcry had beat Hungry Ghost. All I’d been able to do was watch and try to slow the jerk down while he killed everyone he could reach.

A tsunami of guilt tried to swamp me. I knew if that hit, I would never recover, so I let go. Exhaled a rattling Last Light, Last Breath, meaning for it to really be my last one. My friends were safe now. I could go.

But instead of finishing the job, Warcry released my throat. Air slipped back into my lungs.

Then Rali’s Healing Restoration hit. It felt like my whole body was burning from the inside out. Fire raged through my tissues, driving out the necrosis and repairing the broken bones, deadened organs, muscles, and nerves, lighting them all up at once. I screamed, writhing on the spot.

When the Restoration finally tapered off, my head flopped to the side.

Rali’s face was too pale, covered in dirt and sweat. There was a pool of black Selken blood surrounding the string of intestines hanging from his stomach.

He gave me a weak grin. “Gonna make it?”

“If I do and you don’t, I’ll kill you,” I said.

“Just wanted to make sure you were okay first...” He coughed, and flecks of black blood flew through his teeth.

“First?” I grabbed his arm and shook him. “Rali, first before what?”

But he wasn’t listening to me. With a grunt, he rolled onto his back. Orange light flared across his body. His face twisted in pain as his guts pulled back into his stomach cavity. The skin over them grew back together, enclosing the whole mess with a thin white scar.

Suddenly, Rali convulsed, doubling over. His legs kicked and scratched at the dirt, and his hands clutched his Spirit sea, fingers digging into the flesh over it like he was trying to rip it out. Tears ran out the corners of Rali’s eyes, and he howled, a ragged, awful animal sound.

There was a crack like lightning striking right next to your face.

A ball of orange Warm Heart Spirit rose out of Rali’s solar plexus, phasing through his fingers like they weren’t there. It sparked and hissed and hung in the air over him. Then it exploded in a violent sunburst. Little orange embers floated down around us, fizzled out, and disappeared.

Warcry scrambled on his one leg and two arms over to Rali and grabbed him by the shoulders.

“What did you do?” he breathed. When Rali didn’t answer right away, Warcry shook him and yelled, “What the bleedin’ hell did you do?”

Rali laughed. “Broke my Ten restriction.”

Warcry stared at him for a beat. Then he punched Rali square in the face. Blood splattered on the dirt. Warcry pulled back and threw another haymaker,