VOXISTALE: Novel Edition

Chapter 132

Krashna was fast, and as he ran he left behind golden footprints. A strange method of using magic to speed oneself up, but it was certainly working . . . Frisk decided that she'd apply it herself. Focusing her magic into her feet, she could feel the warmth of her own power gathering beneath her shoes, aiding her by carrying her just a little bit further with each step. Slowly but surely, she was gaining ground, until she went around a corner, and a wooden crate shattered against her face, having been shoved into her full-force by Krashna's magic. "You stay away from me!" he shouted from a few yards away, flicking his wrist. The entire wall behind him caved inwards, a mass of crates and other pieces of furniture being pulled from the next room over to slow Frisk down.

With a grunt, she formed a larger shield, pushing both arms out to block the attack. The thought of this brat getting to Terrence . . . it made her fingers tingle, itching and aching to hold onto a knife in that moment. With a growl, she used her magic to force back the crates, even as she had to close her left eye from the blood falling into it, that box having cut open her forehead and left plenty of splinters.

Krashna was off again, sprinting down another hall. With a huff, Frisk shoved the distraction back, and sprinted after the boy once more. While she was gaining ground, it seemed he'd already reached his destination. Another platform, much larger than the catwalk he'd been on previously, and hanging from chains just past the platform over a pit that descended into darkness?

Terrence.

All he wore were his pants, cuts running all across his body, his body held up in a way that no doubt kept him from sleeping, legs hanging loosely as chains held his arms up and outstretched. His blonde hair stuck to his face, matted with blood as his hazy eyes stared exhaustively downward.

"I can cut these chains," Krashna grinned, tendrils sliding from the wall to wrap around one of the two chains holding Terrence up. Frisk slid to a stop, panting as she glared daggers at Krashna. "Take one more step, and he's a dead man," the younger boy smirked.

That strategy again—Frisk despised it so much. Forcing her not to proceed any further, making her efforts remain stagnant, all the while leaving the life of someone dear to her hanging in the balance. It was a painfully effective strategy, and Frisk hated it.

"What's wrong Frisk? Does that seem unfair to you?" Krashna taunted, leaning back with a casual grin, taking his sweet time catching his breath, knowing fully well that she couldn't do a thing to stop him. "You're so disgusting. Why do people like you even bother living when you're just destined for failure? Your stupid uprising was doomed the moment it started, and thanks to you, every single person you love is going to die, too. They'll join your pathetic mother, Frisk."

That struck a nerve, a blood-red knife immediately bursting to life in Frisk's hand, the blood that oozed from her several cuts seeming to glow. Her shield dissipated. She wanted to fight so badly, she wanted to punish this boy for his cruel words, but . . .

Terrence. Right. If she attacked now, Krashna would get exactly what he wanted. The satisfaction of killing Terrence while also being able to blame it on her . . . what a twisted human being he was. The feeling of dread and anger he gave her was so intense that Witch, in hindsight, was a damn picnic. Slowly, she forced the knife to fade, leaving her completely open, something Krashna seemed to notice as his eyes lit up. "Giving up?" he asked. Frisk stared back, saying nothing. After a few seconds of silence, Krashna scoffed. "Pride. Something so worthless shouldn't have it yet here you stand, too prideful to admit defeat. I've locked you in a stalemate, Frisk. I hold both of your lives in my hand."

"I . . . can see why you're a leader," Frisk spoke, her strategy shifting. This made Krashna raise a brow. Terrence opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He was too weak to speak.