Page 150 of Light Leech

It feels like adrenaline building up within me.

“Because I am pulling it into your core. This light is rich. Pure.”

Neon Essence?

“Indeed.”

Why would they waste it on this?

I threw a spear towards the other boat, hitting one of their throwers as he aimed for us. I hated to take a life, but I was more important than him. I had to be selfish. To allow mercy would allow for failure and the continuation of this mess.

“Because the wasteful light is incapable of draining humans into those light spheres. When their existence drains into those spheres, the true light grows exponentially. They sacrifice a small amount in these spears to redirect the light within the human into the orb. Do you understand what is happening?”

I didn’t know that you could turn humans into light.

“It goes beyond that. Light is what everything in this universe is composed of, but that is not my point. Do you see what this game’s orchestrator is doing?”

Multiplying Neon Essence.

“And he is doing so with terror and dread, which gives a certain spice to the light for its consumer.”

Gong.

“The purpose this.”

What kind of zegged up fever dream am I living?

“Reality. Light is reality. All that you see, this matter and whatever else your scholars claim it to be, is a fool’s idea of what reality is. Humans cannot comprehend true reality. I have only a glimpse, but it makes me laugh at those godless men who think that your existence is a mere coincidence. Human calculations proves that there is something greater at work, yet mathematics is just another infantile attempt to understand all that you are. Light birthed your race, yet if manipulated, it can be taken away.”

Yes, I understand that there is science to the “humans being reduced to the light inside orbs” here, but I mean all of this is a fever dream.

“Self-proclaimed gods have forced humans into violent entertainment throughout your history. This is not new.”

On a lake of wine while the losers are turned into power for some fetal god?

“Merely a new spin on a classic tale. Human pride is cyclical.”

I took one of the unused oars from a now-dead-or-whatever-the-orb-equivalent-was-rower and tossed it at the orca-mech as it neared our boat. Its squeal had a mechanical ring as if its voice had been synthesized to sound just as soothing as it was deadly. I wondered if they had ever tried to use orcas as a strain of Finian for a new level of music, but that sense of wonder was soon diminished as it stabbed one of my boat companions with a tentacle.

“This creature though, is more than some novel twist.”

What is it?

“An advantage.”

Zeg, no.

He squealed with laugher.

“Before you can attempt to mount it, you must ascend.”

I tossed another oar at it.

Not the time and place.

“I beg to differ. Answer your mate, then retrieve another bundle of spears.”

What?I checked my neurospace.