Ascendant Insanity
Author: KamikazePotato
Date: 2023-01-19 05:00:00+00:00
Description: Quiet days are to be treasured – but sooner or later, they always end. After curing the Corruption plague in Fiend territory, Rob, Riardin's Rangers, and the Deserters have settled into their new home. It's given them the stability they've been striving for ever since being forced to flee The Village so many months ago. Unfortunately, their well-earned rest is cut short when a Dwarven messenger arrives, begging for assistance. The Blight has returned. And without Rob's help, Dwarven territory will fall. Naturally, things aren't that straightforward. As the mission evolves into something even b

An Outcast In Another World

Book 4 - Ascendant Insanity

Brett Finnicum / KamikazePotato

Aethon Books

Copyright © 2023 Brett Finnicum & Aethon Books

All rights reserved.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Dedication

I wouldn't have been able to come as far as I have without a ton of help along the way. This book is dedicated to my family, who have given me unwavering support from the very beginning. I'd also like to thank the people of Spacebattles, Royal Road, and the HFY subreddit for making my story a success online. Board 8 helped me hone my writing skills over the years, and author MelasD deserves a big mention for all his advice on how to self-publish – and do it right. Lastly, I'd like to thank all the fans who helped make Books 1-3 a success on Amazon, as well as my Patrons for the incredible financial support that's helped make writing this story sustainable,. Without the help of all these people, there would be no An Outcast In Another World.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Summary of Book 3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Character Sheet and Skills At The End of Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Character Sheet and Skills At The End of Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Character Sheet and Skills At The End of Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51 (Epilogue)

More Story Up Ahead

An Outcast In Another World: Duel to the Death

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Afterword

About The Author

What Else?

Summary of Book 3

Author’s Note:

This is a summary of the events of Book 3 (Rising Insanity) for those who need a refresher. If you’d like to jump straight into the action, feel free to ignore this section and skip straight to Chapter 1.

--

The start of Book 3 begins directly after the end of Book 2. Rob, having prevailed over the aberrant Dungeon with the help of his Party, decided to Attune to the Locus of Power within Esternard City. He believes that, despite the risks, doing so might give him a new ability of some sort. While Attuning, Rob is transported to an astral plane where he encounters one of the gods of Elatra. In a fit of rage, he attempts to choke out the god, which doesn't faze it in the slightest.

Upon waking, Rob immediately tells his friends and the Elders about what transpired, to their shock and disbelief. He explains how he believes that the gods are malicious, citing examples of system messages screwing with him. Orn'tol relays his own examples as further proof. Rob offhandedly taunts the gods, and is promptly subjected to an extended mental message from one of them. As the god's voice eventually peters out, it mentions running out of something called Influence.

Days of preparation pass. The Deserters plan to head north to Broadwater City, as Esternard City is incapable of supporting them. They're worried about heading farther north and potentially running into the soul-stealing Fiends, but they have no choice. Before they leave, Rob hands the Ring of Waterdwelling over to Urian the Artificer so he can hopefully upgrade it.

The Deserters start traveling. On the way, Rob notices Zamira's affections for Keira, but doesn't know how to resolve the situation in a way that won't hurt anyone. In Dragonkin territory, Dragon Queen Ragnavi torments her subjects in a fit of madness and reminisces about her husband and children who died in the war. She then starts flying north as well, having received news that something might be amiss there. Seneschal Sylpeiros of the Elves is still dealing with the Blight's siege on Reviton City. Not wanting to waste resources, he decides to tackle a Dungeon by himself.

When the Deserters draw close to Broadwater City, they are suddenly ambushed by a fully-grown Blight. It slaughters hundreds of them, inflicts heavy Corruption on Rob and Elder Duran, then chases them into the city – which has a strange barrier keeping the Blight from entering.

Seneschal Sylpeiros barely survives his Dungeon escapade, ending up rescued by Kenzotul the Saboteur, who gives him some words of advice about not holding on to hatred before leaving.

Inside Broadwater City, the Deserters assess their casualties. Elder Duran – and many other Fiends – have been infected with so much Corruption that they're left comatose. While exploring the city, Riardin's Rangers encounter a group of Fiends inside a building. After a small scuffle, Rob realizes that the Fiends are speaking Spanish, of all things. He uses his basic grasp of rudimentary Spanish to learn Fiendish Auto-Translate, then starts communicating with the Fiends.

Everyone is absolutely shocked by this, as no one has ever been able to speak 'Fiendish' until then. The Fiends turn out to be reasonable people who agree to meet with the Deserters and form an alliance. Zamira suffers brain damage when learning Fiendish Auto-Translate, implying that there's a fundamental block hindering Fiends and non-Fiends from communicating.

On Earth, the Blight begins to invade. Jason unlocks his own incomplete Character Sheet.

The Deserters meet with the Fiends to negotiate. The Fiend leader Goroth seems to have the upper-hand until Diplomacy manipulates him into a more equal partnership. They agree to find a way to escape Broadwater City and the Blight together. Unfortunately, at their next meeting, Rob is ambushed by a group of extremist Fiends who call Rob a soul-eating monstrosity, claiming that his soul is disgustingly grotesque and unlike any Human they've ever seen. Riardin's Rangers chase the Fiends to capture them, after which Keira cuts off their legs despite them being at her mercy. Zamira laments that she couldn't keep Keira from treading a bit farther down a darker path, despite promising to do so.

With the extremists captured, the Deserters and Fiends reconcile. They meet with Goroth, who reveals that Fiend territory is being ravaged by a Corruption epidemic. Rob theorizes that he'll learn an anti-Corruption Skill if he Attunes to enough Loci of Power. Goroth also reveals that the Fiends know teleport magic, and are preparing to teleport back to Fiend territory once preparations are complete.

Riardin's Rangers spend some bonding time together along with Faelynn the Fiend. Meyneth, having grown tired of watching the romantic stagnation around her, decides to take matters into her own hands. First, she confronts Keira and makes her admit that she has feelings for Rob, and is aware that Zamira likes her, but is afraid of losing either of them as a friend. Second, she confronts Zamira, who admits that she harbors guilt over the way she used to treat Keira in The Village. Afterwards, Zamira seems to come to terms with her feelings, and is ready to move on.

In the divine planes, the gods discuss Rob's accomplishments. Most of them are dismissive, but Kismet believes that Rob is someone worthy of paying attention to.

Over the next few weeks, the Blight sends small parts of itself into Broadwater City, which mutate into Blightspawn. The Blightspawn repeatedly invade Broadwater, pushing the Deserters and Fiends to the brink. During one encounter, Rob temporarily loses himself to Leveling High and gets caught in a trap, resulting in an Elven civilian sacrificing themselves to save him. Rob feels incredibly guilty about this, and resolves not to let something like it happen again.

The Deserters and Fiends are preparing to teleport to Fiend territory when they receive news that Dragon Queen Ragnavi is quickly approaching Broadwater City. When she arrives, she engages in an explosive duel with the Blight. Ragnavi is about to deal the finishing blow when Rob distracts her with a long-distance Enmity spell. As a result, she is inflicted with major Corruption, flying into a frenzied rage. She kills the Blight and nearly kills Rob, who teleports to safety with the Deserters and Fiends at the last second.

In Fiend territory, Rob meets with the Fiends' Grand Overseers. Diplomacy browbeats them during negotiations, getting them to agree to fair treatment for the Deserters, as well as having them research a way to grant Diplomacy its own body. Riardin's Rangers begin secretly traveling around the cities of Fiend territory, Attuning to whatever Loci of Power they find. During one Attunement, Rob sees a vision of the past where Humans during the Scouring discuss employing a desperate, unknown plan called Project Socius.

Eventually, during an Attunement vision, Rob meets with the shining figures he met in his first ever Attunement. They once again ask him to 'set us free'. Rob promises that he will, while pleading for them to help him as well. The mysterious figures accelerate his Attunement growth, causing him to immediately learn Purge Corruption. He also learns a new Crystal Bearer ability: Awaken Class. Rob manages to cure Elder Duran's Corruption in time to save him.

Afterwards, Rob begins Purging the Fiends' Corruption as he Attunes to more Loci of Power. He quickly garners a reputation as the only person who can stop the Corruption epidemic. Due to a minor PR mishap, his name in Fiend territory becomes known as 'Roy', which Rob learns to roll with.

Things are finally starting to improve when a Corruptive wind from Nevermore City blankets Fiend territory, worsening the epidemic. A mass of Fiends heavily afflicted with Corruption merge and mutate into a Flesh Amalgamation, who Malika communicates with using mana before granting it a mercy kill.

Afterwards, the god Kismet contacts Rob via a mental message. They chat, Kismet asking Rob about his motivations. Rob learns that the gods have an energy source they want to conserve. Kismet gives him a hint about what he will gain if he Attunes to more Loci of Power.

Thanks to Kismet's hint, Rob knows that strengthening Purge Corruption will eventually boost it to the point where it can restore Corrupted Loci of Power. If so, he can enter Nevermore City and stop the source of the epidemic. Unfortunately, there aren't any un-Attuned Loci left in Fiend territory. Duran suggests a surprise visit to Merfolk territory, as he knows of an area within it where a Locus of Power is likely to reside.

Using the Ring of Waterdwelling upgraded by Urian, Riardin's Rangers enter Merfolk territory. After days of travel and shark attacks, they discover the Locus of Power. Naturally, it's being guarded by Merfolk, who themselves are being beset by a Blight trying to infest the Locus. The Merfolk King arrives and fights Riardin's Rangers, believing them to be either invaders or tricks of the Blight. They heavily injure – but not kill – the King, and then escape. Angry Merfolk pursue them, chasing Riardin's Rangers to the upper edge of Merfolk territory.

At what seems to be the edge of the world, Riardin's Rangers encounter a bottomless, dark void at the end of Elatra. From inside the void, a great Leviathan emerges and chases them. They take refuge in a mysterious pocket of reality that the Leviathan seems incapable of seeing. The pocket contains a house mimicking nonstandard architecture. Inside that house, Rob finds an ancient tape recording of the final testament of a long-dead person.

The tape describes the world that Elatra used to be, heavily implying that the original Elatra was destroyed by the gods. As Rob listens to the tape, he notices that the recorder's name is obscured by a divine filter whenever they try to say it. Rob uses Recall to play the name in his head repeatedly, brute forcing a Level increase of Almighty Resistance and letting him learn the name: Valaire.

Exiting the pocket of reality, Riardin's Rangers make their way back to the Locus of Power, where a group of Merfolk are holding the Blight at bay. Things take a turn for the worse when the Leviathan arrives as well, resulting in the Blight infecting it. Quickly, Rob Attunes to the Locus of Power, speaking briefly with the gods about their motives. He gains the ability to restore Corrupted Loci, uses Purge Corruption to force the Corrupted Leviathan to flee, and Waymarks home after telling the Merfolk to contact him if they need help.

While Riardin's Rangers prepare to purify the Locus of Power in Nevermore City, Rob visits a clandestine Fiend called the High Soulseer. The Soulseer examines his soul, informing Rob that unless Diplomacy is removed soon, the Skill will be subsumed into Rob's consciousness. He also reveals that the Fiend and Humans of Elatra are biologically identical to mana-spawned monsters, a fact which would devastate the Fiends if it was discovered. After leaving, Rob comes to the conclusion that Elatra was shaped by the gods for the purpose of causing endless conflict.

Meanwhile, Orn'tol is ambushed by a Ranger who deduced that the young boy learned an EXP-boosting Skill called Helping Hand and kept it secret. He threatens to out Orn'tol's lies to the Party, prompting Orn'tol to come close to killing him. Rob arrives, beats the crap out of the Ranger, and comforts Orn'tol, assuring him that everything is alright. Helping Hand then evolves into Sharing Hand, an ability which lets everyone in the Party gain partial EXP from each others' kills.

The next day, Riardin's Rangers enter the Blighted Lands of Nevermore City. They fight their way to the center, where Rob successfully purifies the Locus of Power, saving Fiend territory from the Corruption epidemic. To celebrate, Riardin's Rangers hold a party and get absolutely wasted. Rob and Keira end up sleeping together, and after a heart-to-heart, officially confess their feelings and start a relationship.

Zamira works past her feelings for Keira, and the two agree to still be friends. Around the same time, Meyneth reveals to Vul'to that she desires nothing more than to kill her abusive parents. Vul'to offers his full support in this endeavor.

Seneschal Sylpeiros successfully guilt-trips Kenzotul about his role in the Scouring, but it just makes him feel hollow. When the Merfolk contact him to notify him of the risk that Rob represents, Sylpeiros – surprising himself – tells the Merfolk to make peace with Riardin's Rangers and the Fiends.

Finally, Riardin's Rangers teleport back to The Village where it all began. As a gift to his Elven friends, Rob purifies The Village's Locus of Power, renewing his vow to oppose the gods.

Chapter 1

Quiet days are the best.

That was what Rob thought – without a hint of irony – as he used magic to cleanse an eldritch infestation from a Fiend's soul. The Fiend in question was writhing in discomfort, teeth grit as Purge Corruption seared away the infection within them bit-by-bit. Rob did his best to ignore his patient's distress and focus on curing them; after all, it was hardly the first time someone had displayed an adverse reaction to the Purging process. Some Fiends felt refreshed, like drinking a glass of cool water on a hot day, but many others felt even worse than Rob's current patient, as if the process was akin to being flayed alive.

Unfortunately, more of them were trending towards the latter reaction as time went on. Corruption wasn't an inanimate object; it was a parasite with an instinctual will of its own, and parasites survived by entrenching themselves as deeply as possible into their hosts. It was common for Rob to find that the souls he was Purging were wrapped in tendrils of Corruption, squeezed tight by a vice grip that refused to let go. In the worst cases, he'd find that Corruption had dug into his patient's soul with ephemeral spikes spreading out in multiple directions, forming a lattice that would have been impossible to excise via pure force. Rob couldn't just powerwash the Fiends' souls with Blue energy and call it a day anymore – he had to be precise, taking care not to cause them undue pain.

It made for a nice break from the usual death-defying situations he'd found himself in since coming to Elatra. Performing invasive soul surgery required concentration, but after tens of thousands of operations, he'd gotten used to the process. It was similar to how heart surgery was a terrifying prospect to a layman, but to a heart surgeon, it was just another day at the office. Compared to fighting Blightspawn, or traveling across Elatra, or Dungeon diving, or fleeing from a Leviathan...yeah, Rob was perfectly happy with Purging Corruption like it was a nine-to-five job. As far as he was concerned, the last few weeks had been a vacation.

Although I might be the only one who sees it that way, he mused, moving on to his next patient. Most of the Deserters were still busy acclimating to their new living environment. While they were being treated reasonably well by the Fiends, the change in scenery was proving difficult to handle for Elves who'd spent their whole lives in Ixatan forest. In some ways, things had made more sense when they were on the run, despite the dangers involved. Back then, there'd been clear destinations, clear enemies, and clear goals to strive for. 'Reach Broadwater City' was simpler to parse than 'Come To Terms With Your Status As an Expat In Potentially Hostile Territory'.

Personally, Rob didn't give a shit. He'd always been an expat in potentially hostile territory. Fiendland was pretty chill, really, especially considering the whole blood feud between Humans and Fiends. His reputation here was significantly better than it'd ever been with the rest of Elatra.

And it only took saving the entire fucking nation to get them on his side.

<Don't forget the theater performances based on your achievements, 'Roy',> Diplomacy cheerfully reminded.

Rob winced, causing his current patient to panic and think that something had gone horribly wrong. After calming the poor soul down, Rob replied back to Diplomacy, being careful to keep his expression neutral for the sake of bedside manner. As if I could ever forget the plays, he internally sighed. Did you know they're making it into a trilogy? With the third one being based on events they've completely made up? They're writing freaking fanfiction! They even paired me and Keira up before we became official!

<That's because everyone with a working pair of eyes knew that you possessed feelings for one another.>

Rob declined to comment. He glanced at Keira, who was sitting a few feet away, and shot her a small grin. She returned it with one of her own, then went back to standing vigil over him, watching his patient like a hawk, on alert in case Danger Sense pinged. Rob appreciated the care, although he thought she was going a bit overboard with the protection detail this time. In his tens of thousands of patients, he'd only been attacked by one crazy ranting about Corruption being the Fiends' rightful punishment for their sins and blah blah.

<That crazy stabbed you in the eye, though,> Diplomacy remarked.

So what? I've got 1250 HP. Rob was pretty sure that he could survive a bomb to the face, even without using Lifesurge or Not A Scratch. And it's not like I can make much small talk with her while working on traumatized, Corruption-riddled Fiends. I'm worried that Keira is wasting her free time on 'protecting' me when she could be doing other things.

<Other things like what?>

The Skill had a point. That was another reason why the past few weeks only felt like a vacation to Rob: his friends were sorely lacking in hobbies. Training to hone their skills was always an option, but that had diminishing returns. You could only swing a sword for so long until your body and brain demanded a reprieve. In The Village they could still patrol the woods and hunt easy game, but now the Deserters were living in a city with walls, and their food was being supplied by the Fiends. There just wasn't much for Riardin's Rangers to do without an immediate enemy that needed killing.

At least they weren't totally hopeless. Zamira had been practicing her singing more often. Meyneth was  attempting to socialize with a few of the Elves. With varying degrees of success, but she was trying nonetheless. Malika was slowly getting into novels – mostly romance novels about star-crossed lovers, by Earth standards meant that she was going through her 'Twilight' phase. Orn'tol had seen one of the Fiends' plays last week, and asked to go to another just yesterday.

Those were baby steps, in general, but baby steps were better than nothing. The only two members of Riardin's Rangers who'd shown zero progress were Keira, who in retrospect was probably guarding him because she was bored, and Vul'to, who was...

What was Vul'to doing recently? Rob felt a pang of guilt at the fact that he didn't know. Vul'to was totally the type of guy to fade into the background without a trace if no one reached out to him. Rob had seen plenty of people like that in high school and college. Heck, without Jason's influence, Rob himself could have been one of those people.

We should check up on him, Rob decided. Diplomacy, what's my schedule for the rest of the day?

<I'm not your secretary.> The Skill let out an exaggerated sigh. <But you should be in the clear. Elder Duran is resting, and Elder Alessia is meeting with the Grand Overseers, so they're busy. Your meeting with your Soul Surgeon is in three days. Barring an unexpected incident, making plans to see Vul'to won't contradict with any prior engagements.>

Sounds good. I'll ask Keira to come along, too. The more the merrier.

Diplomacy's core froze in exasperation for a moment. <For the record, you might not have enough time to visit Vul'to if you and Keira happen to get...distracted, again.>

Rob fought back the blush inching into his cheeks, and for the millionth time, wished he knew the Poker Face Skill. We aren't that bad.

<Broom closet.>

New couple, Rob countered. It's gonna be extra exciting for a while, and I for one am not complaining.

Diplomacy rolled its nonexistent eyes. <As if I needed another reason to get my own body. Going into power-saving mode twice a day for the sake of my sanity is getting old. Thank Christ that the Fiends claim they have a solution in the works.>

Rob's embarrassment dimmed as he remembered that he and Diplomacy were on a timer. According to the High Soulseer's observations, Rob's soul was going to absorb Diplomacy's in the near future. A consequence of one soul piggybacking off of another. Unavoidable, unless they took drastic measures.

Thankfully, it was looking like the Fiends' Soul Surgeons were going to be able to prevent that outcome from coming to pass – if just barely in the nick of time. They'd started investigating the issue after Rob first met with the Grand Overseers and asked them to devise a way to give Diplomacy a body. He could've asked them to look into removing Leveling High, or to find a way to get him back to Earth, and both those options had been tempting. In the end, though, he'd wanted to do something nice for his friend. Diplomacy deserved better.

Just as well. If he'd asked the Fiends to prioritize his other wishes, Diplomacy wouldn't have been able to get a body until it was too late. Not every good deed went unrewarded, apparently.

<That's enough,> Diplomacy said, interrupting Rob's brooding. <Didn't intend to remind you of the worst case scenario. I'll be fine, don't worry.> The Skill paused. <Why don't you contact Keira and Vul'to before you forget?>

He couldn't argue with that. Shaking himself out of his funk, Rob activated his new Message Skill and reached out to Keira. The Skill worked suspiciously similar to Earth text messaging, allowing him to silently communicate with anyone that was in his Party. So far it'd proved highly convenient in coordinating his friends' daily lives, although it came with the caveat that his Party members couldn't directly communicate with each other without Rob setting up a 'group chat' that included himself. And if he left the Party, their ability to Message would vanish until he formed the Party again.

Those were minor complaints, though. Being able to Message people felt like a nostalgic slice of home, and that was well-worth having to remake the Party whenever he and Keira needed some...alone time.

Message Started Between Party Members: Rob, Keira

Rob: quick question

Rob: bit worried about vul'to, he seems isolated

Rob: im gonna visit him later, want to join?

Keira: Yes, good idea. It's been a while since I saw him, too.

Rob: neat, will message him asap

Keira: Why are you calling him a sap? He hasn't done anything to deserve that.

Rob: no its

Rob: nvm will explain later

Message Started Between Party Members: Rob, Vul'to

Rob: hey

Rob: what's up

Vul'to: Oh, hello, Rob! How has your day been thus far? Are your Purging duties proceeding as planned?

Rob: yeah all quiet on the western front

Rob: which means no eye stabs

Rob: how about you?

Vul'to: It's been a typical day on my part, I'd say. Nothing worthy of note has happened.

Rob: cool cool

Rob: u mind if me and keira visit later? we want to hang out

Vul'to: Assuming that means spending time together, then yes, I would enjoy that very much! I'll be in my personal living quarters for the foreseeable future. I'm looking forward to seeing the two of you.

Rob: awesome, cya later then

His spirits raised, Rob continued Purging Corruption from Fiends for the next few hours. Eventually, after hundreds of thankful patients, his energy stores ran dry, and he exited the Purging station with a spring in his step. Unlike the early days of the Corruption epidemic, where Fiends were succumbing left and right, there weren't any emergency cases he needed to worry about anymore. No one was in danger of dying. He could just put in the hours and reap his well-deserved gratitude – because as painful as Purging Corruption could be, having Corruption was significantly worse, and his services were high in demand.

"That's a nice smile you've got there," Keira said, holding his hand as they walked. "It's almost a shame that Fiend territory will be Corruption-free within the next two weeks, if Purging it puts you in such a good mood."

Rob shook his head. "I'll admit that it's nice playing the hero every now and then-"

"Every now and then, says the person who always jumps headfirst into danger."

He cleared his throat. "Yes, well. As someone who was infected with Corruption not too long ago, I can assure you that I'll celebrate the day when it's been eradicated entirely. Wouldn't wish that fate on my worst enemy."

"Ooooh, so magnanimous," Keira said, in a teasing tone. "We're meeting up with Vul'to now, correct?"

"Yup. He's at his apartment."

Keira nodded. "As much as I was wishing for a repeat of the broom closet, it would be good to see Vul'to. I hope he's been doing well."

Rob's mind blanked out for a solid five seconds. "Wait, you were wishing for-"

He was interrupted by Keira grabbing his head in her hands and kissing him. Aggressively. Some time later, Keira released him, looking like the cat that had caught the canary. "Well?" She said, in a singsong voice. "What are you waiting for? Can't keep our friend waiting." And with that, she ran off, a satisfied smirk on her face.

...I am so fucking lucky.

--

Before heading to Vul'to's place, Rob took a few minutes to re-tighten his Sinner's Shroud, concealed directly underneath his clothes. It was designed to block out the Fiends' Soul Sight, preventing them from being repulsed by his patchwork abomination of a soul. Whatever the gods had done to Rob when bringing him to Elatra and integrating him into the system had fucked up his soul to the point where it caused most Fiends to literally vomit when seeing it for the first time. Faelynn and Rob's doctors were the only Fiends who'd been around him long enough to get used to the sight; for everyone else, the Sinner's Shroud was necessary. No need to ruin his good PR by looking like an actual monster to Joe Schmo on the street.

Speaking of Joe Schmos, there were plenty of them out in force today. Acrastor City was bustling with energy, its inhabitants living life with the fervor of those who'd stared death in the face and been seconds away from blinking. Despite the appearance of both the city and its inhabitants, watching Fiendland thrive reminded Rob of any typical metropolis back on Earth. Sure, Fiend architecture was made up of multicolored buildings that grew from the ground, with the road consisting of a vaguely fleshy substance. And sure, the Fiends themselves were tall, heavily muscled, with ashen-white skin, a black carapace covering half their bodies, and horns growing out of their heads. But there was no difference in the way the city and its populace acted. They were people like any other. People that Rob had helped save from being eaten alive by Corruption.

It was a notion he held close to his heart. Whenever the nightmares came, or whenever doubt started creeping into his heart, he could always remind himself that countless Fiends were alive because of him.

They knew it, too. Rob and Keira were accosted – er, greeted by dozens of passerby on their short trip to Vul'to's apartment, and it would've been hundreds if they hadn't utilized discreet side roads. Some of the Fiends that came up were those who Rob affectionately referred to as 'groupies'; people who'd suffered under the Corruption epidemic to a relatively lesser degree than their peers. They'd been confined to their homes, maybe picked up a bit of Corruption, and understood in an abstract way that the end was nigh, but they hadn't lost anyone or needed emergency Purging treatment. Their gratitude was genuine, although not quite as rooted in desperation.

That wasn't why Rob thought of them as groupies, though. It was because they were extremely likely to ask him for an autograph.

"Thank you so much," the newest Fiend cheered, his eyes sparkling. "I know you must hear that from everyone, but – thank you."

"You're very welcome," Rob replied, grinning from ear to ear. "And don't worry – hearing that never gets old."

The Fiends hesitated. "If...it's possible, can you-"

Rob summoned a pen and paper from his Spatial Storage. "Who do you want it made out to?"

The second type of Fiend that tended to approach Rob were those who'd been more directly affected by the Corruption epidemic. Either by loss, or the Corruption itself. They weren't there for autographs; they were there for closure.

"You probably don't remember me," the next Fiend began, her voice trembling. "But I was one of the lucky few who was blessed by your early Purging ministrations. Don't think I'd be standing here today otherwise. I had...in my body...it hurt so much..."

"It's okay," Rob soothed. "You don't need to say it out loud."

Her posture relaxed, visible relief clear on her face. "Right. I...thank you. For that, and everything." She closed her eyes and inclined her head. "You have my deepest gratitude."

Appreciation from people like them hit different.

Thankfully, Keira was hardly left out of the festivities. More than one person came up to express their thanks to her as well.

"You saved my sister," another Fiend said, staring at Keira like she was a goddess of war. "Cut down a Level 30 monster in the blink of an eye. I've never seen anything like it."

Keira shifted uncomfortably, caught between embarrassment and relishing in the man's praise. "It was nothing much," she eventually stated, with a straightforward tone. "Anyone else would have done the same. Just remember that I can't always be there to protect you when danger arises. Watch yourself, understand?"

The Fiend nodded intently, running off with an air of giddiness. Keira watched him go, a complicated expression on her face. "Is it wrong that I never want to leave this place?' She whispered, in a voice flush with guilt. "If a new Village was built in Elven territory, and it was safe, and we were invited to live there...I don't think I'd go."

"You were planning to leave The Village before all this shit went down, anyway," Rob pointed out.

"I would still have returned to Elven territory on occasion. Wandering the world isn't the same as making a new territory your permanent abode." She crossed her arms. "I know that the only reason the Fiends have accepted us is because we were useful to them. Are useful to them. But..."

Rob put his arm around her waist. "I think this is one of those things that you shouldn't overthink," he said, pulling her close. "Just soak in the gratitude and have fun decorating your new home."

Keira slowly nodded in response. Rob knew that his words hadn't completely reached her; not that he'd expected them to. Elatrans seemed to possess an instinctual desire to stay in their race's native territory. It was part of why the Deserters were having trouble adjusting to Fiendland. Travel was uncommon, and immigration was rare, far moreso than on Earth. Rob wasn't sure if it was due to social norms, the gods messing with people's subconscious thoughts in order to keep nations at odds, or both.

Regardless of the reason, he suspected that most Deserters wouldn't agree with Keira's view on living in Fiendland. As much as they hated how the Elven Seneschal had treated them, it was his presence south – and the danger of being near his army – that was keeping them north. Not some enduring rebellion against all of Elfkind. If the opportunity arose, they'd make tracks for Elven territory once it was safe for them to do so.

Only a few more solicitors showed up after that. Soon enough, Rob and Keira arrived at Vul'to's personal quarters – and to their surprise, they found that he wasn't alone.

"Greetings," Meyneth said, giving them a languid wave. "Be forewarned: I may speak less than usual. My social energies have been drained by those who preceded you."

Rob glanced at Vul'to, who shook his head in denial. A moment later, realization struck. "Asha," Rob concluded. "Your new Elf friend. How's it going with her?"

"Terrible," the Dragonkin grumbled. "She asks me a multitude of questions I've little notion of how to answer. Things such as...how my day is going, and how I'm feeling, and...ugh. It's no better than an interrogation."

"I think that's called 'being friendly', Meyneth."

She groaned under her breath. "Socializing. Don't know how people do it so often. I'm perfectly happy being left to my own devices."

Rob noted to himself that Meyneth wasn't saying that she wouldn't meet with Asha again. He also noted that, despite Meyneth's professed lack of 'social energies', she'd still come to visit Vul'to.

<Don't mention that,> Diplomacy advised. <She doesn't want to talk about it.>

"Why are you here with Vul'to?" Keira asked, causing Rob to barely suppress a facepalm. "Shouldn't you be resting in your room if meeting with Asha drained you so?"

Meyneth winced as she comprehended the trap she'd set for herself. "Ah. That's..."

"We were merely discussing things," Vul'to cut in, a strained smile on his face.

"Things?" Keira parroted.

"Things."

She blinked a few times, then shrugged and glanced at Rob. It was a look he immediately interpreted as 'I don't know what's going on, so it's your turn to direct the conversation'.

Okay, he thought, cogs spinning in his head. We should avoid bringing up whatever Vul'to and Meyneth were doing before we arrived. Not sure how direct I should be regarding why we visited, though. Might put Vul'to on the spot if we say we're worried about him.

<He may be receptive to that sort of discussion in a one-on-one setting,> Diplomacy explained. <But not in a group. Especially with Meyneth around. Talk with him normally – that's what he'd prefer most at the moment.>

You're a lifesaver. Idly, Rob considered how it was going to be a lot harder to help out his friends once Diplomacy got their own body – a thought he harshly shoved aside. He'd already made it through the vast majority of his life without Diplomacy shoring up his conversational deficiencies, and his friends would still like him even if he was a little less charismatic.

Probably.

"So hey!" Rob said, in a voice that was a bit too loud. "Congrats on hitting Level 40, Vul'to. That's a pretty big milestone."

A shy smile spread across the Guardian's face. "No need to mention it," he said. "Besides, your Level 51 is much more impressive. There are scarce few Combat Class users in Elatra who can claim that accomplishment."

"That reminds me," Keira interjected. "Rob, have you spent the ten stat points you gained from your last two Levels yet?"

"Nope, and I refuse to."

The three Elatrans in the room gaped at him in disbelief. "We went into Nevermore City weeks ago," Keira said, baffled.

"Do you have any idea how many times my bacon has been saved by last-minute stat spending?" Rob countered. "Other people might tailor their builds to specific fighting styles, but personally, I just want to live. It makes sense to hold onto my stat points until encountering a dilemma that calls for specific needs."

"Such as?"

Rob held up his fingers, one-by-one, as he rattled off a list. "If we fight a monster that's extra durable, I'll need more Strength. If they're extra fast, I'll need Dexterity. If I'm at risk of dying, I'll need Vitality to boost my HP. If a monster is extra sneaky or...let's see...turns invisible, I'll need Perception. And if a situation calls for using extra Skills, I'll need Magic to boost my MP."

Meyneth raised an eyebrow. "That's quite paranoid."

He let out a wry chuckle. "And I'm still alive, aren't I?"

The four of them continued chatting for several hours longer. Vul'to stayed quiet for most of it, although he seemed to be enjoying himself. Rob – with Diplomacy's assistance – attempted to coax him out of his shell in a manner that wouldn't put him on the spot or make him feel uncomfortable. It was slow going, but progress was made, so they elected to count it as a victory.

Eventually, the conversation wound down, and everyone agreed it was time to turn in for the night. Rob and Keira said their goodbyes and left – while noticing that Meyneth didn't. Keira, her expression brimming with excitement, barely waited until they were out of Heightened Senses range before blurting out what was on her mind. "Why is Meyneth there?" she asked. "With Vul'to? Alone?"

"They're friends," Rob offered. "Friends hang out."

"You mean like how you and I were 'friends' who just so happened to enjoy spending time alone?"

Rob smirked. "Okay, fair enough." He tapped his finger on his thigh. "Vul'to might have a crush on her. I could see that. Kind of hard for me to imagine Meyneth going for him, though. Or anyone in general."

"You're not wrong, but it's more fun to theorize." Keira tilted her head, imagination running wild. "For all we know, they could be confessing their feelings at this very instant!"

--

Vul'to waited until Rob and Keira were well out of Heightened Senses range before speaking. "Continuing where we left off," he began, facing Meyneth. "When we hunt down your parents, how much pain would you prefer to inflict upon them?"

She frowned, falling silent as she contemplated his question. "How much would be appropriate?"

"It's your revenge. You get to choose."

Meyneth's eyes glinted with malice. "Let's start by constructing a list of all the ways they've wronged me," she hissed. "I want their punishment to equal their sins."

--

"Well, if they are confessing their feelings, I wish them the best of luck," Rob said. "Being in a relationship with someone you love is pretty fucking awesome."

Keira gave him a warm smile and laced her fingers with his. They walked together in a pleasant silence, avoiding the main roads and sticking to the shadows to avoid being spotted. This was a nice moment; no need to ruin it by handing out autographs.

Rob let that nice moment persist until his hormones got the better of him. "You know," he stated, in an excessively nonchalant tone, "I don't have anything to do for the rest of the night."

Keira's smile turned devilish. "Your place or mine?"

Life is good, Rob mused, as their pace quickened. No matter how anyone else in the Deserters felt about the last few weeks, to him, it'd definitely been a vacation. One he was going to treasure for as long as it lasted.

Until the quiet days came to an end.

They always did.

Chapter 2

"So can we skip to the part where we fuck with the Blight?"

Thirteen pairs of eyes turned to look at Rob. Today's big group meeting consisted of Riardin's Rangers, Elder Alessia, Elder Duran, Faelynn, and a couple of the Grand Overseers. Rob had never bothered to learn the Overseers' names, not when he could always Identify them to remind himself. Committing their names to memory would've required him to erase a bit of superhero trivia in order to make room, and that wasn't a worthwhile trade at all.

"Just saying," he continued, "that we've been discussing logistics for a while now, instead of the main thing that's on everyone's mind."

"Matters related to the Blight are likely to develop into a protracted conversation," Grand Overseer Someone-Or-Other replied. "As such, we felt it prudent to resolve other subjects first, lest we neglect to address them."

"The Merfolk are shy, but Duran is making inroads with them," Rob began, in a tone like he was reading from a grocery list. "The Dwarves have barricaded themselves in their hidey-hole. The Dragon Queen has been similarly silent ever since she ate a facefull of Corruption. Meanwhile, domestic morale is high. The Corruption epidemic is close to eradicated. Life is returning to normal. The Deserters are getting along with the Fiends. Tickets to the recent play based on Riardin's Rangers have sold out. My hand is getting tired from signing autographs." He grinned. "That about cover everything?"

Grand Overseer #2 sighed, and Rob's grin deepened. Maybe he shouldn't mess with them quite so much, but in all honesty, he was still annoyed with how they'd initially treated him when the Deserters arrived at Fiendland. This was his way of taking harmless revenge. Was it petty? Yes. Was it fun? Absolutely.

"Consider yourself lucky," Grand Overseer #2 muttered, "that you aren't involved in organizing the small details of domestic affairs. You wouldn't be so glib if you'd been neck-deep in stacks of paper until the sun crested well below the horizon."

What horizon? Rob bitterly mused. Can't see it over the yawning, pitch-black abyss enclosing Elatra. Only Riardin's Rangers knew of it; they'd been 'blessed' with the capacity to view That Which Should Not Be Seen after skirting too close to the edge of the world. Now, whenever Rob looked at the horizon, he saw the void, a towering wall of nothingness enclosing Elatra's borders as if it was a cage. Omnipresent. All-consuming. The warm, vibrant sunsets he'd enjoyed in the past were gone, never to return.

It didn't help that the void also reminded him of what else they'd found at the edge of the world. Inside a pocket of frozen reality, there had been an impossibly modern building, containing the last testament of a person named Valaire. Within their testament, Valaire had described how their original world was destroyed – before presumably being remade into what Elatra was now.

A manufactured existence for the sake of fostering endless conflict.

Riardin's Rangers had unanimously decided not to inform anyone of what they'd discovered. It would distress people at best, cause a mass panic at worst, for no discernible upside. That didn't mean they were happy about suffering in silence. Looking at the void horizon inspired a distinct sense of unease, one that chipped away at their psyches like a chisel on stone. It had gotten to the point where someone simply mentioning the word 'horizon' made Rob want to blurt out what he knew. Show them what he saw.

Thankfully, before he could say something he would regret, Zamira cut in. "I'm certain that your paperwork is very stressful," she told the Grand Overseer, in a perfectly neutral tone. "If that's how you feel, then I'd like to propose an exchange. Riardin's Rangers shall take over your clerical duties, and the Grand Overseers will dedicate themselves to fighting Blightspawn and expunging Dungeons. Does that sound agreeable to you?"

"...Perhaps we should move on to our plans regarding the Blight."

Orn'tol and Malika nodded intently, looking as if they'd been granted a stay of execution. Rob could only imagine that they were regretting their life choices right about now. The young siblings had originally been told they could skip out on the meeting; after all, there wasn't much they could offer to the nitty-gritty of running a nation. Both had steadfastly refused, probably wanting to come across as mature adults. Unfortunately for them, they were early teenagers, with early teenager attention spans.

<As if you're any better,> Diplomacy commented. The Skill chuckled, their core pulsing with mirth. <Admittedly, neither am I. Tempted to go into power-saving mode until this meeting is finished. The rest of Elatra would faint in shock if it ever learned just how ordinarily *boring* Fiend society is. At least when it isn't being ravaged by a Corruption epidemic.>

I know, right? Rob sighed internally. Where's the ritualistic sacrifice and soul-eating buffets? I'd take that over another Fiend bigwig asking to be punted up the Purge Corruption waiting list. They still haven't learned that their bribes don't mean shit.

Technically speaking, Rob was broke. He didn't own a single penny to his name. In a broader sense, he was the richest person in all of Fiendland, because he could ask for almost anything and they'd give it to him. The public loved him, and more importantly, they needed him. No one else in the world could cure Corruption. Without Rob, everyone in Fiendland would have perished – and they'd be just as fucked if the Corruption epidemic restarted and he wasn't around. He couldn't be coerced, either, as being an Awakened Level 51 Combat Class user meant that he was close to invincible unless he ran into an Elatran Leader or got ganged up on by a group of elite fighters.

That...was more power than he was comfortable with. Abusing his authority in order to annoy the Grand Overseers was one thing; the notion that he could turn into an actual despot if he truly wanted to felt disquieting. Like if someone had handed him a loaded gun while silently begging that he never fired it.

"Rob?"

The Human flinched at the sound of his name being called. "Whuh?" He mumbled, brain catching up to the present. "Sorry, was talking to Diplomacy. What'd I miss?"

Grand Overseer #1 glared at him. "We were ceding the floor to you. Describe your intentions, in full detail."

"Right," Rob began. "I'll cut straight to the point. Once I finish up Purging the Corruption in Fiendland, I want to go on a Locus revival world tour. Nevermore City and The Village aren't the only places that have had their Loci of Power desecrated by the Blight. This is-"

"One moment," Elder Alessia interrupted, turning to face the Grand Overseers. "Before we continue, I'd like to hear confirmation. The Blight hasn't made any attempts to re-infect the Locus of Power in Nevermore City, correct?"

It was an important question. Rob could hardly go gallivanting across Elatra if Fiendland was still in danger. Thankfully, Grand Overseer #1 shook his head in response. "We've kept a close eye on Nevermore City, and as far as we're aware, the Blight has surrendered its claim on the Locus."

He held up a hand. "Keep in mind that we also don't know exactly what that implies. The Blight may currently be avoiding Fiend territory because of Rob's presence. That condition would change if he left to go on this 'world tour' he's suggesting. The Blight may also simply be unable to infect a Locus that Rob has previously revitalized. There's no way to know; restoring Loci of Power is a new ability with merely two examples of data to extrapolate from. And even if that is the case, there's no guarantee that the Blight will remain unable to re-infect Loci in the future."

Rob raised an eyebrow. "I'm guessing you're not a fan of my idea?"

"Dissenting opinions are important in any major discussion," the Overseer explained. He gestured to himself, then to his colleagues. "And as the nominal Leaders of Fiend territory, our decisions carry heavy weight. We won't agree to any course of action that will endanger our people."

"I fail to see how revitalizing Loci of Power is going to endanger anyone," Rob countered. "Seems like it'd do the opposite."

"To start with: you would risk drawing the Blight's attention."

Rob thought back to the very first Blight from The Village. He'd taunted it so effectively that it burned the last of its life energy to kill him. Then there was the Blight from Broadwater City, which he cast Enmity on, gaining its full and undivided attention for a solid minute. Then there was the Blight infesting the Leviathan in Merfolk territory, which he'd heavily damaged and sent packing with Purge Corruption.

"Yeeeeeah," Rob drawled, exhaling deeply. "I think that ship has sailed."

Everyone in the room shifted uncomfortably as they comprehended the implications of his statement.

"Be that as it may," Grand Overseer #2 eventually said, her voice wavering almost imperceptibly. "What purpose would revitalizing other Loci of Power in areas far away from Fiend territory serve? We possess little evidence that doing so directly harms the Blight. It wouldn't contribute to our goals in the slightest." She hesitated. "Speaking bluntly, it seems to me that this idea partially stems from a position of vengeful egoism."

Rob winced. She wasn't entirely wrong, really. Part of his reason for suggesting the Locus world tour was because he wanted to stick it to the Blight. To show the abominations that they could be beaten. For once, Rob wanted to be proactive instead of reactive – but he understood why that sort of reasoning wouldn't appeal to the Fiends. They were still licking their wounds from the last crisis. He needed to give them a tangible benefit to work with.

"There are probably Loci of Power that were Corrupted near other cities," he put forth. "We just don't know about them, as we haven't been in contact with the rest of Elatra. Revitalizing a Locus in, say, Elven territory – like what we did with The Village, except with witnesses – would earn a lot of brownie points for us."

"For you, you mean."

Rob shook his head. "I'm allied with Fiendland, remember? My accolades would reflect well on you."

The Grand Overseers appeared shocked for a brief moment before reinstating their poker faces. Apparently, they weren't yet used to the concept of a Human openly admitting allegiance with them. It was going to take their subconscious some time to internalize that the Fiends' and Humans' millennia-long blood feud was over.

Looking around, Rob was pleased to see that Faelynn – unlike the Grand Overseers – wasn't surprised by his assertion. He'd expected as much, but it was always a nice feeling to trust and be trusted in return. She made for a good eighth Party member.

Speaking of...

Message Started Between Party Members: Rob, Faelynn

Rob: btw

Rob: i mean, by the way

Rob: if i go on the world tour, you get to come with, as your my party's primary fiend liaison

Rob: which means you prob become known across elatra as a heroic fiend helping to save the day

Rob: just sayin

Faelynn froze, her eyes widening with equal parts nervousness and anticipation. Rob wondered how many stories she'd read while growing up that were centered around that exact idea. The Fiends in general had a – very reasonable – chip on their shoulder over being ostracized by the rest of Elatra. Whichever Fiend first managed to break that mold would go down in history as a legend.

"I think Rob's proposal is a fine idea," Faelynn interjected. Her words started out as robotic, but gradually became more natural as she picked up steam. "Fiend territory can't stay isolated forever. Eventually, the Blight's spread will likely force us into contact with the other nations, and it's better if we meet with them on our terms. As saviors, hopefully."

Message Continued Between Party Members: Rob, Faelynn

Faelynn: A heroic Fiend...known across Elatra...sounds rather appealing.

Faelynn: ...Please don't tell anyone about this conversation. I would be so embarrassed!

Rob: haha no worries

Rob: my lips r sealed

The Grand Overseers fell into quiet contemplation, each of them considering her words. Before they could respond, Elder Duran spoke up. "Revitalizing Loci of Power in foreign territory is fraught with more perils than you might initially assume," he began, adopting his lecture voice. "Convincing others to accept our assistance will be extremely difficult. The Cataclysm is too fresh of a wound for them to easily trust a Human, especially one who has allied himself with Fiends. Combat Class users and Utility Class users alike will be wary of allowing Fiends into their borders, lest they end up with their souls devoured."

Duran held up his hand, forestalling the burgeoning outcry from Faelynn and the Grand Overseers. "We understand that you would never partake in such barbaric practices," Duran continued, "but the rest of Elatra does not. Prejudices aren't so easily overturned as that. Before they can trust us, we must show our worth."

He pointed at a map currently splayed out on their conference table. At the western edge of Elatra, covering a good 10% of the continent's landmass, was an area denoted via pure black coloration. "The Deadlands," Elder Duran spat, as if uttering a curse, "contain dozens of Corrupted Loci that are ripe for restoration. Reducing the Deadlands' boundaries even by a fraction would serve as irrefutable proof of our intentions and capabilities."

Everyone else froze as they realized what Duran was suggesting. The Deadlands had been a geographical fixture of Elatra for well over a thousand years. They were the result of the Blight's invasion during ancient times, a testament to what would happen if Elatra failed to repel its invaders. Eradicating the Deadlands would be equivalent to moving mountains; it just wasn't possible.

Not without Purge Corruption, anyway.

"That would make a hell of a statement," Rob said, giving two thumbs-up. "I'm in."

"Don't be so rash," Grand Overseer #2 cautioned. "The Deadlands aren't freshly-Blighted Lands that are in the process of Corrupting the surrounding area. They've endured longer than any living being in Elatra. We've no idea what lies within them. You'd be subjecting yourselves to great, unknown danger."

"Oh no," Keira drawled, in a tone dripping with sarcasm. "Danger, you say? For Riardin's Rangers? Why, that would be unprecedented."

Malika let out a snicker, and Orn'tol did his best to suppress his own. The Grand Overseers' composure broke for an instant, their faces transforming to expressions of 'what did I do to deserve this?' before reverting back to masks of political neutrality. "Is there anyone among your number who would oppose an excursion into the Deadlands?"

No one said a word. Out of curiosity, Rob tried to muster even an ounce of nervousness, and found that he just didn't care. Logically, he should. The Deadlands were uncharted territory. Anything could be lurking inside them.

But whatever was, it couldn't be worse than the Leviathan and the endless void it called home. Nothing else would ever give him the existential terror he'd felt in that moment. Compared to that, the Deadlands may as well have been an amusement park.

"...Very well," the Grand Overseer said. "We'll begin making preparations, then. It'll take some time, and Rob will need to undergo Soul Surgery to remove Diplomacy first, but if you're certain of this course, then we'll proceed."

The Elders and every member of Riardin's Rangers nodded. Without hesitation.

Rob wasn't the only one who wanted to stick it to the Blight.

--

The Elven district was lively today. Not quite as lively as the rest of Acrastor City, but that was to be expected. Prior to arriving in Fiend territory, the Deserters had survived no less than three different Blight invasions in three different cities. The Corruption epidemic was just another in the long line of catastrophes they'd managed to overcome. Rather than the overwhelming relief that the Fiends were exhibiting, the Elves were acting more muted, aware that this fleeting peace was likely the calm before the storm.

It was part of why Rob was so eager to start taking action outside of Fiend territory. If he was going to draw the Blight's attention, then so be it. That genie was already out of the bottle. Better to draw attention away from the Fiends and Deserters instead of holing up in Fiendland and waiting for the next crisis to arrive at their doorstep.

This peace may be fleeting, but he'd protect it for as long as he could.

Rob made sure to smile and wave at the Elves as he walked towards his destination. As their 'Lord Blightkiller', one way he could protect the peace was by adopting a confident demeanor. Apparently, after you reached Level 51 and went toe-to-toe with Blights and Elatran Leaders, for some reason people started to assume you knew what you were doing. Combine that with assistance from Diplomacy in adjusting his facial expression, and presto! Rob was suddenly a competent authority figure that they could put their trust in. Some of the more perceptive Elves might have been able to detect the anxiety simmering under his countenance, but they weren't about to ruin everyone else's' good vibes by pointing that out.

On the plus side, no one approached him, content to wave back or raise their fist in unity. The novelty of a Human ally in their midst had worn off long ago; he was a staple figure of the Deserters now. It was a stark contrast from the way he'd been treated when first meeting the Elves. Rob's confident smile became a hair more strained as he remembered his early days in The Village. Much like with the Grand Overseers, it wasn't an experience he was sure he'd ever completely forget. Forgive, yes, but forget? Eeeeh.

<You say that,> Diplomacy said, <yet you've risked your life for them on numerous occasions.>

That's that, and this is this, Rob explained. I don't need to like someone to help them. And in fairness, there'd been Elves besides his friends who'd supported him. Cyrus and Vurion had lost their husband and father, respectively, because of Rob's failures. Despite that, neither of them hesitated to give him encouragement during moments of weakness, and Rob was sure that there were other Deserters who would have done exactly the same. Some of them actually did appreciate his efforts as a person – not just as a strong Combat Class user. That alone was worth lending them a hand.

As he reminisced, Rob noticed that Diplomacy was trying very hard to hide their thoughts from him. You're psychoanalyzing me right now, aren't you?

<Of course I am,> the Skill replied. <Once I get my own body it'll be marginally more difficult to do that. Gotta get my chances in while I can.>

Rob snorted. Well, save it for later. He stopped walking – having reached their destination – and gestured to a tiny, nondescript building in front of them. I need you on Crotchety Old Man duty in case this talk goes sour. Two knocks later, and he was carefully treading inside, keeping Not A Scratch active as a precautionary measure. He wasn't expecting it to be necessary, but in truth, this ramshackle hovel was the single most volatile place in all of Fiendland.

"Mind your left," a gruff voice ordered, emanating from further inside. Rob looked left milliseconds before scuffing his boot against a crate that read: 'Firebombs, Still Settling, DO NOT TOUCH', with the last three words underlined extensively. He froze, breath caught in his throat, awaiting a thunderous kaboom that never came.

"Lothren preserve," the voice muttered, poking his head out from behind a doorway. "I think you just reduced my lifespan by a decade."

Rob fought down his embarrassment and cleared his throat. "It's been quite some time," he began, in a stately tone. "I trust your accommodations are to your liking?"

Urian the Artificer raised his eyebrows. "Why do you sound like you have a Vraal shoved up your ass? Speak plainly. You weren't nearly so formal when last visiting."

Oh thank god. Rob relaxed his posture and let Diplomacy adjust his patented Competent Authority Figure Smile to something more personable. "Works for me. You want to exchange pleasantries or-"

"Heavens, no." Urian paused. "Although I'll admit that my accommodations are indeed to my liking. Makes me feel a bit guilty to own a house when the other Elves are stuck in shared lodgings, but considering my profession, I can't rightfully argue against it."

Rob nodded in agreement. As an Artificer who dabbled in general craftsmanship, Urian was a prized producer of the Deserters' war supplies, including Potions...and Firebombs. Secluding his working quarters from everyone else was a matter of public safety. Better for one building to be reduced to a crater than a whole apartment full of people. Urian hadn't ever screwed up that badly, but all it would take was one mishap with a crate of Firebombs to cause a chain reaction that set off an impromptu fireworks show.

"Good to hear," Rob said. "In that case, I won't bore either of us with small talk. I'm here to make a request."

"No."

Rob suppressed a smirk. Urian's immediate, flat denial was exactly what Diplomacy had predicted and prepared for. "It's not the same request as before," he elaborated. "This doesn't require you to disband your Party."

Several months ago, Zamira suggested that Rob should use his Class Alteration Skill to transform Urian into a Combat Class user. Urian would then join Rob's Party and reap the benefits of shared Fast Learner by being babysat through some training wheels fights. After gaining some quick and easy Levels, Urian could revert his Class, retaining the Levels he'd gained – and thus unlocking new Skills to use as an Artificer. It was a way to subvert the largest weakness of Utility Class users; that they couldn't level up effectively without putting themselves in grave danger.

Urian refused. Joining Rob's Party would require him to disband his own Party first, which was a complete non-starter. It would mean discarding the last memento he had of his wife. Her name was still sitting on his Party List, now at 0 HP, like a sarcophagus forever entombed within Urian's mind.

Rob wasn't sure if that was a particularly healthy method of coping, but it wasn't his place to judge, nor did he take up Diplomacy's offer to convince Urian otherwise. It wouldn't be right for them to insert themselves into the aged Elf's grief just because they wanted a better Artificer. And thankfully, a convenient, no-downsides option had landed in their lap.

"You've heard that my Party has Awakened their Classes, right?" Rob asked, smiling.

Urian's face morphed from confusion, to shock, to disbelief, all in the span of a few seconds. "Are you implying..." His voice grew suspicious. "From what the rumors speak of, your ability to Awaken Classes is limited. You can only do it once more."

Rob blinked. "Actually, yes. Score one for the rumor mills." At least for the next ten months or so, until his Awaken Class Skill reset, but there was no point in divulging that information. "I'm offering you the final Class Awakening. You won't have to disband your Party – you'll just be straight-up stronger than a standard Artificer. No caveats, I promise."

"Why?" Urian exclaimed, baffled. "Why me?"

It was a fair question. Class Awakenings were exceptionally rare and coveted. After handing seven of them out to his friends before anyone else could tell him otherwise, Rob had been left with one usage of Awaken Class remaining, and boy oh boy did that choice take a while to hash out with the Elders and Grand Overseers. No one wanted to squander the opportunity of a lifetime.

In the end, though, Rob was sure that this was the right call. Awakened Combat Class users could topple the mightiest of foes, but Riardin's Rangers – Faelynn included – was already a full Party of eight. Rob wasn't looking for a bench warmer to add to his roster. An Artificer wouldn't need to join his Party to perform their craft, and when sufficiently motivated to create Enchanted Items, they could practically conjure miracles from thin air.

"You created the EXP Share," Rob answered. "And the Perfected Ring of Waterdwelling. Without those  Items, a LOT of people would've died. Probably everyone in the Deserters and everyone in Fiendland. Hell of a butterfly effect you caused there." He held out his hand and grinned. "Think you're up for more? Come on. You've gotta have at least a few innovations left in you."

Urian gazed at Rob's outstretched hand with an expression of longing. This was an offer that he'd have to be an idiot to turn down, even if it wound up coming with strings attached. "...What do you want in exchange?" Urian eventually asked, his paranoia stronger than his desire.

Rob would've given the Awakening to him for free, but according to Diplomacy, Urian would feel more at ease if Rob asked for something. And it just so happened that there was something Rob wanted to ask for. The return of an old friend he'd been cruelly denied for far too long.

"I want Firebombs," he directly stated. "Quit holding out on me. I get that you're building a stockpile, and that the Rangers need Firebombs to hunt Flesh Amalgamations in Nevermore City...and that I admittedly have a tendency to burn through your reserves. Buuuut I still want Firebombs. Set aside one crate a week with my name on it. And no, I don't know how long a full crate takes to craft, and I don't care. Fit it into your schedule. Pull an all-nighter if you have to. I. Want. Firebombs."

It was time for the Riardin Special to make a comeback.

Urian's lips twitched. A moment later, he barked out a laugh and shook Rob's hand with renewed vigor. "Deal."

--

Far to the south of Fiend territory, on the opposite edge of Elatra, was a ruined heap of rubble that used to be called The Village. Corruption had eaten its buildings and foliage like a swarm of termites – Corruption which now hung stagnant in the air, less dense than before. The swarm was dead. Slowly, gradually, life was being breathed into The Village by its newly-revitalized Locus of Power.

Entropy no longer held control of the land.

Hours passed. Night fell. Silence reigned. Not a single soul was around – when suddenly, away from any prying eyes, a creeping motion began to stir within the dark. Tendrils of black tar writhed, pulsing, snaking through the desolated city streets. They shot forth like arrows, aimed with deadly precision at their target.

They needn't have hurried. A Locus of Power wasn't capable of moving, let alone running. It could only sit and wait as the tendrils closed in, extending their greedy, grasping fingers, trembling with sadistic revelry as they reached forth to defile their quarry-

A brilliant light shimmered from within the Locus. The tendrils recoiled, writhing in pain as if burnt by the sun. A lone vanguard pushed forward regardless, trying to force its way inside the Locus, and was promptly incinerated by cleansing Blue.

All held still. One by one, the tendrils receded, vanishing into the night like they'd never existed. The Blue dissipated, having successfully defended the Locus, and resumed its prior duties.

On that day, entropy had lost once again.

As it would, as many times as it took, until the lands bloomed with life again.

Chapter 3

"Rob!" Elder Duran's face brightened as he sat up in his bed. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Had some free time," Rob grinned, taking a seat. The Elder's room was tidy and well-cared for, seeming to have been dusted just recently. Books and papers were stuffed in every corner, but in an organized way, so that their owner wouldn't lose track of where anything was. "You available to chat today?" Rob asked. "I can always come back if-"

"By all means," Duran assured. "I've little else to do except lay here and ponder the meaning of existence." He rubbed his beardless chin. "Out of curiosity, why isn't Keira guarding you?"

Rob jabbed his thumb behind his shoulder. "She's waiting outside. Wanted to give us some privacy. Figured that there probably aren't any assassins hiding under your bed."

Duran chuckled. "None whatsoever, last I checked." He smiled. "I must say, it's always heartening to see that twinkle in your eye when you speak of her. You both deserve the happiness that you bring to each other."

Diplomacy let out an <awwww> as Rob sheepishly scratched the back of his head. "It's...yeah, it's going pretty freaking great. She's the best."

"If I may offer a suggestion," the Elder interjected, "put additional points into Endurance. High-leveled Combat Class users are inherently energetic. Considering the amount of time you two spend on nightly affairs, the added stamina will likely be necessary."

"Ha ha," Rob deadpanned. "That's the sort of joke I would've expected to hear from Meyneth, not you."

Duran tilted his head. "Joke?"

Rob blinked. A moment later, he gulped, wondering just what was in store for him in the future. "...Noted. ANYWAY, how are you holding up? Feeling better these days? You seemed to be doing well at our weekly meeting."

The Elder glanced down at his bedridden body and sighed. "In the simplest possible terms, yes, my health has improved. Enough for intermittent bouts of activity, at least."

He raised his hand and slowly clenched it into a fist. Halfway through the motion, Duran winced, his fingers trembling slightly. "Unfortunately, I don't think I'm fit to return to combat. Now or ever. I would only be a burden."

Rob lowered his gaze. Elder Duran had been inundated with Corruption for close to a month before having it Purged. And much like if he'd suffered under a deadly poison for an extended period, while the cause of Duran's affliction was long since cured, the toll it took on his body remained. "I'm sorry," Rob blurted out. "If I'd moved faster-"

"Don't start with that," Duran chided. "You saved my life, Rob. The only reason that I still draw breath is because of your haste in Attuning to multiple Loci of Power. Blaming yourself for factors outside of your control would be a disservice to both your efforts and my gratitude."

<I think you just got scolded by grandpa.>

Feels kinda nice, honestly. "You're right." Rob smiled. "I won't blame myself. And thanks for the gratitude – it means a lot. If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to ask."

Elder Duran hesitated, his expression turning crestfallen. "Actually, I believe that I must be the one to apologize," he began. "It pains me to say this, but your magic lessons will have to be postponed indefinitely. You've reached a degree of basic expertise where reading spell theory from parchment won't advance your mastery of the arcane arts any further. In order to assist you, I would need to participate with a more active, hands-on style of teaching, and I'm...not up to it at the moment. Too tired." He mumbled the last few words. "Once again, I apologize. I understand that part of your impetus behind visiting is-"

"Dude," Rob interrupted, eyebrows raised. "Let's be real; I was never going to be a mage. Not enough time to invest in that career path. It's been months and the best I can do is give people a static shock tickle. Which, admittedly, is hilarious. The lessons were fun, but I was really just living out my nerd fantasies. Only reason I even put stat points into Magic is so I can get more MP to use for my Class Skills. Our lessons haven't been about the lessons for a while – I simply wanted to spend time with you."

Elder Duran's mouth fell open. For a moment, his eyes watered. "I..." His voice was scratchy. "I don't know what to say."

"Don't need to." Rob's smile softened. "Let's just have fun and forget everything else going on in the world for a few hours. Interested in continuing Earth storytime where we left off?"

Duran beamed at him. "Always."

--

Zamira beckoned Malika and Orn'tol inside, suppressing her amusement at their nervous expressions. They practically tiptoed forward, softly closing the door behind them with the care of disarming a Dungeon trap. Malika was fidgeting in place, shoulders taut, and Orn'tol would have been acting the same if he wasn't making an obvious effort to suppress his anxiety.

"Is that you, Zamira?" a boisterous male voice called from further inside. "Are the little ones with you? Bring them in – dinner's almost ready."

"I'm not a little one," Orn'tol mumbled under his breath. Zamira pretended that she didn't hear him, instead leading the siblings past the cramped central lobby and into the kitchen. Succulent smells caressed their noses, and by the way Orn'tol and Malika's were sniffing the air like a pair of dogs, it was apparently reminding them that they hadn't eaten a home-cooked meal in a very long time. Zamira's parents greeted her cheerfully as she entered; her father with a broad smile that stretched from ear to ear, and her mother with a more subdued expression that was no less warm.

"So wonderful to see you," her father said, embracing her in a brief hug that he quickly disengaged from. Any longer would have set off her sensitivity to touch, but he knew where her limits lay. "And you've brought guests! What a fortuitous turn of events – why, it just so happens that I erred when preparing tonight's meal, and accidentally cooked too much for one sitting. Here I was, worried that it would go to waste."

The corners of Zamira's lips twitched upward. "You knew full well to expect company, father."

"Lower your voice, Zamira!" her father said, in an audible stage whisper. "Lest you expose my chicanery to our esteemed guests!"

His reaction was silly and over-the-top. If it'd come from a person with less charisma, the mood might have turned awkward, but setting people at ease had always been one of her father's strong suits.

As Orn'tol and Malika watched the farce play out in front of them, some of the tension in their postures receded. Malika was giggling under her breath in a frankly adorable manner, and Orn'tol no longer appeared as if he was knowingly walking into an ambush.

Zamira glanced away from them, hiding the look of gratification on her face. One of the basic tenets of setting people at ease was to not let them know that you were attempting to do so. That went double for young Elves who were accustomed to putting on airs of maturity. The less that Orn'tol and Malika became aware of how closely their mental states were being scrutinized, the better.

As proof of that strategy's effectiveness, Orn'tol spoke up a moment later, having gathered enough courage to join the conversation. "What did you cook for dinner?" he asked, quietly.

"A fantastic question!" Zamira's father gestured towards the stove with a dramatic flourish. "To answer: I'm not entirely sure. The Fiends forgot to replenish our food stores this week. Now, I don't blame them – our presence in Fiend territory is new, and they're unused to Elven eating patterns – but that did result in a paucity of choices for tonight's meal. As such, I've combined the remnants of our cupboard into a mystery conglomeration of sorts."

"Let it be known that I was against the idea," Zamira's mother said, with an amused half-smile.

Orn'tol sniffed the air once more, brows furrowed. "It does smell appetizing, at least. Should be edible."

Zamira's father nodded. "Of course! Of...course." He paused, gaze flitting towards the stove for a split second. "On a completely different subject, do either of you possess Poison Resistance?"

"We share a weakened version from Rob while in his Party," Malika answered, her face sparkling with excitement. "Are you implying that we'll need it?"

Zamira's father averted his eyes. Without saying another word, he walked over to the stove, picked up a spoon and dipped it into their would-be dinner. The soup was thick, amber-colored, and full of assorted bits of food, some which Zamira did not recognize. To his credit, her father didn't hesitate before plunging the spoon into his mouth.

"...Hmm." He raised one eyebrow, then the other. "Odd texture. Strong flavor. Like charred helyx meat, mixed with potatoes. Aftertaste is...quite delectable, actually. Yes, this will do nicely."

He turned towards everyone else and put on a wide grin. "I declare the mystery conglomeration to be a success! There's no accounting for its long-term effects, but alas. If we are to die, let us die with happy smiles and full stomachs."

Malika snickered and Orn'tol smiled. Minor reactions, in the grand scheme of things, but to Zamira, they were victories to be cherished.

Several minutes later, everyone was seated at the dinner table, enjoying their foray into the culinary unknown. To Malika's disappointment, Poison Resistance didn't activate for anyone. Once their hunger – and curiosity – had been sated, the group naturally drifted towards idle chatter.

"Fiendish literature is utterly fascinating," Malika explained, with a hint of mild fervor. "You'd think there would only be tales of killing Humans and whatnot, and many are like that, but there are also plenty about Fiends falling in love with members of other races. Overcoming the barriers of language and geography, winning the approval of their peers with the purity of their love...or tragically dying in the attempt." She let out a dreamy sigh. "I absolutely must finish Hornless Heresy when I return home. If Valian and Valora don't end up together at the end, I might just cry."

"Their stories seem wistful," Orn'tol posited. "As if there's a theme of loneliness running underneath the main narrative. They may be embarrassed to admit it, but I think that at their cores, the Fiends dearly wish to be accepted by the rest of Elatra."

Zamira's mother nodded in approval. "That's quite the astute observation,"

At her praise, Orn'tol looked away. "I like their theater shows," he mumbled, almost as if it was a crime to do so.

"There is no shame in that," Zamira herself assured. "I've been studying the concerts put on by Fiend songstresses, myself. Their style of singing is distinctly unique from ours. It's more soulful – which is fitting, I suppose."

Her father leaned forward, barely-suppressed mischief clear on his expression. "Say, Zamira, would you mind giving us a performance-"

"I refuse."

They laughed, and Zamira couldn't help but smile. This pleasant family dinner atmosphere was everything she'd hoped for when inviting Orn'tol and Malika over. They needed something to fill the void left behind by their late parents. Zamira's parents could never replace them, not completely, but having a semblance of family structure in their lives would be of great benefit to the siblings. She could already see them feeling more at ease as time went on. Rob had been doing a stellar job as their surrogate big brother, and so far, going a step further was proving to be a success.

This is the world I want to create, Zamira thought, as she swept her eyes across the table of cheerful faces. No broken families. No lives ruined by pointless war. It was a fanciful notion, but not one without precedent. Rob's Earth didn't have monsters infesting the lands, and its regions weren't separated via colored foliage and races of markedly different biology. So many of Elatra's problems stemmed from the necessity of ceaseless conflict and arbitrary dividing lines between societies. With those removed, Elatra would become a place of peace and unity, free of bloodshed, just like Earth must be.

So she assumed. Zamira wasn't interested in asking Rob to clarify. Earth to her was a symbol, and that's all it needed to be.

In truth, she knew that her dream would never come to pass. One person couldn't alter the foundational structure of society. But in her eyes, it was better to strive for a lofty goal and fall short than to settle for less at the very start. If she could achieve a half, a quarter, even one-tenth of the future she envisioned...that would mean she had done well.

A world of bonds and togetherness. Zamira laughed as Orn'tol described a Fiend who'd asked him for an autograph. That is the way. No matter how cruel life may be, bonds are what will keep us sane.

--

Traitors, the lot of them.

Dragon Queen Ragnavi's glare sent the Healers in attendance turning tail and running for their lives. They didn't even beg permission to leave. Just as well; suffering their presence for one instant longer would have been too much for her to bear. She could respect their survival instincts, if not their healing expertise, which was proving remarkable in its ineffectiveness.

'We possess no updates for you at this juncture,' she recalled, claws digging into her throne. What pretty little excuses you always think up. Constantly diverting responsibility, trying so hard to appease me, like a dog presenting its belly. Perhaps matters would be different if you spent less time rationalizing your failures and more time curing my Corruption.

Ragnavi's aura began to leak out, slowly melting the steel throne she was sitting on as if it was made of candle wax. She didn't bother tamping the effect down. Chairs could be replaced. Healers, too, which they'd soon discover if they continued upon this path of inadequacy.

Her HP, however, was not so replaceable.

HP: 1434 / 1434

Stamina: 1398 / 1400

MP: 2000 / 2000

Status Effects: Madness (Simmering), Melancholia, Corruption (-683 of Base HP, -1366 Total)

One ill-advised encounter with a Blight was all it'd taken for her durability to be permanently cut in half. More than two months had passed since that day, and despite her Healers' initial assurances that they would develop a spell to remove Corruption, their progress thus far amounted to devising different variants of how to say "we have nothing, please don't crush our skulls."

Objectively speaking, Ragnavi knew that killing them would be pointless. They were the best Healers in Dragonkin territory, meaning they were the ones with the highest chance of discovering a Corruption purging spell. Executing one or two in order to motivate the rest was a tempting proposition, but that approach wouldn't bear fruit, either. They were already trying their hardest, if only because they knew their lives were hanging precariously in the balance.

At what point did all of that stop mattering, though? If the Healers were doomed to never develop a countermeasure for Corruption – an outcome that was looking increasingly likely as time passed – then what was the purpose of their continued existence? What use was a Healer that could not heal? Really, allowing Ragnavi to hear their screams dance within her ears was the very least they could do to repay her for their collective failures. It might even distract her from the Corruption's searing pain that she was forced to endure every second of every day.

The only reason Ragnavi hadn't already succumbed to those urges was because indiscriminately killing Healers would reflect poorly on her reputation. At the thought, she shuddered from head-to-toe, like someone had walked on her grave. Tylrud's teeth, I can't believe that my social standing is something I need to pay attention to again. She was still the strongest Combat Class user in Elatra by a wide margin, but the Corruption had weakened her HP to the point where she could tell that some of the more reckless nobles were starting to get ideas.

Treasonous ideas.

Ragnavi didn't begrudge them for their ambitions. She would have respected them less if they hadn't been thinking of ways to depose her. What kind of self-respecting Dragonkin didn't take advantage of an enemy's weakness? No, what truly rankled her was the fact that she wouldn't be able to meet their schemes with the full might of her power. She was...fuck, she was crippled. There was nothing else to call a Combat Class user missing half their HP.

Dread started to creep into Ragnavi's heart – a feeling she quickly overwrote with fury. I wonder how many of my Healers have accepted bribes? she seethed, teeth bared. One? Half? All of them? There was no shortage of people who would benefit if she never recovered from her affliction. The nobles planning to usurp her, for one, but also those outside of Dragonkin territory as well. Stonewarden Grant of the Dwarves outright loathed her. He'd stated as much on numerous occasions. Seneschal Sylpeiros of the Elves didn't dislike her to quite that degree, but he would shed no tears if she was stabbed in the back, and in all likelihood would jump at the chance to be the one holding the knife.

And of course, there was the Blight. No entity in Elatra would profit from her demise more than it would. Even in her weakened condition, she was still the only person who could stand against the overwhelming power of a fully-formed Blight and live to tell the tale. When she fought one again – when, not if – what would happen? Would she merely die in combat, or prevail after being infected with yet more Corruption, reduced to a withered husk perpetually writhing in agony?

This cannot continue. Ragnavi started pacing, leaving molten footprints in the floor as she walked. I need to regain at least some semblance of my full glory. Either that or find a way to gain Levels so I can increase my Vitality. Somehow, the latter prospect seemed even less plausible than curing her Corruption. She was Level 93 by now, and leveling up had long since become a borderline impossibility. No Dungeon ever grew large enough to provide her with reasonable EXP. Killing a fully-formed Blight – the equivalent to a living natural disaster – had gained her a meager two Levels for her trouble, and she wasn't planning to attempt a repeat of that feat anytime soon.

Ragnavi let out a snarl as she punched a hole through the wall. She missed the Scouring, some days. Leveling up had been so easy back then. A Utility Class Human provided very little EXP, as much as a single droplet of water, but kill enough Humans and those droplets combined would become rainfall. Now all the Humans were dead – barring one cockroach whose days were numbered – and Ragnavi was out of easy EXP to gain.

...

...No. No, she wasn't.

Ragnavi imagined a mental map of Elatra, a sense of calm surety settling over her. After several minutes of consideration, she honed in on an Elven settlement called Riverhaven, located at the southern tip of the continent. While technically classified as a city, Riverhaven was fairly isolated from the rest of Elven territory, lacking both Message Crystals and Teleport Crystals. If its populace fell to a 'Blight attack', then the rest of the continent wouldn't learn of its fate for weeks. Especially if there were no survivors left to tell the tale.

For a moment, Ragnavi hesitated. She'd idly contemplated going on rampages before, but there was a world of difference between daydreaming and committing to an action. Dragonkin and Elves weren't currently at war, and these Elves in particular had done her no wrong. This wasn't an action that Ardrud would have approved of – not in a thousand years.

Then her Corruption flared up inside her, stabbing Ragnavi's nerves with blinding pain, and the moment passed.

Riverhaven is decently populated, she thought, envisioning the scenario. Assuming that a standard garrison of Combat Class users are stationed there, ranging from Levels 20 to 35, and that the civilian masses haven't fled without my knowledge, then the combined totals of their EXP should take me a third of the way to Level 94.

It was a start.

Chapter 4

"What Levels are your parents?" Vul'to asked, leaning forward in his chair. "It would be helpful to know what degree of resistance to expect when confronting them."

From across the table, Meyneth narrowed her eyes as a succession of loathsome faces passed through her mind. "Last I saw them, my mother and father were in the high 20s," she began. "Acceptable for a Dragonkin Combat Class user, although not nearly as notable as they wished for themselves. My siblings, however, were in their mid-30s and ascending. I have little quarrel with either of them, but it's likely that they will defend my parents if I attempt revenge, if only out of a basic sense of filial obligation."

Her claws extended by an inch. "I doubt they've reached 41, so I should still have a Level advantage. Hopefully that will be sufficient to overcome the inherent gap in our capabilities. I won't be able to defeat them otherwise – they're better than me in every conceivable way."

Vul'to frowned at her. "You shouldn't be so harsh on-"

"It's the truth," Meyneth stated, with a nonchalant wave. "My brother and sister are natural-born fighters who possess most of the Dragonkin racial traits. There's no comparison between us. I'll admit that I've acquitted myself well-enough as a member of Riardin's Rangers, but it's been in spite of my talents, not because of them. Victory against my family won't be assured until I've risen further in strength than I am now."

"Have you forgotten that you're an Awakened Class user?" Vul'to pointed out. "The bonus stats and Skill upgrades you've gained already put you far above another Combat Class user at your Level."

Meyneth blinked. "Ah," she mumbled. "Yes. Somehow, I forgot. Too caught up in the past. Focusing on how things used to be, instead of how they are." She concentrated, forcing her claws to recede back to normal. "That does stack the odds more in my favor."

Her inflection turned sour, as if she'd bit into a lemon. "Perhaps they'll surrender once they see what I've become. Grovel at my feet. Beg for me to rejoin the family. Their daughter, the Awakened Class user – can you imagine the prestige? It's what I dreamed would someday happen while growing up."

Vul'to looked closely at her. "If they did beg, would that change anything?"

"Not even if they were on their hands and knees, apologizing for every single injustice they've ever committed."

Vul'to nodded. "Right." He hesitated. "To clarify, if you did have a change of heart after witnessing their improved demeanor, I wouldn't judge you, merely caution you against accepting love which is so clearly conditional."

Meyneth's shoulders relaxed – which was surprising, as she hadn't realized she was tensed up in the first place. "Several years prior, and I might have done just that. Now..." She shook her head. "Too many scars. I can't imagine that our reconciliation will be a pleasant one. I'll definitely need to increase my Level in preparation – especially if my parents have hired retainers with the wealth my siblings earned them. Between my parents, my siblings, and any additional help they've acquired, I could very well end up contending with an entire Party of fighters, if not more."

Vul'to hesitated again. He had a tendency to do so when they conversed on these matters, as if he wanted to ensure that he didn't misspeak. "You also have a Party, Meyneth."

"I know." She lowered her gaze. "When the time comes, if I truly need to...I'll beg their aid. But only if I truly need to. Hopefully, you can understand why I don't wish to involve our friends in this. If you hadn't caught me in a moment of weakn-"

She clamped her mouth shut far too late. By the look on his face, Vul'to was able to surmise what the full sentence would have been: 'If you hadn't caught me in a moment of weakness, you wouldn't be involved now, either.' It was too rude of a thing to say to someone who was offering her his full support, yet Vul'to didn't seem to care, merely nodding and pulling out a sheet of paper to write on.

"If that's the case," he said, putting pen to paper. "Then we should prepare battle strategies for every potential scenario. I'm unaccustomed to fighting non-monster opponents, especially while outnumbered, but I'll do the best I can."

'Why?' Meyneth wanted to ask. While she was fairly certain that she knew the answer, the notion of someone else understanding her struggles was still a new and unfamiliar concept. In that sense, she was lucky that Vul'to had been the one to catch her in a moment of weakness. The other members of Riardin's Rangers would have given her sympathy, of course, but they wouldn't have understood like he did. It wasn't possible for them to. Keira, Orn'tol, and Malika missed their parents dearly. Rob spoke highly of his parents and intended to return to them as soon as he could. Zamira's parents were alive, and by all accounts, wonderful and supportive people.

Conversely, Vul'to called the Cataclysm the best thing to ever happen to him, solely because his parents were killed during it.

Meyneth hadn't yet inquired into the specifics of what happened to him. It felt cowardly not to, but she didn't trust herself to handle a conversation of that magnitude. Not without significant preparation. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt him with careless words. Rob could help her devise what to say – specifically, Diplomacy could – but that would require informing him of Vul'to's past. As far as Meyneth knew, the Elf had kept quiet about it among his compatriots, and she wouldn't betray his trust by telling a story that wasn't hers to tell.

Which meant relying on her own social proficiencies to assist Vul'to with his struggles. Somehow.

...After the other looming issue is handled first. Meyneth glanced at Vul'to, who was studiously drawing up battle plans, using every iota of his combat acumen to help her achieve her dream. The two of them had been spending more time together as of late, and it was impossible not to notice the...looks he gave her on occasion. Not often, and only surreptitiously, although he was rather poor at hiding them. Meyneth knew that type of look very well.

She'd watched Rob and Keira send it to each other for four fucking months.

Assuming that she wasn't being arrogant, and Vul'to truly did possess feelings for her, it could explain why he was being so supportive. Meyneth had witnessed people do more drastic things than this to ingratiate themselves with the object of their affection. In truth, declaring that you would assist someone with their personal, bloody revenge was considered to be the apex of Dragonkin romance. Vul'to wasn't a Dragonkin, though – he was an Elf, a Party member, a friend, and a good person who'd shared the same kind of struggles as her. He would have helped regardless of his attraction.

That made it no less difficult to bring the subject up. Meyneth wasn't remotely in the proper mindset to enter a relationship with Vul'to – or anyone else, for that matter. Her scant few liaisons in the past had been purely physical, both parties fully aware that it wouldn't go beyond satisfying their base urges. Really, who would stoop so low as to form a relationship with a disgrace of a Dragonkin such as herself? She wasn't ready to allow herself the possibility of romance; it would take time to undo her mental blocks, most of which had been built up over the course of decades. Vul'to deserved to know that.

One week, Meyneth vowed. I'll talk to him after one week. She absolutely refused to prolong this issue into eternity like Rob, Keira, and Zamira had. One week of preparation, and then she and Vul'to would discuss their feelings like logical, mature adults.

She glanced at him, still hard at work writing out battle plans, and imagined what that discussion might entail.

...Oh, Meyneth realized. In that moment, she gained a deeper understanding of Rob, Keira, and Zamira's reticence. I should have decided on two weeks. Or ten.

--

Rob looked around the office, eyes wide. Compared to the room he met his usual doctors in, this one felt more – for lack of a better term – mad-scientist-y. Stacks of paper were scattered about everywhere, some stapled to the wall, some resting on the ground, all of them covered in half-written scrawls and esoteric drawings. The doctor himself was mercifully boring, a smartly-dressed Fiend sporting the same attire as others in his profession. Rob breathed an internal sigh of relief; he wasn't sure what he would've done if the man appeared as unhinged as his working quarters.

After all, this was the Surgeon that he was entrusting with his soul.

Rob felt Diplomacy's core twinge with excitement, a sentiment he wholeheartedly agreed with. After months of research, the Fiends had finally devised a method by which to grant Diplomacy a body. Today was a preparatory consultation for the day, set to happen very soon, which meant having a meet-and-greet with their new Soul Surgeon.

For once – per request from the Grand Overseers – Rob was unaccompanied. They really didn't want the Surgeon's secrets to spread. It was adorable that they thought he wouldn't tell everyone in Riardin's Rangers anyway, but hey, whatever helped them sleep better at night. Plus, it worked out for the both of them, as Keira needed a break. Rob had managed to get her to take a day off from bodyguarding by promising to bring Vul'to and Meyneth as backups; the two of them were waiting down the hall in case of emergency.

A smirk crept across his face as he imagined the beating that Keira was probably handing out at this very second. Somehow, she'd conned several Fiends into taking part in the inauguration of Elatra's first ever boxing club. Either her sparring buddies just plain liked fighting, or they thought that having over twice her body mass would be enough to make up the difference in Strength, scoring them a brag-worthy victory against one of the heroes of Fiendland.

Hope they have good health insurance, Rob mused. Or whatever the Elatran equivalent is.

The Soul Surgeon took that moment to look up from his papers, turning to face Rob. He tilted his head, eyes traveling up and down with an appraising look.

<He's an asshole,> Diplomacy stated.

What?

<He's an asshole. I can tell. Just giving you a heads-up.>

Oh, come on. You can't tell whether or not someone is an asshole from a single glance.

The Soul Surgeon finished his appraisal. Rob had expected a look of utter disgust; it was the standard for nearly every Fiend when first viewing his soul. Instead, the Surgeon crossed his arms and raised both eyebrows. "So you're Rob." He smirked. "Always assumed you'd be taller."

...I really set myself up for that one, didn't I? Rob forced a polite smile to his face, reminding himself that it was never a good idea to get on a doctor's bad side. "You're just used to Fiends. I've got a pretty normal height by Human standards."

"Yes, but you're hardly a normal Human," the Surgeon continued. "Level 51, Awakened Class, Purger of Corruption and savior of Fiend territory. Your stature doesn't fit your reputation." He shook his head, disappointed. "It's a shame that my expertise lies solely in Soul Surgery, although I do know one or two Surgeons that specialize in improving one's physical appearance. Remind me to give you a list of recommendations at the end of our consultation."

Rob's polite smile dropped faster than a meteor. "You're an asshole, you know that?"

The Surgeon chuckled. "That I am. Do you know what the best part of being the greatest Surgeon in my field is?" He grinned. "It lets me get away with being an asshole."

That explains so much about society. "I'm going to pretend your personality isn't a dumpster fire and move on," Rob declared. "So. My soul. Diplomacy's soul, attached to it. What are your thoughts? Can you remove Diplomacy and insert them into a new body without complications?"

"I believe so." The Surgeon's demeanor shifted, becoming that of a no-nonsense health practitioner. "If everything goes right, both you and Diplomacy will be unharmed. Unfortunately, that 'if' is a dire qualifier – as skilled as I am, this is the first surgery of its like. People have attempted to transplant souls into new bodies before in the past, and the end result rarely goes well. It isn't the same as attaching a new limb or organ; bodies will almost always reject an unfamiliar soul. This operation is only possible because Diplomacy's soul lacks a body of its own to attune to."

Rob leaned closer, his curiosity piqued.. "What is the new body, anyway? I thought we weren't going to use a Fiend's body in order to avoid accusations of Necromancy."

The Surgeon's eyes darkened. "More than that– we want to avoid accusations of soul eating. Only one type of Fiend can accept souls into their body without significant risk of rejection. There's little point in granting Diplomacy a new form, merely for them to be hunted down in the streets and torn limb from limb."

He spread his arms. "As such, our researchers have worked tirelessly to create a substance which they've tentatively named the Clay of Life. It is a miraculous substance that may very well be the most incredible invention of our time. Once I place Diplomacy's soul inside, the Clay will take shape to fit Diplomacy's inner self, creating a unique body for them wholesale. And while the Clay isn't quite ready yet, it should be completed within the week."

Rob's mouth fell open. "How in the world did they pull that off?"

"Trade secret." The Soul Surgeon's voice turned serious. "I'm confident that the Clay of Life will work –  the true danger lies with the surgery itself. Separating conjoined souls will be no simple task. I cannot fully guarantee your safety. Do you accept the risk of-"

"I do. 100%."

The Surgeon nodded. "Then I swear to you that I will perform to the best of my considerable ability."

<This...might actually work,> Diplomacy whispered, in a tone of excited disbelief.

Rob sent them a confident grin. Hell yeah it will. Looking forward to your first hi-five. "You've clearly put a lot of thought into this," he said, addressing the Surgeon, "and I sincerely appreciate that. Thanks, Soul Surgeon."

"My professionalism demands no less." He paused. "Also, I have a name. Has no one taught you how to use Identify?"

"You'll get a name when you're not an asshole anymore."

"Understandable."

--

Knock-knock.

Vul'to looked up from his battle planning and stared at the door for a few moments, brows furrowed. He wasn't expecting visitors. In fact, people weren't supposed to know that Rob, Vul'to, or Meyneth were here at all. He exchanged glances with Meyneth, and after a shrug, called out to whoever was waiting outside. "The door is unlocked. Come in."

A youthful Fiend man around Vul'to's age stepped inside, hesitantly closing the door behind him. Vul'to suppressed a wince; he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a person so evidently unsure of themselves. Everything about the man's countenance, from his hunched posture to his lowered gaze, screamed uncertainty. "Is there anything I can do for you?" Vul'to asked, hoping that there was. Belatedly, he cast Identify – addressing someone by their proper name often served to raise their spirits.

Name: Krazan

Level: 19

Race: Fiend

Status Effects: Apprehensive, Unconfident, Resigned

Description: Currently trapped in a mental cage of his own making.

"Many thanks for the offer," Krazan replied, in a low mutter. "But I'm just here to deliver a missive." He held up a tightly-bound scroll of parchment. "Comes straight from the Grand Overseers themselves."

"I can't imagine what they would have to say to us," Meyneth pondered. "We aren't the leaders of our faction."

Krazan scratched the back of his neck, shivering slightly. "Don't know either. Just a messenger." He shuffled in place, glancing up at them with hesitant eyes. "You're...them, right? Roy's Party members. The ones who entered Nevermore City and restored its Locus of Power."

Vul'to nodded. "The very same." He put on a disarming smile. "Don't think too much of it, though. Anyone else in our situation would have done the same."

"...Don't think too much of it?" Krazan's mouth fell open in shock. "That's not possible. You helped save hundreds of thousands of people. You..."

He trailed off, taking a second to collect himself before holding out the missive. "Just wanted to say thank you. For everyone you've done. It's the bare minimum of what I can do."

Vul'to's chest warmed. "You're very welcome." He wanted to say more, but embarrassment sealed his mouth. Praise was never an easy thing to accept. Smiling shyly, Vul'to grabbed the missive from Krazan's hands, unfurling it with no small amount of curiosity.

Several seconds passed. A note of bewilderment escaped Vul'to's throat as his curiosity gave way to confusion. On the paper was a single phrase, written in uneven penmanship, and surrounded by teardrop stains.

"I'm sorry."

There was no time to react. One instant, he was reading, and the next, he was flying back, slamming into the wall at the opposite end of the room. Shouts and crashes resounded throughout the air, but he barely noticed them, his senses feeling oddly disconnected. Body trembling, Vul'to moved to push himself to his feet – and fell back down to the ground as his left arm failed to hold his weight.

Oh. Wait. It was bent in the wrong direction.

Ah.

He couldn't even feel the pain. Vul'to's thoughts were muddied, slippery, as if he hadn't slept for a week. Staggering upwards, he forced himself to focus on the battle taking place in front of him. Meyneth was pushing back Krazan, her teeth bared in savage fury as she swung her claws at him with reckless abandon. Krazan somehow dodged, his motion simultaneously swift and stilted, like a marionette pulled sideways on its strings. It was an impossible display – a Level 19 Utility Class user going toe-to-toe with a Level 41 Combat Class user – but it was happening nonetheless.

Armor, Vul'to thought, managing to pierce through the unusual fog coating his brain. Need my...

He froze, remembering that he didn't have his equipment. No armor, no shield. His sword, yes, but offense wasn't where a Guardian's strengths resided. The rest of his defensive equipment was stored back at his personal quarters. Vul'to hadn't brought any of it.

Today was just supposed to be a simple medical consultation.

Help, he thought next, taking a wobbling step forward. The enervation spell affecting his body was gradually receding. Call for help. Rob's nearby.

Message Started Between Party Members: Vul'to, R-

Message canceled. All sounds and various forms of long-distance communication are being blocked by the Armband of Stifling Whispers.

Vul'to's eyes widened. An Enchanted Item?

In that moment, Meyneth roared, bringing her Skill-empowered claws down on Krazan's right arm. The Fiend took the hit without a care, hardly budging as he retaliated with a crunching punch to the chest that sent Meyneth soaring back. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, seeming on the verge of tears. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Vul'to let out a gasp as he stared at Krazan's wound. The Fiend's arm was hanging by a thread – which was somehow the least shocking aspect of what Vul'to now saw. Krazan's shirt sleeve had been torn to ribbons, revealing what lay hidden underneath. Five Enchanted Items were clasped to his arm, each one shimmering with power. Additionally, a thin red cloth was wrapped around his body, one that Vul'to recognized all too well.

It was a Sinner's Shroud. Designed to block out all Fiends' Soul Sight. Aside from Rob using it to spare them from witnessing his patchwork disaster of a soul, the Sinner's Shroud was a garment that was strictly banned within Fiend society, and for good reason.

Soul Eaters had been using it to hide their true nature.

"I'm sorry," Krazan repeated. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Suddenly, his arm snapped back into place with a shrill, piercing sound, the wound closing in a quarter of a second. There'd been no glow of mana, nor an indication of a Skill being activated. His injury had just...reverted. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I can't stop."

A paralyzing chill lanced down Vul'to's spine as belated realization struck him. The sound that rang out when Krazan's wound closed, that shrill, piercing noise...

It had been a distant scream.

Vul'to and Meyneth gaped in horror as Krazan lurched forward. His flesh began to bulge, indentations rising and falling in his skin, as if worms were squirming underneath. The Fiend's eyes popped out of their sockets, then reverted back inwards, struggling against the pressure building inside. "Can't..." He clutched his head, tearing out hair in clumps, as his breathing turned ragged. "Can't..."

Krazan froze, his body going as rigid as a statue. Slowly, he lowered his arms and stood up straight, face morphing from panicked to impassive. "Better." The Fiend sighed, staring at Vul'to and Meyneth with the deadened eyes of Melancholy Resistance. "Should have done this from the beginning. Makes it so much easier."

Vul'to swept his eyes across the room, desperately searching for something that he could use as a shield and endow with his durability-enhancing Guardian Skills. The table, maybe, but it was too bulky to use effectively. Meanwhile, Meyneth took a shaking step forward, disoriented by whatever Enchanted Item was draining their energy. "Get back, you vile monstrosity."

"I'm afraid that's not possible." Krazan's hand twitched as his claws extended. "My apologies, but you can't possibly understand how this feels. Taking a soul unto your body is unlike any experience in this world. It's...intoxicating. Transcendental. Most of all, fulfilling, as if I'm executing the role I was always meant to perform." The squirming underneath his skin intensified, vague sounds rising to a muted chorus of wailing. "I've tried to stop. It never lasts."

He stared at Vul'to, then Meyneth. "Elf is an old, familiar taste. Dragonkin, however? And an Awakened one at that?" His claws began to glow with a dull gray that gave Vul'to an overpowering sense of dread. "Who knows when I'll have this chance again."

Vul'to reached forward and brought his fist down on the table, snapping it into several smaller pieces. He grabbed the portion that most resembled a shield and charged forth on still-trembling legs. Fighting one-armed put him at a severe disadvantage, but his left arm was in no condition to hold anything, and between wielding a sword or a shield, the choice was obvious. He let out a reverberating Taunt that drew Krazan's attention, the Fiend's head whipping towards Vul'to with a hungry gaze. Krazan charged forward, his gait uneven, resembling a Combat Class user who was unused to a recent increase in their Dexterity. Uncoordinated as his run was, it was still fast, and he met Vul'to's shield with a vicious slash that nearly cracked the table-shield in two.

Gritting his teeth, Vul'to activated Indomitable, rooting himself in place so that he wouldn't be sent flying back again. In the brief instant where his and Krazan's deadlock remained unbroken, he was treated to a disturbing sight that immediately etched itself into his memory. Krazan's muscles were rippling like the surface of a disturbed lake, tearing and healing repeatedly as they struggled to overcome Vul'to's shield. Underneath the Soul Eater's flesh, Vul'to could hear dozens of whispers, hundreds of tiny little screams, countless pleas for release that were forever being denied.

Then Meyneth sprang forward with Leap and tackled Krazan to the opposite end of the room. The wall shuddered, forming a Fiend-sized indentation, as Meyneth disemboweled him with a cutting slice to the stomach. She was about to press her advantage when a thunderous shockwave knocked her back and rattled the bones in Vul'to's ears. One of Krazan's Enchanted Items ceased its shimmering, leaving three that still contained reserves of power. The Soul Eater's intestines spilled out onto the floor – before reverting back inside with another piercing scream.

Vul'to tossed his makeshift shield aside and grabbed a second piece of the table. What is that healing? he thought, edging closer to Meyneth. It's quicker than anything I've seen. His strength and speed are abnormal as well. Doesn't seem like Skills, and I don't think he's using mana. Is it...

A chill ran down his spine once again. Soul Burn. Using others' souls.

The full scope of what was happening finally sunk in. This was an assassination attempt, and it wasn't the half-formed spontaneity of a crazed zealot. Krazan had planned and executed his attempt with startling efficiency, employing an Enchanted Item to isolate his targets from receiving backup, ambushing them while their guards were down, and separating them at the start of the fight. He'd clearly done this many times before – as evidenced by the deep well of souls he was drawing on to boost his combat capabilities to unnatural heights.

Hundreds, consigned to an eternity of suffering.

"We need to retreat," Vul'to told Meyneth, as he helped her up. "Rob is down the hall. This-"

Krazan tore off one of his Enchanted Items and tossed it at their feet. Vul'to scarcely had time to raise his shield before the bracelet detonated like a miniature crate of Firebombs. He was knocked back, slightly, his Skill-reinforced shield taking the brunt of the damage.

Meyneth wasn't so lucky. She was down, scales blackened and flesh smoldering. The Dragonkin began to stand up once more – but far too late to dodge Krazan's charge. The Fiend's eyes were wide as saucers, vibrant with anticipation, as his claws and Enchanted Items glowed with a sickly red aura.

Auto-Guard. Vul'to's body was pulled leftwards through the air like a magnet, his shield raising to intercept Krazan's assault. Against all odds, the battered, wooden, piece of table stayed strong for a few seconds before cracking in half and

And

The

Pressure

Why

Why were his thoughts

What felt

Oh. Vul'to glanced down at his chest, and the clawed hand within it. Everything seemed numb. He barely registered what he was seeing.

Meaning that he barely cared when Krazan ripped out his heart and crushed the pulsating organ in one motion.

Time held still. Vul'to attempted to move his body, but it refused to cooperate, blood gushing out like a fountain. Nothing worked the way it should. He glanced at Meyneth, searching for something to center himself with, and a small smile inched up his cheeks. She was unharmed. Frozen in horror, but unharmed.

That was good.

Then Krazan plunged his other claw – glowing grey – back into Vul'to's chest, and pulled.

His senses vanished. Sight, sound, smell, touch – all gone in an instant. He tried to call out, but he had no voice. He tried to look around, but he had no eyes. Vul'to was little more than a consciousness floating in an endless void. He felt nothing.

Except the pain.

In that void, without a mouth, Vul'to screamed.

--

Vul'to

Level: 40

Guardian Level: 35

HP: 0 / 700

Status Effects: Deceased

Meyneth closed her Party List and shoved aside the roaring tempest of emotions welling up inside her. Vul'to's body slumped to the floor as Krazan held his prize aloft, a rapturous expression dancing on his face. Contained within his hand was a pocket of translucent, multicolored mana, wriggling as if it was a rabbit caught in a trap.

If Meyneth concentrated, she could just barely make out the screaming.

She gathered herself, rising up. Meyneth wanted to fling herself at the wretched Soul Eater, tear his throat out with her teeth, scatter his ashes to the wind – but that desire wasn't going to help anyone right here and now. She couldn't afford to fly into a mindless rage.

A mindful rage was much better.

Meyneth reached to the side and pulled over a traveling pack they'd left in the corner of the room. She dumped out the contents, then grabbed the three HP Potions that fell to the floor, shoving the first into her mouth and biting down. Meyneth swallowed its contents, shards of glass and all, before doing the same for the second and third, devouring three Potions in a matter of seconds. 150 HP wasn't much by her current standards, but it was enough to ease the agony in her joints, which meant the Potions had served their purpose. If she could move, she could fight.

Krazan hadn't been idle during all this. While Meyneth imbibed her Portions, the Fiend dragged a claw down the length of his chest, shuddering as if he'd been stroked by a lover. His self-inflicted wound split open, revealing a yawning chasm underneath, and the sounds of distant screams loudened as if there was a crowd in the same room as them. He brought Vul'to's soul closer to the chasm, lips widening into a jubilant smile.

Without hesitation, Meyneth cast Shadow Walk. Her vision went black as she disappeared into the space between light and darkness, before emerging a moment later from underneath Krazan's shadow, springing up like a fish cresting the water's surface. She wrapped her legs around his legs, her right arm around his free arm, and her left arm around his throat, sending them tumbling to the ground.

Meyneth desired nothing more than to bite his skull open and rend his brain– see if he could revert from that – but she stayed her fury. She didn't know what would happen to Vul'to's soul if Krazan died. For all she knew, without the Fiend to hold it in place, it would dissipate into the ether. Instead, she squeezed, constricting Krazan's movement and choking the breath out of him with every fiber of her being.

"You can't," the Soul Eater whispered, thrashing against Meyneth's choking hold. "I'm so close. Please. I need this. Just one...more..."

Krazan gasped, his lungs begging for air. One of his Enchanted Items glowed brightly, and Meyneth activated Defiance, nullifying whatever status effect he was about to inflict on her. He pushed Vul'to's soul towards the hole in his chest, but Meyneth leaned forward and tore out his arm's ligaments with sharpened teeth, rendering it flopping and limp. The wounds reverted, he tried again, and she bit down again. All the while, he struggled to break free, muscles and flesh bulging with the power of stolen souls.

Meyneth shouldn't have been able to hold him. Soul Burn was an incredible strength multiplier, and Krazan was flush with souls to spare. In a contest of raw power, she was outmatched, and that was without factoring in whatever stat bonuses the Fiend's Enchanted Items were granting him.

She didn't care. Meyneth held strong, because she fucking had to. Her limbs strained, her muscles tore, a few somethings inside her cracked – and she didn't for an instant consider the possibility of giving in.

Krazan's struggles slowed as his consciousness began to fade. He gazed at Vul'to's soul, and Meyneth saw a decision take place in his eyes. If he released the soul, and stopped wasting time trying to eat it, he'd be able to move his arm with a greater degree of motion. There was still a chance that he could free himself.

All he had to do was let go.

He stared at the soul with longing up until the moment the awareness faded from his eyes.

Meyneth pulled away as soon as she was certain that the Fiend was unconscious. Her body creaked as she grabbed Krazan's body and Vul'to's corpse in each hand, shambling towards the door like a woman possessed. She kicked it into a cloud of splinters and leaped outside, ignoring the panicked shouts from a local passerby. In a flash, Meyneth ran down the hall and broke down her second door in so many seconds, bursting inside the room like a gorebeast through a village barricade.

Rob and his Soul Surgeon gaped at her with shocked expressions. Before they had a chance to say anything, Meyneth plopped Vul'to and Krazan on a table in the center of the room. She pointed at Vul'to's corpse, then at Vul'to's soul, still nestled inside Krazan's hand.

"Fix him."

Chapter 5

It took Rob a horrible few seconds to process what he was seeing. His eyes jumped from Meyneth, heavily injured and out of breath, to the two people she'd deposited in the center of the room. One of them was a Fiend that Rob didn't recognize, either unconscious or dead, who was holding a translucent orb of mana in his outstretched hand. Something about the orb sent Rob's fight-or-flight instinct going haywire, forcing his gaze towards the other person Meyneth had broug-

His train of thought ground to a halt. He stared, unblinking, at the gaping hole in Vul'to's chest, blood seeping out of the wound like an open sore. An instant later, Rob opened the Party Screen, and his world was turned on its head by two simple lines of text. HP: 0 / 700. Status Effects: Deceased.

No words came. He tried to take a breath, and failed. Images surged unbidden from the depths of his memories, remnants of disaster from The Village's invasion so many months ago.

Alia

Level: 24

Ranger Level: 21

HP: 0 / 310

Status Effects: Deceased

Tarric

Level: 21

Ranger Level: 18

HP: 0 / 280

Status Effects: Deceased

No no no no no no no-

<STOP.> Diplomacy squeezed Rob's trembling mind and held it in place. <Save that for later. There's things to do now.>

Rob nearly lashed out, a hairsbreadth away from telling the Skill to shove off, before taking a closer look and sensing the grief and anger coating Diplomacy's core. They weren't any less rattled by what had happened than he was. Instead, Rob deactivated Tough Skin and bit his tongue hard, drawing blood. The sudden jolt of pain allowed him to marshal his thoughts for long enough to face Meyneth and blurt out the first words that came to mind. "What happened?"

"Soul Eater." Meyneth jabbed a clawed finger at the unconscious Fiend. "He stole Vul'to's soul. Has it in his hand." She pivoted, jabbing that same finger at Rob's Soul Surgeon. "You will fix him," she ordered, in a clipped tone.

Rob gaped at the unassuming mana orb with a sense of rising horror. That's – oh Jesus fucking hell-christ. "Fix..." He took a deep breath, suppressing the whirlwind of emotions storming inside. It didn't matter if what Meyneth was asking was possible or not – they still had to try. "Yes. Fix him. Now."

The Surgeon didn't respond, too busy staring at the orb floating in the Soul Eater's palm. All the blood had drained from his face, gray complexion turned ashen-white. "This can't be real," he whispered. Any traces of the cocky asshole doctor in his demeanor were long since gone. "Soul Eaters haven't-"

"DID YOU HEAR MY WORDS?!" Meyneth roared, causing the Fiend to flinch like he'd been struck. "TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE! YOU ARE A SOUL SURGEON! PERFORM YOUR FUCKING DUTIES!"

"What you ask of me is impossible," the Surgeon replied, as he took a step back. "This Elf is dead. The Clay of Life may have been able to house his soul, but it won't be ready for at least five days. By then, his soul will have dissipated. Additionally, we cannot return his soul to his original body, as it is no longer sufficient as a vessel. Once a body's HP reaches 0, it loses the ability to hold a soul, even if the wounds inflicted upon it are healed afterwards." He looked closer at Vul'to's corp– at Vul'to, and grimaced. "His body would require significant healing, regardless. It has no heart."

Rob felt like he wanted to vomit. He opened up his Character Sheet, activated Speed Reading, and blazed through his list of Skills as quickly as he could. Something in there had to turn this around. Some esoteric effect he could share with Vul'to to circumvent the system's rules. Rob read it all, analyzing each individual word of every last Skill he possessed.

And found nothing. In his time spent in Elatra, Rob had been beaten, battered, bruised, burned, bisected, brutalized, and brained. He'd been inflicted with just about every form of bodily trauma known to man – and gotten powerful defensive Skills for his trouble. But despite burning his soul when fruitlessly strangling a god, and being infested with crippling amounts of Corruption, one Skill he hadn't gotten was Soul Resistance. Either the Prerequisites were ridiculously high, or it just...didn't exist.

Teeth clenched, he closed his Character Sheet and shot off several quick Messages to the rest of his Party members, informing them to bring Healers. One of them could resolve this. The Soul Surgeon had to be wrong. He wasn't all-knowing. There had to-

"You seem to be overlooking an alternative," Meyneth intoned, breaking Rob out of his downward spiral. "There is another vessel here that has not yet lost its capacity to house a soul."

Rob glanced at the unconscious Soul Eater. White-hot rage flared within him, soon followed by a cold resolve. For a moment, he contemplated using Identify to check if the Fiend was close to waking up, but decided otherwise. He didn't want to learn the fucker's name, especially considering what they were about to do. The Surgeon was examining the Eater's body as well, eyes widening as he gradually realized what Meyneth was suggesting.

"Put the Elf's soul in the Soul Eater's body?" The Surgeon covered his mouth with his hand. "That would require-"

"Removing the Eater's soul first," Meyneth nodded.

"That would be as good as killing him."

"And?"

The Soul Surgeon's posture went stiff as a board. "I can't do that."

Rob's hand automatically drifted towards his sword. He let it rest on the hilt. "Why not, exactly?"

"Because I swore an oath." The Surgeon, to his credit, kept his composure despite being glared at by Rob and Meyneth simultaneously. "Souls are precious beyond words. More than the heart, more even than the brain, a soul represents the very essence of a person. It is who they are. When I became a Soul Surgeon, I promised on penalty of eradication that I would never misuse my capabilities to harm another person's soul, no matter how vile that person may be."

For a split second, Meyneth's expression was an erupting volcano of fury. Then, just as suddenly, it mellowed. "I see," she replied, in a calm, placid tone. "Then I shall offer you an ultimatum."

"Threats won't work on me," the Surgeon said. "I'm sorry, I truly am, but-"

"Perform your duties, or I will step outside this room and kill the first Fiend I chance upon."

You could have heard a pin drop. Rob let go of his sword, head gradually turning towards Meyneth. The Dragonkin's expression hadn't changed an iota. "I won't stop there," she continued, in the same, placid tone. "The next Fiend I encounter shall die as well. Torn asunder in a matter of seconds. Then the next Fiend. Then the next, and the next. Mothers. Fathers. Anyone and everyone. Blood will run freely down the streets until either I run out of HP, or you save my friend's life."

Her claws extended to their full length. "I will be cut down, eventually. But not before thousands perish. The strongest nearby Combat Class users are my fellow Party members, and they will hesitate to use deadly force against me. By the time they've worked up the resolve to take my life...well."

Meyneth reached behind herself and casually pushed open the door, its hinges barely hanging by a thread.. The drawn-out creak that followed sounded like a death rattle. "Ten seconds. Then I step outside. Choose."

All at once, Rob understood what it was like to be an Elatran, living under the yoke of willful Combat Class users. He'd understood before, in an objective sense, but it was only when he observed the terror dawning on the Soul Surgeon's face that he finally understood. This was a world where society's veneer of civilized behavior was even thinner than back on Earth. At any moment, a Combat Class user with an axe to grind could go on a rampage and slaughter as many people as they wished. If there was no one around to stop them, no one with the desire and Levels necessary to stand in their way, then they simply wouldn't be stopped.

He understood that now better than ever, because as Rob examined the situation from all angles, he realized that he didn't know how things would end if Meyneth carried out her threat in full. She'd claimed that her fellow Party members would hesitate to use deadly force against her, but that was halfway wrong. Because if the Soul Surgeon refused to even attempt to save Vul'to's life over some bullshit code of honor, then Rob very much wouldn't hesitate.

To stand aside and let Meyneth do whatever she wanted.

If someone was going to stop her, it certainly wasn't going to be him.

"Do what she says," Rob told the Soul Surgeon, in a consoling tone, playing the good cop to Meyneth's bad. "I'll take responsibility for whatever happens." His voice cracked slightly. "Just...please save Vul'to. Please."

The Soul Surgeon screwed his eyes shut, seeming wracked with indecision. Rob was about to speak up again, but Diplomacy pulled him back, instructing him to wait. A few seconds later, after reaching a mental count of 'eight', relief flooded through Rob as the Soul Surgeon let out a defeated sigh.

"Theoretically, let's say that I accede to your demands," he began, in a low tone. "What happens when I attempt to insert the Elf's soul into a Fiend's body, and my efforts reach their logical conclusion? Will you massacre people because I failed to do the impossible? Souls can't even be transplanted into alternate bodies of the same race, let alone-"

The Surgeon paused, mouth open. "Same race," he mumbled, eyes distant. Rob could practically hear the gears turning in his head. "Soul Eater. Multiple souls. One body. Physiology adapts. Hmm. Normally impossible, but..."

He looked Meyneth in the eyes, sounding for the first time like he had a semblance of control over the situation. "I cannot guarantee success. You would be advised to prepare yourself for tragedy. However, if this Soul Eater has devoured Elven souls in the past, then his body may be primed to accept an Elven soul as its new owner."

"He made comments regarding Elves being a 'familiar taste'," Meyneth informed.

"Absolutely fucking revolting." He stepped towards the operating table where the two bodies lay. "Yet fortuitous, in this case." The Surgeon made shooing motions at Rob and Meyneth. "Step back, you two. If you're going to have me forsake my vows, then we're damn well doing this right."

The Soul Surgeon held up his right hand. His claws extended, glowing with a full gray aura that gave Rob the same sense of unease that he got when looking at Vul'to's soul. Meyneth hissed, assuming a combat stance, on the verge of lunging. "That's-"

"The same ability that the Eater used to rip your friend's soul from his body," the Surgeon admitted, without a hint of shame. "Do you see now why I swore a vow, and why I'm so hesitant to break it? Much as the difference between medicine and poison lies in their dosage, the difference between a Soul Surgeon and Soul Eater lies in their intent." He breathed in, then exhaled, straightening his posture. "Argath forgive me for what I'm about to do."

Delicately, carefully, the Surgeon extended a single claw and dragged it down the Eater's chest.

Screams. Unending screams. Rob covered his ears as an explosion of translucent mana orbs burst out of the Soul Eater's chest, wailing like a symphony of the damned. The air shimmered with colors and sounds and feeling, souls escaping their prison by the hundreds. Several flew close to Rob, barraging him with flashes of memory that were not his own, glimpses of stolen lives and tortured wills.

And then all was still. The souls had dissipated, traveling to wherever souls went when they were no longer shackled to a corporeal form. It couldn't have taken more than a few seconds, but it felt far longer. Everyone in the room was silent, ears ringing as they slowly processed what they'd just witnessed.

"You okay?" Rob eventually managed to get out, addressing the Soul Surgeon. If that was what it looked like *without* Soul Sight, then what did it look like to him?

"No," the Surgeon flatly stated. He gazed down at the Soul Eater as if observing a unique form of pond scum. "This man is undoubtedly the most prolific Soul Eater in Fiend history."

"...Fuck."

The Surgeon nodded. "Indeed." He held up his claws once more, their dull-gray glow intensifying. "You needn't worry, though. If there's a silver lining to be gleaned, it's that I no longer feel any trace of hesitation whatsoever."

He plunged all five claws into the Soul Eater's chest. The Eater's body lurched, shaking as if it was having a seizure, then abruptly went still as the Surgeon pulled out one last mana orb. He examined the soul, turning it around in his hand, and Rob could've sworn that he detected a glimmer of desire in the Surgeon's eyes.

"I wish I could consign you to oblivion myself," the Surgeon stated. "But that is for Argath to decide." He tossed the soul over his shoulder like it was yesterday's garbage. The soul shrieked and struggled, less eager to move on to the afterlife than the other lives it had imprisoned. Rob could've sworn he heard a cry for help – and then it was gone, the orb dissipating into nothingness.

Moving quickly but carefully, the Soul Surgeon gently plucked Vul'to's soul from the Eater's hand, cradling it with the tips of his claws like he was carrying a newborn child. He proceeded to insert it into the vacant opening in the Eater's chest, fingers twitching in a stiff, controlled manner. His claws glowed with shifting mana, performing some action that Rob wasn't equipped to comprehend. Vul'to's soul disappeared into the Eater's body, and with another gesture, the Surgeon sealed the opening with an odd vacuuming sound.

And...that was it. The operation took so little time that Rob didn't realize it was finished until the Surgeon's claws began to retract. "I've done what I can," he said, appearing drained. "As stated, this kind of procedure is unprecedented. I won't be able to give you assurances on when or if he will awaken."

"He's not even breathing," Rob pleaded. "There has to be more you can do."

"As I said-"

Vul'to let out a harsh gasp. Rob and Meyneth sprang forward, babbling questions and apologies and are-you-okays, but by the time they'd reached him, he was unconscious once again. They tried to wake him up, their hearts sinking when he stayed unconscious. Thankfully, the consistent rise and fall of his chest indicated that emergency CPR wouldn't be necessary.

"Oh my god," Rob mumbled, sinking to the ground. His legs had taken a leave of absence. "That, that means he's fine, right? Tell me that means he's going to be fine."

The Soul Surgeon said nothing. Wanting a second opinion, Rob opened up his Party Screen to check on Vul'to's condition.

And immediately wished he hadn't.

???

Level: ???

??? Level: ???

HP: ??? / ???

Status Effects: ???

--

"You said this wouldn't fucking happen!"

Rob's voice resounded across the room like a thunderbolt. At his side, Keira stood vigil, stone-faced except for the violence dancing in her eyes, her deathly glare adding weight to his words. Rob felt a spike of savage glee as he watched the Grand Overseers recoil in alarm, both of them needing to take a half-second to rally themselves. Despite the meeting being an equal arrangement of two people on each side, the Overseers were acting as if they were outnumbered.

Diplomacy started suggesting ways to reduce the tension in the room, all of which went summarily ignored. Rob wasn't in the mood to play good cop anymore. The fact that only two of the Grand Overseers had bothered showing up when he demanded a meeting, combined with the nervousness evident on their faces, did plenty to confirm his suspicions. A governmental body never sent more officials than necessary into a high-risk area. In this instance, Rob himself was the risk. The Overseers were concerned about a potential reprisal.

Maybe they should be.

"I remember the very first time I met a Fiend," Rob continued, his tone going from loud to dangerously quiet. "Helkath. A real piece of work. Had a huge bug up his ass about me. Almost imploded the most historic peace negotiation in Elatran history because he thought I was a soul-eating monster. That is how bad of a crime he considered it to be. And not just him – every single Fiend I've ever spoken to freaks out when the topic comes up. Acts like I'd shot their fucking dog merely by suggesting the possibility."

He spread his arms wide. "So...mind explaining what happened today? I thought soul eating was just something the southern nations exaggerated to make the Fiends look bad. Practically made up, even."

"We did not say that," Grand Overseer #1 said, his voice measured.

"Implied it, though." Rob chuckled. "Out of curiosity, what's the actual popularity of soul munching these days? Is it a taboo in the sense of murder, or is it more like stealing someone's lunch from the office fridge? How many autographs did I hand out to serial killers?"

<Rob, I haven't sensed that kind of ill intent from any of the Fiends we've met,> Diplomacy said. <You aren't being fair–>

I don't give a flying fuck. "Should I be careful when crossing the street? Is Roy the Savior a delicacy that some enterprising Fiend just won't be able to resist?" His eyes narrowed, and when he spoke again, the last bits of levity had evaporated from his tone. "Answer my goddamn questions."

"I don't think I have an answer that you would accept," Grand Overseer #2 said, shaking her head. "Soul Eaters are extremely rare. We've taken measures to stamp them out when they arise. Yet I cannot guarantee your safety from them any more than I can shield you from a lightning strike. The chances of being targeted by either are about equal."

Rob put on a smile that showed too many teeth. "So Vul'to was just...unlucky? Is that what you're saying?"

The Overseer winced and averted her eyes. "You drew the attention of a loathsome existence." She hesitated, as if unsure of how much to say, before pressing on. "The Enchanted Items that the Soul Eater utilized were taken from various families across Fiend territory. Vanished, along with their owners. An investigation into his domicile turned up even more. He has been robbing people of their material and immaterial possessions for a long, long while."

Rob's eyebrows shot up to the top of his forehead. Back when Riardin's Rangers and the Fiends had been preparing for the journey into Merfolk territory, they'd gathered up Fiendland's strongest Enchanted Items to help stack the odds in their favor. Unfortunately, Fiendland's 'strongest' ended up being slim pickings – certainly nothing on the level of an Item that enervated opponents or exploded like a crate of Firebombs. At the time, Rob had assumed that the Fiends were holding out on them due to petty greed. "No one told me that the actual powerful Items were flat-out missing."

"It wasn't a sudden occurrence that could be construed as a pattern. Some of the Enchanted Items have been absent for longer than a Fiend's natural lifespan," the Overseer informed. "897 years was the record, I believe. Its family will be overjoyed at the return of a long-lost heirloom, and to finally receive an explanation as to what happened to their great grandfather."

Rob's mouth fell open. Seeing his reaction, the Overseer smiled, although it contained no joy. "We have good reason for being reluctant to acknowledge even the existence of soul eating." She began, sounding tired. "It is a curse unlike anything else in Elatra. The best and worst of Leveling High, multiplied. A Fiend who partakes in soul eating gains extended life, overwhelming power, and incomparable pleasure. There are no downsides outside of the inevitable addiction, which is rarely enough to deter those who desire strength and lack in moral compunctions."

She stared into the distance, reminiscing. "And so we fight against it. The only way that a society can. From birth, Fiends are reared to view souls as sacred. Eating them is taught to be an unconscionable, unspeakable act, a taboo of the highest order. You do not discuss soul eating. You do not think about soul eating. And in the appalling event that a Fiend is revealed to be a Soul Eater, we condemn them as pariahs among pariahs, tearing down their life and reputation until they are reduced to nothing more than a blackened example of the worst of what we can become. Because if we did not, Fiend territory would devour itself, and we would devolve into the very monsters that Elatra believes us to be."

A long, exhausted sigh escaped her throat. "We have succeeded in those efforts, mostly, but days like these remind us that it is a fight that will never truly end." She locked eyes with Rob. "I cannot apologize on behalf of all Fiends. To do so would be a disservice to everyone who bears their curse with dignity. Even so, I am truly sorry for what happened to Vul'to. He is a good man who deserves better."

Rob said nothing. He tried to summon the righteous fury broiling inside him before, and found himself unable to. It was still there, but he couldn't direct it at the Grand Overseers anymore. Unfortunately, his acceptable targets – the Soul Eater for obvious reasons, and the gods for creating Fiends to be soul-eaters – were either dead or out of reach. Instead, his fury sat inside him, aimless and festering.

"...There was a witness," he said, rubbing his temples. "They momentarily saw Meyneth carrying Vul'to and the Soul Eater. By tomorrow, the entire nation is going to know that something happened."

"Measures are being taken," the Overseer assured. "At this point, it is impossible to fully suppress the spread of gossip. Shaping its narrative, however, takes merely a few words in the right places. People will be aware that Vul'to was attacked by a Fiend, but not the exact nature of what that attack entailed."

Rob pinched the bridge of his nose. "And what about when Vul'to wakes up?" He would wake up. He had to. "He'll have a Fiend's body. What do we say then?"

"That depends on what his Status Screen will look like when viewed with Identify."

"Right." Rob let his arm fall to his side, suddenly feeling like he'd run a marathon. "Gonna go now. Sorry for playing the blame game earlier."

The Overseers and Keira couldn't hide their surprise. Apparently, they'd expected him to be upset for a while longer. Rob was tempted to speak at length about why he wasn't, mention that he understood how no race was defined by their worst people, give a deeper apology over coming after the Overseers for something outside of their control...

But he was too tired. And moreso than any logical argument swaying his anger, that was the main reason why he apologized so quickly.

He just wanted the day to end.

Rob left the meeting without fanfare. It was night outside, and the streets were empty, bereft of life. Moonlight shone down from the starry sky, illuminating Acrastor City's buildings with an ethereal glow. Beautiful, in the way that only a city from another world could be. It was a sight that Rob hoped he would be able to appreciate again someday. Right now, the image of Vul'to's gaping chest wound and vacant eyes were too fresh in his mind for that.

As he walked, Keira stuck by him, never farther than a few inches away. Rob almost reached for her hand, but he held back. It wouldn't have felt right. He didn't want to associate the warmth of her touch with...whatever he was feeling right now. Needed time to clear his head.

He looked up at the stars once more. Maybe they had answers.

In what felt like an instant, Rob arrived at his destination. He blinked in confusion, staring at the exterior of his personal quarters like it'd come out of nowhere. God, had he really said absolutely nothing to Keira in the fifteen minutes it took to walk there? Not even a single word of encouragement? That wasn't fair to her. He'd have to make it up to her tomorrow, somehow.

"Sorry for zoning out," Rob told Keira, injecting a bit of mirth into his tone. "Think I'm going to sleep alone tonight, if that's okay. You didn't do anything wrong, I just-"

He was cut off by Keira stepping forward and embracing him with a full-body hug. "He's going to be alright," she murmured, into his chest. "I promise."

"I know. I'm not worried, so don't worry about me, okay?"

"He's going to be alright," Keira repeated, more insistently this time, refusing to budge.

Rob tried to say something in response, but all that came out was a strangled sob. Oh, he realized, as tears started running down his cheeks. I haven't gotten the chance to cry yet.

So he did.

Chapter 6

Meyneth waited.

Meyneth waited longer.

Meyneth waited longer still.

Her patience was rewarded with the sound of faint, imperceptible breathing, the same as it had been for the last several hours.

With no small amount of effort, she tore her eyes away from Vul'to's unconscious body. There was only so long that one could watch over a friend, fruitlessly hoping for them to recover, unsure if they ever would. A day had passed since Vul'to's soul was placed in the Soul Eater's body, and so far, his condition remained unchanged. He wouldn't wake up, he didn't respond to external stimuli, and his Status Screen was still a garbled mess of the unknown. The Physicians were close to declaring him comatose, and had begun making preparations to feed him so that he wouldn't starve in his sleep.

But at least he was alive. As long as he was alive, hope lived as well.

You'd better rejoin us soon. Meyneth briefly gripped his hand. For both our sakes. She didn't know what she was going to do with herself if Vul'to didn't wake up. Even if the rest of Riardin's Rangers forgave her, she never would. He was only in the condition he was now because of her. The Soul Eater had dealt the blow, but it was her incompetence that forced Vul'to to put himself in harm's way. If she'd moved faster, thought quicker, fought harder...

A bitter grimace crept across her face. In the past, when under her parents' tutelage, Meyneth had sometimes wondered what it would be like to have a friend who supported her. Unconditionally, and without reservation. Someone who loved and cared for her, to the point where they'd be willing to sacrifice their very life for her sake.

She wished she could return to those days and strike the ignorance out of herself. Reality wasn't like the desperate daydreams of a lonely girl. Having someone sacrifice themself for her didn't feel affirming. It ached, like hot lava pouring on her heart. As if she'd failed her friends, herself, and most of all, Vul'to.

Meyneth's eyes flickered towards his face, inspecting him for changes, and a sense of unwanted revulsion washed over her. Vul'to's new Fiendish appearance was going to be difficult to reconcile. She couldn't help but associate it with a monstrous, soul-eating abomination; not one of her dearest friends in the world.

Unfortunately, she'd need to grow accustomed to to it – Vul'to's surgery only succeeded in the first place because the Soul Eater's body was primed to accept Elven souls. The Clay of Life could potentially house his soul, but it was designed to work for Diplomacy, a soul not yet attuned to a body. Unless Rob's Surgeon discovered a way to cheat death even more than he already had, this unfamiliar Fiend laying in front of her was Vul'to now.

Will he be the same Vul'to when he awakens?

Her thought was mercifully interrupted by a knock on the door. Meyneth tensed, recalling what happened the last time someone knocked, before relaxing when she realized that her four hours were up. Riardin's Rangers had been taking turns standing vigil beside Vul'to; they wanted one of them to be there to greet him when he awoke. Meyneth was hesitant to leave his side, but the others deserved a chance to come to terms with his condition, and further self-flagellation on her part wouldn't help anyone right now.

She still extended her claws and adopted a fighting stance in preparation. She turned the doorknob, pulled, and took a quick step away. Instantly, Meyneth's adrenaline surged. FIEND–

Oh. It was Faelynn. Meyneth stood there, frozen with mild embarrassment, as her claws hovered an inch away from the terrified Fiend's neck. "My apologies," Meyneth stated, pulling back. "I am somewhat...on edge, as you might imagine."

"Y-yes," Faelynn muttered, idly rubbing her hands across her neck. "Can't fault you for that."

She trailed off. The two of them locked eyes like a pair of skittish house cats, each silently begging the other to speak first. "What are you doing here?" Meyneth finally managed to ask. "If I'm remembering correctly, Rob was supposed to take over once my vigil ended."

"I offered to take his place," Faelynn explained. "It seemed like he needed some time alone." She paused, lowering her gaze. "Assuming that's alright with you. I would understand if-"

"None of us blame you for what happened to Vul'to," Meyneth truthfully spoke. "Nor do we blame all Fiends for the actions of one." That, she was less sure of, at least insofar as it applied to the rest of Riardin's Rangers. For her part, Meyneth bore the Fiends no ill will. She'd met too many of them who treated her with fairness to start judging them at this juncture.

Faelynn's posture slackened. "Thank you." She smiled. "Rest easy, why don't you? I think you need it as much as Rob does."

She's being rather kind to me, Meyneth belatedly realized. Must not be aware that I threatened to slaughter hundreds of Fiends. The Soul Surgeon had agreed to keep silent about that incident, citing concerns regarding a public outcry, although Meyneth doubted that he would do so forever. No secret stayed hidden in perpetuity. For now, though, Faelynn remained blissfully ignorant of the massacre that had been narrowly avoided.

"I threatened to slaughter hundreds of Fiends," Meyneth immediately stated. She paused, giving Faelynn a few seconds of burgeoning shock to comprehend what she'd just heard. "It was how I convinced the Soul Surgeon to operate on Vul'to. And if he did not acquiesce, I would have carried out my threat in full."

Faelynn opened and closed her mouth several times. "I thought..." she began, in a tone tinged with anguish. "I thought you didn't blame us for what happened."

"Correct."

She gaped at Meyneth as if the Dragonkin had grown another head. Faelynn averted her eyes, staring blankly at nothing in particular. After a few seconds, she took a deep breath, exhaled, and turned to face Meyneth once more. "That will take me some time to look past," she admitted. "However, I also recognize that you were in a desperate situation. Vul'to's life hung in the balance." Her claws twitched. "Just...don't do anything of that sort again."

Now it was Meyneth's turn to avert her eyes. "I won't," she mumbled. "Why are you..."

She couldn't find it in herself to finish the question. Instead, Meyneth skirted past Faelynn, retreating from the room, shoulders hunched. Damnit. This guilt would be far easier to bear if I could find someone to hate me properly.

--

I must not hate the Fiends, Zamira repeated. I must not hate the Fiends. One person is not a representative of their race. I must not hate the Fiends. Peace cannot be attained if I hold resentment in my heart. I must not hate the Fiends.

She rubbed her temples, sighing. Why was training her mind so much more difficult than training her body? Swordsmanship came easy. Convincing herself to be the kind of person she wanted to be? Like beating at steel with her bare hands. She wasn't even sure if she'd made a dent yet.

...If I hate the Fiends, that means I'll have to hate Faelynn, too. Zamira recoiled, the thought provoking a much stronger reaction within her than anything else she'd tried so far. Faelynn didn't deserve to be hated. Not at all. And if she didn't, then none of the other Fiends did, either.

Even if some of them were soul-eating monstrosities who targeted her friends.

Zamira perked up as her mother entered the room. The older woman walked forward slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. "Zamira?" she began, tentatively. "May I ask you a question?"

"Of course." A break from her mental training would be welcome. "What is it?"

Her mother hesitated. "I was merely wondering if you know of a way to cheer up the little ones," she asked. "They are acting...reserved. I'm beginning to grow worried."

Zamira winced. If I knew, I would have done so myself. How was she supposed to bolster Orn'tol's and Malika's morale when she was scarcely faring better than them? Any words of encouragement she had to offer would be no more than halfhearted lies.

"Just be present for them," she ended up saying. "Your presence itself will soothe their worries. I speak from experience when saying that."

Her mother smiled. It was brilliant and beautiful, letting Zamira forget everything for a single, comforting moment.

Then a voice in the back of her head reminded her that Vul'to was comatose and showing no signs of improvement.

I must not hate the Fiends.

--

Orn'tol held Malika close as his sister dozed in his arms. Sighing to himself, he deactivated Heightened Senses as voices from the other room barely reached his ears. Zamira and her mother weren't being as quiet as they thought they were.

Honestly, he mused. Don't know why they're so concerned about us. So what if he and Malika weren't saying much? That was normal. It didn't mean anything. They were just resting; nothing more.

And besides, what was there to say? What happened to Vul'to was terrible, yes, but hardly surprising. Bad things happened to people all the time. In this instance, to one of their friends. Eventually, it would happen to more, possibly Orn'tol himself. That was simply how the world worked.

He'd understood that since eight years ago.

Orn'tol closed his eyes. For some reason, he suddenly felt tired. Maybe if he took a nap, things would be better when he woke up.

--

I told them to be careful, Keira seethed. I told them to watch out for assassins. I told them so many fucking times. The populace of Acrastor City parted before her as she walked down its streets. She didn't need to say anything to make them steer clear; the look on her face was sufficient. But did they take care? Of course not. Overconfident idiots, strutting around like they're the ones with Danger Sense. When Vul'to wakes up, we're going to have *words*.

She resisted the urge to grab her greatsword and start swinging it into the ground. I should be with everyone else right now. 'We need space' my pale ass. If they're not going to protect themselves, someone has to fucking do it. Don't care if it intrudes on their oh-so-important solitude.

For the dozenth time that day, Keira barely resisted the urge to activate Message and start shouting into the 'group chat' – as Rob called it – until someone allowed her to attend them. Logically, she knew that they required a period of respite to process what had happened to Vul'to. She also knew that they wouldn't let themselves be caught unawares so soon after one of their own was ambushed. Her protection wasn't strictly necessary.

Neither of those conclusions did a damn thing to soothe the electric wrath surging through Keira's veins. Why in the world hadn't she been there yesterday? Danger Sense would have detected the Soul Eater's intent the moment he knocked. Instead, while her friends were being targeted by a fucking lunatic, she'd been...boxing. Indulging her frivolous urges, smiling and laughing, as Vul'to's soul was ripped from his chest.

Keira clenched her teeth so hard that she nearly cracked a molar. Fighting was all she knew. What good was she if she couldn't be there to safeguard the people she cared about?

...I need to hit something, she concluded. Without Diplomacy finding out. It'd probably tell me that my coping mechanisms are unhealthy. She snorted. We'll see if it still feels that way once it gains a body with muscles and adrenaline.

As Keira considered how best to find an acceptable target, her Heightened Senses picked up shouting from a street away. She raced towards the sound, excitedly wondering if there was a convenient thug for her to rough up – only to find a sight that was disappointing in every conceivable manner. Two small crowds were standing on opposite ends of the street, one consisting of Elves, and the other consisting of Fiends. They were yelling at each other with rising vehemence, seeming on the verge of coming to blows. As Keira listened, she caught snippets of what they were saying, gleaning the crux of their argument in short order.

"-your people attacked-"

"-not one of ours-"

"-demand justice-"

"-is a hero-"

"-just like the rest-"

"-care more than you-"

Keira slapped her hand on her forehead as she came to a realization. Fiendish Auto-Translate was still rare among the Deserters, and as far as she knew, Elven Auto-Translate had yet to propagate among the Fiends at all.

Neither crowd even knew what the other was saying.

She let out a bout of uproarious laughter. It was loud, mocking, and cut through the clamor like a sharpened knife. Both crowds gradually quieted as they turned to look at Keira, their expressions morphing from outraged to embarrassed, as if they were children caught sneaking sweets before supper.

"Oh, by all means," Keira snickered, once she'd finished laughing. "Continue. I was looking for a distraction, and who doesn't love watching a good farce play out?" She made sure to repeat her words in Fiendish, wanting to make absolutely fucking sure that everyone knew precisely what she thought of them.

"Lady Blightkiller," an idiotically brave Elf said, stepping forward. "The Fiends...Lord Vul'to was-"

"Do you think I'm unaware of what happened to Vul'to, you waste of breathable air?" Keira kept her tone neutral, as if she was commenting on the weather. "What you think you know is irrelevant to me. I want you to explain why you believe what happened to Vul'to justifies this nonsense."

"We know that look in their eyes!" A Fiend exclaimed. "They think we're murderers! This, after we gave them shelter in our city, and when we've done them no wrong!"

Keira put on a blissful smile. "True, true. You've done no wrong, and my fellow Elves were fools to blame you." She tilted her head. "And I'm sure you attempted to de-escalate the situation, rather than exacerbate the wayward emotions of bereaved people who've lost one of the pillars of their community. Otherwise, you – as the group in a superior position of power – would be acting entirely immature. Isn't that right?"

It was funny. At the beginning, Keira had assumed that needing to translate her words into Elvish and Fiendish would temper her emotions, dulling their intensity by way of simple repetition. Instead, the opposite was true. Saying everything twice only served to remind her of how utterly maddening the last twenty-four hours had been, keeping the fires of her rage burning bright in her soul.

"Do any of you have the faintest idea of who Vul'to is?" Keira stated, bits of fury slipping through the cracks in her demeanor. "Not as one of your heroes. As Vul'to. He's the type of man who wants everyone to get along, and I can assure you that he would be very saddened if people started fighting over him like this. Whatever prompted this exchange is immaterial. Your actions are an insult to his name, and I will. Not. Stand for it."

In one motion, Keira drew her greatsword and lifted it into the air. The crowds held their collective breath, frozen like prey before a charging Vraal. Then she slammed her sword into the ground, spearing it inside the road, leaving it stuck upwards. Cracking her knuckles, Keira stepped forward and assumed a fighting stance, fists up.

"You have two options," she said, in a low undertone. "Disperse and reflect on your behavior, or continue blathering and face punishment. Personally, I recommend you choose the latter. I've been looking for ways to raise my Brawling level."

Intimidation Level Increased! 7 → 8

Keira frowned as the Elves and Fiends scurried off. The roads were left clear in an instant, leaving her standing there alone with her fists up as if she was about to box the air.

Shit. Overdid it. Keira sighed as she retrieved her greatsword. That probably hurts my reputation among them, especially once word spreads, but so be it. The Grand Overseers will fix it with one of their publicity stunts.

Regardless of the potential fallout, Keira didn't regret her actions. Nipping hostilities between Deserters and Fiends in the bud was imperative – and secondary to ensuring that they didn't use Vul'to as an excuse in the process.

She couldn't have Vul'to blaming himself when he returned, after all.

...I still need to hit something.

--

Rob shifted in his chair. Five seconds later, he shifted again. No matter how many times he tried, he just couldn't get comfortable. It was a pretty swanky chair, too, so he knew the problem was him. Jittery nerves, possibly. Really, with how much PTSD he was piling up, it was a miracle that it didn't happen more often.

He poked Diplomacy, wanting to ask for advice on how to calm himself, but they were still in power saving mode. The Skill seemed more tired than usual today. Which was a tad worrying, and something to mull over when other things weren't occupying his mental space.

Like...well. Vul'to.

"Is there anything I can do?" Elder Duran asked, jolting Rob out of his thoughts. "I don't mean to rush you, but you've been sitting there for quite a while." He smiled, speaking in his kindly grandpa tone. "If your mind feels like a tangled web, then perhaps I can help unravel it?"

"I just need a bit longer," Rob muttered. "Thinking about stuff. I..."

He paused, sighing. "Actually, sorry. Don't think this is going to work today. Sorry for wasting your time."

Duran let out a concerned note of protest, but by then, Rob was already halfway out the door. He immediately turned into a less occupied side road, pulling on a hooded cloak so that it was more difficult for the occasional passerby to see his face. Which was a piss-poor disguise that had the effect of making him appear shady as hell, but...eh. Looking like a creeper was a small price to pay for not being approached by anyone. He really wasn't in the mood to entertain random people's sympathy, well-intentioned or otherwise.

Time passed. The sun crept across the sky, close to being swallowed up by the void horizon as midday became afternoon. Rob sank into quiet contemplation while he hiked through the city, and after three hours of aimless wandering, came to the conclusion that sorting out his thoughts on his own was going to be tougher than he'd hoped. It turned out that emotions were weird and didn't come with an instruction booklet. He was also maaaaybe too accustomed to having a helpful voice in his head with cheat code-level emotional intelligence.

Certainly bodes well for when Diplomacy gets his own body, Rob grumbled to himself. I can't be bugging them for advice forever. They'll have their own life to live. Maybe I should take some Psych courses when I get back to Earth – in between all the therapy, that is.

Rob was in the middle of planning how he could wrangle free tuition out of being Level 51 when an earthquake nearly knocked him flat on his stomach.

It said something about how long he'd been in Elatra that his kneejerk response was to assume that he was under attack. Rob steadied his balance, sword in hand, watching the ground for giant evil molemen or whatever the world was going to throw at him next. His paranoia was justified a moment later when the shaking intensified – right as the ground began to split open before his eyes. The gap widened slowly, starting and stopping, groaning like a rusted hinge being forced apart. Its expansion ceased when it was about twenty-by-twenty feet wide, forming a perfect circle in the center of the road.

And then...nothing. Instead of a swarm of monsters erupting up from the bowels of the earth, Rob was left waiting as his nerves frayed more with every passing second. He placed a Waymark point down and activated Not a Scratch, carefully creeping towards the opening, ready to hit the panic button at the first sign of trouble. Several Fiends followed him from a supposedly safe distance behind, curiosity overriding their survival instincts. Inching forward, the group continued until they were just outside of the hole's edge, vaguely surprised that nothing had popped out at them yet.

"Well how about that," Rob muttered, as he peered inside. The hole looked normal until twenty feet down, where empty air abruptly transformed to pitch-black darkness. It was a sight that Rob had seen three times in the past.

When entering Dungeons.

"Is the Black Wind coming again?" A panicked Fiend hissed from behind Rob. "I thought that Nevermore City was cleansed of Corruption!"

"Be at ease," a second, more sensible Fiend stated. "While you may have never witnessed a Dungeon's birth before, it does happen in the midst of cities, albeit rarely. You need not worry – Dungeons are weak in their inception. The Combat Class users will expunge it soon enough."

"Sounds good," Rob said. A flash of blue motes covered him, storing his hooded cloak within Spatial Storage. "I'll get right on that."

The group of Fiends gaped at him, realization gradually dawning on their faces. "Roy?" The sensible Fiend uttered. "You were Roy?"

Wow, Rob marveled. Apparently, I should've worn a hood on the journey into Merfolk territory. They never would've known I was there. "Yup, that's me, last time I checked." He stretched his limbs. "Gonna beat up the Dungeon and be back in a jiffy. Feel free to take bets on how long it'll take me to clear it."

"You shouldn't trouble yourself," the Fiend suggested. "A fledgling Dungeon of this caliber is below your Level. You'll barely gain any EXP whatsoever."

"Yeah, but I'm going anyway."

The Fiends exchanged confused glances. "Why?"

A savage grin that showed too many teeth spread across Rob's face. He summoned a Firebomb from Spatial Storage and spun it on one finger like a basketball. "Stress relief."

Character Sheet and Skills At The End of Chapter 6

Author's Note: Reading this segment is OPTIONAL. It isn't at all required to understand the story – it's simply for those LitRPG fans who enjoy sinking their teeth into stats and skills. For those uninterested in the LitRPG elements, or those who simply don't feel like going over Rob's progress right now, feel free to skip this and move on to Chapter 7.

In the interest of not getting penalized by Amazon for having too many pages of descriptions that many people will skip, the detailed descriptions for some Skills unlikely to be relevant in the near future – such as Foraging and Mathematics – won't be included.

--

Character Sheet

Name: Rob

Level: 51

Race: Human

Class: BERSERKER (LV 48)

Sub-Class: Crystal Bearer (LV 5)

HP: 1250 / 1250

Stamina: 350 / 350

MP: 350 / 350

Status Effects: Leveling High (Mild), Melancholia, Smug As Hell

Strength: 53

Vitality: 125

Endurance: 35

Dexterity: 60

Perception: 33

Mind: 28

Magic: 35

Unspent Points: 10

Class Skills:

Berserker Rank 1 – Lifesteal+

Berserker Rank 2 – Battle Fever+

Berserker Rank 3 – Blood for Blood+

Berserker Rank 4 – Rampage+

Berserker Rank 5 – Enmity+

Berserker Rank 6 – Flames of Vengeance+

Crystal Bearer Rank 1 – Spatial Storage

Crystal Bearer Rank 2 – Class Alteration

Crystal Bearer Rank 3 – Waymark

Crystal Bearer Rank 4 – Awaken Class

Crystal Bearer Rank 5 – Message

Crystal Bearer Rank ??? – Attunement

Crystal Bearer Rank ??? – Purge Corruption

Bound Items:

Half-Broken Dwarven Shortsword

EXP Share (Amulet of Allocation)

Ruined Ranger Trainee’s Garb

Active Skills:

Strength – Bulk Up (LV 8), Power Slash (LV 7)

Vitality – Do Not Go Gently (LV 4) (RARE), Lifesurge (LV 16), Not A Scratch (LV 13), Imbue Vitality (LV 1)

Endurance – Second Wind (LV 2)

Dexterity – Stealth (LV 3), Step of the Wind (LV 9)

Perception – N/A

Mind – Identify (LV 2), Recall (LV 1), Quick Thinking (LV 4), Auto-Translate (Elvish Writing), Auto-Translate (Elvish Speech), Auto-Translate (Fiendish Speech)

Magic – N/A

Passive Skills:

Human Racial Bonus – Fast Learner

Strength – Climbing (LV 2), Brawling (LV 4), Grappling (LV 4)

Vitality – Regeneration (LV 19), Tough Skin (LV 6), Poison Resistance (LV 8), Disease Resistance (LV 3), Platelet Party (LV 13), Vitamin D(efense) (LV 8), Regrow Limb (LV 6), Reflective Skin (LV 1), Heat Resistance (LV 7), Push Through (LV 5), Brain Damage Resistance (LV 1)

Endurance – Deep Breathing (LV 2)

Dexterity – Swordsmanship (LV 8), Fleet of Foot (LV 5), Dagger Proficiency (LV 6)

Perception – Foraging (LV 4), Hunting (LV 5), Heightened Senses (LV 3), Analyze Weakness (LV 1)

Mind – Speed Reading (LV 3), Diplomacy (LV 17), Arachnophobia (LV 3) (RARE), Mathematics (LV 4), Leadership (LV 8), Headsman (LV 4) (RARE), Deception (LV 5), Sense Mana (LV 1), Mind Resistance (LV 4), Throwing Proficiency (LV 5),  Pyromania (LV 2) (RARE), Almighty Resistance (LV 2) ($^$#), Intimidation (LV 1), Seduction (LV 2) (DEACTIVATED), Melancholy Resistance (LV 5) (RARE) (DEACTIVATED), ???

Magic – N/A

–

Class Skills

Berserker Rank 1 Ability: Lifesteal (Passive)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 3

Description: Heal yourself for 50% of any damage dealt to a living creature. Normal plants like trees and grass don’t count. No loopholes.

Berserker Rank 2 Ability: Battle Fever (Passive)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 7

Description: For every 30 seconds spent in battle, increase all of your stats by 1. Bonus caps at +15 for each stat. The effect ends after a minute of not being in a combat scenario.

Berserker Rank 3 Ability: Blood for Blood (Passive)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 10

Description: Your damage dealt increases by 1% for each 1% of your missing Max HP. Bonus caps at 99%.

Berserker Rank 4 Ability: Rampage (Active)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 13

Description: Quickly rocket straight forward. Your next attack has highly increased damage. If the user chooses, a moderately-sized explosion centered around them will appear at the end of their dash. The user will not be damaged by this explosion. Costs 50 MP.

Berserker Rank 5 Ability: Enmity (Active)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 25

Description: Draw the attention of a single enemy. For the next 30 seconds, they will become temporarily enraged and focus their attacks on you. If the user chooses, an afflicted enemy will take continuous major psychic damage until the Skill's effect ends. This effect can be nullified or partially resisted by a high Mind stat. Your damage against an enemy that does not nullify Enmity increases by 25%. Costs 50 MP to use. Five minute cooldown.

Berserker Rank 6 Ability: Flames of Vengeance (Active)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 40. Additionally, at least one person must sacrifice their life for the sole purpose of saving yours, and in a situation that was preventable were it not for your hubris.

Description: Surrounds your body in nonelemental ‘fire’ that deals intense, searing damage to all other living beings in close proximity. If the user chooses, wounds inflicted by this Skill cannot be healed by natural or magical means for one week. Consumes health equal to 1% of max HP for every second that the Skill is active. Can be toggled at will. No cooldown.

Crystal Bearer Tier 1 Ability: Spatial Storage

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 1

Description: Can put inanimate items in touch range into a dimensional storage. Items in storage can be produced at will. Limit of 50 pounds or 125 cubic feet of storage per person. Maximum of 50 people using storage allowed. Maximum of 100 total items in storage allowed.

Crystal Bearer Tier 1 Ability: Class Alteration

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 1

Description: Allows you to change the Class of yourself or others if given permission. In addition, you can transfer the gained Class Levels of one Class into another. Each function can be used once per day.

Crystal Bearer Tier 1 Ability: Waymark

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 1

Description: Grants you the ability to put two invisible, undetectable Marks on surfaces. When standing next to one Mark, if the Skill is activated, the user and every member of his Party will be teleported to the other Mark. Limit two Marks per 24 hours, and one teleport per 24 hours.

Crystal Bearer Tier 2 Ability: Awaken Class

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 4

Description: Changes a person's Class to its Awakened form, providing upgrades to its Class Skills, as well as additional stat points to allocate as the beneficent wishes. These upgrades will be strictly beneficial in the vast majority of scenarios, excepting rare edge cases. The Awakening must be agreed upon by both this Skill's user and its effect's recipient. Once a person has Awakened their Class, that Class becomes tied to their soul, and they will be restricted from changing or Altering that Class from then on. This Skill can be used once per day, for a total of eight times per year.  Cannot be used on Crystal Bearer.

Crystal Bearer Tier 2 Ability: Message

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 4

Description: Allows you to send system Messages to members of your Party. The content of each Message is formed by mental dictation. Message recipients can reply using the same method. Recipients can ignore Messages and block further incoming messages as they wish. All Messages in a person's log will be inaccessible once they leave the original sender's Party. Those Messages will be restored once they rejoin a Party made by the original sender.

Crystal Bearer Tier 3 Ability: Attunement (MAX)

Prerequisite: Attune to a Locus of Power

Description: Grants you the ability to Attune to Loci of Power. Each Attunement will advance this Skill to greater heights. Attune to a sufficient number of Loci, and you may be able to (*#(!)@)#$&#)!

1 Attunement: Take 50% less damage when Attuning to a Locus of Power.

2 Attunements: Take an additional 50% less damage when Attuning to a Locus of Power, totaling 100%. Can sense nearby Corruption.

3 Attunements: Corruption sense refined. Can sense Loci of Power from twice as far away.

4 Attunements: Barren Locus of Power constructed within the user. Can sense Loci of Power from twice as far away.

5 Attunements: Purge Corruption learned. Can sense Loci of Power from eight times as far away.

6 Attunements: Purge Corruption energy stores tripled. Can sense Loci of Power from twice as far away.

7 Attunements: Purge Corruption energy stores tripled. Can sense Loci of Power from twice as far away.

8 Attunements: Purge Corruption energy stores tripled. Can sense Loci of Power from twice as far away.

9 Attunements: Purge Corruption energy stores tripled. Grants the user the ability to restore a Corrupted Locus of Power. Can be used once per week. Requires at least 75% of your maximum Purge Corruption energy stores to succeed.

Crystal Bearer Tier 3 Ability: Purge Corruption (LV 5) (MAX)

Prerequisite: Attune to twelve nine Loci of Power.

Description: Grants you the ability to remove a significant amount of Corruption from yourself or others. Drains after being used. Fully recharges over the course of 24 hours.

Active Skills

Name: Bulk Up (LV 8)

Prerequisite: Strength 55, devote a significant portion of time to training your muscles.

Description: Increases Strength by +12 for 30 seconds.

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

Name: Power Slash (LV 7)

Prerequisite: Strength 50, hit thirty worthwhile enemies with a full-strength attack while wielding a shortsword or longsword.

Description: Damage of next melee sword attack is increased by 35%.

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

Name: Do Not Go Gently (LV 4) (RARE)

Prerequisites: Vitality 100, go through three near-death experiences, and exhibit the unyielding will to survive.

Description: When HP falls below 25%, double Vitality and double the effectiveness of all defense and Vitality-based skills, with the exception of Lifesurge.

Duration: 2 Minutes

Cooldown: 7 Minutes

Name: Lifesurge (LV 16)

Prerequisite: Vitality 125, fall below 5% of your Max HP at least once.

Description: Rapidly restores 70% of your Max HP.

Cooldown: 8 Minutes

Name: Not A Scratch (LV 13)

Prerequisite: Vitality 125, take damage from enemies at least 150 different times.

Description: Outright ignore the damage of a single attack from a single enemy. Physics still apply.

Cooldown: 10 Minutes

Name: Imbue Vitality (LV 1)

Prerequisite: Vitality 100

Description: The best defense is a good offense. Sacrifice 10% of your max HP to empower your next weapon strike, fist strike, or offensive spell, causing its damage to be tripled.

Cooldown: 30 Seconds

Name: Step of the Wind (LV 9)

Prerequisite: Dexterity 60, devote a significant amount of time to running and moving quickly.

Description: Increases Dexterity by +13 for 30 seconds.

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

Name: Identify (LV 2)

Prerequisites: Mind 15, spend at least one year of your life specifically seeking out new knowledge.

Description: Imparts knowledge of the scanned object to the user.

Cooldown: N/A

Name: Recall (LV 1)

Prerequisites: Mind 15

Description: Activate to permanently remember any written or spoken words read/heard by the user within the last five minutes. Words committed to memory through Recall can be forgotten at-will at any time. Max 200 words stored.

Cooldown: 1 Hour

Name: Quick Thinking (LV 4)

Prerequisite: Mind 40

Description: Slightly improves your speed of thought. Drains 3 Stamina per second while active. Mentally taxing when used for too long.

Name: Auto-Translate (Elvish Writing)

Prerequisite: 30 Mind, read at least 30 worthwhile books, spend some time learning the Elvish language.

Description: Automatically translates any Elvish writing you read into English.

Name: Auto-Translate (Elvish Speech)

Prerequisite: 30 Mind, listen to at least several hundred hours of conversation in Elvish, and spend a moderate amount of time trying to understand it.

Description: Automatically translates any Elvish speech you hear into English.

Name: Auto-Translate (Fiendish Speech)

Prerequisite: 30 Mind, listen to at least several hundred hours of conversation in Fiendish, and spend a moderate amount of time trying to understand it.

Description: Automatically translates any Fiendish speech you hear into English.

Passive Skills

Name: Grappling (LV 3)

Prerequisite: Strength 25, grapple at least three worthwhile enemies.

Description: Hold on tight! Slightly increases your grip strength and your ability to put people in holds.

Name: Regeneration (LV 19)

Prerequisite: Vitality 125

Description: Heals 190% of Max HP every hour, equal to 100% of Max HP every 33 minutes, or 3.16% of Max HP every minute.

Name: Tough Skin (LV 6)

Prerequisite: Vitality 90, take grievous physical damage at least five times.

Description: Reduces physical damage incurred by 35%.

Name: Poison Resistance (LV 8)

Prerequisite: Vitality 60, endure prolonged poison damage on numerous occasions.

Description: Gain resistance to the damage caused by foreign, damaging substances in your body.

Name: Platelet Party (LV 13)

Prerequisite: Vitality 95, receive Bleeding (Moderate) on at least 43 different occasions.

Description: Your external and internal bleeding will fix itself slightly faster. The sources of the bleeding (such as a cut or a wound) will heal at the same rate as before.

Name: Vitamin D(efense) (LV 8)

Prerequisite: Vitality 70, break bones on at least twenty-seven different occasions.

Description: Your bones are slightly more durable and will heal slightly faster.

Name: Regrow Limb (LV 6)

Prerequisite: Vitality 140, lose at least six appendages.

Description: Some things in life cost an arm and a leg, but at least you can get a refund. Regrow any lost limbs over a period of 1 hour. Assuming you can stay alive that long.

Name: Reflective Skin (LV 1)

Prerequisite: Vitality 20, take grievous magical damage at least once.

Description: Reduces magical damage incurred by 10%.

Name: Heat Resistance (LV 7)

Prerequisite: Vitality 85,  take massive heat or fire damage from a nonmagical source at least eight times.

Description: Looks like today’s gonna be another scorcher! Reduces heat or fire-related damage by 35%, whether from magical or nonmagical means.

Name: Push Through (LV 5)

Prerequisite: Vitality 50, receive at least 24 moderate injuries, experience large amounts of pain in a short period of time.

Description: Reduces the pain felt by your body by 50%.

Name: Brain Damage Resistance (LV 1)

Prerequisite: Vitality 70, receive significant blunt force trauma directly to the surface of your brain matter at least once.

Description: If you've gained this Skill, the Prerequisite has likely left you dead or on death's door, meaning that you're unlikely to ever read this description. What a shame. For those of you who've somehow survived their impromptu lobotomy, rejoice, as this Skill reduces damage directly done to your brain – from all sources – by 50%.

Name: Deep Breathing (LV 2)

Prerequisite: Endurance 20, breathe heavily numerous times in a one-week period.

Description: Air is life. Every deep breath or two normal breaths you take restores 1.5 Stamina.

Name: Swordsmanship (LV 8)

Prerequisite: Dexterity 40, spend at least two weeks wielding a sword, and defeat at least three worthwhile opponents while using a sword.

Description: Become more proficient with sharp-edged, bladed weapons with the shape and weight of a sword.

Name: Fleet of Foot (LV 5)

Prerequisite: 35 Endurance, 35 Dexterity, spend a moderate amount of time running for an extended period.

Description: Adds 10 functional Dexterity to your running speed when running for longer than 30 seconds.

Name: Heightened Senses (LV 3)

Prerequisite: Perception 30

Description: Your senses of sight, sound, smell, taste, touch, and balance are all slightly improved.

Name: Analyze Weakness (LV 1)

Prerequisite: Perception 20, Identify 2

Description: When Identifying an enemy, has a small chance of revealing a minor weakness.

Name: Diplomacy (LV 17)

Prerequisite: Mind ---, defuse numerous tense situations using words and body language.

Description: Become more proficient in the art of negotiation. With your personality, this may be the Skill you need the most.

Name: Arachnophobia (LV 3) (RARE)

Prerequisite: Kill at least 50 worthwhile insects, bugs, and arachnids, and experience a moment of intense loathing towards spiders.

Description: You hate all creepy crawlies, but you hate spiders the most. Deal 50% extra damage to things that skitter and an additional 300% extra damage against spiders.

Name: Leadership (LV 8)

Prerequisite: Mind 60, exhibit strong leadership in at least eight tense situations.

Description: Slightly strengthens your ability to exhibit strong leadership and inspire people.

Name: Headsman (LV 4) (RARE)

Prerequisite: Kill nine major enemies with head strikes or decapitations in a relatively short period of time.

Description: You’re a walking, talking, guillotine. Gain 25% damage when attacking an enemy’s head or neck area.

Name: Sense Mana (LV 1)

Prerequisite: Mind 30, Magic 20, spent a moderate amount of time trying to sense mana through study and concentration.

Description: Gain the ability to sense ambient mana, one of the fundamental building blocks of the world. Is a general prerequisite for being able to cast spells.

Name: Mind Resistance (LV 4)

Prerequisite: Mind 30, suffer under the effects of strong magic related to illusions, hypnosis, mind attacks, brainwashing, or mind control for an extended period of time.

Description: Your mind is a temple – just make sure you install a good security system. Increases resistance to magic effects related to illusions, hypnosis, mind attacks, brainwashing, or mind control. Resistance scales with your Mind stat.

Name: Throwing Proficiency (LV 5)

Prerequisite: Defeat or heavily injure at least nine worthwhile opponents using throwing implements. Improvised implements count.

Description: Been practicing your fastball? Apparently, the answer is yes. Slightly increases your aim when throwing shit at shit. Damage incurred by hitting an enemy with a thrown weapon or object is increased by 25%.

Name: Pyromania (LV 2) (RARE)

Prerequisite: Deal extreme amounts of damage to enemies and/or terrain using fire without casting spells. Express a deep-seated and borderline unhealthy interest in fire.

Description: Acquiring this Skill automatically puts you on a special FBI watch list. Deal 30% extra damage when using fire that isn’t cast from spells. This fire also burns 30% hotter and spreads 30% faster.

Name: Almighty Resistance (LV 2) ($^$#)

Prerequisite: //

Description: \\

Name: Intimidation (LV 1)

Prerequisite: 20 Mind, browbeat someone using verbal or visual means into performing an action that they don’t want to do.

Description: Sometimes, it’s good to speak softly and carry a big stick. Other times, it’s better to promise violence and aim a bazooka at whoever dares to cross you. Become more proficient in the art of aggressive negotiation.

Name: Melancholy Resistance (LV5) (RARE) (DEACTIVATED)

Prerequisite: Experience a deep-seated, soul-crushing sadness. Five times.

Description: Allows you to get back on your feet more quickly.

???

Prerequisites: Reach Level 99, ???

Chapter 7

Rob lazily stepped to the side, rolling his eyes as an incoming sword strike missed him by a hair. His opponent – an animated skeleton – chittered in frustration as it prepared to attack again. Rob wasn't sure how it was chittering, what with the lack of a voice box and all, but who was he to argue with Dungeon logic?

As if reading his mind, the skeleton screeched even louder and swung its sword in a vicious overhead slice. Good grief, he thought, reaching out to catch the blade with an open palm. Its razor-sharp edge gave him the equivalent of a paper cut. This would've been intimidating half a year ago. Now I just feel like I'm bullying a particularly spooky toddler.

The skeleton struggled in vain to wrench its sword from Rob's grasp. The BERSERKER pulled it forward, bringing up his knee to meet the creature's unprotected jaw. Rob winced and sputtered as a cloud of bone dust sprayed upwards. "God damnit, it's in my eye!"

It was a moment of vulnerability that would have spelled certain death in equal combat. Another skeleton capitalized by bringing its large, spiked club directly onto Rob's head.

23 Bludgeoning Damage Received!

"You guys need to work out more," Rob said. With one arm, he rubbed bone dust out of his eyes, and with the other, he backhanded the skeleton with enough force to disassemble it into pieces. Its remains scattered over the floor as if he'd punted a LEGO set. "Then again, would lifting even do anything? You've got no muscles to grow." He shook his head. "Really, you shouldn't be able to move at all! These logical inconsistencies are highly preposterous. I'd like to speak to your manager about them."

Maybe it was his imagination, but Rob could have sworn that he saw the third skeleton's jaw twitch in frustration. The sight brought a smile to his face. I guess bullying is okay in moderation.

Skeleton #3 stabbed its spear forward, and Rob cut the weapon horizontally across its shaft, leaving the skeleton holding a shortened stick with a jagged edge. The maneuver was actually more difficult than simply cutting the skeleton itself, and wouldn't have been possible against a skilled opponent. Rob's Swordsmanship still wasn't up to par with the rest of Riardin's Rangers. That hardly mattered when the Dexterity difference between him and his opponent was so vast, though, and this way he got to feel like a badass. It was a great opportunity to stop worrying about optimal combat choices and just have some fun. Nothing in this Dungeon could remotely threaten him – a quick Identify was proof enough of that.

Name: Animated Fiend Skeleton

Level: 12

Status Effects: Undead

Description: A Dungeon monster born of tainted mana coalescing into a form of malice. To a native Elatran, encountering a flesh-stripped golem would have been primo nightmare fuel, regardless of any Level advantage. To an Earth expat raised on horror movies and stupid internet memes, the skelly's shambling comes across as more comical than scary.

"For once, I agree with you," Rob muttered aloud, as he crushed Skeleton #3 into a fine powder. Shattered bones lay strewn around his feet; the aftermath of the last dozen skeletons that tried to repel him. And that was just on this floor of the Dungeon – Rob had swept through five total floors like a weed whacker through a flower garden, leaving heaps of calcium and marrow in his wake. So far the worst injury he'd received was stepping on a spike trap for 87 damage, and that was already healed thanks to Regeneration Level 19.

He almost felt guilty. This Dungeon seemed to be going for a neat little horror theme, with rooms full of darkness, foreboding ambiance, and skeletons rising from their graves. It was pretty much the best effort one could expect from a newborn Dungeon. With that said, it wasn't an aberrant Dungeon containing built-in bullshit like the Dreamthieves, which limited its options. It also only had one type of enemy, all Level 13 or lower, while Rob was Level 51. Overcoming that big of a Level difference was impossible.

Well, almost impossible, Rob thought. If you're a Soul Eater loaded up with Enchanted Items and Soul Burn-

He smacked his forehead. No! Bad thoughts! Go away! That was the biggest problem Rob was facing at the moment. As fun as it had been to steamroll the Dungeon's first few floors, he was running out of ways to entertain himself. The Dungeon crawl wasn't hitting that sweet spot of 'challenging, but not life-threatening' that would serve as pure distraction fodder. He was starting to go on autopilot, which meant that he'd have more time to think, and therein led the path to – dare he say it – introspection.

"Come on, man!' Rob yelled, as he juggled a pair of skulls. "You're losing me! Give me something interesting to work with!"

Two nearby walls suddenly extended forward, growing spikes as they closed in on Rob from both sides. In the span of an instant, Rob activated Bulk Up, the Anklet of Moderate Brawn, and raised his arms outwards. Both walls slammed into his outstretched palms, screeching to a halt. A couple spikes managed to pierce through his skin, but they only did about 29 damage in total. Regeneration would have him patched up in less than a minute.

"Fiiiiine," Rob grumbled, waving blood off his hands as he descended a staircase to the next floor. "I guess I should actually address my problems while I'm here." He took a deep breath, steeled his resolve, and allowed the thought that had been skirting on the edge of his mind to come to the forefront.

Vul'to might die. And even if he didn't, he might not be Vul'to anymore.

It was an outcome that Rob needed to mentally prepare himself for. The fact that Vul'to's Status Screen couldn't properly display his name was telling. It implied things that Rob wasn't sure the Elatran natives  fully understood. While they'd studied their souls extensively, their knowledge of basic biology was at a medieval-era level, maybe lower. A world with healing magic didn't need to learn as much about how bodies functioned to achieve the same degree of medical care.

Rob, however, was from Earth. He'd taken science classes, gone on wikipedia binges, and watched plenty of medical dramas – dubious as they were. He probably knew more about how the human body worked than literally anyone else in Elatra, and the other races were similar enough for his knowledge to be transferable. For example, he knew that a person's sense of self resided in their brain. It was where memories were collected, electric synapses firing as chemicals brewed in response to stimuli, slowly taking the shape of a personality molded by years of nature and nurture.

That knowledge may have been widespread on Earth, but not so much to a world where souls were proven to exist. While Elatrans knew that the brain was a vital organ necessary for bodily functions, they didn't believe that it was the center of consciousness. Instead, they believed that a person's sense of self resided fully within their soul.

And to be fair, they weren't entirely wrong. Souls in Elatra did also contain a person's consciousness. While Rob wasn't sure what the exact relationship between souls and brains were, each one was clearly integral to an Elatran's survival. Both functioned in tandem; remove a soul, and the brain would shut down. A part of him wanted to default to a more Earth understanding of biology, writing off the 'souls' as something akin to mana battery packs that kept people going, but...

He'd heard the screams when the Soul Eater's prisoners were set free.

As he thought about it, Rob became increasingly certain that the nature of an Elatran's hybrid brain/soul consciousness was the reason why soul transfers never worked. Their Surgeons thought they were placing a single consciousness into an empty shell, but as long as the body's brain was there, it was more like shoving a second brain in the same head. Either the first consciousness would reject the second, or the two would destroy themselves in a bid for supremacy. Diplomacy only existed in a semi-stable condition within Rob's head due to piggybacking off of his body's original soul, and even then the Skill's consciousness was in danger of being absorbed.

Rob snarled as he stomped a skeleton into dust. He wished he wasn't so confident in his deductions, because all of them sucked. The Soul Eater's altered biology might allow for the possibility of a successful soul transfer, but in the end, his original brain was still there. The best-case scenario Rob could imagine was that when Vul'to awoke, the Souls Eater's presence would be nothing more than pre-existing memories without a will of their own. Like Vul'to software running on Soul Eater hardware.

He didn't want to imagine the worst-case scenarios.

"What do you think, Jimmy?" Rob crouched down near a skeleton that had lost its arms and legs. The creature was wriggling like a worm exposed to the sun, its jaw gnashing impotently in an attempt to gnaw Rob's kneecaps off. "Should I suppress the shit out of this train of thought or let it reach the end of the station?"

Gnash. Chitter.

"You always know just what to say." Rob brought his fist down, turning his eyes away from the cloud of shards and dust. "No point in stopping here. I'm...going to need to get used to this feeling."

Rob wasn't naive. He knew how incredibly fucking lucky the Deserters had been up to this point. They'd lost a third of their people, but that was honestly a paltry number when compared to the trials they'd overcome. The Village's invasion. The journey north. The Blight of Broadwater City. The Black Wind. By all rights, they should've been wiped out ages ago. Riardin's Rangers had been especially lucky – only losing Alia and Tarric in The Village's invasion, back before they'd even chosen a name for their group. Rob hadn't experienced true grief since then.

It was simply a matter of time until he did. Riardin's Rangers were heading on a collision course for the strongest entities in Elatra. He'd do his damnedest to ensure everyone's survival, but life was fragile. A mistake made in a single instant could cut years of potential short. Their thoughts, emotions, and dreams, silenced forever.

"Eventually, people under your leadership will die," Elder Alessia had told him, back in Esternard City. "It is an inevitability. The sun rises in the morning, the stars twinkle in the night sky, and Combat Class users perish in battle."

She was right. Rob knew that very well. He needed to accept the stark reality that Riardin's Rangers weren't invincible. The 'Lord Blightkiller' couldn't afford to go to pieces whenever a friend died. Too much was riding on him for that. Plan to survive, but prepare for the worst – that was the mature thing to do.

So why was it that accepting reality left him feeling so unsatisfied?

Rob jumped down another set of stairs, raising his eyebrows at what he found. Rather than an expansive floor with open spaces and interlocking hallways, he was in a small thirty-by-thirty room with no exits in sight. A crowd of two dozen skeletons awaited him, wielding...the exact same implements as all the others.

"Already made it to the bottom, huh?" Rob commented. "Neat. Well, this has been a nice palette cleanser, but I just got a Message from Keira demanding to know why I didn't take her on a Dungeon date, so I've officially run out of time to play." He spread his arms out and strolled forward, footsteps echoing on solid marble. "You get one free shot against me. Use it wisely. Show me something cool."

The skeletons exchanged glances. Immediately, they dropped their weapons and converged into a chittering mosh pit. Rob watched with a muted sense of awe as the skeletons climbed on top of each other, gradually forming a pair of huge legs, a torso, arms, and finally, a head, all made up of fused bone mass.

Name: Animated Colossal Skeleton

Level: 21

Status Effects: Undead

Description: A Dungeon monster born of tainted mana coalescing into a form of malice. This one definitely drank its milk when growing up.

Rob smiled and gave them a polite golf clap. "Bravo! I respect it. Always been a fan of the Megazord angle – bigger enemies are fun." His smile deepened, canines showing. "It means more pieces to break."

With a chittering roar, the Colossal Skeleton reared its arm back, preparing to strike with a bony fist. Rob stood still, patiently waiting. After all, he'd promised them one free shot, and who was he to break a promise?

The Colossal Skeleton swung its arm down, putting its full body weight into the motion. Partway through, a gigantic sword of mana materialized within its hand.

Wait, what-

Shclorp.

Rob glanced at his shoulder. The Skeleton's massive sword, at least ten feet long, had sunk maybe six inches into Rob's flesh before being stopped short by Vitamin D(efense)-empowered bone.

79 Cutting Damage Received!

"If it makes you feel any better," Rob said, summoning his longsword from Spatial Storage, "it wouldn't have mattered even if you cut me in half." He activated Flames of Vengeance and Imbue Vitality, springing forward. "That was your one shot. My turn."

The fight that followed was so one-sided that Rob had already forgotten it by the time it finished. To his surprise, several system notifications popped up right after.

Reached Level 52!

5 Stat Points Gained!

BERSERKER Level Increased! 48 → 49

Passive Skill Learned!

Name: Bone Breaker (RARE)

Prerequisite: Break over five hundred enemy bones within a short period.

Description: Damage dealt to enemies' bone structure is doubled. The kind of Skill generally reserved for battle-crazed sadists, but you just so happened to wander into a skeleton factory, so enjoy the freebie.

Rob let out a low whistle. Apparently, soloing an entire fledgling Dungeon had barely been enough for him to Level up and learn a Skill. And thanks to Sharing Hand, most of his allies gained a Level as well. They wouldn't be taking on the Dragon Queen anytime soon, but progress was progress.

Come back soon, Vul'to, Rob thought, with forced optimism. I want to see the look on your face when you realize you gained a Level in your sleep.

--

Three days passed with no developments, good or otherwise. Riardin's Rangers had continued standing vigil by Vul'to, but it was becoming evident that they wouldn't be able to predict if and when his condition would change. According to Malika, his mana signature was fluctuating wildly – she couldn't make heads or tails of it. The Soul Surgeons were equally stumped, and they didn't want to attempt any invasive procedures while Vul'to was stabilizing. He was essentially stuck in limbo for the time being.

Unfortunately, as Vul'to slumbered, Elatra moved on. The Blight was still out there, infesting Loci of Power in distant lands, and it wasn't going to wait for Riardin's Rangers to become a complete unit again. As much as the Party wanted to hold off on advancing their plans until Vul'to returned...they couldn't. Not in good conscience. At the very least, Vul'to definitely wouldn't have wished for them to wallow in sorrow for weeks on end.

And so, plans that had been put on pause were set in motion once more. Preparations for the Deadlands World Tour resumed. Riardin's Rangers adjusted their battle strategies to account for their lack of a dedicated frontliner. Relations between the Deserters and Fiends were patched up with an honest-to-God press conference headed by Rob and a Grand Overseer.

Rob felt like he needed to wash his mouth out with soap after that. So many words with so little meaning.

Still, everything was proceeding on course. Today's docket included another meeting between the big movers and shakers of Fiendland. Well, the ones Rob knew personally, anyway. There were obviously political shenanigans happening in the background that he didn't know about – and he was more than happy to keep it that way. Fighting monsters was a hell of a lot easier than navigating the egos of people with too much influence for their own good.

"You don't understand my pain," Rob said, voicing his frustrations to Keira. They'd arrived earlier than the others, and were engaging in small talk to pass the time. "The bribes, sure, that's whatever. Getting approached by shady figures with bags of gold is funny. And I don't mind signing the occasional autograph for Joe Schmo on the street. Public speaking, though?"

He gagged. "Nope. Never again. Worst part is, I'm fairly certain that it put me on some bigwigs' radars. If I get asked to join a secret cabal because I repeated canned phrases in front of a crowd, I might just lose my mind."

"Oh, how tragic," Keira drawled. "If only you had some way of easing that stress. A Dungeon Crawl, perhaps? With a beautiful Elf by your side who hasn't tasted proper battle in ages?"

Rob cleared his throat, his smile wavering under Keira's flat stare. A moment later, her lips twitched in amusement. "To clarify, I'm not actually upset with you for going on the Dungeon Crawl alone," she continued. "While I would have liked the opportunity to let loose, I understand why you felt an urgent need to distract yourself." She smirked. "With that said, it's my right as your lover to demand recompense for this grievous injustice."

Rob laughed. "I'll think of something. How about I participate in one of your boxing seminars? High Vitality means I make for a pretty good punching bag."

"What? No!" Keira exclaimed. "I don't want to hurt you, even in that setting. It would feel wrong." She paused, brows furrowing. "Although if you were to attend as an observer, I'm sure it would boost the session's popularity...hmm..."

"Feel free to abuse my 'star power' however you want," Rob said, grimacing as if he'd bit into a rotten apple. "Ugh, that's still so weird to say. I'd better not become a celebrity when I get back to Earth. There's no way I make it a week without punching the paparazzi."

"What are paparazzi?"

"Bloodsucking parasites masquerading as humans."

Keira crossed her arms. "And you aren't allowed to beat them into submission?" She shook her head. "For all of Earth's societal advancements, sometimes it seems backwards in the strangest ways."

"They're not literally parasites," Rob explained. "I was using an analogy."

"I'm aware."

<You two are adorable,> Diplomacy remarked, sounding exhausted. <This is way more fun to watch than months of blushing and taking turns staring at each other when the other isn't looking.>

It's more fun for me too. Rob paused. You okay, man?

<Haha, nope. Think I'm hitting the end of the line as a separate entity in your body.> The Skill conjured an image of itself laying in a hospital sick bed. <The Clay of Life gets completed in four days, though, so it's fine. If I start to feel weird I'll just take a nap until everything's ready.>

"Not liking this trend of my friends needing emergency medical treatment," Rob muttered darkly. Keira  glanced at him with a curious expression, and he pointed to his forehead. Understanding dawned on her face. Mercifully, she said nothing, choosing simply to grab his hand and hold tight.

Rob let out a contented sigh of relief. It never ceased to amaze him how such a small gesture could calm him so thoroughly. Keira really was so much more than he deserved.

<Adoooorable.>

Don't think that I won't hit a sick person.

The Elders, Grand Overseers, and other members of Riardin's Rangers arrived within the next few minutes. Rob examined each of his Party members in turn, mostly satisfied with what he found. They seemed to be doing...okay. As good as he could have hoped for, all things considered. He'd check in with them again after the meeting was over.

A subdued sense of awkwardness hung in the air as everyone settled into their seats. The Grand Overseers were well aware of Meyneth's threats to the Soul Surgeon, and while they couldn't really do anything about it, that didn't mean that it was water under the bridge. Half of them were eyeing Meyneth as if she was a rabid animal liable to go wild at any given moment.

"I'd like to put forth a proposal," the Dragonkin herself began. "The Enchanted Items that Krazan stole are the most powerful of their kind in Fiend territory. It would assist our cause greatly if we were to requisition them."

Rob almost burst out laughing at the affronted looks on the Overseers' faces. It was a reasonable reaction on their part, but these days, he would take his humor where he could get it. "Those Enchanted Items belong to the victims' families," an Overseer hissed, her tone laced with venom. "They have lost people that they deeply cared for, and are just now learning that their loved ones didn't merely disappear –  their souls were devoured. You would ask that we rip the one thing resembling closure away from mourners filled with renewed grief?"

"Many more families will mourn if we do not stop the Blight," Meyneth plainly stated. "Tell them that their contribution would serve a noble purpose."

"No," a second Overseer said, putting his foot down. "Not this quickly. They deserve a period of solitude before we start intruding upon their lives." His eyes narrowed. "You, of all people, should understand the necessity of time to grieve."

Meyneth's mouth slammed shut. The awkward atmosphere came roaring back, now so thick that Rob could practically taste it. He tentatively raised his hand, putting on a brittle smile as a dozen pair of eyes turned to look at him. "Soooo..." he began. "Deadlands World Tour! That's a fun topic that everyone can agree on."

The Overseers' postures relaxed by a hair. "Did you have a proposal in mind as well?" a third Overseer asked. "Preferably one less obscene."

"Sure do!" Rob exclaimed, barreling past their last remark. "I was thinking that we should enter the Deadlands by crossing its border located within southern Elven territory. You've already teleported us there once, so it'll be a lot easier for the mages to do it again. Additionally, Ixatan Forest has been empty ever since The Village was invaded, so we won't encounter any resistance on our way to the border. Finally, it'll let us check in on The Village and see if its Locus of Power is still cleansed."

The Overseers paused, falling into deep contemplation. Rob couldn't help but grin – it wasn't often that his suggestions went over so smoothly with them. They usually played devil's advocate, if only because he needled them whenever he got the chance.

So of course, his moment of triumph was ruined by an out-of-breath Fiend bursting into the room.

"What-" an Overseer began, before trailing off. The room fell deathly quiet. They recognized the Fiend; he was a messenger that they'd met on several occasions. And a messenger only ever arrived out-of-breath when their news was very good, or very bad.

"Dwarves," he exhaled. "Amassing at the border. Fifty or so. Staying on the edge. Waiting."

A wave of alarm spread throughout the room. "Why now?" Elder Alessia asked, saying what was on everyone's minds. "We haven't heard so much as a whisper from the Dwarves for months. What changed?"

The messenger held up a sheet of paper. "This may provide an explanation." He hesitated. "At least, I assume it will. The Dwarves were holding up a large banner inscribed with words written in that filthy language of theirs." He shuddered. "It took seven of us to copy it all down. The others are still nursing a headache from staring too long. Hopefully, these actually are words – not just errant scribbles – and the Deserters can translate."

Riardin's Rangers and the Elders rushed forward, nearly mobbing the poor messenger as they snatched the paper out of his hands. Sure enough, the Dwarves had written a legitimate message – one that caused Rob's eyes to bulge by the second sentence.

"Assuming that the Fiends possess an ounce of intelligence, they will hand this missive to someone who can read Common. We know that Elves and a Human reside within Fiend territory. If the Elves do not present themselves within twenty-four hours, we will assume that they are captives or dead. Make sure that you bring the Human if he yet lives. Otherwise, our vengeance will be swift and without mercy.

Signed,

Stonewarden Grant of the Dwarves"

--

Changes

Rob

Level 51 → 52

Leaned: Bone Breaker

Vul’to

Level 40 → 41

Malika

Level 34 → 35

Meyneth

Level 41 → 42

Chapter 8

Fiendland was fucking weird. Even by Elatran standards.

It wasn't like Rob was unused to the different territories being radically divergent from each other. Elven territory was categorized by purple grass, blue-leafed trees, and teeming forest wildlife. Human territory contained a whole lot of nothing, being a wasteland that the Humans had scarcely managed to eke an existence out of. Merfolk territory was completely underwater and home to sharks that made Jaws look like a goldfish in comparison. He'd never been to Dragonkin or Harpy territory, but from what he'd heard, the grass in one of those territories was...silver? Rob was pretty sure someone had told him silver.

Yet despite all that stiff competition, Fiend territory still took home the gold medal for Strangest Place in Elatra. While the other territories felt like fantasy genre offshoots – which fit with the gods' MO – Fiendland almost felt like it belonged on an alien planet. There was no dirt or soil anywhere, only the fleshy substance that made up its city streets, covering every inch of ground within Fiend borders. Rob hadn't actually visited Fiendland's wilderness before today, so a part of him had internalized the streets as being constructed that way by the Fiends, but nope, that's just how the surface there was.

Not that it stopped Fiendland from having a thriving ecosystem outside of its city limits. Bizarre plants grew wild and free; as he walked, Rob caught sight of oblong-shaped trees, vines dotted with eyeballs, and berries that spewed acid when you bit into them. Fiendland's most common animal was the zamult, an unholy love-child of elephant and alligator that somehow managed to flourish despite being an herbivore with the temperament of a kitten. On the opposite end of the spectrum was the yeriozark, an apex predator that was as rare as it was deadly. The creature was less of an animal and more of a sentient ball of scales and teeth, so ravenous that it never stopped hunting, and so big that its limbs couldn't support its weight, moving instead by blasting mana out of its appendages.

Rob got a front row seat to all of that and more as he, Riardin's Rangers, and the Elders trekked their way through Fiendland's outback. The Grand Overseers didn't want to tip off the Dwarves about the Fiends' recent developments in teleportation magic, so rather than being transported directly to the border, Riardin's Rangers had been placed several hours away. It thankfully afforded them enough leeway to meet the Dwarves' absurd twenty-four hour time limit, which would not have been feasible without teleporting. Either the Dwarves hadn't taken travel time into account, or they wanted the Fiends to fail so they could have an excuse to invade.

If that was their aim, they wouldn't have much to show for it. Rob couldn't imagine any other race in Elatra wanting to own Fiend territory, let alone live there. Its wilderness would come across as a funhouse of horrors to anyone who wasn't born and raised in the area.

The notion raised some intriguing questions. Specifically, Rob wanted to know if Fiend territory was like this in the past, even before the Fiends 'arrived' in Elatra. It was public knowledge that they'd appeared well after the other races, but it was not-so-public knowledge – known solely among the Fiends' uppermost echelon – that their race descended from monsters that had gained sentience.

Rob's question then became this: was Fiend territory's ecology shaped by the Fiends coming into existence? Did the very land itself alter to form new ground, plants, and animals as the Fiends settled in? Or had Fiendland always been like this, and they'd moved in because it was free real estate?

He'd have to get to the bottom of that mystery when fifty baffled Dwarves weren't staring at him with eyes the sizes of dish plates.

The sight did a lot to ease Rob's frayed nerves. After having spent hours walking past beetles the size of dogs and bubbling swamps with giant tentacles flailing from underneath, seeing some good ole' fashioned fantasy Dwarves felt like a soothing balm. They were exactly what he'd expected to see; short, stocky, and strong. None of them rose above four feet tall, which did little to diminish the imposing, battle-ready presence they exuded. All but a few of the Dwarves had come equipped with heavy weapons forged for the express purpose of beating the shit out of people, with just two mages and one archer hanging in the back. The male half of their contingent sported luxurious beards, and Rob detected a glint of envy in Elder Duran's eyes when he examined them.

To top it off, each Dwarf was at minimum Level 30, with the highest reaching 42. This wasn't a random scouting party – they were clearly handpicked to throw down in case things went south. Hell, they might be hoping for things to go south. If Riardin's Rangers wanted to resolve matters peacefully, they'd have to carefully navigate centuries of Fiend-Dwarven enmity, built upon generations of corpses and rivers of blood.

Rob was perfectly aware that he should've felt more nervous. Waymark made for an exceptional get-out-of-jail-free card, but it was never ideal to be outnumbered fifty to eight. And while his Party was unlikely to come to harm, the wrong choice of words could set off a war between two nations, at a time where Elatra reeeeally didn't need another war. Countless lives were at risk.

Maybe he would've felt more nervous if the looks on the Dwarves' faces weren't so goddamn funny.

"Titan's testes," a Dwarf at the vanguard muttered, his mouth wide open. "There truly is a Human. And he walked out of Fiend territory like it was an afternoon stroll. Someone slap me, as I'm evidently passed out under the bar again, dreaming up nonsense."

"We're having the same dream, then," a second Dwarf said, running her hands down her face. "Don't forget the Elves standing besides him. And I didn't hear any word about a Dragonkin showing, too. Just missing a Harpy and a Merfolk at this point to round out the set."

<Alessia,> Diplomacy immediately whispered. Rob sent it a mental nod, then surreptitiously tapped the back of Elder Alessia's arm. This was part of their preparations. In an attempt to conserve energy, Diplomacy had chosen to delegate the role of primary negotiator to one of the Elders, picking Alessia or Duran based on whose temperament would fit the situation. Alessia would have been chosen if Diplomacy sensed that the Dwarves were in the mood to fight, while Duran would have been chosen if the Dwarves seemed receptive to peace.

No one was surprised that Alessia ended up in the hot seat. Enemy forces that told you to show up within a day, or else, usually weren't planning to break out the picnic baskets and sing happy campfire songs.

Elder Alessia stepped forward until she was standing an inch away from the border between Fiend and Dwarf territory. The highest-Level Dwarf in attendance strode up to meet her. It painted a vivid picture; one Elf facing down one Dwarf, the two divided via an arbitrary ecological line, both backed by their respective allies as tension hung in the air. The image was made even more striking by the stark visual differences between Fiend territory and Dwarven territory, with the former being...what it was, while the latter had ordinary soil and towering mountain ranges in the distance.

"Greetings," Elder Alessia stated, in a tone that was amicable yet unyielding. "I am Elder Alessia. I represent the Deserters, a united coalition of Elves, Humans, and Dragonkin. We have traveled far north to escape oppression from those who would do us harm."

A bit of shock slipped into the Dwarf's expression before it was belatedly quashed. "...Humans?" She repeated, stressing the 's'.

"No," Alessia clarified. "Just the one." They'd decided during the planning phase to be upfront about their situation. There was no way of knowing how much intel the Dwarves had, and getting caught in a lie could result in broken trust that was impossible to mend.

"So the world hasn't gone completely mad," the Dwarf chuckled. "Well met, Elder Alessia. My name is Commander Vevrandi, and I represent the will of Stonewarden Grant."

"So your letter did state," Alessia remarked. "I must admit that we did not anticipate an...entreaty, from the Stonewarden. Not this soon, and not in this manner. How did he come to know that we resided within Fiend territory?"

Vevrandi smirked. "The Merfolk couldn't keep their gills shut about you paying them a visit. They refuse to say exactly what transpired – although looking at your Levels, I can envision a few scenarios. Their intel was cross-referenced with the Elves' knowledge of your little group, and there you have it. We reached the only logical conclusion, albeit one that still beggars belief. Titan preserve, I'm having trouble believing it, and I'm seeing it right now."

Diplomacy sighed in relief. <Hooray. She's a meathead. Will give up information just cause she feels like it.>

Yeah, but speaking from experience, meatheads can be a bit unpredictable.

As if reading his mind, Vevrandi abruptly stepped across the border line and placed a friendly hand on Alessia's shoulder. "You did good work, getting away from those monstrosities," she beamed. "Don't know how you convinced them to let you off the leash and come here unsupervised, but well done. With your assistance, invading Fiend territory to rescue your people will be that much easier."

Technically speaking, they weren't unsupervised. A small group of Fiends were hidden several hundred feet away, using scrying magic to listen in. Convincing the Grand Oversees not to send a Fiend representative to the negotiations had been difficult, but necessary – with even a single Fiend in attendance, the Dwarves would've assumed that everything Riardin's Rangers said was done so under duress.

"The offer is highly appreciated," Alessia replied, carefully removing Vevrandi's hand as if it were an active bomb. "However, there is no one in need of rescuing. The Fiends have granted us safe passage and done us no harm."

A good two-thirds of the Dwarven contingent stiffened. "They aren't here to coerce you anymore," Vevrandi explained, brows furrowed. "I understand that you may be worried about the hostages-"

"There are no hostages," Elder Alessia stated, firmly. "Let me make that perfectly clear. The Fiends are our allies. We do not intend to make enemies with them, just as we have no intention to make enemies with you."

Vevrandi's casual demeanor vanished in the blink of an eye. Gone was the negotiator; there stood a hardened warrior, eyes glinting with decades of pent-up hatred. "What you've said is impossible," she intoned. "You cannot be allies to Fiends and Dwarves both."

"The word impossible holds no meaning to me anymore." Elder Alessia crossed her arms. "You've no idea of the absurdities I've borne witness to over the past eight months. Common sense has crumbled into dust, and in its place, the Blight has risen. When faced with the threat of global extinction, I will gladly welcome any potential allies with open arms."

Vevrandi's fingers twitched. "Tell me, Elf," she hissed. "How many of your subordinates' souls have you had to sacrifice to earn that so-called 'alliance'? Swear to me, in the name of your god, that no Elf has come to harm during their stay in Fiend territory."

Rob was glad that the rest of Riardin's Rangers were a good distance away, as none of them had a good enough poker face for that. Alessia, cool as a cucumber, simply replied: "I swear on Lothren's name, with all the deference her name deserves, that no Deserter's soul has been consumed since we met the Fiends."

"I see." Vevrandi drummed her fingers on the handle of her axe. "Let us assume that you are speaking the truth. How, pray tell, do you suggest that we cooperate with the Fiends? They're incapable of speaking as sensible people do."

"We've learned how to converse with them using Auto-Translate."

Many sets of bushy Dwarf eyebrows shot up to the tops of their foreheads. "That was real too?!" Vevrandi exclaimed.

"Indeed it was," Alessia replied, a hint of smugness in her tone. "We'd be more than happy to share the Skill with you as well. It isn't nearly as difficult or esoteric as you might imagine, once you understand the baseline of their language."

The Dwarves were reeling. Sensing weakness, Alessia struck. "In fact, it was our Human companion that first discerned the way to bridge our gap in communication."

Fifty pairs of eyes snapped towards Rob. For once, he was glad that he'd gotten plenty of experience at being ogled by crowds – this sort of thing didn't bug him nearly as much anymore. Especially since that, if they were focusing on him, then they weren't focusing on starting shit with the Fiends.

"I would speak with the Human," Vevrandi proclaimed, without shifting her gaze.

Here we go, Rob thought, psyching himself up. Diplomacy stirred, but Rob pushed the Skill back down. Don't worry, I got this. You get some rest.

<...Thanks,> the Skill muttered, mildly embarrassed. They settled down, waiting patiently in the wings, ready to swoop in if Rob stuck his foot too far up his mouth. Just as Rob began to walk forward, Keira gave his hand a quick squeeze, dispelling most of his anxiety in one fell swoop.

"How do you do that every time?" he asked, a loving smile on his face.

"I'm just that good," she smirked. "Now go, before you make the Dwarves jealous."

Rob chuckled, letting go of Keira's hand and approaching the Fiend-Dwarven border with a spring in his step. Elder Alessia and Vevrandi stared, Alessia with amusement and Vevrandi with confusion. "You and...an Elf?" the Dwarf queried. "You are aware of their part in The Scouring, yes?"

It took Rob a half-second to answer. Not because he had any doubts about Keira, but because he'd finally pinpointed why the Dwarves' behavior, Vevrandi specifically, felt so familiar. She reminded him of everyone's racist uncle at Thanksgiving. It wasn't a one-to-one comparison, but she just had that air about her, like she was liable to say things that made Rob want to cringe and ask someone to pass the gravy as a distraction.

He could work with that. The Dwarf's honesty likely made her a popular Commander among the rank and file, but that kind of temperament was ill-suited for negotiations that weren't guaranteed to end in combat. On the battlefield of words, people who wore their hearts on their sleeves were merely presenting an easy target. And if there was one thing Diplomacy had taught him, it was that if you could exploit someone's emotions, then you could exploit them.

"I love Keira," Rob said, injecting every ounce of his respect and adoration for her into those three words. "And whatever crimes that the Elves committed during The Scouring are irrelevant. She had no part in any of it, and I would consider it a disservice to both Keira and myself were I to blame her for the actions of others. To blame anyone based on a justification that feeble."

He paused. "Even for those who do share culpability, I'd err on the side of forgiveness. The world could use more of that in general."

Vulnerability flashed across Vevrandi's face. She hesitated, then took the bait that Rob had set. "A large part of why we marched today is because of you," she admitted. "We Dwarves deeply regret what transpired eight years ago, and when we learned that you were being held captive by Fiends..."

She trailed off, averting her eyes. "It just seemed right to come and set you free. You're the only Human left we can make amends to."

Rob plastered a conciliatory smile on his face. "It's okay. What happened isn't your fault; we should be looking towards the future rather than focusing on past mistakes."

Which was total horseshit. Rob wasn't going to blame people for the actions of others, but he'd sure as hell blame them for their own actions. Stonewarden Grant was the Dwarven Leader during The Scouring, and his response to peer pressure was to complain and then get on a high horse long after the blood was already spilled. Rob wasn't sure about Vevrandi, but considering she was a Commander, there was a decent chance she'd been on the front lines as well. An apology from either of them was going to ring hollow.

But if he said any of that, it would derail all of the progress he and Alessia had made in the negotiations so far, shifting the conversation away from forgiveness and back towards finger-pointing. So while Rob thought the Dwarves were full of it, he could at least pretend to throw them a bone.

"Your words mean a great deal," Vevrandi said, a relieved sigh escaping her chest. "Stonewarden Grant will be extremely pleased to hear them. Even now, his heart weighs heavy with the memories of eight years ago."

"He sounds like a swell guy." Rob swept his eyes across the Dwarven contingent. "I'm assuming he's not here today, and that message you gave was just written in his name?"

"The Stonewarden is in Dwarven territory at present, although the message was penned by his hand." Vevrandi's eyes sparkled with fervent zeal. "You and him will get along fantastically well. Grant is the strongest, most virtuous man I've ever met. He would love to hear stories of how you survived the war and achieved Level 50 at such a young age."

Rob blinked. "Wait, like, in person? Is that an invitation?"

"Was that not obvious?" Vevrandi cocked her head to the side. "The Stonewarden wishes to convey his personal apologies regarding the tragedies of eight years ago. You are welcome to visit him in the Underground Cities at any time. In fact, I must insist that you join us on our return trip! Grant would be delighted to show you the depths of our hospitality and gratitude."

<Hiding something,> Diplomacy mumbled.

Of course. "If you don't mind, can I have a moment to confer with my allies?" Rob asked. When Vevrandi nodded, Rob pulled Elder Alessia back to the rest of Riardin's Rangers, speaking in a hushed tone.

"So, honestly, this is going way more smoothly than I expected," he whispered. "Figured we would've needed to Waymark out of here by now."

"You doubted my expertise in the arts of mediation?" Alessia remarked, raising an eyebrow.

"Some people can't be reasoned with. We could've easily been greeted by warmongers instead of well-intentioned meatheads."

"A fair point." She tapped her fingers against her leg. "All the more reason that you should accept their offer to meet with the Stonewarden. Well-intentioned sentiments can fade as quickly as the setting sun; we won't find a better opportunity to establish cordial relations with a Leader of Elatra."

"It is not without danger," Elder Duran added, scratching his chin. "Although Waymark mitigates much of the risk that this type of trip would usually entail. As long as Rob's traveling group consists of no more than a full Party of eight, then all involved can be evacuated at a moment's notice." He sighed. "Regrettably, this may delay some of our current plans, but they will have to wait. Fiend territory can survive a few days without the presence of its saviors."

"What about Vul'to?" Malika said, in a tiny, subdued voice. "If he wakes up, we won't be there."

The group fell silent. "He will be taken care of," Duran eventually said, kneeling down to meet her gaze. "I promise you that." The young Archmage nodded, staying quiet, looking only slightly reassured. The silence resumed, mercifully broken by Zamira soon after.

"We should perhaps wait a short period before visiting the Dwarves, regardless," she suggested. "If we immediately accept an opportunity to leave Fiend territory, it would imply that we are dissatisfied with both our allies and our accommodations."

Rob raised his hand. "Now would be a good time to remind everyone that my soul operation is scheduled in four days. I'm getting that done the second I can, and then it's doctor-mandated bed rest for who knows how long. The Dwarves are just gonna have to deal with a rain check."

That signaled an end to the discussion. Separating Rob and Diplomacy was a matter of life-and-death for the Skill, and it took priority. Seconds later, Rob was approaching the Dwarven camp once more, mulling over how to break the news to them. He elected to go with the same tone of voice he employed to pacify Jason's hyper-extroverted sports friends, who sometimes invited people to go on bar crawls when all Rob felt like doing that night was laying down and watching youtube videos.

"My friends and I would love to visit Dwarf territory as soon as we can," Rob began, putting on a warm smile. "We have some things to take care of first, though, so leaving today isn't really in the cards. How about we reconvene here again in, say, a week? I can't guarantee we'll be ready by then, but we'll give you an update at the very least."

Panic flickered across Vevrandi's face, just for a second. Then it was gone, replaced by an inquisitive stare. "The Stonewarden expressed a strong interest in seeing you at the earliest possible date."

Rob suppressed a wince. "While his eagerness is humbling, my responsibilities can't be put off."

"Why? Are you an important figure in Fiend territory?"

"I am," Rob admitted. "Stuff happened, lives were saved, and here we are now. They're not bad people, once you get to know them."

"...Ridiculous," Vevrandi murmured. "Never thought I would see the day that a Human of all things would join hands with the Fiends."

Rob's smile froze on his face as he realized the implications. As much as the Dwarves and Fiends hated each other, the Humans and Fiends had hated each other way more. Their blood feud went back centuries, owing to Human territory sharing a border with most of Fiend territory. From Vevrandi's perspective, Rob's willingness to forgive and forget must have seemed borderline saintlike.

The problem was that Rob wasn't from Elatra. It was easy for him to get along with the Fiends because he didn't carry any of the baggage that a Human native would have. In that same vein, while The Scouring was fresh trauma for an Elatran, to Rob it was mostly just recent history that made his life more difficult. Abhorrent, yes, worthy of condemnation, yes – but he hadn't personally lost anyone he cared about to the slaughter. If and when the Dwarves discovered that he hailed from another world, his magnanimity would instantly lose a lot of its impact. They might even be offended that he 'forgave' them for The Scouring despite not being present for it.

As Rob wracked his brain, desperately trying to figure out how to entangle himself from the web of lies he'd accidentally woven, determination bloomed on Vevrandi's expression. "There's nothing for it," she stated, in a resolute tone. "I'll simply have to witness this absurdity with my own two eyes."

Before Rob could say anything, Vevrandi whirled around and addressed her soldiers in a booming octave. "Brave men and women of the Stone!" she bellowed. "I will be journeying into Fiend territory as an envoy in order to secure the Human's cooperation. All should go well, but even so, send prayers to Titan to preserve my soul, lest I be ambushed by devils lying wait in the shadows. If I don't return in twenty-four hours, take it as an act of aggression against-"

"For fuck's sake," Rob said, grabbing her by the shoulders and turning her around. "You visiting is super cool, but it's going to take longer than twenty-four hours just based on travel time alone."

"Huh." Comprehension dawned on Vevrandi's face. "I suppose that makes sense. How did you arrive to our negotiations so quickly, then?"

We teleported, Rob thought, which we're hiding from you.

"...We ran. Very fast."

--

Someone opened his eyes.

He groaned, head pounding. Pain lanced through his veins as he tried and failed to sit up. Carefully, he raised his hand, wiggling his claws/fingers to test his range of motion. Light illuminated his grey/pale skin, showing a clammier complexion than what he remembered. He licked his tongue across chapped lips, nearly gagging as he tasted bile on his fangs/teeth. Whatever had happened, he'd been bedridden for days, at least.

...What had happened? He'd been...he'd...

Everything was...foggy. Probably a head injury.

The someone relegated himself to more bed rest, but the pounding in his head only worsened as he attempted to relax. Pain continued to roll through his body in waves, and worse than that, a pervasive sense of wrong had sunk deep into his bones. Slowly, as if searching, he ran his hands over his body. He started from the top, checking his short/long hair, then his rounded/pointed ears. Moving lower, there were his bulky/toned muscles, and finally his thick/slim legs. He breathed a sigh of relief; all was as it should be.

So why was the pounding in his head just getting louder and louder and LOUDER?

As a last resort, he opened up his Status Screen. Maybe it could provide some insight into what was happening.

He froze, staring at the floating text in abject shock.

Krazan

Level: ???

??? Level: ???

HP: ??? / ???

Status Effects: ???

It was an oddity he'd never so much as heard of before, let alone seen on his own Status Screen. What was wrong with the system right now? Even ignoring the bizarre questions marks, his name wasn't Krazan, it was Vul't-

ErrorErrorErrorErrorERRORERRORERRORERROR

CONSCIOUSNESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
hgioqherkyjuWBLJIINMqwgHELPHELPHELPHELPmierhrgoiperEWRFERhalighakrhklawehjf,shkjlfhklawefiahkjvhasklrjlkwhoifjqilja8*(M!*(@#UKFM*F*M#$UFP(094ru1m89#$UR(!U#$*()F*U#!FQERJhc(!*#$FMU_)M!#*FM(!*#F$F!OC$#HF_(*#Q$U$F*H!#$*)FH ewfwe4ewwefwefw34&P(#$F(*#$uro813fj13hHURTSHURTSHURTSHURTS9834umf01($FM!#K$J9193-!(*$J!)($JF(*$H(!H$j

.

Chapter 9

"Souls are sacred."

Krazan watched in awe as his mother traced a circular pattern around her chest. Underneath skin and flesh lay a glow of pure brilliance, so incandescent that it nearly brought him to tears. At eight years of age, his Soul Sight was just starting to develop, and he was still marveling at the wonders that had been hidden from him all his life. While souls resembled orbs of mana, they were so much more. A hundred rainbows sparkling in unison wouldn't have been able to match a sliver of their beauty.

"This is who I am," his mother continued, ruffling his hair. "Thoughts, memories, emotions – everything that makes up the essence of my being is contained within my soul. And when I pass on, my soul will join Argath's Hallowed Halls, just as all who lived before me."

Krazan glanced down at his chest, eyeing the orb of mana residing within. His soul was no less brilliant than his mother's, yet for some reason, the sight didn't strike him with awe. It seemed far less interesting when he examined his own soul instead of another's. He attempted to force himself to recognize its grandeur, but it felt like trying to get excited over leftover claw trimmings.

"Mother," he began, thinking hard. "Does Rielle have a soul as well?"

"Of course she does. Every living creature possesses a soul." His mother smirked, and her voice grew teasing. "Haven't you been paying attention to your schooling?"

Krazan definitely did not pout at that. "I have been! It's just..." He frowned. "Rielle got her Soul Sight a month ago, but she doesn't talk about it. And Rielle talks about everything."

Overcome by desire, Krazan glanced outside his home's window, soaking in the sight of thousands of souls walking along the streets of Magnar City. This time, he really was brought to tears, passion running down his cheeks in streams of wetness. How had he ever thought that anything was 'beautiful' before that very moment? This, right here, was what the word truly defined.

"It's amazing," he whispered. "No one talks about it. Why not?"

His mother didn't answer. After a few seconds passed, Krazan turned around to find that she was lost in thought, her face as rigid as a stone mask. Krazan fidgeted, wondering if he should apologize – and if so, what for – when his mother finally opened her mouth to speak.

wnjGETOUTf)(Jj)(@#FJkerN(*HRJoiwejGETOUTq#*(FU)(#Q$jo*#14fjQK3j-q34(jGETOUTyOINF!*JQ#$)(J3f9$fj3qrkjfnGETOUT9-q*$F_

"Souls are sacred," she repeated, much more seriously. "Remember that word, Krazan. 'Sacred' is not the same as 'beautiful'. Beauty is to be cherished and enjoyed, while sacredness is to be protected. Answer me this – what would you do if someone extended their claws and tried to rip your heart out?"

Krazan jerked back in horror at the mental image. "I, I," he stuttered. "I don't know. Run?"

She nodded. "Now what if they tried to pull out your brain? Or pluck the limbs from your body, one-by-one, like tearing the wings from a butterfly?"

Nausea welled up within Krazan's throat. "Run! I'd run!"

"Good." His mother leaned forward, eyes dark. "Now imagine you tried to run, and they caught you anyway. Imagine they performed all those actions at once, visiting their sickest desires upon you. Imagine your pain, terror, and helplessness. Now multiply your feelings by a hundred-fold." She poked a claw at his chest. "That is what it means to lose your soul."

Krazan froze, processing her words, although it didn't take him long. As horrifying as his mother's story was, he'd seen bigger and stronger children steal trinkets from weaker ones plenty of times. Souls were beautiful, so naturally, people would want more of them.

"How do I protect my soul?" he asked, insistent. While his own soul wasn't nearly as entrancing as other people's, the thought of losing it inspired an instinctual sense of dread within him. He couldn't let that happen. No matter how much someone else begged for it.

"You run," she answered, drawing him into an embrace. "If someone tries to take your soul from you, then you run, understand? Find someone who can help you."

"What if there is no one?"

"Then fight back. Kill them."

'What if I can't win?"

His mother paused, as if unsure of how much to say, before looking him straight in the eyes and answering directly. "Then find some way to end your life, my dear boy. Let your soul pass on to Argath's Hallowed Halls rather than allowing it to fall into the clutches of a Soul Eater. Otherwise, an eternity of torment awaits you."

--

"DEATH TO THE MURDERER!"

"DEATH TO THE DEFILER!"

"DEATH!"

"DEATH!"

"DEATH!"

Krazan joined the crowd in their cheers. His small, seventeen-year old voice was barely a drop in the bucket compared to the uproarious tidal wave resounding across the execution grounds. Hundreds of Fiends were in attendance, and Krazan knew that tens of thousands more would be listening via Message Crystal announcements relayed across the nation. It wasn't often that the High Soulseer commandeered Fiend territory's entire communications network like this, but the occasion warranted the excess.

A Soul Eater was being brought to justice.

Krazan braved a look at the abomination, its limbs shackled to a raised podium in the center of the road. Waves of revulsion pulsed through his core as he stared, transfixed. The Soul Eater's soul was defiled beyond measure; instead of the beautiful shimmering that Krazan was ever entranced by, it appeared blackened, filthy, as if it had been dragged over leagues of fetid muck.

How can a creature like that even exist? Krazan pondered. Wouldn't their soul collapse? The answer, apparently, was no. Far from being on the verge of death, the Soul Eater stood tall and weathered his verbal lashings with an impassive expression. He seemed...bored, almost. Like none of this was a surprise, let alone a concern.

Krazan hated him. He hated him more than he thought it possible to hate something. Souls were sacred, and this loathsome aberration had devoured them without a care. Eleven innocent lives, subjected to the worst sort of torture imaginable. Whatever punishment was about to be inflicted on the Soul Eater was a fraction of what he truly deserved.

The crowd's bellowing intensified as an executioner arrived on the scene. He walked forward with pride, holding a blunt, jagged-edged sword as he approached the podium. His weapon was ill-suited for anything more difficult than trimming weeds; it would take numerous, painful swings to properly separate the Soul Eater's head from his body.

Which was exactly the point.

Krazan raised his fist into the air, shouting at the top of his lungs. "DEATH TO THE MURDERER! DEATH TO THE DEFILER! DEATH! DEATH! DEA-"

His words died in his throat as the Soul Eater turned to stare straight at him.

awnkWONTSURRENDERfjMQWFJljfq9)@#$R(134<$fj0WONTSURRENDER9!Kr0c(!kffpldwk)(!$-kfeldk!$(fj@#$!$(1!$FJ!WONTSURRENDER#$FJ#EKj019JEFDKQDMVNHVTY*)$(09<F$IOnfJKJRNR9-F !JF_!F$!q33fWONTSURRENDERfs@d

Their eyes locked, just for a moment, and in that passing glance, Krazan was struck by a disquieting realization. Despite the indignities heaped on the Soul Eater, despite the drawn-out punishment that was seconds away from being carried out, he didn't regret a single thing. Given the chance, he'd do it all again.

And as Krazan resumed his cheering, he couldn't help but wonder why. Why would the Eater go that far? Just what about a soul was so thoroughly enticing?

What did one taste like?

--

"I'd like to taste a soul," Rielle happily chirped.

Krazan let out a strangled gasp. He swung his head around frantically, checking to see if anyone was nearby, breathing a sigh of relief after confirming that they were alone. "Have you taken leave of your senses?" he hissed, shaking her by the shoulders. "Souls are sacred! You know this!"

"I wasn't referring to a Fiend soul, silly," she replied, as if that were obvious. "An animal soul would do just fine. That'd be plenty to satisfy our curiosity without harming anyone, don't you agree?"

Krazan's arms trembled. In the twenty-six years he'd known Rielle, her suggestions had shocked him more times than he could count. The girl's thoughts always seemed to walk a path two steps to the left of normal society. It kept life interesting, if nothing else. This, however, wasn't merely an idle flight of fancy – it was the kind of thinking that got a person executed.

"No," he stated, brooking no argument. "I won't allow it. Animal souls are sacred as well, and I don't want to grow accustomed to the feeling of eating them." He narrowed his eyes. "And just did you mean by satisfying 'our' curiosity?"

Rielle gave him an airy smile. "You can't hide your innermost thoughts from me, Kraz," she laughed. "I've known you far too long. I can see the longing that lurks underneath your face whenever you stare at souls." Her eyes widened by a fraction. "You want to know, don't you? Well, so do I. What's wrong with a little experimentation?"

Krazan averted his gaze. Speaking honestly, he...couldn't deny her accusation. He was curious. How couldn't he be? There was no taboo greater than soul eating, and people were invariably drawn to things outside their purview. Krazan would bet all his savings that many Fiends were just as curious as he was.

Yes, that had to be right. He wasn't abnormal. He was a good person.

Sensing weakness, Rielle continued her assault. It took a good hour of poking and prodding, but soon enough, Krazan found himself sitting opposite from Rielle, each of them with a live egror in hand. The tiny furred rodents squirmed in panic, sensing that something vile was about to befall them.

"This is our last chance to back out," Krazan whispered, feeling like he was standing on the edge of a precipice. "I won't tell anyone. We can leave today behind us and pretend as if it never happened."

Rielle hesitated, her expression wavering. If Krazan had pressed her in that moment, she might have – for once in her life – capitulated to logic and good reasoning. Everything that followed could have been avoided.

lizwqhnfzGOBACKqwrklf;qj43(#GOBACK@$)U#$@GOBACKMLKJdnewOAWGOBACKJQW)02q#1pokGOBACKecnRN*R)vuevGOBACKnfdjvnf*(#H#*DHd_0jHDBGOBACKdkbDC(#N#oviuenhviu2uocGOBACKghk3j4nhgiu3figf3hGOBACK5khq38gh13h9Y($Y#983GOBACK2hm342t32m-x2m923

He stayed quiet. After a few seconds, Rielle shook her head and grinned, although it looked forced. "Sorry, Kraz," she apologized. "It's just in my nature to be a bit too curious."

You have nothing to apologize for, Krazan thought, tightly gripping his egror. I'm the same.

In unison, both Fiends dragged a glowing gray claw down their chests, splitting them open. The wounds neither hurt nor bled; if anything, they appeared hollow on the inside. Distantly, Krazan realized that they'd performed the action purely on instinct, without pre-existing knowledge of how to eat a soul.

It had been as simple as breathing.

The egrors shrieked into terror as shimmering gray descended upon them. Krazan inserted his claws into his egror's chest, and with a crescendo of rising mania, pulled. The rodent fell motionless and silent as a brilliant orb of mana was ripped from its body. Any guilt Krazan may have felt was swept aside by the sight of the tiny soul in his hands. It wasn't nearly as beautiful as a Fiend's soul, but it was still a soul, and now it was HIS. Adrenaline surging through his veins, Krazan tenderly placed the egror's essence into his chest.

Immediately, his body was wracked with shivers from head to toe. Bliss. It was pure bliss. It was-

Gone.

Why was it gone?

Krazan stared down at his chest, his mood cratering when he noticed that the egror's soul had vanished, errant wisps of mana dissipating into the wind. Apparently, while his body could hold animal souls, they only lasted a few seconds before being expelled.

"That was insane," Rielle whispered, snapping Krazan out of his reverie. "And to think I used to claim that father's cooking was the best thing in the world." She let out a nervous laugh. "I suppose my standards have been raised."

Krazan didn't reply. He kept staring at his chest, overcome by an aching sensation of emptiness. That was...it? Just a brief and fleeting taste of perfection, and now he was supposed to return to the colorless mundanity of everyday life?

He couldn't accept that. Krazan's thoughts melted away, replaced solely with a deep certainty. Nothing else mattered, nothing else existed, except for him and his desire.

"Kraz? Are you okay?"

Rielle flinched as a pair of hungry eyes fixed on her. "What-"

His instincts roared.

--
eqjhoeoiro@(M42wlj2)9jrm23rowaj)923MFghhMONSTERhfr98hNR@IR@IR@

Krazan stared over the edge of the rooftop, his body swaying like grass in a gentle breeze. The streets below beckoned him. He tried to cry, but it was like attempting to squeeze water from a stone. That felt like the greatest insult of all; now, more than any other time, is when he should have been able to shed tears. Things would never be the same again.

Rielle was dead.

But not gone. Her soul resided within his chest. Even now, it squirmed and writhed, desperate to escape. For the dozenth time, Krazan reached for his chest, extended a claw – and pulled away. He couldn't bring himself to release her.

It just felt so damn good.

As if he was sitting for a theater performance, Krazan watched the events of the day play out in his mind once more. Where had he gone wrong? What had been the final tipping point? Was it when Rielle suggested the egrors, or when he let his opportunity to deter her slip away?

Eventually, Krazan decided on his lack of willpower as the moment where everything turned from a mistake to a sin. Not when he tackled Rielle and devoured her soul, but what came after. While removing a soul killed its body in all instances, the result wasn't immediate if the body itself remained undamaged. It took ten minutes, give or take, to shut down entirely. That was ten minutes where Krazan could have returned Rielle's soul and brought his friend back from the brink of death.

He'd held her hand as the last of her warmth faded.

Abomination, Krazan thought, in a daze. That's what I've become. The edge of the rooftop was calling, inviting him to step forward. Yes. That's what Rielle would want. Justice for that which cannot be forgiven. My soul would be cleansed, and hers would pass on to Argath's Hallowed Halls.

It would set us both free.

Passive Skill Gained!

Name: Melancholy Resistance

Prerequisite: Experience a deep-seated, soul-crushing sadness.

Description: Allows you to get back on your feet more quickly.

...

...

...Was it really so wrong, though?

In the end, he'd only done what any Fiend was capable of. No one punished a bird for flying or a fish for swimming. Why would Argath have given his children the ability to eat souls if he didn't want them to use it? Everything that had happened was simply the logical endpoint of Krazan's existence as a Fiend.

Yes, that made sense. He wasn't abnormal. He'd done nothing wrong.

Nothing that felt this good, this natural, could be a sin.

"Hey! HEY! Don't jump!"

Mechanically, Krazan turned around. A panicked onlooker was approaching him from the other end of the rooftop, arms spread wide in a nonthreatening manner. "Oh thank the gods," they sighed, visibly relieved. "Just stay right there, okay? Whatever...whatever you're planning, it isn't worth it. Things will get better."

Krazan tilted his head. Slowly, he stepped towards the center of the roof, away from its edge. The onlooker beamed at him, looking about ready to wrap Krazan in a warm embrace. "Thank you," they said, their voice hoarse. "I've lost – never mind. It's not important. Can I help you? In any way?"

"Yes." His claws shone with a gray aura. "You can."

--

Krazan, now with so many birthdays behind him that he'd lost count, stood hesitant in front of a door. Beyond it lay two souls, ripe for the taking. He could sense their brilliance at a distance, now, no longer needing to physically observe a person in order to view their soul. It wasn't a Skill; rather, it was a sixth sense that had grown within him over the centuries, like an atrophied muscle regaining its strength through exercise.

He pressed his face against the door, soaking in the radiance that awaited mere inches away. An Elf and a Dragonkin, both high-leveled and Awakened. New tastes for a weary palette. Krazan trembled with anticipation, and the hundreds of souls that resided within his chest squirmed, as if preparing to welcome their new guests. So close, he thought, reaching for the doorknob. Need-

Krazan yanked his arm back, shame washing through him in a torrent. What the hell was he doing? These were heroes. They'd rescued innumerable lives by restoring Nevermore City and preventing the Black Wind. There were few people in the world who less deserved the fate he was about to inflict on them.

Walk away, Krazan ordered. Find someone else. Better yet, turn yourself in and face punishment for your crimes, like you should have done from the start. He took a step back, fighting the compulsion that dominated every facet of his life. For an instant, Krazan dared to hope that, this time, things would be different.

Of course, he already knew how this story ended. Unable to resist the clarion call of fresh souls, Krazan would enter the room. He would ambush two of Fiend territory's saviors. He would grasp the Elf's soul, relishing in the thrill of conquest.

And then he would fall. Defeated by the Dragonkin. It was an end that was long overdue – except she hadn't killed him, had she? Even that relief was denied to him.

s@#$23fsaJUSTSTOP@02sMs2

"I don't think I'll ever be able to stop," Krazan replied, voice echoing across a formless void. He brought up the sum totality of his life, over nine hundred years of lived experience, and began to show it all again from the beginning. "I would say that I'm not strong enough to resist my nature, but..."

He paused, gulping. "Honestly? I don't want to stop." The admittance – something that he'd never said aloud – felt like a thunderclap to his core. "If I keep going, then I can always pretend that my actions were out of my control. Krazan, slave to his baseborn urges, a victim like any other. But if I someday gather up the willpower to hold back, then that means I could have stopped...so long ago...and that would mean..."

A ragged chuckle escaped unbidden from his throat. "No. No, no, no. That won't be my epitaph. I've sacrificed too much, too many, to let it all be for naught."

#)dkfuSAMEHEREw)@dl

Krazan examined the Elf's soul, floating at the other end of their shared infinity. Compared to the length of Krazan's life, the Elf's was meager, spanning less than half a century. With every second that passed, Krazan's memories squeezed tighter, suffocating the intruder with mounting fervor. The Elf's memories waned, flickering like a candlelight assailed by a hurricane.

"You can't possibly understand how any of this feels," Krazan seethed. "You, who were born under the auspices of a loving god, one who didn't shape you for the purpose of being an abomination. What right have you to judge me?"

cDm@NOTJUDGEcs)(

"LIAR!" Krazan clenched his fist, and the Elf's soul crumpled inward. "EVEN MY OWN PEOPLE JUDGE ME! IGNORANT OF WHAT THEY COULD BECOME IF THEY MADE JUST ONE FUCKING MISTAKE!"

Memories flashed by in a hurry.

Krazan, swearing he would never steal a third soul, and breaking his promise within the week.

Krazan, lurking amongst the shadows, pilfering a Sinner's Shroud to hide his warped core.

Krazan, confessing to his mother, and securing her silence in the only guaranteed way.

Krazan, ripping.

Krazan, killing.

Krazan, devouring.

"They say that willpower is forged through suffering." An empty smile spread across the Soul Eater's face. "For nearly a millennium, I have lived with the weight of my sins and the depths of my failures. More than any living creature in this world, I understand tragedy in its highest form. And what of you?"

He clenched his other hand. The Elf's memories compressed once again, on the verge of being snuffed out. "I've seen the measure of your will. It is untempered. Lacking. You have not witnessed the truest horrors that life has to offer." Krazan gazed into the Elf's memories, his lips curling upwards into an ugly sneer. "Nothing special. Parents who should never have been parents. A common tale, one found across the land in every era. And you didn't even need to bear it for long – the Cataclysm resolved it for you."

Krazan paused, waiting for the Elf's soul to flare up with indignance, intending to capitalize on its distraction with a lethal counterstrike. But despite Krazan's barbs and the grinding pressure being applied to the Elf's soul, it didn't budge in the slightest, holding strong.

"You are merely prolonging your suffering," the Soul Eater stated. "The disparity of our lifespans is too great for you to bear this much longer." He adopted a soothing tone. "Give in. Allow yourself to rest. I promise that the end will be swift and painless."

NO.

It was a pure, unwavering note of defiance. From within the Elf's soul, points of light sprang forth, blinding Krazan with memories that were not his own.

The Elf, finding solace in the company of a young boy about his age.

The Elf, several years later, playing cards with a group of newfound friends.

The Elf, sitting beside a Human as they exchanged childhood stories.

The Elf, watching with his friends as one of their number sang a performance for them.

The Elf, drinking the night away in celebration with his friends, who he'd begun to think of as family.

The Elf, offering his support to a Dragonkin on the brink of despair.

There were countless more points of light, each one shining as brilliant as any soul. As he stared, awestruck, Krazan realized that those touchstones of memory were keeping the Elf's soul intact. Every point was like a diamond, mesmerizing and sturdy, unyielding in the face of oblivion. They wouldn't crack no matter how much pressure Krazan applied. Rather than drawing willpower from hardship, the Elf had summoned strength from the bonds he shared with his friends.

And as long as they were waiting for him, he would never break.

With a start, Krazan realized that the Elf's soul was suddenly next to him. The boy had used Krazan's lapse in concentration to slip past his confinement. The Soul Eater's confusion doubled when – instead of attacking – the Elf sent out a pulse of emotion.

Krazan drew in a single, shuddering breath. Just as he'd seen the Elf's past, the Elf had seen his. He knew the full extent of the Soul Eater's transgressions. Yet there was none of the revulsion or condemnation that Krazan would have expected within that pulse of emotion. There was only...

Pity.

Krazan sobbed. For the first time in eons, he let his guard down completely.

And then the Elf snapped his neck.

--

Vul'to opened his eyes.

He groaned, head pounding. Pain lanced through his veins as he slowly sat up. A muted yelp blasted into his ear, but when he turned his head, whoever had shouted was already gone. In truth, that was fine – Vul'to wasn't much in the mood for conversation right now. Something else demanded his attention.

With no small amount of trepidation, he checked his Status Screen.

Vul'to

Level: 41

??? Level: ???

HP: ??? / ???

Status Effects: ???

He smiled. Still a few too many question marks for his liking, but...his name was there.

The rest would follow.

Vul'to laid back down, closed his eyes, and drifted off to a restful slumber.

Chapter 10

"Sih-yah," Rob stated, slowly enunciating each syllable. "That's how you say 'chair' in Fiendish. 'Sih', then 'yah'."

"Sih-yah," Vevrandi repeated. "Sih-yah. Silla." She frowned. "Are you sure that this is the way to learn Fiendish Auto-Translate? I assumed that a Skill as significant as that would entail more unusual Prerequisites."

"He's taught it to all of us," Keira remarked. "You're just learning a language, not deciphering ancient runic script. It – ah, hold on a moment."

She unsheathed her greatsword. From above, an overgrown beetle-thing leapt from a tree, its pincers aimed at her neck. Keira swatted it out of the air without looking in its direction, stepping sideways to avoid the shower of innards that followed.

"As I was saying," she continued, returning her greatsword to its place on her back. "Stick to your lessons, and you'll know Fiendish Auto-Translate within a week or two."

Vevrandi sighed and shook her head. "I can't say I'm satisfied with this," she muttered. "If committing sounds to memory is all it takes to bridge the communication gap between Dwarf and Fiend, then why didn't we figure it out centuries ago?" She glanced at Rob. "How did you figure it out?"

Rob averted his eyes and adopted a somber, brooding expression. "It's...a long story," he said, as he gazed meaningfully into the distance. "I'd rather not discuss it right now."

The Dwarf immediately shut her mouth and fell silent. Rob breathed an internal sigh of relief; he didn't actually know what he would've told her if she'd pressed the issue. Revealing the whole Earth Expat thing would unravel the narrative he'd created thus far of the saintly Elatran Human willing to forgive Dwarves and Fiends alike.

Thankfully, Diplomacy had suggested a cheat code for whenever Vevrandi started asking too many questions: act sad and imply painful memories. She would fill in the blanks. As a Dwarf with a guilty conscience over her race's role in The Scouring, she wasn't going to open old wounds to satiate her curiosity. Not yet, anyway – the ruse wouldn't last forever – but Rob would cross that bridge when he got there.

"What's the next word I should know?" Vevrandi asked, in an awkward tone, trying to move past her imagined faux pas. "How about 'axe'? Or 'hammer'?"

Rob ducked to avoid a low-hanging branch as they walked. "Before that, how are you feeling? Got a headache?"

"No, I..." Vevrandi trailed off, rubbing her temples. "Huh. Now that you mention it, I do feel a slight headache coming on."

"Then we're done for the day. Wouldn't be healthy for you to continue. We'll resume lessons tomorrow."

"It's only a bit of pain," she asserted. "Do you take me for a feeblehearted Librarian? I've suffered far worse than this on the field of battle."

Rob gave her a joyless grin. "Out of curiosity, how much Vitality do you have?"

"51. It's standard for an Axewoman at my Level."

"Yeah, then like I said, we're done. I don't think 51 Vitality is enough for you to survive massive brain hemorrhaging."

The color drained from her face in a matter of seconds. Rob's grin slid away as he fixed her with an insistent glare. "That's one of the reasons why it took people so long to figure out Fiendish Auto-Translate," he murmured. "Those who got too close to the truth ran into...complications. So you'll learn it gradually, a certain amount of words each day, in a safe and controlled manner. If anyone besides me offers additional lessons, punch them in the face and run, because their generosity might melt your brain into a red slurry."

Diplomacy gave Rob an internal high-five as Vevrandi nodded insistently, appearing thoroughly petrified. <In just four sentences, you've cowed her into compliance, temporarily sated her curiosity, and made her hesitant to satisfy it further,> the Skill congratulated. <Rob, my friend, I believe we'll make a fine manipulator out of you yet.>

What can I say? Rob almost smiled before remembering that Vevrandi was still looking at him. You're the best kind of bad influence.

<That I am. And for the record, even after gaining my own body, I fully intend to continue granting my services. I can't be around as often as I am now – obviously – but you're not getting rid of me that easily.>

Thank you, Rob said, sending Diplomacy a pulse of gratitude. I'd be lost without you as an advisor.

The Skill conjured an image of itself with a goatee and curly mustache. <I think I'm more of an evil vizier, just without the shocking-yet-predictable betrayal.> The image dissipated as Diplomacy powered down. <Gonna take a nap, wake me if the world explodes.>

Rob left the Skill to its rest and focused on trekking through Fiendland's wilderness. It'd taken them the better part of a day to travel most of the way back to civilization. Waymark or the Fiends' advanced teleportation magic could've gotten them home immediately, but those were two cards that they were holding on, at least until the Dwarves proved trustworthy.

Riardin's Rangers weren't exactly thrilled to be traversing the great outdoors again – they'd gotten their fill of that on the journey from Elven territory to Human territory. The only saving grace was that they were able to witness Vevrandi's freaked-the-fuck-out expressions as she gaped at every weird sight in Fiend territory. Rob sympathized with her, but that wasn't going to stop him from enjoying the free show.

After a few hours of the poor woman jumping at shadows, Zamira seemingly took pity on her and attempted to make conversation. "Have you ever sojourned this far into Fiend territory?" she asked.

"No Dwarf has. Our skirmishes usually took place around the border." Vevrandi shuddered. "Shit. It's just starting to sink in. I've descended into the belly of the beast. Willingly. Titan preserve, what have I done? My soul is in grave danger, and it's far too late to turn back now."

Rob caught Zamira barely suppressing a wince. "Your soul is in good hands," she soothed. "I swear on my life that you will come to no harm."

Vevrandi let out a hollow laugh. "We'll see. No Fiend has ever shown our kind mercy before."

Because you were at war and couldn't communicate with each other, Rob wanted to say, but he held his tongue. Vevrandi's prejudices were hundreds of years old; he wasn't going to uproot them with arguments based in logic. Actions spoke louder than words, and he already had a few plans in mind.

Hours later, Magnar City finally came into view. It was the closest city to the Fiend-Dwarven border. Vevrandi gasped as she laid eyes on it, officially becoming the first Dwarf in history to see what Fiend civilization looked like. "Their dwellings," she breathed. "They glitter. Like gemstones."

Rob gave her a few seconds to soak in the sights. A good first impression could go a long way. Once Vevrandi had been sufficiently awestruck, he tapped her on the shoulder, breaking her out of her trance. "Ready to head inside? They've got free donuts for any newcomers."

The axe-wielding warrior woman, Level 42 and with a lifetime of combat experience under her belt, froze as if she was a child undergoing stage fright. Vevrandi glanced at Elder Alessia, beseeching assistance. "Are you sure they won't notice me?" she asked. "Fiends can discern a person's race by their soul. They may be accustomed to your presence, but not mine."

"We'll be keeping to the less-traveled back streets," Alessia stated, waving her hand dismissively. "And in this instance, your height is an advantage. The Fiends won't notice your soul if our bodies are obscuring yours. Simply keep to the center of our group and refrain from making a sound – that is all."

"It isn't far to Magnar City's Teleportation Crystal," Zamira consoled. "The Grand Overseers will provide you safe haven once we reach them."

Vevrandi wasn't convinced, but to her credit, she trudged on regardless, crossing into the city like she was treading on an active minefield. Luckily, it was late in the day, and the streets were relatively empty. Operation Bodyblock The Shortie quickly proved to be a resounding success, as no Fiend looked twice at their Party, taking the group of Elves in stride. Rob, with his trusty hood and Sinner's Shroud equipped, was equally overlooked.

Hmm, he thought. This won't do. From Vevrandi's perspective, she wasn't observing Fiend civilization – she was surviving it. She'd be just as scared when she arrived at the Teleportation Crystal as she was now, even if nothing bad happened. The Dwarf needed verifiable evidence that the Fiends weren't crazed monsters who'd betray them at the drop of the hat.

"Psst," Rob whispered, the group turning to face him. "Hey, guys. Take Vevrandi to that corner, where it's out of sight. I've got a point to prove."

"Rob," Elder Alessia started, in a wary tone. "What are you doing?"

"Just trust me," Rob said, saying the second-most untrustworthy line in the English language. "I got this," he continued, saying the #1-most-untrustworthy line. He faced Vevrandi, locking eyes with her. "Do you still think that I'm a prisoner of the Fiends?"

She jerked back for a moment, her countenance rapidly settling into one of determination. "Truthfully? Yes. You're skulking about like a rat in a trap. I know part of that is for my benefit, but it does little to reassure me, nonetheless."

He snapped off a quick salute. "Read you loud and clear. As a rebuttal: check this shit out."

Before anyone could stop him, Rob dashed into the center of the street, drawing the attention of the ten-or-so Fiends milling about. Breathing deep, he lowered his hood, cupped his hands over his mouth, and shouted. "WASSUP, EVERYONE!" His voice echoed across the street. "WHO WANTS SOME MOTHERFUCKING AUTOGRAPHS?!"

Their reaction was instantaneous. The Fiends went from shocked to elated in a matter of seconds, rushing forward like he was giving out free candy. Rob put on a winning smile as the deluge of fanboyism washed over him. Several of the Fiends turned out to be people he'd Purged significant amounts of Corruption from; once he learned that, his smile became genuine. He summoned writing utensils from his Spatial Storage – earning a round of oohs and aahs – and soon enough, the Fiends were waving goodbye as they scampered away, holding autographs in their hands and will-wishes in their hearts.

Rob grinned at Vevrandi as he approached her hiding spot. The Dwarf was staring at him, utterly dumbfounded, far more than when compared to anything she'd seen in the Fiend wilderness. Elder Alessia had her head in her hands. Orn'tol and Malika were beaming at him, expressions of pure jubilation on their faces, and the rest of the group was suppressing laughter.

"Let me make this clear," Rob began, stretching his arms over his head as he addressed Vevrandi. "I'm a celebrity. A hero celebrity. Everyone knows that I invented Fiendish Auto-Translate – which is somehow not even my most notable accomplishment. It won't matter if the Fiends find out you're here, because as soon as I put in a good word for you, they'll switch to wondering what miracle of Diplomacy I'm about to pull off next."

"You're so very humble, too," Keira deadpanned, with a wry smirk.

"Subtlety wasn't working," Rob shrugged. "I bet our Dwarven friend feels a lot better after seeing the Fiends roll out the red carpet for me. Don't you, Vevrandi?"

She nodded mutely, still too flabbergasted to form a coherent response. Rob gave her a thumbs-up, choosing to interpret her lack of denial as a win.

For the sake of allowing Vevrandi to process her world getting flip-turned upside down, Rob refrained from putting on an encore performance as their group continued deeper into Magnar City. It didn't take them long to reach the station where the Teleportation Crystal resided. Considering how rare and limited in usage Teleportation Crystals were, Rob would've normally needed to book his appointment well in advance, but the Grand Overseers had notified the station ahead of time so his Party could cut ahead in line.

And even if they hadn't, Rob was Rob. Nepotism is great as long as it's working in my favor.

One teleport later, and Riardin's Rangers – with Vevrandi as tonight's special guest – were back in Acrastor City. She didn't seem especially shaken by the experience of being transported across miles of space, meaning she'd used Teleportation Crystals in the past. The realization set Rob at ease; it implied that Vevrandi's 'Commander' title wasn't just for show, and that she was likely someone of importance. If they could convince her of the Fiends' good will, her positive assessment would hold real weight in Dwarven society.

"Welcome to our base of operations," Elder Alessia stated, sweeping her arm to the side in a flourish. "The Grand Overseers will be contacting us shortly; they'll want to speak with you as quickly as possible. Be forewarned – they are a paranoid, contentious lot."

For the first time in hours, Vevrandi's lips quirked upwards into a smile. "So...they're politicians?"

Elder Alessia mirrored the Dwarf's expression. "Indeed."

Before anyone else could comment, a Fiend burst into the teleportation chamber, scaring the living daylights out of Vevrandi. The messenger gaped at her for a few seconds, then snapped to attention, remembering his duties. He turned to look at Riardin's Rangers.

Rob's breath caught in his throat. Whatever the messenger was about to say ended up being unnecessary.

Because with one look at the Fiend's intense gaze, Rob knew.

In a flash, he was out the door, activating Step of the Wind for added speed. Rob sprinted full blast down the winding corridors, mentally cursing himself as he ran. Why the fuck hadn't he set Waymark in the right spot? Even though he was mere seconds away, every prolonged instant felt like torture. Air whipped past his face, and he was dimly aware of the others trailing behind him, but he couldn't bring himself to slow down and wait for them. Meyneth partially solved the issue by activating Leap, clearing a hallway and catching up to Rob in one go.

Both of them rounded a corner, feet skidding on polished floor, muscles tensing as they spotted THE room. A pair of Fiend guards were posted outside. Rob and Meyneth blew past them without so much as a hello, practically kicking the door down in their haste.

And promptly hesitated. The next moment would decide so much. Hearts pounding in their chests, the two of them rallied their courage and cast Identify.

Vul'to

Level: 41

??? Level: 36

HP: ??? / ???

Status Effects: ???

Tears of relief welled up in Rob's eyes as he read the name that appeared on Vul'to's Status Screen. It didn't matter that the person staring at him with pleasant surprise was a Fiend. Vul'to was Vul'to, no matter what body his soul was stuck in. "Hey man," Rob said, his voice choking a little. "How's it been?"

Vul'to smiled, took a step forward, and fell flat on his face.

The rest of the Party caught up at that moment, bursting into the room in a hurry. There was a brief moment of silence as they cast Identity, followed by the cacophonous babbling of half a dozen concerned voices fighting for supremacy.

"My apologies," Vul'to said, as Meyneth rushed over to help him up. "Walking isn't the same. Limbs are...longer. Balance different."

Rob scratched his ears, an itch forming inside them. Something about Vul'to's speaking pattern sounded unsettlingly 'off' in a way that he couldn't pin down. Every word was parseable, but it was like listening to him through a static filter that was being turned up and down at random.

"Can you hear me?" Vul'to asked, a bit of worry creeping into his tone. "I think something's wrong with my voice. Tingles when I talk."

Elder Alessia and Vevrandi caught up next. The Dwarf – who was not at all happy to be out of the loop – frowned at Vul'to as she listened to him speak. "Are you teaching that Fiend the Auto-Translate variant for Common?" she asked. "His wording is sporadic."

A lightbulb clicked on inside Rob's head. "Vul'to," he began, looking up at his now-taller friend. "Try to focus on speaking in Common. Repeat each word in your mind before saying it out loud. I think..."

He glanced at Alessia and Vevrandi. The Elder took the hint and led Vevrandi away, citing vague 'personal reasons' for why Riardin's Rangers wanted privacy, and that she would introduce the Dwarf to the Grand Overseers personally. Once they were well out of Heightened Senses range, Keira closed the door and nodded. "Danger Sense is quiet. We're safe."

"Speak in Common," Vul'to muttered. "Speak in Common. Speak in Common. Speak in Common." He poked his mouth as if examining a foreign entity. "Was that all right? It seemed normal to me near the end."

Rob held up a hand, forestalling any further comments so he could explain what had happened. "You were speaking in Common and Fiendish at the same time, alternating your words, like some form of broken Spanglish. Auto-Translate managed to express your intent regardless, but it wasn't happy with having to pull double duty."

Meyneth clenched her hands into fists. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, eyes lowered. Her tone was subdued, sounding closer to how she used to act around Riardin's Rangers when they first met. "I am to blame for-"

Vul'to hissed in pain, clutching his chest. Riardin's Rangers collectively had a minor freakout as the former-Elf shook his head and put a disarming smile on his face that wasn't at all convincing. "Not to worry," he assured. "The Soul Eater is gone. I dealt with him in the mindscape that exists between souls."

"You dueled the Soul Eater in your mind?" Orn'tol said, with a gasp.

"Well, yes." Vul'to paused, realization belatedly spreading across his features. "Apologies once again. I forgot that you wouldn't have known about the mindscape. My memories are somewhat...jumbled about at the moment. Had to endure the Soul Eater's attempt to snuff out my consciousness." His hand, still clutching his chest, trembled. "He lived for a very long time. I saw everything. The days felt like years, and the years felt like days. So much death..."

A dark pallor fell over him as Vul'to stared into nothing, his eyes vacant. The moment lasted just long enough for Riardin's Rangers to start freaking out again – right before Vul'to suddenly snapped back to attention. "It's of no importance," he said, a bit too cheerfully. "Forget about me; you've clearly been busy while I slumbered! Was that a Dwarf I noticed being pulled away by Elder Alessia?"

The rest of the Party exchanged glances. Vul'to's smile wavered, silently pleading for them to accept the change of subject and move on. Rob decided to compromise by discussing a different topic that Vul'to had tried to skirt past. "It's a long story. First, though, how's your chest feel? Does it still hurt?"

Vul'to winced. "Admittedly, yes. I honestly can't tell you why, though. Burns like fire. A roaring conflagration in my – oh." He blinked several times, eyes rapidly moving left-to-right. "I don't mean to alarm anyone, but quite a few system messages just appeared, none of which I recognize. There's one regarding an ongoing integration, another stating that a branching path has been delineated..."

His stiffened as if a rod had been inserted into his spine. Vul'to chuckled, looking at Meyneth with an almost kindly gaze. "Please catch me when I fall."

She was already moving when Vul'to collapsed, his body sinking like a puppet with its strings cut. As Meyneth grabbed hold of him and gently set him down onto his bed, the rest of Riardin's Rangers sprang into something between action and panic. Zamira flung the door open, instructing the guards posted outside to call for Healers and Soul Surgeons. Malika examined Vul'to intently, her eyes glimmering with Sense Mana. Keira paced in a circle, hands twitching toward her greatsword. Rob just stood there, not knowing what to do, wondering if there was anything he could kill to bring a sense of normalcy back into his world.

Everyone froze in place when Orn'tol uttered two short words. "Status Screen." One-by-one, they cast Identify, mixed feelings flowing through them as they read what had changed.

Vul'to

Level: 41

Soul Guardian Level: 36

HP: 700 / 700

Status Effects: Unconscious, Integrating (Near-Completion), ANOMALY, ???

--

"We can't go," Rob stated, his exhaustion clear on display.

Vevrandi clenched her fists and held her ground. "I spoke with the Fiends' Grand Overseers. You were right, Human – they turned out to be reasonable folk. Our talks went well."

"Cool. Good to hear."

Vevrandi waited, expecting him or Keira to say more. When they didn't, she pressed on, a plaintive edge to her words. "They agreed that a diplomatic delegation should be sent to Dwarven territory at once. You, and however many of your friends you wish to bring. On my life, I guarantee that any ally of Rob the Human will be granted safe passage, even the Fiends."

"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind for when we visit. In like a month."

"Stonewarden Grant would very much appreciate it if you visited now."

"I don't..." Rob sighed. "I don't care, okay? My friend is sick. He needs us here."

A thin sheen of sweat began to glisten on Vevrandi's forehead. "Are there not Healers in Fiend territory who can tend to him?"

"It's complicated." Understatement of the year, Rob thought. Vul'to was currently drifting in and out of consciousness. From what bits they could glean from him when he occasionally surfaced, his body was undergoing some sort of 'integration process' as the system tried to reconcile an Elven soul in a Fiend body. The Vul'to side of that equation was winning out – speaking Common was easier for him, and he'd regained his Levels and stats – but that didn't mean his condition was guaranteed to continue improving. Neither the Healers nor Soul Surgeons had ever seen anything like this before. No one knew what the fuck was going to happen.

As Rob got lost in his head, Keira was content to stand completely still, fixing their Dwarven compatriot with an impassive stare. Vevrandi fidgeted in place, the silence weighing heavy on her composure. "What if your other Party members stay, then?" she posited. "They can assist your friend while you meet with the Stonewarden. Both our needs are met, and everything is resolved in a timely manner."

"Absolutely not," Keira flatly stated. "We aren't sending Rob into Dwarven territory alone. And before you complain that we aren't trusting the Dwarves' good intentions – I wouldn't send Rob down the street alone at this point. Trouble has an odd way of finding him." She paused, then shrugged. "Of finding all of us, really."

Vevrandi gulped. "Then why don't-"

"Oh my goooooood." Rob ran his hands down his face. "Look, you've made first contact with the Fiends, and it was friendly. Report that back to the Stonewarden. Tell him that his Human pen pal will be delighted to meet with him when everything here gets properly un-fucked. Isn't that enough? Why is it so important that I meet the Stonewarden as soon as possible?"

A note of pure distress escaped from Vevrandi's throat. Rob and Keira stared at her, unease rising within them. "...Answer the question," Keira ordered.

Vevrandi glanced upwards, as if seeking divine intervention, her posture gradually crumpling in defeat. "I withheld how much the Merfolk revealed about your journey into their territory," she began, sounding positively lifeless. "While you were there, a Great Leviathan was Corrupted by the Blight. And just as it was set to ravage Merfolk territory...you turned it aside. Used some unforeseen ability to send it scurrying away like a wounded rat. Then, before you left, you told the Merfolk that you could cure Corruption. That your demonstration with the Leviathan was a proof of concept."

Rob and Keira flinched as Vevrandi lowered her head and glared at them with eyes of unfettered desperation. "Please tell me you were telling the truth."

Chapter 11

"It started a week ago," Vevrandi began. "That's when everything went to shit." She sank into her chair, shoulders slumped as she peered down at her feet. In front of her, the Elders, the Grand Overseers, Faelynn, and Riardin's Rangers – minus Vul'to – were all in attendance. They'd gathered for an emergency, all-hands-on-deck meeting; the second one in less than twenty-four hours. I'm already mourning the quiet days, Rob thought, fully aware that his vacation was dead and buried.

"At first we just thought that a new crop of monsters was spawning in the mines," Vevrandi continued. "That sort of thing is a common occurrence. Monsters come, Combat Class users fight them, and the mines are back to normal within the day. Except that this time, our wounded soldiers were inflicted with a Status Effect that couldn't be cured. Something that weakened and tortured them in equal measure."

"Corruption," Faelynn uttered, in a hushed whisper, as if merely speaking the word would invite a curse upon them.

Vevrandi nodded. "While the Blight had yet to encroach onto Dwarf territory until now, we are very much aware of its capabilities. Between transmitting Corruption, enthralling monsters, and absorbing Loci of Power, its spread among other nations has not gone beneath our notice. In fact, the Elven Seneschal begged for aid on more than one occasion – and from what I know, a man like that only swallows his pride when matters have truly spun out of control."

"And you didn't offer any assistance in return?" Elder Alessia asked, a harsh edge to her tone. "Need I remind you that the Blight is a threat that concerns all of us?"

"Wasn't my decision." Vevrandi shrugged. "I'm sure that Stonewarden Grant had an important reason for withholding aid."

<She's not lying,> Diplomacy muttered, <insofar that *she* believes the Stonewarden has good intentions, even if someone with a broader perspective might suggest otherwise. Her loyalty runs deep.>

Activating Message, Rob passed on Diplomacy's appraisal to the rest of his Party members. This excluded the Grand Overseers, but Faelynn – who was currently in the Party – solved that issue by relaying the information to them in Fiendish. Vevrandi frowned, but she usually frowned when looking at Fiends anyway, so there wasn't much of a difference there. "Is there something I should know about?"

"It's nothing that concerns you," Elder Alessia said, lying through her teeth. "By all means; please continue."

Vevrandi hesitated, seeming close to calling bullshit, before remembering that she was in no position to stir up trouble. "Right," she sighed. "As stated, we were aware of the Blight's appetite for Loci of Power. The advent of Corruption served as a signal torch, alerting Dwarven territory that an enemy it was expecting had finally arrived at our doorstep. We fortified our defenses, expecting that the Blight would attempt to invade Dhalerune City just as it assailed Reviton City in Elven territory."

Her voice grew more nervous the longer she spoke. "When nothing happened on the first day, we considered it a reprieve. When nothing happened on the second day, we began to suspect that something was amiss. Then a group of Geologists and Cartographers examined the yield of Dhalerune City's mines over the past several centuries, and came to an awful conclusion."

"A Locus of Power exists within the mines," Elder Duran put forth. "I imagine they deduced as much by noting the unusually high volume of precious minerals that the mine contains; like a well that never seems to run dry."

Vevrandi nodded. "While we aren't positive that a Locus exists within Dhalerune Mines, it would explain why the Blight feels no impetus to invade the city. In truth, I doubt that it intends to interact with us whatsoever until achieving its goal – encountering the miners was just unlucky happenstance on its part. As soon as we realized this, Stonewarden Grant deployed a scouting group of our quickest, stealthiest Combat Class users. They were ordered to observe, then return immediately, fleeing at the earliest sign of danger."

She screwed her eyes shut, voice taut. "We haven't heard word from any of them since."

A silence fell over the room as Vevrandi composed herself. Rob examined her demeanor, searching for any signs of misdirection or guile. While he was pretty sure that she was being genuine, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that, if the Dwarves knew about Purge Corruption, then they might assume that the best way to lead Rob into a trap would be to set a fake Blight invasion as bait.

Sensing his paranoia, Diplomacy shook their head. <If she's lying, then Vevrandi missed out on her true calling as an actress. There was too much grief when she mentioned not hearing from 'them'. Someone who she cared about disappeared in the mines.>

Right. Rob let out an audible sigh. Once more unto the breach, then. "Let's fast-forward this conversation. You want me to swing by Dwarfland and Purge the Blight, I'm guessing?"

The Dwarf hung her head. "Do you think of my people as hypocrites, requesting your aid after denying the Seneschal's pleas?"

"Absolutely."

She tensed. "...Will you please help us anyway?"

Rob put on a savage grin. "Luckily for you, I hate the Blight more than I resent hypocrisy." Blue motes of Spatial Storage energy flitted around his fingers. "Fuck it. I'm in – but only if my friends are in as well. I don't make decisions for them, and we go together or not at all."

Incoming Group Message From All Party Members

Suppressing a wince, he skimmed through the deluge of questions pouring down his vision. Each one was basically the same, being 'are you sure?' phrased in varying ways. Thinking quickly so that Vevrandi wouldn't get suspicious or nervous, Rob replied as quickly and succinctly as he could.

Sending Message To Group

Rob: No, I haven't forgotten about Vul'to. No, I haven't forgotten about my soul surgery. No, I'm not actually confident about this – just amping up the bravado to leave a good impression on the Dwarves' diplomat. And yes, I'm sure that we should go despite all that.

The Blight wasn't an issue that could wait. Once it absorbed a Locus of Power and attained a body, it would continue to increase in strength over time, gradually evolving into its fully-realized form. While this metamorphosis transpired, the surrounding area would rapidly decay into Blighted Lands that eroded life, eventually transforming miles of land into a caustic vortex of entropy. And according to Vevrandi, they'd discovered the Blight's presence a week ago – meaning it had already been there for longer than that.

Images rushed to the forefront of Rob's mind. Thousands and thousands of Fiends, their bodies ravaged by pain, trembling hands clinging to him as if he was their last chance for salvation. That was what unchecked Corruption did to people. He'd spent months working tirelessly to eradicate its infestation from Fiend territory, and the moans of those who wished for release – or failing that, death – were forever seared into his memories.

Rob wouldn't be able to sleep at night if he let something like that happen again.

"I recognize that look," Keira remarked, "and I agree with it. Fuck the Blight." The other members of Riardin's Rangers sounded off, their chorus of "fuck the Blight" echoing across the room. Some of the turmoil in Rob's chest faded, and he turned toward Vevrandi, spreading his arms wide.

"There you have it. Looks like me and my friends are on the same page."

Vevrandi beamed, her hope blooming like a flower – that promptly wilted when Elder Alessia cleared her throat. "If I may inject a degree of pragmatism into the proceedings," she began, "we will need reassurances before marching into Dwarven territory on the word of a single Commander. Can you prove that Corruption has well and truly taken root there?"

"I'll have my soldiers bring out one of the victims afflicted with Corruption," Vevrandi offered. "You can examine him prior to entering Dhalerune City. Would that be sufficient?"

The Party exchanged another round of silent glances. They didn't need Message to discuss anything this time; all of them were evidently thinking the same thing. Vevrandi's compromise still required them to journey to Dwarven territory, potentially leading them directly into a trap, but...eh. Diplomacy was vouching for her authenticity, and at the end of the day, Waymark had their back, just like always. As a defensive Skill, it was so effective that it fundamentally altered the risk:reward factor of any given scenario. No one else in Elatra had the equivalent of a portable Teleportation Crystal at their command.

There's only one fatal flaw with it, Rob admitted. We never get to see the looks on people's faces after we 'port away and leave them in the dust.

"Your terms are acceptable," Elder Alessia eventually replied, "assuming that the Stonewarden isn't operating under the delusion that Purge Corruption is a miracle solution to his problems. Its vector for energy transmission is most effective at touch range, which puts Rob in a dangerous position. While we may hold the Blight's greatest weakness in our hands, a Blight is still a Blight, and Rob cannot use Skills if he is dead. Martial backing will be necessary."

Vevrandi bristled. "As if Dwarves would expect an outside party to do all their fighting for them. Who do you think we are, Elves?"

No one said a word.

"...That joke earns more laughs back home," Vevrandi muttered. "Anyway, you needn't worry. Stonewarden Grant intends to deploy as many Combat Class users as physically possible. Up to thirty of our very best. The only reason he isn't sending his entire army is because the depths of Dhalerune Mines contains too many narrow corridors for a large sortie."

Her tone grew confident and proud. "You will even have the honor of witnessing Stonewarden Grant himself take the field."

Rob's eyebrows shot up. If the Stonewarden was going to fight the Blight, that changed things. Elatran Leaders were absolute powerhouses. Rob would know; the Merfolk King had pushed Riardin's Rangers to the brink all on his own.

"Dayum," he said, whistling appreciatively. "Thirty elites plus the Stonewarden versus a young Blight? My Party might not even need to do anything."

"Ideally, that would be the case," she affirmed. "While you are welcome to deal heavy damage to the Blight if an opportunity arises, we would prefer that you concentrate on staying alive long enough to Purge Corruption from our allies."

Rob nodded. "That and restoring the Locus of Power if it turns out to have been Corrupted."

"YOU CAN DO THAT TOO?!"

--

Integration Complete!

Vul'to gasped as his eyes snapped open, going from asleep to awake in an instant. It felt like taking the first breath of air after being held underwater for...for quite some time. He glanced around his room to find it empty save for a bed and table. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, expecting to teeter as he adjusted to walking with his new body – only to stand upright without any difficulty whatsoever. Vul'to took several careful steps forward, transitioning from a walk into a short run in short order.

It's as if I've been using this body my whole life. Vul'to held his arms up, examining them from finger to shoulder. His skin was ashen-gray now, a far cry from the pale white of most Elves. Pointed claws tipped his fingernails, and with an instinctual thought, they extended into inches-long weapons of death. Continuing downward, Vul'to rolled up his sleeve and curiously poked at his clearly visible biceps. While Krazan hadn't been the type to build his body, even a weak Fiend's natural musculature far outstripped any Elf.

Vul'to checked his torso and legs next, discovering much of the same; gray skin, defined muscles, and clawed toenails. After that, the only things left to examine would have required a mirror – an experience he was more than happy with delaying. Vul'to knew perfectly well what Krazan looked like. He didn't need a mirror to envision pitch black eyes, similarly black hair, and the face that had murdered him.

I'm being remarkably calm about this, Vul'to mused. He reached up towards the ceiling, his fingers brushing its surface. Vul'to had been tall for an Elf, but he wouldn't have come close if he'd tried that before. This body feels...familiar. Imagining a sword in his hand, Vul'to took up a fighting stance and sparred against a nonexistent enemy. He stopped after a few attempts – not because his form was poor, but because his form was identical. An Elf's balance and poise, subconsciously adjusted to fit a Fiend's body.

"I am Vul'to," he proclaimed. It seemed necessary to say aloud. The more he thought about his new skin, the more he became unnerved at how normal it felt. The two feelings mingled without mixing, leaving him with a sense of cognitive dissonance that he was unable to dispel. While Vul'to could remember what it was like to be an Elf, at the same time, the contrast between his former and current bodies seemed no worse than donning a new pair of clothes.

Vul'to sat down on his bed, a bitter chuckle escaping his throat. Perhaps I'm losing my mind. Considering what had happened, it was certainly possible. Rielle will want to hear all about this-

He froze. A piercing sensation of vertigo overtook him as the world re-aligned itself. Rielle was... Krazan's friend. Not his. Yes, that was right. She was Krazan's childhood friend, and just as importantly, she'd been dead for hundreds of years.

Her soul ripped out by these very hands.

"I am Vul'to," he said, with greater emphasis than before.

No one answered.

Searching for a distraction, Vul'to peered around the room, his gaze drawn to the sight that he'd been trying to ignore. Through the walls, Vul'to could see distant orbs of mana floating in mid-air. Each one was brilliant and beautiful unlike anything he'd ever seen. He longed to watch them, spend hours, days, years exulting in their visual splendor.

Is this what all Fiends see when observing souls? Vul'to wondered. Or is it just Soul Eaters who covet that brilliance? As far as Vul'to could tell, he didn't possess a craving for souls. They were beautiful, to be sure, but there was no desire burning in his chest to reach out and feast on their essence.

He could only hope that he stayed that way. Based on Krazan's memories, soul eating was a vice that matched Fast Learner in its unbridled hedonism. Addictions of that severity left an indelible mark on both body and mind. In this instance, the mind was gone, but the body...

Well, time would tell. Hopefully, he would turn out fine – and if he didn't, the choice was clear. Vul'to had seen the path of a Soul Eater, centuries laid out before his eyes, and it was a fate worse than death. If he ever felt the craving begin to rise, he would ask his friends to put him down.

...They are still my friends, I hope. It was an ugly, unfair thought, but one that was impossible to fully dispel. Vul'to was different now. A Fiend and an ANOMALY, as his Status Screen so helpfully declared. Would his Party members consider him to be the same person as before? Were their bonds unchanged? Gods above, Vul'to's face belonged to the madman that had nearly killed Meyneth. She might not even be able to look him in the eyes without feeling instinctive revulsion.

At the very least, he doubted that he would be accepted among the Deserters anymore. Forcefully included by the will of Riardin's Rangers, maybe, but that wasn't the same as acceptance. The thought stung – while Vul'to didn't take as much intrinsic pride in being an Elf as some others did, he'd still fought and bled to protect his people. Once word began to spread that Vul'to was now a Fiend, they would at best regard him as an amicable monstrosity. At worst, he would be branded an abomination, deserving nothing less than to be purged in its entirety.

Vul'to's hands trembled. All those doubts and fears fed into each other, coalescing into a tempest of panic. What if? He thought. What if? What if? The hysteria threatened to overtake him-

And then he shoved it aside.

None of that mattered right now. Before he fell to pieces, there was something to test first.

Vul'to approached the table in the center of the room. With one motion, he brought his fist down and cracked it into pieces. Examining his options, Vul'to picked up a piece that looked vaguely like a shield, and a piece that looked vaguely like a sword. They would have to do.

One inborn trait of Fiends was that the system restricted them from choosing Classes that specialized in melee weapons. If they wanted to fight up close, they were forced to select 'Thrasher', which bestowed claw-based Skills. Swords, lances, and anything of their like, however? Fiends could wield them, technically, but without access to Class Skills, their combat effectiveness would be significantly reduced.

And before being placed into Krazan's body, Vul'to's Class – Guardian – had utilized swords and shields.

Currently, Vul'to Status Screen said that he was a Soul Guardian. Vul'to also didn't know what a Soul Guardian was. While 'Guardian' was still in its name, for all he knew, the entire scope of the class had been altered. It would make sense; Vul'to was a Fiend, now. Fiends couldn't use melee implements. No swords, no shields.

"I refuse to accept that," Vul'to said, standing tall. "My body may be different, but my soul is the same. I am Vul'to. Vul'to is someone who threw away decades of Ranger training in order to become a Guardian, a Class that spoke to the core of his being. He chose it for one purpose, and one purpose only: to protect the people he'd come to care so deeply for. His friends...no, his family. That is who I am, and that is who I shall always be."

With each hand, Vul'to attempted to activate a Skill. His left hand, holding his makeshift shield, cast Indomitable. His right hand, holding his makeshift sword, cast Power Slash.

For a brief, horrible moment, nothing happened.

Then some indefinable barrier within him shattered, like a window struck by lightning, and his sword and shield began glowing with the telltale aura of Skills.

A broad smile spread across Vul'to face. For the first time since awakening, he felt completely and wholly like himself.

--

"Must we bring Fiends along?" Vevrandi complained, giving a blatant side-eye to the Grand Overseers and Faelynn. "I can guarantee that, even with my assurances, their reception at Dhalerune City will be...poor."

"This point is non-negotiable," a Grand Overseer stated, folding her arms. "Consider it proof of our desire to forge peace between Fiends and Dwarves. We understand the risks, and yet we will go regardless."

Rob coughed loudly into his hand. "You mean you'll be sending someone to go, regardless. Last I checked, politicians never do their own dirty work."

The Grand Overseers glared at him with expressions of 'not in front of the guest'. He put on a cheeky grin in return, regretting absolutely nothing.

"I volunteer to go," Faelynn said, taking a step forward. "No other Fiend has as much experience fighting in tandem with Riardin's Rangers as I do. If we are to cross claws with the Blight, then our Party will need to performing at its best."

Everyone in Riardin's Rangers quickly agreed. Faelynn smiled a little, openly pleased with their trust in her. The Grand Overseers looked a little put out, as their choice of Fiend liaison had been taken from them, but they probably would've picked Faelynn anyway, so whatever.

"It may be wise to include other Fiends in your group," Elder Duran suggested. "That way, Faelynn won't feel as if she's alone in an unknown land, the scrutiny of an entire race aimed solely at her."

Duran sounded mildly sullen as he talked, still sulking from when his suggestion that he accompany them to Dwarfland had been shot down immediately by Rob and Elder Alessia. It was obvious that he super wanted to go – both to help with negotiations and to nerd out at the new sights – but Alessia was already going, and someone needed to stay behind to lead the Deserters in her stead. Duran's poor health only made the decision easier.

"I...wouldn't oppose traveling with another Fiend," Faelynn admitted. "Is Goroth available? He is on friendly terms with Riardin's Rangers."

Rob nodded in assent. Goroth was the Fiend primarily responsible for establishing peaceful communications with the Deserters, and he was strong as hell, to boot. Just as he was about to voice his agreement, a Grand Overseer spoke up. "Unfortunately, it would be unwise to send both you and Goroth to Dwarf territory," the Overseer said. "He is perhaps our greatest fighter, and you are an Awakened Class user with exceptional potential for growth. Losing both of you to the Blight would be a catastrophic blow to Fiend territory."

Or losing them to a Dwarven betrayal, Rob thought. The Overseer's subtext wasn't lost on Vevrandi, who scowled at the implication. Considering she'd just finished advising against bringing Fiends at all, though, she couldn't defend her people's honor without coming across as foolhardy.

"That is sensible," Faelynn said, her enthusiasm deflating by a hair. "Who, then? There aren't many combat-ready Fiends on personal terms with Riardin's Rangers."

"I believe I may fill that niche."

Everyone in the room whirled towards the entrance, eyes widening. Vul'to smiled at them as he walked forward on two perfectly balanced legs, holding pieces of wood in his hands for...some reason. Rob kept expecting him to collapse and pass out again, but as the seconds ticked by, it became evident that wasn't going to happen.

"My Guardian abilities still work," Vul'to stated, proudly. He hefted the wooden pieces and imbued them with Skills, drawing flabbergasted reactions from the Fiends in the crowd. "I am no less powerful than I was before. And as a Fiend, I would divert scrutiny from Faelynn so that the Dwarves' attention aren't solely on her."

"Hold that thought," Rob interjected, his head spinning. "Vul'to, you're – you're up and about! And...wait, how do you even know what we were talking about? We haven't had time to fill you in."

Vul'to lowered his gaze. "I was waiting outside the door and listening to your conversation," he muttered, with a hint of embarrassment. "Wasn't sure if I should...it doesn't matter. The point I'm trying to impress upon you is that, if Faelynn requires a Fiend to accompany her into Dwarven territory, then there's no better choice than I."

He hesitated, his voice hitching slightly. "That is, if you would have me."

"I mean, fuck yes we will, but why are you asking?" Rob said, confused. "Since when have we ever excluded you?"

Vul'to let out a relieved laugh that did nothing to lessen Rob's confusion. It was a bit weird hearing a new voice come out of his friend's mouth, but he'd get used to it, just like he'd get used to Vul'to's appearance and...height. Damnit, now I'm the *fourth* tallest member of our Party, Rob grumbled to himself.

"How are you feeling?" Meyneth asked, in a quiet voice. "You were unconscious not long ago."

"Your concern is appreciated, but I can assure you that I'm fine now." Vul'to shot her an awkward smile. "The system notified me that my 'integration' was complete. So far, its assessment seems to be accurate."

"This is absurd," one of the Grand Overseers blurted out. "With all due respect, he should be kept under quarantine and studied until we can be sure he isn't a threat to himself and everyone around him."

"Do not insult our friend in our presence," Zamira said, dangerously. "Hmm. Allow me to amend that statement. Do not insult our friend in any capacity, ever."

The Grand Overseer glared, refusing to back down. "You can't even be sure that he's your friend, name on the Status Screen be damned. An existence such as his is unprecedented, and we should take nothing for granted. If Vul'to proves to be himself, then I would have no qualms with letting him roam free – but not a second before then."

Keira jabbed a finger at Vul'to. "Answer quickly! Excluding the little ones, who was the first to pass out on our night of drunken festivities?"

As Malika and Orn'tol protested being called the little ones, Vul'to frowned, descending into deep thought. "I...honestly, I can't remember."

"Correct," Keira said, nodding sagely. "Because it was you. Curled up under the table like a sleeping babe."

Vul'to placed his head in his hands and sighed deeply. "Must you remind me?"

"Yup, it's him," Rob told the Grand Overseers. "I can vouch."

Suddenly, Vevrandi threw her hands up in the air. "Would someone kindly tell me what the fuck is going on?!"

Message Started Between Party Members: Rob, Vul'to

Rob: Your call. We'll tell her only what you want to.

Vul'to paused. After a few moments, he nodded, turning to face Vevrandi. "From what I've gleaned, you are a Dwarven ambassador, correct?" He smiled. "Fair tidings to you. My name is Vul'to. I am an Elf whose soul resides in the body of a Fiend."

Vevrandi's jaw dropped to the floor. Ten seconds passed, and she said nothing, staring forward in vacant disbelief. Rob walked over, stopping to give her a pat on the shoulder and an understanding look.

"Welcome to the rabbit hole. Enjoy your stay."

Chapter 12

Riardin's Rangers allotted themselves half a day to rest and prepare for travel. It wasn't much, considering they'd just returned from marching through Fiendland's wilderness, but they were – as fucking usual – on a timer. If the Blight in Dhalerune Mines had already absorbed a Locus of Power, then it was going to grow stronger with every passing day.

Rob thought back to the three Blights he'd encountered in the past. The Blight of Esternard City was in its infancy, purged before it could reach a Locus of Power. It amounted to little more than squirming tendrils of corruption – which, in fairness, managed to infect wide swathes of Esternard's agriculture. That kind of Blight represented the best-case scenario; if Dhalerune's Blight had yet to absorb a Locus of Power, Riardin's Rangers and the Dwarves would be able to eradicate it without mercy.

Unfortunately, Rob was a person capable of pattern recognition, so he discarded that notion immediately. Since when did the best-case scenario ever happen? And thinking logically, the Stonewarden wouldn't have sent valuable soldiers to Fiendland during a crisis if he wasn't desperate for Purge Corruption. He certainly didn't think the situation was well in-hand, so Rob shouldn't either.

Next up on the Blight totem pole was the one that heralded The Village's invasion. It had successfully absorbed a Locus of Power, transforming into a creature whose memory still sent a chill running up Rob's spine. Thankfully, that Blight only lasted for about five minutes before Riardin fatally wounded it with a massive explosion of Firebombs. During those five short minutes, it displayed terrifying speed, destructive power, and freakish durability. But despite all that, after giving it some thought, Rob concluded that Riardin's Rangers – as they were now – could have taken on that newborn Blight, even without Purge Corruption.

...Maybe. With casualties. At the very least, it wasn't the insurmountable enemy it had felt like forty Levels ago.

That title went to the Blight of Broadwater City. It had been more of a natural disaster than a living entity, single-handedly laying siege to the Deserters and Fiends as they cowered inside the city's barrier for safety. Rob couldn't imagine Riardin's Rangers beating that thing without another forty goddamn Levels added to their belts. Any creature that came close to stalemating the Dragon Queen was beyond them in every capacity.

Rob really, really hoped that the Blight of Dhalerune would be closer to The Village's Blight rather than Broadwater's. Time was of the essence. If Riardin's Rangers and the Dwarves cornered the new Blight before it had a chance to evolve, they could kill it. That was their win condition. Otherwise, Purge Corruption might not be enough. It'd only worked so easily on the Corrupted Leviathan because the cocky bastard literally let Rob swim up and slap it in the face.

<You have backup now,> Diplomacy interjected, snapping Rob out of his thoughts. <Dwarves and the Stonewarden.>

I know, I know. Rob let go of the breath he'd been holding. Brooding won't solve anything. We'll just have to do what we always do; hope for the best, but plan for the worst.

<No arguments there. I don't feel like getting bit in half again.> The Skill yawned. <Think I'll take a nap. Sorry, feeling exhausted.>

Get some rest and conserve your energy. The Clay of Life will be ready by the time we return from Dwarfland.

Diplomacy nodded, sinking into power saving mode as the light of their core dimmed. They'd needed to sleep more often as of late. It was yet another reason to hurry up and kick the Blight's shit in before things spiraled out of control. The Dwarves had better put their money where their mouth is, Rob grumbled. I'm not getting dragged across the continent just to watch them sit on their asses while we do all the work.

Feeling himself tense up, he forced his body to relax, grateful that Regeneration would prevent any long-term chronic muscle pains from developing. Without the Skill, he would have turned into a big ball of stress aches months ago. Once he'd sufficiently calmed down. Rob knocked on the door he was standing in front of, opening it when he received the all-clear to go inside.

"Hello there!" Vul'to greeted, smiling as he waved a clawed hand. "Good to see you, Rob. My preparations are just about complete. Is there anything you wish to discuss?"

"Couple things, yeah." Rob took a seat, grimacing at the egregiously uncomfortable implement of torture that this medical center called a chair. "First off, how are you holding up? Be honest. There's no shame in staying behind if you think that your new body needs time to recuperate."

Vul'to shook his head. "If there was an issue, I would tell you. Fortunately, the system has integrated my soul into Krazan's body...well, perhaps not flawlessly, but without major issue." He winced. "Are you attempting to offer me a suitable excuse to stay? Is my presence unwanted?"

"No," Rob stated, emphasizing the word. "You're part of Riardin's Rangers. Now, and always. There's no one I trust more to stand ready as our shield."

Although admittedly, it would solve a different problem if you stayed. With Elder Alessia joining Riardin's Rangers on the trip to Dwarfland, that brought their group up to nine members total. Which was one person larger than a Party's maximum size limit. Meaning that, in the event of an emergency, Waymark wouldn't be able to evacuate everyone to safety. One of them would be left behind.

Despite Rob pointing this out to Alessia, she'd adamantly refused to stay behind. For some unknown reason, she didn't trust a group of misfits to not cause an international incident when it came time to negotiate with the Stonewarden.

Rob couldn't see why she was so worried. Sure, the last two Elatran Leaders they'd met were the Dragon Queen and the Merfolk King, and both those encounters ended with the Leaders on death's door as Riardin's Rangers got the hell out of dodge, but...

Uh...

Anyway, Alessia was coming with them, no two ways about it. Just another little worry to add to the pile. Rob plastered a smile onto his face, doing his best to ensure that Vul'to was put at ease. The poor guy was going through enough shit already, and didn't need to misinterpret Rob's distress as being caused by him.

"It means a great deal to hear that," the Fiend said, returning Rob's forced smile with a much more genuine one. "You are a true friend, Rob. Thank you."

Rob scratched the back of his head in embarrassment. "Hey, I'm only doing what anyone else would." He paused. "Actually, no, there's lots of assholes out there. Let's just consider ourselves lucky that we both found people we could put our trust in."

They sat in pleasant silence, letting their sentiment hang in the air. Then the moment passed, and it was time to get down to brass tacks.

"Other reason I'm here," Rob continued, holding up a pouch. "This is for you. Urian the Artificer made another breakthrough."

Vul'to's eyes widened with clear interest. "The one that you Awakened a week ago?"

"Yup." Rob twirled the bag around on his finger. "It's already paying dividends. He's created three Enchanted Items so far. The first two kinda...suck, at least by our standards, but the third is something I think you'll be very interested in."

He reached into the bag and pulled out a nondescript ring. Vul'to's eyes shimmered as he cast Identify. Seconds later, the Fiend froze, shock permeating every inch of his countenance.

Name: Advanced Ring of Disguise

Description: An Enchanted ring that, when worn, casts an illusion that changes the wearer's appearance to whatever race they desire. This illusion can last up to twelve hours, and will fool sight and smell, but not touch. Once the Ring has been depleted of energy, it must recharge, either by being manually filled with mana or by absorbing ambient mana over a twelve-hour period.

"That..." Vul'to gulped, leaning back in disbelief. "That seems convenient."

"Doesn't it?" Rob's smile faded. "A little too convenient, honestly. Urian's Enchanted Items keep saving our bacon in specific ways. The journey into Merfolk territory wouldn't have been possible without the Perfected Ring of Waterdwelling, and Riardin's Rangers as a group don't even exist without the EXP Share."

He drummed his fingers on his thigh. "Makes a guy wonder if there isn't a precognitive element to Urian's abilities. Theoretically, that's great for us, but I don't trust anything that fucks with fate."

Vul'to considered Rob's theory, eventually shaking his head. "There could be some truth to that, and stranger things have happened to us, but in this instance I think you're acting rather paranoid."

"That's my secret, Vul'to. I'm always paranoid."

"You're well aware that I don't know what that's referencing."

Rob let out an exaggerated sigh. "I'm trapped in a world of philistines. Does no one appreciate the fine arts here?" He presented the Advanced Ring of Disguise. "Speaking seriously, this is yours if you want it. Might be useful not to appear as a Fiend while we're in Dwarven territory."

Vul'to stared at the Enchanted Item, a decision warring underneath his gaze. With visible effort, and no small amount of anguish, he gently pushed Rob's hand away. "I have a feeling that I shall come to regret this," he muttered, "but...no. That Ring is a trap ready to spring shut on my sanity. If I put it on, I'll never want to take it off. The fact of the matter is that I will likely be a Fiend for the rest of my days – barring a miracle from the Clay of Life – and the sooner I become accustomed to my current form, the better."

As he spoke, his confidence grew. "Furthermore, assuming the guise of an Elf would leave Faelynn as the single Fiend in our Party. She expressly wished to avoid that scenario. I can't abandon her after promising to share her burden."

Rob nodded and put the Ring into Spatial Storage, respecting Vul'to decision. It wasn't a choice the now-Fiend would have made without putting deep thought into it.

"One last thing," Rob began, looking Vul'to straight in the eyes. "I won't claim to know exactly what you're going through. Literally no one in the world can. But between Leveling High, being revived by a Class Crystal, the sentient Skill in my head, the Corruption that infected me for weeks, and the random brain damage incidents...I've at least got some inkling of what it's like to not feel comfortable in your mind or body. So if you ever need someone to talk to – hell, someone to sit there and listen to you rant about the unfairness of the world – just remember that my door is always open."

A warm smile spread across Vul'to's face. "Don't be surprised if I take you up on that offer. Thank you. Truly."

Rob left the room soon after. He walked away at a purposefully casual pace, waiting until Vul'to was out of earshot before groaning loudly and thunking his head against the wall.

This is...a lot. Rob ran his hands down his face. God, did he need a distraction. Something to relieve his stress, even just temporarily.

Glorious inspiration struck him a moment later.

Message Started Between Party Members: Rob, Keira

Rob: hey there

Rob: im done with prep, what about u?

Keira: I've been finished for hours. Greatsword, supplies, done.

Rob: awesome

Rob: we've both got some time to kill then
Keira: Ah. So we do.

Keira: Broom closet? I need a fucking break.

Keira: Pun intended.

Rob: lmao

Rob: meet u there in five

Grinning ear-to-ear, Rob picked up the pace as he sprinted towards nirvana, uncaring of any startled Fiends he blew past. Soon enough, Riardin's Rangers would be traveling with fifty-odd Dwarves, heading into foreign territory, and that meant zero privacy for who knows how long. It only made sense for Keira and him to use the time they had remaining...efficiently.

If nothing else, it was an added motivation to defeat the Blight and return to Fiend territory posthaste. Dwarfland probably didn't have as many broom closets.

--

Several hours later, Riardin's Rangers were on the road again, traveling east through Fiendland's wilderness. The Fiends could have teleported them to Dwarfland, but it would've taken their mages over a week to attune to Vevrandi's mana signature and set up a proper teleportation circle. Hoofing it was faster overall and wouldn't reveal one of the Fiend's trump cards to the Dwarves.

Unfortunately, 'faster' didn't mean 'fast'. The Fiend-Dwarven border was almost a full day of marching away, and according to Vevrandi, reaching Dhalerune City after that would take another three to four. While it was a short trip in the grand scheme of things, the knowledge that the Blight was growing stronger as time passed gave Riardin's Rangers a sense of urgency, pushing them to run as often as their Stamina permitted.

Vevrandi, sadly, didn't have the Dexterity to keep up. Meyneth ended up carrying her most of the way, which was totally fucking hilarious. In respect for the Dwarf's ego, Malika kept her giggling to a minimum. The young Archmage and Elder Alessia needed to be carried as well, but unlike the prideful Commander, they didn't give a shit.

Hours flew by in a hurry. Once they'd drawn close to the border, Meyneth deposited Vevrandi onto the ground and let her assume a position at the head of their group. They emerged from the Fiend wilderness soon after, Vevrandi leading them as she strode valiantly forth, acting like she hadn't just been princess carried for fourteen hours. The Dwarven contingent cheered when they caught sight of her, fifty soldiers whooping and hollering in unison.

"I bring good tidings!" she bellowed across the clearing. At first Rob thought she was using magic to louden her voice, but no, the woman just had some serious lungs on her. "The Human, Elves, and even the Fiends have agreed to assist us in our battle against the Blight! Today marks a new era in Elatran history – one where all races join hands to deliver ourselves from annihilation!"

Credit given where credit was due; Vevrandi knew how to work up her unit into a frenzy. Their cheers renewed once more, none of them seeming to fully comprehend that she'd slipped the Fiends' attendance into her speech. And by the time they did realize, it would be too late for any of them to protest.

"I truly hope that you can help us," Vevrandi side-whispered to Rob, keeping her eyes on her soldiers and not betraying anything with her expression. "If this is some elaborate ruse, I...I honestly don't know what I'll do."

"Oh yeah, we're definitely tricking you," Rob stated, deadpan. "Just waltzing into Dwarven territory and pissing off our neighbors as a prank. That sounds like a real good idea."

"...Apologies. Please understand; so much depends on Purge Corruption reversing the Blight's infection, and your Skill seems like a solution that is nearly too good to be true."

She was showing a lot of vulnerability for someone in charge of leading a detachment of hardened soldiers, but then again, Rob had already seen her in a constant state of befuddled desperation during their negotiations in Fiendland. That cat was out of the bag. "Don't worry." Rob waved at the Dwarves, putting on his best Grand Overseer-Approved Media PR Smile. "You'll get a demonstration soon enough."

Once everyone had settled down, the trip eastward resumed in earnest. Some of the warier Dwarves grumbled when they realized that the Fiends really were tagging along, but Vevrandi overruled their complaints in short order. Faelynn and Vul'to felt a bit more at ease after that was taken care of. From their perspective, anything that lowered the odds of getting shanked in their sleep was a victory.

Unfortunately, Riardin's Rangers couldn't carry fifty people, so they were stuck traveling at the speed of an army march. The pace was decidedly torturous, like getting your nails pulled out by the world's laziest turtle. Rob had forgotten how freaking slow people could be when they weren't Level 52. He could only imagine how Zamira and Orn'tol felt; their Dexterity was two steps above the rest of the Party. If they wanted to, they could run to Dwarfland and back before Vevrandi's contingent made it halfway there.

Good thing, too, as their speed might be necessary. Riardin's Rangers couldn't fight fifty Level 30+ Combat Class users at once. If the Dwarves betrayed them en masse, and their escape routes were cut off, either Zamira or Orn'tol would need to be left behind as the rest Waymarked to safety. Those two had the highest chances of successfully retreating on their own. Orn'tol was the optimal choice, due to Flight of the Coward further boosting his Dexterity when fleeing, but no one wanted to leave the boy to fend for himself.

Rob wasn't sure who he'd include in the Waymark Party if he had to make that call. It was one of those decisions that he knew he would regret either way.

Day passed, and night fell. Riardin's Rangers slept in shifts, because they knew better. Surprisingly, nobody attempted any nighttime assassination attempts on the Fiends. Alessia almost seemed disappointed; she'd been practicing a situation-defusing speech for when the Party needed to kill Dwarves in self-defense, and they were ruining her efforts by having good sense.

One silver lining of the lengthy trip and forced proximity was that Vul'to became increasingly confident in himself as time went on. At the start, he actually seemed more worried about how the Party would feel towards him than about being stuck in a Fiend's body. When it became apparent that they all accepted him as he was now, he relaxed considerably, as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

The only one acting awkwardly around him was Meyneth. According to Diplomacy, she was constantly running through a sequence of emotions summed up as 'guilt over what happened, revulsion over looking at Krazan's face, then guilt over feeling revulsion.' Rob wasn't sure what he could do for her in the short term – she'd be horrified if he brought up the subject directly. Diplomacy was confident that Meyneth would move past it eventually, though, so while it felt lame, Rob relegated himself to a wait-and-see approach.

Two more days passed. Rob wanted to yell at the Dwarves to hurry the fuck up, to scream that the Blight was probably munching on their homeland right now. Instead, he distracted himself by examining Dwarven territory as they traveled. Compared to Fiendland's funhouse of weirdness, it was downright ordinary – somewhere in-between the wastelands of Human territory and the lush fields of Elven territory. Its main defining feature seemed to be intermittent rocky outcroppings that dotted the landscape, like mini-mountains serving as an appetizer for the gargantuan crags that loomed in the distance.

Its grass was also white, but that was par for the course. Rob vowed to perform a swan dive into the first patch of green grass he found in Elatra – assuming he ever did.

Eventually, finally, their procession reached the entrance to Dhalerune City. Rob gazed in astonishment at the mountain towering before him, so tall that it pierced the clouds. At the foot of the mountain lay a hollowed-out cavern, wide enough to fit an army of thousands. There were signs that the entrance had been blocked off until recently; bits of rubble cluttering its path, stress fractures on the ceiling above. Eight Dwarves were standing guard, positioned next to...a shitload of Firebomb crates...oh boy.

<They intend to collapse the cavern if invaders appear over the horizon,> Diplomacy remarked, all too casually.

I liked it more when I was the one blowing things up. Rob turned to Vevrandi. "This is as far as we go until there's proof that the Blight is near Dhalerune City. Bring out someone with a Corruption infection. The worse, the better – no reason to keep them in agony while I'm here."

Vevrandi nodded, hope glinting in her eyes. She spoke with the guards, then disappeared into Dhalerune's underground cavern with her army unit, leaving Riardin's Rangers outside with eight curious Dwarves. Rob smiled and waved, drawing their attention away from Vul'to and Faelynn. The Dwarves began speaking amongst each other in hushed whispers, pointing at him like he was an endangered species, which was fair.

Keira smirked as she wrapped an arm around his waist. "I think you'll be signing more autographs before the day is out."

"If that's what it takes to get the Dwarves on our side, then sure," he sighed. "I'll develop the most heroic case of carpal tunnel in history."

It turned out that, with their improved Vitality and Endurance, Elatrans didn't get carpal tunnel often enough to have a term for it. Rob was still explaining the various kinds of ailments that could befall an Earth human without stats to prop up their health when Vevrandi returned. She was alone except for a shivering bundle held in her arms. As Vevrandi approached, she unfurled the bundle to reveal a child, his limbs thin and face gaunt.

Rob stopped in the middle of a sentence and immediately rushed forward. All at once, he was back in the Fiendland medical quarters, moans of agony surrounding him. Vevrandi was saying something to him, but he ignored her, gently placing his fingers on the child's forehead. Search. Isolate. Excise. Purge.

A flash of blue light illuminated them as energy flowed out from Rob's core and into the child's body. He hacked away at the Corruption with ruthless efficiency, ensuring that it was destroyed without causing a shock to its host's system. Within seconds, the process was over, Rob pulling his hand away as a muted sense of satisfaction flooded through him. "Done."

The Dwarves gaped at the child, no longer shivering, and then at Rob, as if he was an angel descended from the heavens. "I think that's proof enough for both of us," Vevrandi mumbled.

Riardin's Rangers were ushered inside without delay. Rob was relieved to find that, once they got past its opening, the cavern seemed like much less of a deathtrap. It had clearly been constructed by careful hands, with support beams and metal framing to prevent collapses even in the event of an earthquake.  As they descended deeper into the mountain, Rob noticed glowing, mana-filled items attached to the walls, which Identify labeled as filtration devices that kept breathable air clean. It was an impressive bit of technology, and it left him wondering what else the Dwarves had in store.

That idle notion was blown into pieces when he reached the end of the cavern.

Dhalerune City lay beyond. At a glance, it looked impressive. Within the mountain's hollowed-out interior was a metropolis of stone, austere buildings forming the makings of an underground city. Any other time, Rob might have been awestruck.

Right now, he didn't care. His eyes were fixated on the Dwarven guards at the end of the cavern – and what they were holding.

He didn't believe it.

Rob closed his eyes, rubbed them, and opened them again.

Same thing.

He still didn't believe it.

Maybe if he kept not believing, he could make the Dwarves' 1940s-era Earth rifles go away.

Chapter 13

In the distance, thousands of Dwarves walked among crowded streets, going about their business as if it was any other day. Vevrandi gestured wildly as she introduced Dhalerune City to the Party, eyes sparkling with pride. By the animated way she was moving, the Dwarf seemed legitimately excited to show everyone her homeland, regaling them with the history behind such and such monuments.

Rob didn't hear a word of it. His attention was laser-focused on the goddamn RIFLES held by the Dwarven soldiers. Out of the eight Dwarves guarding the entrance to Dhalerune City, four were equipped not with axes, not with hammers, but with literal fucking guns.

Not A Scratch, Rob thought, activating the Skill. Not A Scratch. Not A Scratch. Jesus tapdancing Christ, Not A Scratch.

"Pardon my interruption," Zamira said, raising her hand to forestall Vevrandi's impassioned ramblings. "What might those be?" She pointed at the rifles, what the fuuuuck. "Identify's description merely refers to them as a particularly deadly projectile weapon."

"I see you've taken note of the Thunder Rods." Vevrandi smirked. "Its specifics are classified, I'm afraid, but I'm sure the Stonewarden will be more than happy to share his knowledge now that we are to become allies." She paused, considering how much to say. "For the sake of sating your curiosity, simply know that they are new military developments that you would be well-advised to exercise caution around."

'NEW' DEVELOPMENTS, MY ASS. Even if Rob assumed that the Dwarves had secretly advanced their technology by centuries while the rest of Elatra lagged behind, it didn't explain their rifles' appearance, which were identical to World War II-era guns that Rob knew from Earth. He couldn't recall the model name off the top of his head, but he'd definitely seen that exact type of gun in documentaries and video games.

Which made absolutely zero sense. Due to cultural differences and the existence of the System, any Dwarven interpretation of conventional gunpowder-based firearms should have resulted in unique design aesthetics. At the very least, they should've appeared a little different from their Earth counterparts. But no, it was just a freaking rifle, lifted straight from the early 1900s. Looking at it filled Rob with an overwhelming sense of bitter nostalgia, as if he'd been reminded of unpleasant memories long since repressed.

Elatra's lack of weapons that could pop his head from fifty meters was supposed to be one of the few things it had going for it.

Rob's panic soared like a rocket to the sky as Vevrandi and his Party chatted, unaware of the dangers they were in. While the rifle-toting Dwarves were at ease, thankfully displaying proper trigger discipline and with the ends of their weapons pointed away, that could change in a heartbeat. Even now, they were eyeing Vul'to and Faelynn with open contempt. Rob almost moved to position himself in front of the Dwarves' line of fire, but that would put them on edge and raise questions he couldn't answer.

Naturally, Diplomacy took that moment to rouse from their slumber. <Good afternoon,> the Skill remarked, yawning. <I see that we've reached Dhalerune City. Did I miss anything importa– is that a fucking gun?!>

"This is all very riveting," Elder Alessia interrupted, in a tone that wasn't even attempting to be genuine, "but the Stonewarden awaits. We'd be delighted to hear more of your people's history after the Blight has been dealt with."

"That is true," Vevrandi answered, with mild disappointment. "I suppose the grand tour can wait."

"A tour sounds pretty nice, actually."

The words were out of Rob's mouth before he'd finished thinking them. As everyone turned their gazes towards him, Rob mind kicked into high gear, cobbling a plan together on the spot. "Obviously, we can't parade ourselves through the city, but maybe you can still take a scenic route?" he continued. "Whatever scenic route is available to the back streets, anyway. If we can impress the Stonewarden with our knowledge of Dwarven culture, it'll help...uh...foster positive relations between our respective sides."

He'd pulled every bit of that out of his ass. To Rob's shock, Vevrandi nodded, her disappointment instantly reverting to excitement. "We are pressed for time," she began, "but having a friendly first meeting with the Stonewarden will pay off later when we join forces to slay the Blight. Those who trust each other outside the battlefield will trust each other on it."

From behind Vevrandi, Elder Alessia was staring at Rob, her eyebrows perched at the top of her forehead. After a few seconds, her expression reset to Politically Amicable as she went to accompany Vevrandi at the front of their group. "I won't turn down a chance for more information. Lead the way."

Translation: "Whatever you're doing, Rob, I trust you."

With an air of triumph, Vevrandi shepherded them away from the hustle and bustle of Dhalerune City's main thoroughfare, leaving the gun-toting guards behind. Vul'to and Faelynn donned large hooded cloaks to obscure their horns and skin. While their height would still draw the attention of any curious Dwarves that happened to be passing by, it was better than no disguise at all. That wasn't a risk Rob would've taken under normal circumstances, but this the only way he'd been able to come up with to stall for time.

As Vevrandi walked and talked, Alessia receiving the brunt of her enthusiasm, Rob kept an eye out for any riflemen that might be lying in ambush. Streets passed by them, nary a Dwarf in sight. When he was 100% certain that Riardin's Rangers weren't in immediate danger – more like 80%, if he was being honest – Rob finally allowed himself a moment to breathe.

Message Started Between All Party Members

Rob: listen

Rob: just...just listen.

Rob: I need to tell you some things. You will be surprised.

Rob: Don't let it show. At all.

Rob: You're going to have to act like nothing is wrong.

Rob: Follow Vevrandi. Stay silent.

Rob: Pretend as if her tour is the most interesting thing in the world.

Rob: And don't interrupt me until I'm done.

"Dhalerune is the oldest and largest city in Dwarven territory," Vevrandi said, lost in her own little world as Alessia nodded along. "It has great symbolic meaning among our people. If it were to fall, I shudder to think of the ramifications that would have for the rest of Dwarven territory."

Message Continued

Rob: Those new weapons that the Dwarf guards had?

Rob: The 'Thunder Sticks' or whatever?

Rob: I recognize them. They're called rifles.

Rob: And they're from Earth.

He paused. Every member of his Party kept up their poker face, even Malika.

Message Continued

Rob: Good. Keep acting natural. This is only going to get worse.

Rob: Vevrandi was significantly underselling how deadly those weapons are.

Rob: Imagine an Archer. A high-Level Archer. Using Power Shot.

Rob: Take the speed of their shot and multiply it. The arrow is moving so fast you can't see it.

Rob: Now compress the strength of their shot into a small bead of metal.

Rob: That's what happens when a rifle is fired.

Rob: And those particular rifles can be fired almost once a second.

Keira's neck muscles bulged with suppressed exertion.

Message Continued

Keira: Why didn't Danger Sense alert me?

Rob: Because they weren't planning to shoot us.

Rob: A rifle goes from safe to dangerous very quickly.

Rob: And please, hold on. I'm still not done.

"Would you look at that," Vevrandi said, directing their attention towards a hanging light fixture that was clearly electrical. "Can you believe it? Light without magic. Yet another marvel of technological development. I'd heard rumors that the book-lovers were working on it, but to see it with my own two eyes..."

She raised her fist in approval. "Manaless light and the Thunder Rods are just the first of many changes to come. Mark my words – once the Blight has been expunged, a new era shall dawn for all of Dwarven territory."

Message Continued

Rob: ...Can't focus on that right now. Guns first.

Rob: Look.

Rob: I've seen what rifles can do to people back on Earth.

Rob: It isn't pretty.

Rob: But you guys, with your added HP and my shared Vitality Skill buffs...

Rob: And maybe throw in a Bullet Resistance Skill if we live long enough to learn it...

Rob: Hard to say. I think you'd be fine taking a few bullets in non-vital areas.

Rob: Although getting shot in the head is probably still lethal for anyone except me.

Rob: So, uh, don't.

Vul'to: Apologies for interrupting, but did anyone else notice that the Dwarves who were wielding Rifles were all Utility Class users?

Vul'to: I used Identify, and none of them seemed to possess a Combat Class.

Rob barely suppressed a grunt of surprise before it could escape his mouth. He glanced at Vevrandi, but she hadn't noticed his slip in demeanor, too busy explaining the fine arts of Dwarven masonry to Alessia. In the back of his mind, Rob vowed to make it up to the Elder – she was really taking one for the team.

Message Continued

Rob: Okay that's...good? I think? One sec.

Rob: Hmm.

Rob: Yeah. No reason for them not to have Combat Classes.

Rob: Unless they can't.

Rob: I'm guessing there's a conflict between the system and the guns.

Rob: Wouldn't be the first time it's had arbitrary restrictions.

Rob: So no Gunslinger Class with homing bullets and infinite ammo or some shit.

Rob: Small mercies.

Rob: With that said, don't let yourself get overconfident.

Rob: There's a reason why the Dwarves were fine with having Utility Class users guard the city entrance.

Rob: Guns are...an equalizer, in a lot of ways.

Rob: It isn't possible to dodge a rifle shot. Bullets move faster than anyone, even people with high Dexterity.

Rob: Either get behind cover or get out of the way before they shoot. Don't count on blocking. Your eyes and reflexes aren't quick enough to deflect bullets.

Rob: Consistently, anyway, which is what matters.

Rob: It only takes one shot to pierce your heart.

Belatedly, he noticed that his fingernails were digging into his palm. Rob forced his arms to relax and stapled an interested expression onto his face as Vevrandi peered his way. The Dwarf, mollified that he was 'paying attention', went back to conversing with Alessia.

Message Continued

Rob: You get what I'm saying, right?

Rob: The problem with fighting guns is that what happens largely depends on their users, and not us.

Rob: If they can aim well, we lose. If they can't, we win.

Rob: It depends on the scenario, but...yeah.

Rob: This isn't an enemy you can defeat on equal terms without getting lucky.

Rob: So...please. Listen to me when I say this.

Rob: If Dwarves start pointing guns at us, do one of two things.

Rob: Surrender immediately.

Rob: Or kill them all before they can pull the trigger.

Rob: There's no in-between.

"We're almost at the Stonewarden's quarters," Vevrandi said, turning to face everyone. "While my tour may have been truncated, I hope it was informative, nonetheless. Do you have any questions you've yet to ask?"

Hahahahahahahaha. "I'm good," Rob answered, in a cheery tone. "Bring on the Stonewarden."

As soon as Vevrandi turned away, Elder Alessia sagged with relief and shot Rob an unamused glare. He mouthed 'sorry' to her, unable to do much else. The rest of his Party had somehow kept up their poker faces the entire time, although some were understandably strained.

Several side streets later, they arrived at a large building in the center of Dhalerune City. Rob couldn't get a good look at it from the angle they were approaching, but based on the forty-foot statues of heroic Dwarves parked at the entrance, it was either the Stonewarden's main headquarters or his bachelor pad. Vevrandi shuttled them into a backdoor entrance, away from any prying eyes, then led them to a cozy little waiting room.

Where they...waited.

Message Continued

Keira: So, you're done, right?

Rob: Huh?

Rob: Oh. Yeah. Go ahead.

Keira: Okay.

Keira: Rob, what the fuck?

Rob: Hey, don't act like this is my fault.

Keira: It's not. But still. What the fuck?

Rob: Fair.

Faelynn: I think I may be regretting my position as official Fiend liaison.

Faelynn: It sounded so important at the time.

Malika: Don't worry, everyone!! You heard what Rob said, I'll just set anyone holding a gun on fire as soon as we see them.

Orn'tol: That is a flagrant misinterpretation of-

"Stonewarden Grant will see you now," a messenger Dwarf said, poking her head into the room.

Riardin's Rangers exchanged glances, drawing strength from each other's support. This was it. The moment of truth. Their first parlay with an Elatran Leader who – presumably – wasn't out to kill them. If they nailed this meeting, both the Deserters and Fiendland would gain a legitimate ally, one whose influence could assist them with uniting Elatra's disparate factions into a cohesive whole.

So no pressure.

They followed Vevrandi to the Stonewarden's audience hall, Elder Alessia taking point at the front of their group as Diplomacy fed Rob some last-minute advice. Aside from general negotiation tips, the Skill advised him to expect the unexpected, a sentiment that Rob wholeheartedly agreed with. The last few weeks had thrown enough curveballs at them to strike out a major league player, and there was no sign that things were getting saner anytime soon. Before taking that final step into the meeting room, Rob mentally prepared himself for anything and everything.

His diligence was rewarded. Because the first person that Rob laid eyes upon when entering wasn't the Stonewarden. They weren't even a Dwarf. A middle-aged Elf was sitting at the conference table, his arms crossed as he scowled at nothing in particular. He seemed tall, by Elf standards, with a severe face marred by chronic lines of worry. A lance was strapped to his back, pristine except for one or two errant scratches to serve as proof that it had ever been used.

Rob blinked, then shook his head, recovering from his surprise faster than anyone else in the Party. "Hi there," he greeted, offering an exuberant thumbs-up. "No idea who you are, but my name is Rob, and it's nice to meet you."

The Elf glanced over.

Rob's blood turned to ice in his veins. He flinched back like he'd been punched, nearly buckling under the weight of the Elf's sheer, unbridled loathing. "You," the Elf spat, putting more venom into the word than a snake puts into its bite.

All too late, Rob realized that he probably should have cast Identify from the beginning.

Name: Seneschal Kiirion Sylpeiros, Leader of the Elves

Level: 76

Race: Elf

Status Effects: Anxious, Distressed, Apoplectic

Description: Good luck.

Chapter 14

The Elven Seneschal glared at Rob with murder in his eyes. Riardin's Rangers froze as, one-by-one, they cast Identify and realized the situation they'd stumbled into. For a moment, everyone in the room was silent.

Suddenly, Diplomacy stirred, Rob's body going rigid as the Skill surged forward. He tried to let out a gasp, but with belated horror, he realized that he no longer possessed any control over his body. It felt as if Diplomacy had grabbed hold of his brain stem, controlling him like a puppet of meat and bone. Rob's mind instinctively thrashed in a panic, nearly breaking free–

<Trust,> Diplomacy whispered, in a faint, weak voice.

Ah.

With herculean effort, Rob forced himself to stand down. The sensation of another entity hijacking his body was repulsive, but Diplomacy knew how that felt better than anyone. They wouldn't have gone this far without good reason. Trust, Rob affirmed.

The Skill sent back a pulse of gratitude and went to work. Rob had expected Diplomacy to open up with an introductory speech meant to placate the Seneschal – or at least something with more oomph than "nice to meet you" – but the Skill kept silent. Instead, Rob was subjected to the thoroughly off-putting experience of Diplomacy adjusting his individual facial muscles. A tug here, a tightening there. It was like watching a sculptor at their craft, the Skill molding Rob's expression with laborious care to convey the precise emotions they wanted him to.

Seneschal Sylpeiros paused, his hand halfway to his spear. The Elf's fingers trembled, and he grit his teeth, forehead veins bulging. Slowly, as if in pain, he lowered his arm. Diplomacy continued tweaking Rob's facial expression until the moment that the hatred in the Seneschal's eyes dulled from fervent bloodlust to simmering contempt.

Diplomacy Level Increased! 17 → 18

Diplomacy Level Increased! 18 → 19

Wow, Rob thought, in awe. I'd kill for a mirror right now. What in the world was that?

<A combination of emotions, both overt and subtle, intended to->

No, I mean, the Invasion of the Body Snatchers thing.

<Oh.> Abruptly, Diplomacy released their hold on Rob, collapsing into a mental heap. <Needed to adjust face directly. Advice not sufficient.> The Skill's thoughts were short and clipped, as if they were recovering from having run a marathon. <Sorry. Was a betrayal.>

Rob shook his head internally. You asked me to trust, and I trusted. I could've broken free if I really wanted to.

"It's good to see the two of you getting along so well."

A strangled gasp escaped Rob's throat before he could suppress it. Riardin's Rangers whirled around to find a particularly burly Dwarf standing in the corner, casually leaning on a wall as if he owned the place. Which, considering that Identify marked him as Stonewarden Grant, he probably did. Embarrassment flooded Rob over the fact that he'd outright missed the imposing Level 78 Dwarf's presence, but then again, his attention had been mildly occupied.

"Grant, you thrice-damned bastard," the Elven Seneschal growled. "I should have known you were scheming something foul when you asked me to greet a surprise 'guest' and went to hide out of sight. What the fuck is the Human doing here?"

"I must also question your methods," Elder Alessia stated, her tone dangerously low. "Why, in your infinite wisdom, did you neglect to inform us of the Seneschal's arrival?" Her head whipped towards Vevrandi. "Were you aware of this as well?"

The Dwarven Commander shook her head, putting on a mask of stoicism. "No. I have been nothing but truthful with you in our dealings. With that in mind, I'm sure that the Stonewarden invited the Seneschal here to fulfill an important purpose. Far be it from me to question his will."

Rob couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at Vevrandi. Her demeanor was several notches more serious than it had been the week prior. It reminded him of whenever one of Jason's sports friends cleaned up their room and dressed nicely right before their parents visited. Evidently, she wanted to look dependable in front of her beloved Stonewarden.

"I invited myself," the Elven Seneschal snapped, "as you weren't responding to my Messages."

He jabbed an accusing finger at the Stonewarden, who merely laughed in return. "Dwarven territory has its own share of problems to tend to," the Dwarf said, in a jovial voice with the timbre of gravel. "I must congratulate you, Sylpeiros, on passing your test. Had you given in to your urges and attacked the Human, I would have intervened and expelled you from Dwarven territory in a heartbeat. And before you cry foul; I wouldn't have hesitated to expel the Human if he attempted first blood instead."

The Seneschal appeared as if he wanted to strangle someone, and Alessia's expression wasn't far off. "Stonewarden," the Elder hissed, her eyes narrowed, "we do not appreciate being tested without our knowing. This type of behavior resembles an insecure lover, not a Leader with whom we hope to ally."

Vevrandi let out an affronted squawk. Stonewarden Grant only smiled, shaking his head. "The test was for your benefit. As we will be working with the Seneschal henceforth, it was necessary to see how deeply the depths of his hatred ran for the Human. If I'd warned him of your coming, he might have hid his enmity, biding his time in order to stab the Human in the back when an opportune moment presented itself."

<Lie of omission,> Diplomacy wheezed. <Also tested your temperament and Leveling High's grip on you.>

Rob used Message to relay that tidbit to the rest of his Party. As inspiration struck, he quickly removed a random member of Riardin's Rangers, added Alessia, sent her a Message too, then kicked her out and re-invited the other Party member. It was a tad convoluted, but it ensured that all nine of them were kept informed of the situation.

"You insult me with every word and action," the Elven Seneschal flatly stated. "Fine. Let us move on to discussing matters of importance before I regret ever coming here." He glanced at Rob, resignation spreading across his countenance. "The Merfolks' claims were true, then."

"The Merfolk told you too?"

"They told me first." The Seneschal's mouth split into a humorless grin. "And it was I who encouraged them to forgive your indiscretions in their territory."

Out of the nine people in Rob's group, nine of them failed to suppress their shock, gaping at the Seneschal with wide eyes, Diplomacy included. The Seneschal's grin deepened. "Don't look so surprised. I am not some slavering beast incapable of reason, like..."

He trailed off, any hints of mirth evaporating in an instant. At first Rob assumed that he'd been about to say 'the Human', but the Elf's eyes were distant, focused on something else entirely.

"One crisis at a time," Stonewarden Grant said, as if consoling a funeral mourner. He took a seat opposite from the Seneschal and fixed him with an insistent stare. "I swear – on my honor – that if you help my people, I shall help yours."

The Seneschal only nodded mutely, his hands clenched into tight fists.

<...Yeah, I'm lost. Need more info.>

On it. Rob and Elder Alessia took a seat at the meeting table, the rest of Riardin's Rangers standing behind them as their entourage. Once everyone was ready, the Stonewarden swept his gaze across Riardin's Rangers and the Seneschal, nodding at each of them in turn.

"To begin," he said, "I would like to offer you all my thanks for coming to Dwarven territory's aid in our time of need. The Blight isn't just the enemy of any one nation – it is the enemy of Elatra itself. Only by combining our strength and joining hands as allies will we be able to survive the trials that are to come. Your bravery and willingness to fight for lands not your own is commendable."

He looked at Rob. "And to you, Human, I wish to offer you my deepest apologies. What happened to your kind during the Scouring was an unconscionable act of abhorrent barbarism. That you managed to survive both it and the Cataclysm brings my heart no small amount of joy. Once the Blight has been expunged, I will do everything in my power to set things right – this, I swear."

The Stonewarden spoke with the gravitas of a true Leader, his tone impassioned and his words sincere. He possessed the kind of regal bearing that could inspire people to throw their lives away in the name of whatever cause he deemed fit. Rob even caught himself starting to trust the Dwarf before he pulled back his emotions and threw up some mental walls. The Stonewarden wasn't using Mind Magic – otherwise, Mind Resistance would have activated – but he had something far more dangerous: natural, effortless charisma.

As the Stonewarden continued to speak, exchanging niceties with Elder Alessia, Rob examined the Dwarf's mannerisms. Truth be told, he'd expected someone much less likable. So far, Riardin's Rangers had come into contact with three other Elatran Leaders, and all of them were varying shades of unpleasant. The Dragon Queen was certifiably insane, the Merfolk King seemed like an arrogant prick, and the Elven Seneschal seemed so frustrated with the world in general that it was a miracle he hadn't dropped dead from high blood pressure. They'd risen to their station by virtue of martial might, not speaking skills. The Stonewarden seemed to be one of those rare Elatrans who possessed both.

Although his charms didn't seem to have much effect on the Seneschal, who was once again glaring as if he wanted to dropkick the Stonewarden into orbit. Rob couldn't blame the Elf for feeling that way. It must've been absolutely infuriating to sit there and listen to the man who'd repeatedly denied your requests for aid, who was now going on about the virtues of teamwork as soon as his homeland started being threatened. In light of that, the fact that the Seneschal was reining his emotions and staying silent was honestly a little impressive.

"What happened to Reviton City in Elven territory?" Zamira abruptly asked, interrupting their conversation. "Forgive my impertinence – I recognize that I am speaking out of turn. Yet, I must know." She looked at the Seneschal. "If you are here, then Reviton City must have survived, correct?"

The Seneschal narrowed his eyes. "What do you care?" he grunted. "Your kind no longer holds a stake in Elven affairs. 'Deserters', you call yourself, isn't that right?"

"While you may be correct, I still care about the people we left behind when fleeing north. It would mean a great deal if you could assuage my fears regarding their fate."

The Seneschal hesitated. Apparently, he'd expected an argument, not a plea. "...Reviton City stands," he eventually answered. "We held off the Blight's siege until it ran out of monsters and animals to infect."

All the Elves in Riardin's Rangers – aside from Keira – breathed a sigh of relief. While they weren't planning to relocate south anytime soon, it must have been a huge relief to know that they hadn't doomed their homelands by abandoning it.

<Something's wrong,> Diplomacy muttered. <Seneschal. Not lying. But. Something else. Related topic. Pain, and worry, hidden. Keep him talking.>

Of course, the Stonewarden took that moment to retake control of the conversation. "Your people fought well, Sylpeiros," he said. "Unfortunately, Dhalerune cannot defend itself in the same manner. Laying in wait and fortifying our city walls will only result in the Blight absorbing the Locus of Power located within the mines. Decisive action must be taken."

He grimaced. "Normally, this would be where I apprise you of any new intelligence that our scouts have gathered, but as of now, they've yet to return. We must proceed with the assumption that the Blight is cunning enough to catch them unawares and powerful enough to prevent their escape."

The Stonewarden turned around to offer Vevrandi a sympathetic look. "I am sorry. You have my express permission to take a reprieve, should you need it."

Vevrandi's posture went stiff as a board. She closed her eyes and muttered something to herself in Dwarvish. After a few moments, she opened her eyes, determination burning within. "No need at all," Vevrandi answered, with shaky confidence. "My sister would've smacked me upside the head if she learned that I used her death as an excuse to neglect my duties. The best I can do to honor her spirit is by staying right here. Allow me to assist you in avenging her death."

"Very well," the Stonewarden said, gracing her with a subtle nod. "You have my respect, Vevrandi." He turned back around to look at Rob. "Human. Before we can draw up proper battle plans, we must know the complete extent of your Corruption Purging Skills. According to the Merfolk, you heavily injured a Corrupted Leviathan by striking it at close range – is this true?"

"Yup," Rob confirmed, grinning wide as he indulged in fond memories. "It ran away like a little bitch."

The Stonewarden's lips twitched upwards. "If the creature stayed, could you have killed it?"

Rob raised a hand and wiggled it in an 'eeeeeeh' motion. "Maybe? Tough call. That thing was freaking huge. I dumped a full third of my Purge Corruption energy into it, and while that definitely injured it, it was still uninjured enough to run away without trouble. Not sure if all my energy would've done the trick. Although, I wouldn't use the Corrupted Leviathan as a metric – considering that I don't sense Corruption in the air here, the Blight within Dhalerune Mines can't have absorbed its Locus longer than a week or so ago."

He paused. "And if it is somehow as strong as the Leviathan, then we're all screwed anyway."

The two Leaders glanced at each other, confusion evident on their faces. "You'll have to clarify a few details," the Stonewarden said. "What do you mean by 'energy', and sensing Corruption in the air?"

Rob clapped his hands together. "Alright, here's a crash course on Corruption 101. First, to put things into perspective, imagine that Purge Corruption is a spell that runs on its own unique energy source. Like a separate form of MP. I can run out of Purge Corruption juice and still use my other Skills. Its energy recharges gradually over a period of twenty-fours hours – which is something to keep in mind for when we go spelunking."

He pointed a finger straight up and twirled it around. "As for sensing Corruption in the air; yeah, I can do that too. Same way you can smell smoke. It's how I know we're not too late. See, an area surrounding a Corrupted Locus of Power doesn't transform into Blighted Lands immediately. The process takes time. Corruption gets suffused throughout the air bit by bit, and as far as I can tell, it hasn't reached Dhalerune City yet. The mines themselves might be fucked, though."

"How are you capable of all this?" the Elven Seneschal asked, in an accusatory tone. "Abilities of this nature are unprecedented."

"It's a long story that I'll tell you after we become-"

<Do *not* say 'bestest buddies'.>

"...after we've deepened our alliance," Rob finished, nodding sagely.

The Seneschal grimaced. "So be it. Wherever your capabilities stem from, I'll make use of them until you prove incapable or incompetent."

"Gee, thanks." Rob rolled his eyes. "Your input is soooo appreciated. I bet you have a lot of friends back in Elfland."

"No," the Seneschal replied, as if that was obvious. "I am the Seneschal. What Leader has friends? Anyone who would claim to be one is either a sycophant or unaware of their place in the world. You'll learn that yourself, should you continue to climb in Level."

Keira leaned forward. "Our Party's bonds are not to be taken so lightly," she stated, with emphasis.

"You don't count. According to Cold Reading, you're his paramour." Sylpeiros examined each member of Riardin's Rangers in turn. "The rest are...hmm." He raised an eyebrow. "Friends. How utterly bizarre."

Holy shit, Rob marveled. Everyone in this world needs therapy.

"While I am loath to interrupt your bonding time," the Stonewarden said, "there are pressing matters to attend to. Human – if we encounter the Blight, and you are unsure that you can kill it without coming to harm, then err on the side of caution. It is imperative that you stay alive; no one else has the ability to Purge Corruption." He paused. "Furthermore, you mentioned that Dhalerune Mines may be 'fucked'. What does that entail?"

"The Locus is in the mines, so they'll transform into Blighted Lands more quickly," Rob explained. "There'll probably be a lot of Corruption particles floating around. Not so fun to breathe in, let me tell you, but don't worry – we came prepared."

Rob summoned a large bag from his Spatial Storage. It plopped onto the table, the Skill's blue motes dissipating. "Ta-da! It's...uh..."

He noticed too late that the Leaders had adopted battle positions, their hands on their weapons. The two of them were staring at the bag as if it was a bomb ready to explode. "What manner of Skill was that?" the Seneschal demanded. "I sensed no mana in its casting. And Lothren preserve, give us a warning next time."

Elder Alessia sighed. "Apologies for the unintended surprise. Rob neglected to mention that he also possesses the ability to store items within an intangible subspace storage container."

The Seneschal and the Stonewarden's eyes bulged like saucers, any semblance of political grandstanding gone from their expressions. "How?" the Stonewarden whispered.

"Add it to the list of things I'll tell you when our alliances deepen," Rob shrugged. He opened the bag and spilled its contents out, revealing hundreds of small trinkets. "These are anti-Corruption Amulets, courtesy of the Fiends. They prevent moderate amounts of Corruption from infecting your body. Emphasis on 'moderate' – if a Blight is breathing down your throat, you're in big trouble. For something like traversing mines soaked in ambient Corruption, though, they'll be a godsend."

He'd also brought some Hazmat Suits along, but those were fragile, and in short supply due to Spatial Storage's weight limitations. Best to keep them under wraps until absolutely necessary.

"Remarkable." The Stonewarden picked up an amulet, his eyes twinkling with wonderment. "You say that the Fiends created these? Why were they in need of so many?"

Rob shook his head. "Not my place to tell." The Fiends wouldn't want the Dwarves to know that they were recovering from a Corruption epidemic that nearly wiped them out.

"You have a great many secrets you're keeping from us," the Stonewarden remarked, not unkindly. "While I trust you, Human, your knowledge may determine the fate of Dhalerune City. A show of reciprocity would help set my fellow Dwarves at ease."

Okay, this is getting old. "Tell you what," Rob began. "I'll explain everything when you explain to me how the Dwarves developed Thunder Rods. And manaless lights. And whatever else you've got tucked away in some classified R&D Department."

The room fell silent. Elder Alessia said nothing, neither approving nor disapproving, and the Elven Seneschal had a look on his face best described as 'Oh Snap'. For his part, the Stonewarden merely laughed, placing the amulet back on the table and giving Rob a warm smile. "Fair enough."

Rob smirked in return. Partially because the man's good cheer was infectious, and partially out of a sense of dramatic irony. The Stonewarden likely thought that his secrets would make for good bargaining chips, but in actuality, Rob had already figured out how the Dwarves learned to develop 1940s-era Earth technology. It wasn't hard; the gods of Elatra copied plenty of concepts from Earth, and this was just an extension of their prior plagiarism.

Granted, this was different from the gods' usual modus operandi, which until now had been to mess with things from afar in order to conserve the amount of influence they could exert on the world. Apparently, it was a finite resource – which ruled out the possibility that they were shipping massive quantities of supplies through portals, like an interdimensional Amazon. In all likelihood, they'd simply procured schematics on how to create those things, and let the Dwarves do the rest.

Transporting a few sheets of paper was much more cost-effective.

Rob wasn't sure why the gods had gone so far, though. At least a few of them were sadistic pricks, so maybe they thought that a Blight invasion wasn't enough fun, and wanted to grab some popcorn and watch Dwarves and Elves shoot each other in the face? The Stonewarden might know more details if he'd been in direct communication with the gods – which in itself was a worrying fucking possibility. It would honestly be trivial for them to bend the Dwarven Leader to their will. All the gods needed to do was whisper "Titan is proud" in his mind, and he'd be eating out of their hands in a heartbeat. While speaking to him directly like that would've required a bit of extra influence, it'd be even more cost-effective than transporting weapons schematics.

I feel like a conspiracy theorist, Rob mused, except that higher powers actually ARE out to get me, and everyone dies if I don't aim my paranoia at the right topic. In that vein, it didn't matter how affable the Stonewarden was, or how genuine his intentions could be. For safety's sake, Rob would need to treat him as a sleeper agent until proven otherwise.

"On the subject of the Thunder Rods," Elder Alessia said, addressing the Stonewarden, "will you be utilizing them during our excursion against the Blight?"

"Unfortunately, doing so would be ill-advised. Thunder Rods are most effective versus creatures with biological structures that adhere to common sense." The Stonewarden paused, evidently trying to think of a way to phrase things that wouldn't reveal exactly how his new weapons worked. "Suffice to say that a well-timed usage of a Thunder Rod on a creature's weak spot, such as a heart or head, typically yields strong results. Creatures spawned from the Blight are problematic in that regard, as they tend to lack any such vulnerability. Their 'bodies' are no more than packages of organic matter being shaped and animated by corruptive magic. What's worse, they tend to regenerate HP at a prodigious rate."

Rob thought back to the various Blightspawn he'd fought in Broadwater City and concluded that rifles would've been mostly useless against them. Landing precision headshots meant little when your target didn't have a brain. Or a head. Maybe a group of riflemen could overwhelm one or two Blightspawn with spray-and-pray tactics, but at that point, an equal number of Level 30ish Combat Class users firing Power Shot arrows would be just as successful, if not more so.

"That is sensible," Vul'to said, speaking up for the first time. "The Thunder Rod wielders are fragile Utility Class users, and as such, exposing them to the dangers of Blightspawn combat could result in high casualties with little benefit to show for it."

The Stonewarden's and Seneschal's mouths both dropped open. They stared at Vul'to in abject shock, mimicking their expressions from when they'd witnessed Spatial Storage in action. Vul'to shuffled uncomfortably and glanced towards the exit. "My apologies. Um, was I not supposed to know that?"

"Why is that Fiend speaking Common?" the Stonewarden murmured, in disbelief.

Ooooooh. Right. "Didn't the Merfolk tell you?" Rob said, swooping in to draw their attention away from Vul'to. "We've been communicating with the Fiends. I figured out how to learn Fiendish Auto-Translate, then spread the Skill from there. Feel free to ask for lessons once we've taken care of the Blight. Nation Leaders get a discount."

His strategy worked like a charm. Both of them immediately snapped their gazes towards Rob, letting him soak in their confusion for a few blissful seconds.

"You, Human, are an enigma wrapped in absurdities," the Elven Seneschal plainly stated. "I shudder to think what other revelations are locked tight within your mind."

Rob couldn't help himself. He cackled. Just a teensy bit. "Oh, man," he breathed, wiping away moisture from the corners of his eyes. "Thanks for that. I don't think I would've survived this long if I didn't get to make people question their sanity every now and then. Moments like these keep me going."

He hesitated, deciding on a suitable follow-up. "You interested in seeing a certified Blight-killer? No need to answer; of course you are. Check this shit out."

Before Diplomacy could stop him, Rob activated Spatial Storage and summoned a full crate of Firebombs, depositing it directly onto the conference room table. He leaned forward, casually resting his elbow on the crate, grinning wide as the Leaders recoiled in horror. "Let me tell you about a man named Riardin, and why his technique was so special."

--

Changes

Diplomacy 17 → 19

Chapter 15

"It's...gone."

The Dwarf stared down at his body, awestruck, as if it was made of solid gold. "No more pain." He raised his head to gaze at Rob, eyes misting over. "You are a living, breathing miracle, Human. Thank you."

Months ago, Rob – uncomfortable at receiving that much praise – would've tried to play off healing Corruption as no big deal. One epidemic later, plenty of it spent with the affliction inside his own body, had let him know exactly how big of a deal it was. "I'm just glad that I'm here to help," he truthfully answered. "Rest up, okay? We'll make sure nothing like this ever happens again."

The Dwarf nodded and closed his eyes. He laid down in his bed, seeming at peace. Rob allowed himself a brief moment of contentment before moving on to his next patient; an aged Dwarven woman regarding him with poorly-suppressed anticipation.

Thankfully, she was one of the mere few left waiting to have her Corruption Purged. Several hours ago, when Rob learned that only a couple dozen Dwarves were infected in the Blightspawn attack, he'd offered to 'knock out the medical ward in an afternoon'. After explaining to the Stonewarden that he was using a figure of speech, and not threatening injured Dwarven citizens, Rob immediately went on over to start treating patients. It was a win for all parties involved; the Stonewarden's subjects were going to receive specialized care, and Rob got to perform his savior role and leave a good impression on the locals.

Most importantly, it was cathartic as hell. Compared to the Corruption epidemic in Fiendland, clearing out a single medical ward of Dwarves felt like a leisurely field trip. Fiends were highly susceptible to Corruption, much more so than any other race, so even the worst-infected of the Dwarves were in a better state than the vast majority of Fiends had been. And outside of the one child that Rob healed when entering Dhalerune City – the result of a miner's exceptionally ill-timed Take Your Child To Work Day – no kids were among the sick.

No kids were going to die.

In retrospect, frantically performing lifesaving surgery on tens of thousands of Fiends had prooobably given him a bit of trauma. Might as well throw it on to the pile, Rob thought, as the freshly-cured Dwarven woman gave him a squeeze of gratitude. I should share a drink or two with Earth surgeons when I get back. Swap some stories. Didn't appreciate their hard work enough until I was yoinked to a world where medical knowledge has been stunted by the existence of Vitality and healing spells. When magic fails, people here don't have much of a backup plan beyond thoughts and prayers.

Message Received From Party Member: Keira

Keira: Everything alright?

Keira: You look pensive.

Rob: really? thought i was smiling

Keira: You are, but it's your fake one.

Keira: Don't think I can't tell.

Rob: hah, true

Rob: thanks, but im okay, just thinkin bout stuff

Rob: nothing too bad

Rob: and purging easy corruption fuckin rocks

Rob: reveeeeeeeenge :D

Keira: Now there's a sentiment I can wholeheartedly embrace.

She ended the Message, cheerfully waving at him from her corner of the room. All of Riardin's Rangers were there as well, twiddling their thumbs as Rob went from patient to patient like a well-oiled assembly line. The rest of the Party didn't have much to do at the moment, but their alternative was joining Elder Alessia as she hashed out political bullshit with the Stonewarden and Seneschal, so guarding Rob seemed like a better use of their time. Or at least a fraction less mind-numbing.

On the plus side, Vul'to and Faelynn being present was a good first step towards establishing Fiend-Dwarven relations among the common folk. While the Dwarven patients in the medical ward hated Fiends, same as the rest of Elatra, accompanying Rob let them be associated with the boon of Corruption Purging. After all, they were Rob's precious Party members, and he made sure to mention how awesome each and every one of his friends were whenever he had the chance..

And if nothing else, even if the Dwarves balked at the inclusion of Fiends, what were they going to do? Throw a fit in front of the miracle man who'd just saved them from a lifetime of suffering?

<Keep it up,> Diplomacy whispered. <Small steps. Incremental. Adds up.>

Oh, hey, Sleeping Beauty is awake. Rob paused. You okay? That last nap was kind of sudden.

The Skill let out a weak pulse of reassurance. When they spoke again, their speech was erratic and clipped, like they were attempting to say as much as they could in as few words as possible. <Explain soon. First, Stonewarden.>

...Okay. What's your take on him?

<Amiable. Loyal to Dwarves. Genuinely cares. Used to people listening to him. Fearful of the future.> Diplomacy's core shimmered with concentration. <Strong virtues with a weak foundation. Liable to crack or crumble. Believes in himself, but less so than before. Hiding something.>

The Skill smirked. <Side note: Elven Seneschal more similar than you'd think.>

Rob was surprised, but only for an instant. While the two Leaders' personalities were markedly different on the surface, that didn't mean that the Seneschal cared less about his people than the Stonewarden. Considering that the Elf was willing to set aside his Human hateboner in order to secure Dwarven assistance, that already set him above the Dragon Queen on the Elatran Leader totem pole – which, admittedly, was a rock-bottom hurdle to clear.

Thanks for the tips, Rob answered, sending Diplomacy a mental nod. You have any idea what they're hiding?

<No specifics. Not enough information.> The Skill's light dimmed by a hair. <I'm sorry, Rob. This is as far as I go.>

Rob nearly froze in the middle of Purging a patient. What? WHAT? What do you mean by that?!

<I am close to being absorbed into your soul.> Diplomacy let out a faint chuckle. <Necessary as it may have been, perhaps assuming direct control of your body wasn't my brightest idea. Walls between us got thinner.>

Then go back to sleep! Rob fought hard to keep his poker face up – although his trembling hands didn't go unnoticed by the rest of Riardin's Rangers. That helped before, didn't it?!

<Won't work. Damage is done. Only one way to forestall process.> The Skill hesitated, unease and determination mingling within their core. <You must deactivate me.>

Rob clenched his teeth. You told me that being deactivated feels like death. Not like sleep. Not even like a coma. Death.

<Yes. It does.>

Rob finished up with his patient. He brushed aside their remarks of gratitude, muttering that he needed a breather and would be right back as he bolted out the room. I promised that I would never deactivate you.

<Against my will. Now, I'm asking.> Diplomacy shuddered, as if a chill wind had caressed their neck. <Please.>

Rob screwed his eyes shut. He ignored the concerned Messages coming in from Riardin's Rangers, focusing his effort on trying not to punch a hole in the wall. You'll be okay, he said, unsure of if he was speaking to Diplomacy or himself. The next time you wake, it'll be in a brand new body, and I'll give you the biggest damn high-five this side of Elatra.

Diplomacy said nothing. With a start, Rob realized that the Skill couldn't say anything. Their light was feeble, waning further by the second. Immediately, he deactivated the Skill, watching with a torn heart as it went cold and dark.

...So quiet.

Rob stood there, staring vacantly into space. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to have his mind all to himself. Even when Diplomacy was silent before, Rob could still sense the Skill's presence, always there. They'd been his mental roommate, a constant companion that helped him center himself in a world of madness. Now they were gone, a refrigerated corpse stuffed into the back of his mind, and everything was quiet.

And empty.

"Rob?"

He flinched as he felt Keira's hand on his shoulder. Slowly, Rob turned around to greet his Party members, who were waiting on tenterhooks for an answer.

"All good," he said, putting on his Grand Overseer-Approved PR Smile. "Diplomacy just...needs a break. They'll be in power saving mode for a few days. Wanted to tell me some last-minute info before they went to sleep."

Not a single one of them bought it – Keira wasn't the only one who could see through him. But mercifully, they recognized that if he wasn't giving them all the details, it was because he really didn't want to. One by one, Riardin's Rangers nodded, accepting the half-truth for what it was. "Are you done for the day?" Keira asked, concern evident in her demeanor.

Rob glanced at the door to the medical ward. There were still several Dwarves left with Corruption, and at the very least they would probably be fooled by a fake smile. "Not yet," he said, stepping forward. "The show must go on."

Even without the one viewer who was always in attendance.

--

Vul'to was starting to regret rejecting Urian's disguise-inducing Enchanted Item.

It wasn't as if he was entirely unused to being a pariah in foreign lands. When the Deserters first entered Fiend territory, it had taken the populace quite some time to grow accustomed to their new Elven neighbors. In truth, without the inexhaustible good will earned from Riardin's Rangers ending the Corruption epidemic, the Deserters might never have been accepted at all.

Yet they had ended the Corruption epidemic, and they had been accepted. Vul'to distinctly remembered  how it felt the first time he walked down the streets of Fiend territory without being glared at. It was an experience like no other, validating all of the struggles it took to reach that point.

And now here he was again, in a hateful foreign land, being warily eyed by thirty Dwarves like he was some type of soul-eating monster.

At least this time the glares were accurate.

His only solace was that the Dwarves wouldn't attempt to murder him while the rest of his Party was present as well. Currently, Riardin's Rangers were stationed with the Stonewarden's thirty handpicked Dwarven elites, both groups waiting for the Leaders and Elder Alessia to finalize their battle stratagems. Anticipation was building to a fever pitch, due in no small part to the location they'd been ordered to wait at. The entrance to Dhalerune Mines lay stretched out before them, a yawning chasm that threatened to swallow everyone whole.

Objectively, Vul'to knew that was an overly dramatic interpretation on his part. The entrance to Dhalerune Mines was just that; an entrance to the mines. Little more than a Dwarven-made hole in the ground. It was the knowledge of what lay within those mines that set his nerves aflame. Vul'to would rather confront another aberrant Dungeon than pursue a Blight into the bowels of Elatra.

He nervously rubbed one of the many anti-Corruption Amulets fastened to his chestpiece. Dozens more were hidden underneath. Once the initial batch had been distributed to the Dwarves, the remaining Amulets were given mostly to himself and Faelynn. Redundancies, Rob called them, for if some broke during combat. As long as just one Amulet remained, Vul'to wouldn't receive the full brunt of the Blight's corruptive aura.

Still, even with the Amulets, he couldn't help but be worried. Any person in possession of a rational mind would have been. Not wanting to leave behind any regrets in case the unthinkable happened, Vul'to contacted Meyneth, making another effort to reach out to her.

Message Started Between Party Members: Vul'to, Meyneth

Vul'to: Hello, Meyneth! How are you faring?

Meyneth: Well.

Meyneth: And you?

Vul'to: Glad to hear it, and I'm doing quite well as...well!

Meyneth: Good.

Vul'to: I think so too!

Vul'to: So, a thought occurred to me – it's likely that we won't have much time to discuss things until the Blight is defeated. Is there anything you'd like to talk about right now?

Meyneth: No.

Vul'to: Well okay then! Please feel free to let me know if there is! You are a true friend, and we're all here for you if you need us!

Meyneth: Understood.

She hadn't so much as glanced at him. Meyneth's attention was focused directly on the Mines, her posture more rigid than the stone she was standing on.

Vul'to suppressed a sigh. If he didn't know her better, he would have felt hurt by the exchange, assuming that she was avoiding speaking to him because of a failing on his part. In actuality, it was blatantly obvious to everyone in the Party – including Meyneth herself – that she was plagued with remorse over the Krazan incident. Vul'to was no stranger to survivor's guilt, having witnessed all of its myriad variants following the Cataclysm, so he knew what to expect. Until Meyneth convinced herself that she 'deserved' to speak with him, she would continue keeping him at arm's length.

With that in mind, Vul'to resolved to be patient. She'd opened up to them before, and as long as they continued to remind her that she was a valued friend, she would open up to them once more, given time.

Although he had to admit that her reticence did sting a little. Had he used too many exclamation points in his Message? Was it even possible for him to stop? Party Messages were less like written words and more like a representation of conscious thought – and thoughts were not so easily controlled. It was Rob's explanation for why his Messages often appeared as if they'd been written by a drunken child. Something to do with years of 'texting' irreversibly rotting his brain.

"Unfortunate, isn't it?"

Vul'to's head snapped up as he was broken out of his thoughts. Faelynn stood in front of him, a resigned expression on her face. Vul'to glanced at the Dwarves – most of whom were still observing him for signs of treachery – and confirmed that they were out of Heightened Senses range.

"What are you referring to?" he whispered. "The Dwarves' inhospitable reception, Meyneth's needless self-recrimination, or how we've once again set ourselves on a path to cross swords with a nigh-unstoppable abomination?"

Faelynn paused. "I was actually referring to your armor," she replied, "although you bring up some excellent counterexamples."

Vul'to winced. His armor – if he could call it that – was closer to a slapdash collection of metal than anything a smith would have taken pride in. There'd been no time to reforge his old Elven-sized armor to fit his current body, and as Fiends tended to eschew armor due to their system restriction on armor-based Skills, his selection of alternatives had been...slim.

"Be honest," he said. "How much of a farce do I look like?"

"That's a difficult question to answer, as you're still a Fiend who can use armor Skills. That impossibility more than offsets any deficiency in fashion." She glanced at the Dwarves for a split second. "I must also confess a fair degree of jealousy. Any Class that incentivizes wearing armor sounds incredibly appealing right about now, considering how effective that might prove against..."

Message Received From Party Member: Faelynn

Faelynn: Against the Thunder Rods.

Vul'to stiffened, doing his best not to openly examine the Dwarven contingent and double-check if there were Thunder Rod wielders among them. To think that we barely gave the city guards a second glance, he thought, when they could have ended our lives with the twitch of a finger.

Rob had painted a grim picture of what the Thunder Rods – the Rifles – were capable of. Vul'to was still trying to come to terms with the notion of a Utility Class user being able to effortlessly kill seasoned Combat Class users. There'd been some historic instances of low-Level civilians killing high-Level fighters, but they always involved extreme extenuating circumstances, such as a grand betrayal or being stabbed in their sleep. From a safe distance and with unfathomable speed? That just wasn't possible.

It was hard to argue with some of Rob's more vivid descriptions, though. Vul'to never wanted to hear the phrase 'splattered brain matter' ever again.

Thankfully, utilizing a Message chat log allowed them to communicate in secret as often as they wanted. They'd spent a good portion of the day planning Rifle countermeasures and running battle simulations right under the Dwarves' noses. Vul'to dearly hoped that they would never require those plans, but it was better to be prepared than regretful. During those sessions, one conclusion Rob had reached was that Vul'to's armor-enhancing Class Skills would offer him a large degree of protection from Rifle shots. He was the only one – besides maybe Rob himself – who could charge into a hailstorm of bullets and potentially live to tell the tale.

I would have preferred to spend the day planning against the Blight, Vul'to groused. Even with a body that was highly susceptible to Corruption, though, he found himself fearing Utility Class users armed with new technology more. The world truly has gone mad.

Faelynn took that moment to continue speaking. "I'd like to hear your opinion on something," she whispered, in a hushed tone. "What did you think of the Stonewarden?"

"He seemed like a fine sort," Vul'to replied. "Wasn't overly perturbed about Fiends in his city, although I presume he was notified of our arrival well in advance. Got along well with Rob and Elder Alessia. Listened to critiques and advice. Kept his disgusted glares to a minimum. As a whole, he was certainly easier to converse with than the Seneschal or the Merfolk King."

Vul'to blinked, briefly frozen in shock as his own words sank in. "I've...met with Leaders now, haven't I? Three of them."

"Life is a whirlwind of surprises," Faelynn agreed. "And your perspective on the Stonewarden helps set me at ease. Perhaps I was worried over nothing."

Vul'to tilted his head. "You thought differently?"

"...Well..." Faelynn hesitated, as if speaking her thoughts aloud might turn them into reality. "It is true that the Stonewarden was...amicable, towards us. He didn't demand that you or I be expelled from the meeting room. And once he learned that we could speak Common, he expressed genuine interest in hearing our stories after the Blight has been expunged."

Her eyes narrowed. "But whereas you saw someone who kept his disgusted glances to a minimum, I saw someone who couldn't bear to look at us any more than necessary."

Before Vul'to could respond, he noticed three figures approaching from the path back to Dhalerune City. The chatter from both groups quieted as Elder Alessia, the Stonewarden, and the Seneschal walked forward. A flash of pride surged through Vul'to at the sight – despite being thirty Levels lower than the two Leaders, Elder Alessia didn't appear out of place in the slightest. She strode with the poise of someone completely in her element, and by the looks on their faces, all three of them had come to a reasonable accord.

It gave credence to a sentiment Rob often espoused; that those who possessed the highest Levels shouldn't necessarily be the ones in roles of leadership. While Elder Alessia's Level 43 was well above average, she'd been outpaced by Rob and Keira at this point, and the rest of Riardin's Rangers weren't far behind, Vul'to included. He tried to imagine a version of the Deserters where he was responsible for making the final call on important decisions, and nearly burst out laughing. They wouldn't have lasted a month.

As the trio of Leaders approached, the Stonewarden broke off to join his fellow Dwarves. Elder Alessia, naturally, continued on towards Riardin's Rangers. Surprisingly, the Elven Seneschal followed her. Maybe he felt more at ease among the presence of other Elves, or-

Vul'to winced as the Seneschal went to stand directly in front of Rob, glaring at him with an intensity that surpassed anything he'd seen from the Dwarves.

Oh dear.

--

Aw, son of a bitch.

Rob didn't bother forcing a PR smile to his face – he highly doubted the Seneschal would buy it. "Can I help you?" he said, edging a bit closer to a very tense Keira.

"I'd like to ask the same thing," Elder Alessia cut in, leveling an unimpressed stare at the Seneschal. "You had plenty of time to voice your grievances during the hours we spent meticulously forging an alliance."

"We discussed grievances pertaining to politics and battle strategies," the Seneschal stated, his eyes locked straight on Rob. "This, however, is a personal matter."

I miss you already, Diplomacy. "Personal in what way?" Rob asked. "We haven't met before."

"No, although you did slaughter some of my handpicked men and women. Twice."

"The ones you sent to kidnap me," Rob spat. "Twice."

Seneschal Sylpeiros raised an eyebrow. "Ah, so the Human has a spine. You barely responded to my provocations during our initial meeting."

Rob resisted the urge to clock him in his stupid bullshit-Elven-perfect teeth. "Generally, when meeting someone, you're supposed to put your best foot forward. Especially when it involves a crisis on the verge of spiraling into a catastrophe. Not all of us are Level 76 nation Leaders who can get away with acting like a prick."

Belatedly, Rob realized that the Dwarven contingent had gone silent as the grave, all thirty-one of them  watching the confrontation play out with scandalized interest. They may as well have been eating popcorn. Let them, he thought. I can only be on my best behavior for so long.

"A 'prick', you say," the Seneschal repeated, rolling the word on his tongue. "Spend five minutes in my position, Human, and then we'll see how eager you are to don a mask of decorum around those who-"

Elder Alessia loudly cleared her throat. The Seneschal stopped himself mid-sentence, his face looking like he'd swallowed a lemon. Alessia tapped her thigh twice, and Rob – taking the hint – kicked a random Party member and added her so that she could send him a Message.

Message Received From Party Member: Alessia

Alessia: Let this matter go. I will explain later.

Alessia: As an addendum; don't mention the Dragon Queen in his vicinity.

Rob: ?????

Rob: wasnt gonna, but okay

"Well, it's been absolutely fantastic speaking with you," Rob said, clapping his hands together. "But we've got a Blight to kill. I'd be more than happy to trade insults after it's dead."

"This won't take long." The Seneschal leaned forward slightly, prompting Rob to prep Not A Scratch and Waymark. "Human. Do you remember an Elf by the name of Kenzotul?"

Rob looked at his feet and scratched his head. "...Okay, full disclosure, I don't even remember the names of any of the Fiends' Grand Overseers, or my own doctor."

The Seneschal's frown deepened. "How disappointingly expected. He should have left a strong impression on you; a faulty memory is no excuse."

Rob threw his hands up into the air. "Face? Height? Age? Come on, give me something else to work with."

Message Continued

Alessia: You don't remember the names of the Grand Overseers?

Rob: not the time!!

"Kenzotul is over two-hundred years old," the Seneschal continued, voice rising with every word. "His face is weathered. He-"

"Wait!" Rob called out. The number of Elves he'd met whose faces were haggard enough to be described as 'weathered' could be counted on one hand. "Is Kenzotul the guy who asked me to kill him?"

A few of the Dwarves gasped out loud. Messages from Riardin's Rangers poured in; evidently, most of them weren't aware of the incident. Vul'to especially seemed shocked, asking for detailed clarification on the Elf's name and the events that transpired.

In contrast, the Seneschal's burgeoning wildfire of emotions immediately cooled, as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped on his head. "You...recall what happened?"

"Kind of impossible to forget," Rob murmured. "I only read his name in Identify once, but the actual guy?" Even by Rob's current standard of life insanity, it wasn't every day that a war veteran asked you to publicly execute them so they could atone for their crimes.

The Seneschal snapped out of his stupor, his gaze focusing once more. "And you recall why he asked you to kill him?"

Rob's lips twitched downward. "The Scouring."

"Then why didn't you?"

Rob almost responded with a pre-packaged, PR-friendly answer. It would've made sense for him to do so; after all, he was playing the part of the saintly Elatran Human willing to forgive the genocide of his race. And with the Seneschal, the Stonewarden, Vevrandi, and a bunch of Dwarves in attendance, there was no better opportunity for him to reinforce his status.

But he just...couldn't. Maybe it was lingering instincts from Diplomacy, or maybe he simply wasn't cut out to be a politician. But something inside Rob told him that he should be as truthful as the situation permitted.

"It wasn't my place to forgive him." His voice rang crystal clear across the cavern. "Kenzotul didn't kill anyone I personally knew. The people he could have atoned to are dead. Executing him wouldn't erase his sins, and it wouldn't make anyone feel better. All it would have done was give him an easy way out."

Rob shook his head. "Instead, I told him to live, and fight through the pain."

The Seneschal sucked in a harsh breath. "You hated him that much?"

"Fucking what?" Rob hissed. "Okay, I'm actually insulted by that one. I didn't hate the guy; just told him what I would've told myself if I were in his position. You only get one life."

No one stirred. The Seneschal stared blankly at Rob, seeming lost. "You're saying...you didn't forget him, and you didn't hate him?"

"Yes," Rob flatly stated. "Have you paid attention to a word I've said?" He paused. "Wait, why are you asking this, anyway? I never saw Kenzotul again after the day he ambushed me outside my apartment. Always assumed that he died in The Village's invasion. How do you know about him? Is he alive? Did the Village Elves who migrated to Reviton City mention him?"

The Seneschal turned around, and with unsure steps, went to stand in a corner, alone.

...What the hell was that about?

"Well said, Human," the Dwarven Stonewarden interjected, his voice booming. "We should all strive to make a difference with the one life we have. Today, our forces shall ensure that the greatest difference possible is made – when we save Dhalerune City by extinguishing the Blight."

The Stonewarden continued his ra-ra hype speech from there, somehow managing to spin Rob and the Seneschal's tiff into a positive learning experience. Rob tuned it out, having heard several variants in the past. He hardly needed extra motivation to want to kill the Blight. It was effective on the Dwarves, though, righteousness gradually supplanting their fear as the Stonewarden filled their heads with visions of glory.

"-and let the Human's Purging light guide us to victory!" he finished.

Rob perked up – that was his cue. He raised his hand into the air and emitted Purge Corruption energy in the form of a glowing wave, just enough to give the Dwarves a fancy light show without draining his resources. The Dwarves erupted into cheer as if they were at a rock concert, and without wasting a beat, the Stonewarden marshaled them forward, directing them into Dhalerune Mines before their fervor could die down.

It was time.

Message Started Between Party Members: Rob, Vul'to, Faelynn

Rob: Only going to say this once.

Rob: If the Corruption gets too much, then run. Your bodies aren't equipped to handle it.

Rob: No big dumb heroics.

Both Fiends nodded at him with completely serious expressions. They'd witnessed the Corruption epidemic at its worst, and neither of them wanted to merge into a Flesh Amalgamation anytime soon.

Accepting their acknowledgment, Rob gave the cavern one last headcount. There were Riardin's Rangers plus Elder Alessia, most of them above Level 40 and with Rob at Level 52. Then there were the Elven Seneschal and Dwarven Stonewarden, Levels 76 and 78, respectively. Finally, there were the thirty Dwarven veterans, Vevrandi included, ranging from Level 35 to 43. In total, their combined forces consisted of forty-one high-leveled Combat Class users, some of them being the literal strongest of their race.

Versus one Blight, partially grown, on its home turf.

It will have to be enough, Rob thought, before banishing the notion. No. It will be enough.

That's all there was to it.

The coalition of nations marched, descending into the belly of the beast, as unseen jaws closed around them.

Chapter 16

The Mines were big. Rob had figured they would be, considering the Dwarves' affinity for stone, but he'd still underestimated how deep they ran. A person could explore for weeks and not traverse the Mines' full breadth. To make matters more confusing, the end of each passageway branched off into several additional passageways, and only some of them were marked with signs indicating that there was a dead end ahead. Without those signs – and the Dwarves leading the way – Rob would have been hopelessly lost.

Yet despite how large the Mines were, they felt suffocating, all the same. As the allied coalition traveled deeper, it became immediately apparent why the Stonewarden had elected to take a relatively small contingent of Dwarves with him. The majority of the passageways they traversed were clearly designed for five or six people at maximum. Progress was slow as they trudged along, sequestered into multiple single-file lines, doing their best not to bump into each other and cause everyone behind them to topple like a row of dominoes.

And if Rob's nascent claustrophobia wasn't bad enough, the Mines didn't seem particularly stable, either. Some of its structural supports looked like they hadn't been touched in centuries. Thankfully, Waymark and his inherent durability kept his fear of potential cave-ins at bay. Even if a collapse happened, he could escape easily enough. Who needed OHSA safety protocols when Elatran magic bullshit would do just fine?

An hour passed as the coalition navigated the Mines' passageways. Any semblance of idle chitchat had petered out after the first fifteen minutes, leaving the rhythmic sounds of footsteps echoing across stone as their only company. Just as Rob was wondering if they'd taken a wrong turn somewhere, he froze, a disgustingly familiar sensation prodding at his mind.

"Check your Amulets," he announced. "Corruption's here. Faint, but it's here."

A wave of unease swept through the Dwarven ranks. They hefted their axes and hammers, eyes swiveling around the mine shaft, as if they expected the Blight itself to spring from the walls at any moment. "I don't see anything," Vevrandi muttered.

"You won't. Corruption is invisible and intangible. The most you'll be aware of is a vague sense of wrong in the air." He grinned. "Well, that and the system notifications letting you know you've been infected. A pestilence invading your body, bit by bit, nestling its way into your core and making itself home. You might not feel anything at, say, 10 Corruption, but what about 20? 50? 100? At that point it isn't a vague sensation – it's lava coursing through your veins."

The Dwarves were silent as the grave. A few that had been fiddling with their Amulets quickly re-fastened them to their attire.

"You have something of a flair for the dramatic, don't you, Human?" The Stonewarden said, in a slightly strained tone.

Rob shrugged. "It gets people to listen." He glanced down the passageway, concentrating on what lay within. "We're probably a few hours away from the Locus of Power. It's definitely been infected, but the fact that it took this long for me to sense ambient Corruption means that the Locus wasn't infected more than a week ago, give or take a couple days."

"Good tidings, then. The beast is still young." Stonewarden Grant turned to face his soldiers. "Stay on your guard, but make no mistake: the Blight dies today. With the Human's unique Skills at our disposal, it stands little chance against the allied coalition's combined might. We will make it come to regret threatening Dwarven territory."

His words injected a bit of enthusiasm into the Dwarves, who'd started turning pale when Rob confirmed that the Locus was Corrupted. It was good that the Stonewarden knew the right thing to say in order to rally his soldiers, because Rob sure as hell wouldn't have. He wasn't the type of figurehead who wrote his own speeches; that esteemed honor usually went to Diplomacy.

Group Message Started By Party Member: Orn'tol

Orn'tol: How many Dwarves is it possible for us to defeat?

Rob sputtered briefly as he glanced at the Message, then at Orn'tol, whose expression was completely unchanged. Why do I somehow have the worst poker face in the Party? he bemoaned, before replying.

Message Continued

Rob: ummmmm

Rob: not gonna lie that came out of nowher

Orn'tol: Honestly, the thought occurred to me after witnessing their lack of composure.

He had a point. Considering how long Elatrans could live, it was likely that the least-experienced member of the Dwarven contingent had seen more years of combat than anyone in Riardin's Rangers, with the exception of maybe Keira. Yet the Dwarves were acting as if they were heading to the executioner's block, while Riardin's Rangers were...not quite easygoing, but confident in their determination, refusing to let their fear get the better of them.

Rob supposed it came down to a matter of personal experience. While the Dwarves would bitch and moan if he said it out loud, it was a fact that they hadn't fought anything as uniquely terrifying as Riardin's Rangers top five worst encounters. The Dwarves' nerves weren't tempered by the fiery crucible of abominations and Leviathans. They might be comfortable on the front lines of a traditional war, but exploring haunted mines to confront an ancient evil was more like something out of a horror movie. Staying composed in that scenario took a sort of acquired madness that, for Riardin's Rangers, was becoming second nature.

Message Continued

Rob: didnt we already discuss how to beat rifles?

Rob: plus I dont think they brought any

Orn'tol: I'm not referring to the Rifle users. How many of the Dwarves, right here and now, could we defeat?

Zamira: Orn'tol, the Dwarves are our allies.

Orn'tol: Today, they are.

Orn'tol: Tomorrow isn't guaranteed.

Zamira: If we assume the worst of them, then-

Keira: Sorry, Zamira, but I'm in agreement with Orn'tol.

Keira: We shouldn't trust anyone outside of the Deserters.

Zamira: And Faelynn, of course.

Faelynn: Aw. Thank you, Zamira.

Zamira: You're very welcome.

Zamira: With that said, would it not be wiser to prepare for our upcoming battle against the Blight?

Keira: Why bother? It can be anything.

She also had a point. The Blight was, if nothing else, consistently inconsistent. Each variant they'd encountered had adopted a different form.

Message Continued

Rob: i hope that this time its a giant spider thingy

Rob: that way Arachnophobia activates and i get extra damage >:D

Keira: You wouldn't need the extra damage if you just put your unused stat points into Strength.

Keira: Come on. You know you want to.

Keira: I can guarantee you'll be satisfied with your choice.

Malika: Is this flirting?? I can't tell.

Rob barked out a laugh. The Dwarves glanced at him in confusion, and he closed the Message window a second later. He'd open it again when he was confident that he wouldn't have another outburst and make people think that the Human had a few screws loose. Instead, he partially followed Keira's advice, opening up his Character Sheet to peruse his leftover stat points.

Name: Rob

Level: 52

Class: BERSERKER (LV 49)

Sub-Class: Crystal Bearer (LV 5)

HP: 1250/ 1250

Stamina: 343 / 350

MP: 350 / 350

Status Effects: Leveling High (Mild), Melancholia, Determined

Strength: 53

Vitality: 125

Endurance: 35

Dexterity: 60

Perception: 33

Mind: 28

Magic: 35

Unspent Points: 15

He looked over his list of Skills next. In spite of Keira's totally unbiased opinion, Rob came to the conclusion that Strength wasn't the end-all if he wanted to boost his offensive capabilities. Several of Rob's strongest Skills consumed Vitality to activate, with Strength as a secondary – but still important – concern. Magic was also useful, as it raised his maximum MP, letting him use more Skills overall. Then there was Dexterity, which every Combat Class user needed a healthy portion of if they wanted to survive, serving as an offensive and defensive stat.

As usual, Perception, Endurance, and Mind were tossed out of consideration. They had their uses, but helping him kill a Blight wasn't one of them. Maybe next Level up, he thought, with complete insincerity.

After giving it some thought, Rob decided on a plan of action. Dexterity was risky to boost in the middle of a combat scenario, as it took time for a person to adjust to their increase in speed. Rob put 1 point into Dexterity, opting to put another point into Dexterity every ten minutes until he'd spent 5 total. That way he could reap the benefits without tripping over his own feet.

The remaining points would be saved until he learned what form the Blight had taken. Just like Keira said, it could be anything. Keeping points in reserve would allow him to alter his battle strategy on the fly and exploit the Blight's weaknesses more easily.

Message Continued

Rob: sry, Keira......

Rob: i have betrayed u

Rob: no strength just yet

Keira: God damnit.

Rob: can you ever forgive me?

Keira: I don't know. It'll be difficult.

Keira: Might need some...persuasion.

Malika: That's definitely flirting!!

Meyneth: As a reminder, this is a group Message.

Meyneth: For our sakes, please wait until you can find an appropriate broom closet in Dhalerune City to continue.

Meyneth: And yes, we know about that. You're hardly subtle.

Rob's mortification was dulled by Keira cursing loudly, shattering the Mines' quiet ambiance. The  Dwarves practically jumped out of their skins, grabbing their weapons and searching around for whatever enemy had apparently startled the Elf with Danger Sense.

Finally, Rob thought, as Keira attempted to explain herself. Someone with a worse poker face than me.

--

"Well that's ominous."

Half an hour later, Rob found himself at another crossroad of passageways, this one being a wide cavern that was more spacious than its predecessors. The allied coalition had continued progressing deeper into Dhalerune Mines, and so far there'd been no sign of any Blightspawn. The Corruption suffusing the air was thicker, now, so dense that the allied coalition would've needed to retreat if it wasn't for their Amulets.

To the Dwarves, that was cause for concern. To Riardin's Rangers, who'd gone into Blighted Lands twice before and knew what to expect, they were much more worried about the creepy signpost staring them in the face. Instead of the usual 'Dead End' warning, this sign was emblazoned with a hastily-scribbled drawing of a skull. There was even a giant 'X' crossing it out for good measure.

"Words would have sufficed," the Elven Seneschal muttered, eyes narrowed. "While the intent has been made clear, it leaves us ignorant of exactly what should warrant such caution."

"Our miners unearthed a vein of poison gas within that passageway," the Dwarven Stonewarden immediately clarified. "It is exceedingly toxic, even to those with high Vitality. We must choose a different path."

Rob glanced at the other passageways in the crossroads, then back at the passage that screamed Go This Way And You Will Die, Seriously. "Alright," he said, stepping forward. "You guys stay here. I'll go investigate."

The Stonewarden flinched as if he'd been slapped. "You'll..what?"

"Investigate," Rob repeated. "I can Sense the Locus of Power over in that general direction. If we were in a city, or the outdoors, it'd be fine to just keep going straight. But these Mines have a lot of twisting paths, so for all we know, the fastest way to the Locus is through that lovely deathtrap right there."

"You can't," the Stonewarden insisted. "The poison-"

"Poison, shmoison." Rob put on a smug grin. "I've got Vitality out the wazoo and Poison Resistance Level 8. That's why you guys are going to stay here while I go act as your canary in the mines. Only, without the dying part. I'll check if the Locus is down there and return if I find it – or if the Blight finds me."

The Stonewarden glanced at Riardin's Rangers, beseeching assistance. "Talk some sense into him. As his fellow Party members, shouldn't you more be concerned for his safety?"

Malika raised her hand, beaming with excitement. "One time I saw Rob get bit in half by a tree monster. Then he exploded. Then he was fine, laughed, and took a nap. So I think some poison should be okay." She smiled. "Does that make you feel better?"

Rob whistled nonchalantly as the Dwarves and the Seneschal gaped at him like he was a lunatic. Which was...well, fair.

Elder Alessia let out an aggrieved sigh. "While Malika speaks the truth, she left out some vital details in her telling." The Elder hesitated, a glint of mischief flashing in her eyes. "She neglected to mention that it was only the first instance where Rob was bitten in half. The second occurred when he single-handedly faced down the Blight of Broadwater City."

"...How much Vitality do you have, precisely?" Vevrandi asked, in a lightheaded tone.

"It's in the triple digits." Rob approached the death tunnel. "Don't worry, I'll hurry back at the first sign of trou-"

"You can't."

The Stonewarden's plea froze Rob in place. Everyone turned to look at the Dwarven Leader, who was standing rigid, his muscles tensed like a coiled spring. Rob got the impression that if he took another step towards the passageway, the Stonewarden would leap forward to bar his path.

"What's down there, Grant?" Rob asked, chucking subtlety into a blender.

"As I have said, toxic gas. Even with Poison Resistance Level 8, it will kill you in mere minutes." The Stonewarden paused, just for a moment, so brief that Rob wouldn't have noticed the delay if he wasn't watching for it. "Additionally, that passage is a dead end. It leads to no other sections of Dhalerune Mines. You would be putting yourself at risk for no discernible benefit."

Huh. Apparently, I'm not the only one with a shitty poker face, Rob thought. Diplomacy, what do you...

...Oh. Right.

"Fine," Rob said, a little more testily than intended. "Keep your secrets. But if we have to double back because the Locus was behind this passage, that wasted time is on your head."

The Dwarven contingent squared up, as if they were preparing for a fight, although they knew full well that nothing would actually happen. The Stonewarden just stared, his face a mask of neutrality. Rob locked eyes with him and looked closely, hoping to find some hint of emotion that could provide a clue about what the Stonewarden was hiding.

Unfortunately, he succeeded. Lurking beneath the Stonewarden's regal demeanor was something...hollow.

Everything happened at once. Keira and the Elven Seneschal suddenly jumped across the cavern, one leftward and one rightward, both drawing their weapons in tandem. The two Elves shouted vicious battle cries as they attacked, Keira slamming her greatsword like a hammer of divine judgement, and the Seneschal stabbing his spear with the force of a thunderbolt.

Partial EXP Gained From Sharing Hand!

Two wormlike monsters fell, twitching, as they were crushed and pierced in short order. Each creature had been inches away from biting a Dwarf's head off.

After a moment of stunned silence, the allied coalition scrambled into action, realizing almost too late that they were being ambushed. Dozens and dozens of monsters started bursting from the walls and ceiling, launching themselves at the nearest living thing. There was barely enough room in the cavern for anyone to move properly, and the fight rapidly descended into a chaotic melee, friend and foe vying for precious inches.

Rob felt the ground below him tremble, and he snapped backwards, narrowly avoiding the stone hand grasping for his ankles. A hulking figure erupted from underneath, fifteen feet tall and covered in rocky growths that pulsed like heartbeats.

Name: Blighted Golem

Level: 32

Status Effects: Infected

Description: In the infinite cosmos, a miracle occurs: a mindless being has learned to pray for death.

The Golem leaned down, raised its arms, and charged forward in a direct football tackle. Rob was about to dodge to the side when he remembered that one of the cavern walls was right behind him. He didn't trust the Mines' structural integrity in the event of a big-ass golem crashing into it. Sighing internally, he stood his ground, activated Quick Thinking, and contemplated his options in the scant few seconds it took for the Golem to reach him.

While most of Rob's Skills were effective against monsters, enemies with high base durability were still a bit of a weak point for him. His strongest offensive Skill, Imbue Vitality, tripled the damage of his next attack. If his attack wasn't doing much damage to begin with, the Skill's bonus wouldn't matter. Flames of Vengeance dealt horrific injuries to exposed flesh, but he wasn't sure how effective it would be when used on a monster made of stone. Enmity caused psychic damage over time, and while that would normally be perfect versus a monster with low Mind, he needed to stop the Golem in its tracks now.

Rob gave consideration to each and every one of his Skills. The process took a quarter of a second, after which he came to a satisfying conclusion. There was one simple, surefire way that Rob could kill the Golem in one fell swoop:

By being 20 Levels higher.

Rob activated Imbue Vitality, combined it with Power Slash, tacked on the Anklet of Moderate Brawn for good measure, and swung his sword in a frontal two-handed arc. The Golem shattered upon impact, practically exploding as pieces of its body flew across the cavern. Rob's longsword snapped like a twig, and without missing a beat, he summoned a spare from his Spatial Storage and rushed the next-closest monster, a Level 29 centipede with mandibles as sharp as razors. It didn't last any longer than the Golem.

In the end, he'd been overthinking the situation. None of the monsters ambushing the allied coalition were stronger than Level 34 or so. Maybe the Rob of a few months ago would've been intimidated, but for the Rob of today, this was amateur hour. Another worm dropped from above, and he Rampaged up to meet it, stabbing its brain and pinning it to the ceiling in one motion.

EXP Gained!

Partial EXP Gained From Sharing Hand!

Partial EXP Gained From Sharing Hand!

Partial EXP Gained From Sharing Hand!

Reached Level 53!

5 Stat Points Gained!

BERSERKER Level Increased! 49 → 50

Rob shuddered as unfiltered dopamine flowed through him. While the monsters were weak by Riardin's Rangers standards and didn't grant much EXP, thanks to Orn'tol's Sharing Hand, every monster that they slew was counted as a partial victory for the entire Party. When combined with the kills he was scoring personally, the EXP was starting to pile up for Rob fast, Riardin's Rangers tearing into the monster horde like a knife through hot butter.

Zamira zipped from creature to creature, a silver blur, each swing of her sword signaling another death. Orn'tol had snared a group in his Temporal Trap and was shooting them like fish in a barrel. Vul'to Taunted a pack of monsters away from the Dwarves, using the creatures' incensed states to score easy hits. Meyneth and Faelynn acted like sharp-edged battering rams, bulldozing anything in their path. Malika giggled as she unloaded bolts of lightning that jumped from target to target. And Keira just plain beat the shit out of everything.

Pride swelled in Rob's chest as he crushed a mole-thing's skull with his bare hands. Looking good for the crowd, guys. Having achieved a moment of respite, he glanced at the Stonewarden and Seneschal, curious about how they were holding up in comparison.

He paused, eyes widening, as he was reminded of a simple fact. While Rob was 20 Levels above the monsters, the Leaders were 20 Levels above him. Stonewarden Grant's hammer shook the air with every blow, turning monsters into scattered bits of offal and pulp. A Golem aimed a full force punch at him, and the Stonewarden responded by catching the behemoth's fist with one hand and unceremoniously tossing it down the hallway. Wherever he strode, destruction followed, his mere presence exuding an untouchable aura. Rob got the impression that even if all the monsters dogpiled him at once, the Stonewarden would come out with nary a scratch on him.

Meanwhile, Seneschal Sylpeiros was casually strolling into a pack of monsters, an endless rain of magic lightning spears firing from his body. The spears were tiny, just a few inches long, but more than deadly enough to shred the creatures into confetti. His actual spear was gripped in his hand, unused and unnecessary – until a red-scaled snake barely managed to slip through the storm. Without glancing back, the Seneschal jabbed his spear over his shoulder and skewered it in a single thrust. Rob recognized that kind of motion; he'd seen Keira do it whenever Danger Sense warned her of an incoming attack.

...Well that was certainly a vibe check, Rob mused, as he resumed fighting. Riardin's Rangers may be big fish nowadays, but it's important to remember that we aren't the biggest fish. Not yet. He had to admit it – he was impressed.

--

Their strength is utterly ridiculous, Sylpeiros thought.

Dealing with the ambush was a trivial matter. The monsters would perish long before he ran out of MP. It afforded him plenty of time to observe the Human's Party – those who called themselves Riardin's Rangers – and take their measure.

What he saw was...disturbing. Sylpeiros had expected to witness the fighting prowess of a group of upjumped youths who'd lucked into high Levels. It was an irregularity that happened on very rare occasions, always following the same pattern. Levels were power, but power wielded without expertise was little better than handing a masterpiece sword to a toddler. The Human's Party, comprised of novices whose progress was artificially inflated by shared Fast Learner, should have fallen into that category.

Instead, he bore witness to practitioners of death plying their craft. The Human's Party battled with the precision and ferocity of fighters with ten times their combat experience. For every one monster that a Dwarven elite killed, a member of Riardin's Rangers killed three. Dumbfounded, Sylpeiros analyzed their maneuvers, attempting to produce a suitable justification for the rampant slaughter on display.

At first, he attributed it solely to their higher Levels and Awakened Classes. Both factors represented significant advantages over the Dwarves. The more he watched, though, the more he concluded that those advantages weren't enough. Even without them, Riardin's Rangers would still be outperforming the Dwarves to at least some degree. They were just...better.

Gritting his teeth, Sylpeiros forced himself to accept what the evidence was telling him. The Human's Party, despite being comprised of upjumped youths and two literal children, knew what they were doing. They fought without an ounce of hesitation, like veteran soldiers accustomed to staring death in its face. It was the demeanor of those who'd waded through hell and come out on the other side changed.

And somehow, that wasn't the most absurd part of the whole affair.

Sylpeiros glanced at the Human, who was currently shoving a Firebomb into a monster's mouth. Despite the Human's overtures of forgiveness towards the Dwarves, Sylpeiros knew the truth – he wasn't a native resident of Elatra. Refugees from The Village had spoken of the Human appearing from another world, and while their stories were difficult to believe, meeting the Human in person was proof enough.

He spoke in strange ways, using turns of phrases that no one else seemed familiar with. He was surprised by commonplace things, although he tried to hide it. And most of all, he wasn't in abject awe of the Leaders he met, considering them standards to chase rather than demigods to serve. If the Human was an Elatran native, then he was certifiably insane – yet his Leveling High somehow remained Mild.

Sylpeiros didn't actually care why the Human was hiding his origin. It amounted to just another piece of leverage to hold over his head if he started causing trouble. The crux of the matter was that, if the stories were true, then the Human had arrived in Elatra recently, with no combat experience whatsoever. At Level 1.

He was now Level Fifty-fucking-Two.

How? Sylpeiros' imagination ran wild as he observed the Human in his element. What in the world did your Party go through in so short a time?

--

The battle was nearly finished, having lasted less than a minute. While the monsters possessed a significant numbers advantage, they couldn't have picked a worse group to ambush. Rob laughed as he cut down the creatures one by one, blood splattering his chest, staining his clothes with red. Amid the massacre, Experience poured into him like a raging waterfall.

EXP Gained!

EXP Gained!

Partial EXP Gained From Sharing Hand!

EXP Gained!

Partial EXP Gained From Sharing Hand!

Partial EXP Gained From Sharing Hand!

Reached Level 54!

5 Stat Points Gained!

BERSERKER Level Increased! 50 → 51

Bliss. Rob closed his eyes, exulting in revelry as the last of the monsters fell. Pure bliss.

A strangled cry brought him back to reality. Rob's elation plummeted as he looked towards the Dwarven camp. Several soldiers were kneeling over a mangled corpse, tears running freely down their faces. The Stonewarden was one of them, his head bowed in solemn respect.

Rob felt sick to his stomach. Pragmatically speaking, suffering only one casualty after being ambushed by a monster horde was an excellent outcome. And fuck that line of thinking, because a death was a death. That was one more person who would never experience the grandeur of life again. Had events played out differently, it could have been one of Riardin's Rangers laying cold and motionless on the floor instead.

He forced down the last of his remnants of his joy, stuffing it into a box and locking it tight. It'd been a while since he got caught up in a Leveling High dopamine rush. The last time Rob lost himself that way, it ended with a Deserter civilian sacrificing his life to save him. He couldn't and wouldn't let something like that happen again. Planning ahead, Rob decided that when they were about to kill the Blight, he'd make sure not to deal the final blow. That amount of EXP flowing into him at once sounded like a dangerous prospect.

A presence in the back of his mind started thrashing wildly, outraged that he would dare think such a thing. Rob kicked it in the face until it retreated to its corner once more.

"He will not have died in vain," Stonewarden Grant announced, breaking the silence. "When we return, he shall receive a proper burial and be hailed as the hero he is."

The Dwarves nodded, picking themselves up as they donned masks of determination. They began marching immediately, spurred onward by renewed conviction – only for Rob to step in front of them and raise his hands. He almost felt guilty about interrupting their moment, but this was important. "Before we get going, do me a favor and check your Status Screens."

They acquiesced. In seconds, half the Dwarves had gone pale. "Corruption," Vevrandi uttered, her voice shaking. "13 Corruption. When did it...I didn't even notice..."

"You probably got scratched by a Blightspawn," Rob explained, approaching the Dwarven contingent. "Some of them are contagious." He touched Vevrandi's arm and swiftly Purged her Corruption with the effort of pulling a splinter. "Small amounts of Corruption won't ruin you or anything, but we should still take care of it before it becomes a problem down the road. 13 HP can mean the difference between life and death."

Nobody raised an objection. By the looks on the Dwarves' faces, they felt violated, as if their doctor had told them they'd been unknowingly infected with a tapeworm. Like any parasite, Corruption wasn't an enemy you could defeat with martial might, and that didn't sit well with men and women who'd dedicated their lives to combat.

"Done," Rob said, once he'd Purged the last Dwarf. He opened his mouth to offer some words of encouragement, then paused, deciding against it. What could he say that wouldn't sound empty? They all knew it was going to get worse from here.

Thankfully, the Stonewarden picked up the slack and gave them another pep talk, although it  – unsurprisingly – wasn't quite as effective this time. In the blink of an eye, the allied coalition had gone from traipsing through quiet mine shafts to being ambushed by Blightspawn, mourning the dead, and Purging Corruption. Their mission was well and truly underway now.

And the Blight still awaited further inside.

--

It didn't even take five minutes for something to happen again.

Rob was the first to notice. All of a sudden, his Senses went on high alert, like a radar pinging a submarine that had just surfaced from deep beneath the ocean. Before he could inform anyone of the disturbance, something else beat him to the punch.

"Titan, oh Titan."

The coalition froze in its tracks. Everyone exchanged glances to confirm that, yes, they'd all heard the same haunting voice echoing in the distance, far away enough that they could barely hear it.

"Ruler of stone, and father of all."

They continued on, very carefully, their ears straining as the voice grew louder.

"Giver of life, and king of the Hall."

Vevrandi gasped. She sprang forward a moment later, rushing down the passage, ignoring the confused shouting behind her. The Stonewarden caught up in an instant, restraining her as she thrashed about in a panic.

"Titan, oh Titan."

"Calm yourself, Vevrandi," the Stonewarden ordered. "Our enemy means to unnerve us. You cannot lose your composure at so critical a juncture."

Rob raised his voice. "Now would be a good time for me to mention that there's a metric shitload of Corruption up ahead."

"The promiser of eternal peace."

"No," Vevrandi babbled, her entire body trembling. "You don't understand. I recognize that voice."

"Our paradise, may it never cease."

The coalition rapidly conferred amongst each other. No one else recognized the voice; just Vevrandi. When they asked her who it belonged to, she answered, and their hearts sank.

"Titan, oh Titan."

They ran, throwing caution to the wind.

"The nightmares come, and Titan calls."

"The nightmares clash, and Titan falls."

Closer.

"Titan, oh Titan."

"False shepherd, broken crown."

"Nations burn, families drown."

"And so the world comes tumbling down."

Here.

In the center of a large mine shaft, a Dwarven woman sat, her back facing the coalition. She didn't respond to their arrival, head lowered as she incessantly muttered something under her breath. A moment later, she spoke aloud. "Titan, oh Tita–."

"Silviel?" Vevrandi asked, her tone as fragile as cracked glass. "Is that you?"

The Dwarf woman went silent. Slowly, she stood up, her body moving in harsh jerking motions. Vevrandi let out a strangled cry as the Dwarf woman turned around, revealing a spiderweb of black, pulsating veins on her face, surrounding eyes filled with the darkness of the void.

"Words." The Dwarf 'smiled', the corners of her lips forcefully dragged upward. "Language. An unexpected delight."

"There's Corruption in her," Rob said, knowing full well that he was stating the obvious. He flinched as the Dwarf-Thing turned its gaze upon him. Her smile crept further upward, skin tearing as it was stretched beyond its limit.

"Heartkiller." She laughed, her voice twinkling like rusted bells. "Wonderful...to finally speak."

--

Changes

Rob

Level 52 → 54

Dexterity 60 → 65

Step of the Wind Level 9 → 10 (from increasing Dexterity to 65)

Keira

Level 48 → 50

Zamira

Level 40 → 42

Orn'tol

Level 42 → 44

Vul'to

Level 41 → 43

Malika

Level 35 → 38

Meyneth

Level 42 → 44

Faelynn

Level 32 → 34

Chapter 17

"You survived ambush," the Dwarf-Thing continued, its mockery of a smile never fading. "Glad. Worried that-"

"YOU!" Several Dwarves were forced to restrain Vevrandi as she attempted to leap forward. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY SISTER? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO SILVIEL?!"

Rob shivered as the Dwarf-Thing tilted its head to the side in a mechanical motion. "Silviel." It froze completely still, like a computer program stuck on a loading icon, before abruptly returning to its version of normal. "Ah. Silviel. Good host. Body was...tight fit, but, just enough. Her memories...taught words."

Its smile stretched to the breaking point. "She says, 'I love you', and, 'kill me'."

Vevrandi let out a choking sob of rage and despair. The Stonewarden placed a hand on her shoulder, his eyes fixated on the abomination leering at them from across the passageway. "I am Stonewarden Grant, Leader of-"

"No. No more Dwarves." Silviel turned her head to gaze directly at Rob. "Only Heartkiller speaks."

Rob sucked in air through his teeth. He wanted nothing more than to shove that...thing into a crate of Firebombs and be done with it. While Silviel wasn't strong enough to be an actual Blight, her body was absolutely brimming with Corruption from head to toe, far outstripping any infected monster or Blightspawn he'd encountered. Hoping for new intel, he cast Identify.

Name: Silviel

Level: 39

Race: Hybrid

Status Effects: Blighted

Description: Please. Tell Vevrandi that I'm sorry.

Hardly reassuring.

Unfortunately, Rob knew that this wasn't an opportunity he could pass up. The closest they'd ever come to legitimate communication with a Blight-creature was when Malika used her Mana Language to distract the Corrupted Leviathan. Even then, they'd only learned that the Blights enjoyed killing, which was already pretty damn obvious to anyone who'd spent longer than fifteen seconds among them. Information was the key to victory in any war, and if Elatra wanted any real hope of surviving, then Rob needed to squeeze some new intel out of Silviel before it changed its mind about having a chat.

"So I guess that I'm supposed to be the Heartkiller?" he began, in as casual of a tone as he could muster. "Not quite sure I understand the nickname."

"It is fitting." Silviel's smile dropped – thank fucking Christ – as she explained. "Heart. Core. Vital for...continuation. You kill hearts. Our hearts. Permanently. Only one who can. Distressing."

Rob's mind raced as he worked to interpret her meaning. 'Only one who can' probably meant that it was something to do with Purge Corruption. 'Core' implied a centralized component, so it probably wasn't referring to the masses of people infected with Corruption. The Corrupted Loci of Power made more sense in that regard. 'Vital for continuation'...'permanently'...is curing the Loci having a bigger effect on the Blight than we thought it would? Like, I'm not complaining, but it's weird for something to go *better* than expected.

As he brainstormed, Silviel kept speaking. "How?" Her eyes widened. "Creatures of flesh...unable to touch Corruption. What makes you unique?"

Mindful of the Dwarves' intrigued stares on him, Rob formulated a response. "Good question – I'd like to know too. All I can tell you is that when I got infected by a bunch of Corruption months ago, I learned a Skill to get rid of it. Same way that Poison Resistance increases the more you get poisoned. That's just...how Skills operate. If anything, it's weirder that other people aren't learning it."

Aside from the Dwarves, he also didn't want Silviel to know exactly how he'd attained Purge Corruption. If she discovered that he absorbed the remnants of a broken Class Crystal, then strengthened his control of Blue energy by Attuning to Loci of Power, she might figure out a method to counteract him.

"Aberration," Silviel stated, tilting her head in the opposite direction. "Interesting...novelty. Shame to kill."

"That so? Then I'll make you a deal," Rob replied, saying the first thing that came to mind. "You stop doing literally everything you're doing, and I'll stop hunting you down and reversing your handiwork. That way we don't waste each other's time."

"Impossible." Silviel paused. "Also. Host asking...Vevrandi...to run. Repeatedly."

Rob momentarily closed his eyes as Vevrandi's cries washed over him. I'm sorry, he thought, but I have to ask. "What did you do to her? I've seen people infected with enough Corruption to reduce their HP to 0, and all it did was kill them."

"I am not Corruption."

"Bullshit. I can Sense it all over you, inside and out."

"Not Corruption itself. Source of Corruption. Parent, not child. Splinter from collective." Silviel raised her hand, methodically bending each finger in turn. "Difficult balance to...achieve. Tried many hosts. Fiends, first. Incompatible. Beings of mana. Warped too easily. Tried Dwarves next. Unlike Fiends. Fusion of...flesh...and mana. Sturdier. Still difficult. Most hosts burst. This didn't."

Rob stiffened, resisting the urge to look around and examine peoples' reactions. He hoped that the Dwarves were having trouble comprehending what Silviel was saying, as she'd just offhandedly revealed to everyone that the Fiends' bodies consisted only of mana. The same as monsters. "What-"

"My turn. To ask." Silviel's blackened eyes lit up with curiosity. "Heartkiller. Why struggle?"

Rob blinked. "You mean in a philosophical sense, or is that a legitimate inquiry? Because either way, I can assure you that if you quit wrecking the world for no reason, I'd be struggling a lot less."

Silviel fell silent. She stared at him for what felt like an eternity, something resembling pity crossing her expression. "It is true. You are all...corpses."

The Elven Seneschal hissed. "Is that a threat, you repugnant creature?"

"Classification." Silviel pointed at the allied coalition. "Corpses. Deceased." Her fingers spasmed. "Language terms...helpful. Learned so many. Do you know, Heartkiller? What words were...most shocking?"

She frowned, her mouth a direct inversion of her previous smile. "Delayed gratification. Wanting to do, and yet, not."

Silviel's arms snapped open, as if giving a prayer sermon. "This world is beautiful. Sun. Moisture. Gravity. Wind. Blood. Screams. So many sensations. So much to experience. An endless feast. Revelries for all time. You are blessed beyond your knowing. And you waste it."

Rob and the allied coalition winced as daggers of pain stabbed their ears. Uncaring of their discomfort, Silviel continued, her cadence building to an impassioned rant.

"Delayed gratification. The ultimate insanity. What is life...without...pleasure? Right now, you are corpses. Look at you. Your misery. None of you want...to be here. In this hole. And yet, you are. Suffering for...what? Others? Dreams? Future?"

She shivered with discomfort. "No. Unnatural. Lives wasted. Every second you...delay...you are dead. Less than nothing. The absence of joy."

The veins in her face pulsed faster. "We do not make that mistake. We revel. Savor the world...and...all its treats. Consume. Devour. Use it for the...kindling it is."

She peered upwards. "Then the great emptiness calls. We become...corpses, again. Until new kindling is found."

The passageway was deathly quiet. No one knew what to say. Silviel lowered her arms, turning her gaze to Rob once more. "Lucky, this time. New world. Already close."

Rob's blood ran cold. "The hell do you mean by that?"

"Earth." The word rang out like a gunshot. "Don't be...discouraged. We've kept Jason company."

Blue motes flashed around Rob's hand as he summoned a longsword. Before anyone could stop him, he cast Rampage, bursting forth, his sword aimed to cut out Silviel's lying fucking tongue.

The abomination's laughter echoed across the passage as its body began to swell like a balloon. Flesh ripped and muscles tore, a black fog seeping out from underneath its skin. Rob skid to a halt, not needing Danger Sense to know what was about to happen next. He cast another Rampage – backwards, this time – as Silviel erupted into a darkened cloud of Corruption that was so thick it was visible to the naked eye.

On instinct, Rob activated Purge Corruption and projected a layer of energy around himself. The cloud of Corruption slammed into him, surging ahead in a torrent, sizzling as it dissolved against his makeshift aura. Rob flinched, feeling his energy reserves take a hit as the cloud enveloped him, clamoring to breach his defenses.

Rob scarcely had time to wonder if he should retreat further or double down on his Purging aura when the cloud suddenly blew past him. With mounting horror, he spun around to find it racing towards the allied coalition like a swarm of black locusts. The coalition executed an offensive withdrawal, firing Skills as they did their best to move back in the cramped passageway. Spells and arrows rained down on the cloud, and they had some effect, but it was like trying to cut water with a sword.

Casting a third Rampage to catch up, Rob inserted himself into the Corruption and forcibly discharged a chunk of Purging energy outside his body. A third of the cloud was flash-fried in an instant, but the rest was too spread out. He couldn't Purge all of it before it reached the coalition. Riardin's Rangers, Elder Alessia, the Seneschal, and the Stonewarden had utilized their higher Dexterity to escape, but most of the Dwarves were moments away from being overtaken.

At their front stood Vul'to, who for some fucking reason wasn't making any attempt to escape with his Party. The Fiend extended his arms, face a mask of determination. Rob watched in amazement as a silver, translucent bubble spread outward from Vul'to's body, expanding to cover the Dwarven contingent. Corruption crashed into the bubble and was turned aside like a dam diverting water. It didn't sizzle like when touched by Purge Corruption, but try as it might, the Corruption couldn't get through, unable to reach the Dwarves safe inside.

The few Dwarves just outside the bubble's edge weren't so lucky. Three elite soldiers disappeared under the billowing cloud, their screams muffled by a harsh scraping noise that immediately filled the passageway. Rob caught glimpses of bones dropping to the floor, stripped clean and white. When the Corruption realized that it wouldn't be able to bypass Vul'to's barrier, it buzzed, as if agitated, the cloud condensing into a more solid form. Tendrils of dark began to sink into the rocky floor, grabbing the Dwarven remains and pulling them below. As quickly as it came, the formless Corruption vanished underground.

Then nothing. The allied coalition was left speechless, staring at the holes in the ground with blank expressions. Vul'to's protective bubble winked out as he fell to his knees, sweat dripping down his brow.

And from deep beneath the surface, Sense Corruption felt something begin to stir.

"IT'S COMING BACK!" Rob jabbed his finger at a spot located next to a Dwarf. The soldier reacted a hairsbreadth too slowly, his fate sealed by momentary hesitation. Blackened tendrils burst upwards from the ground, grabbing hold of each of the Dwarf's limbs, a shapeless mass rising after. Its form split open to reveal a mouth lined with jagged teeth made of clean-white bones. The Dwarven soldier cried out as the Corruption's maw sank into his chest, pulling him underground before anyone could help. His screams grew quieter as the floor closed shut and pressed tight.

Crunch.

Silence.

"SHIT! SHIT! THERE!" Rob pointed to a second spot, dashing to meet the formless Corruption before it surfaced. He let out a string of expletives as the Corruption turned on a dime, swerving away from Rob and towards an isolated Dwarf. Another scream, another crunch. The allied coalition tried to damage the Corruption as it emerged, but it was too quick to burrow down after ambushing a target, and without Sense Corruption they couldn't anticipate where it would show. Danger Sense could've theoretically worked, but Keira was at a distance, guarding Riardin's Rangers, while the Seneschal seemed hesitant to risk himself for the sake of Dwarven grunts.

Snarling loudly, Rob jumped into the air and spam-cast Rampage, burning through his MP as he soared over the Dwarves' heads. He landed next to Riardin's Rangers, and without messing a beat, grabbed Malika's arms and took aim. "When I say fire, fire," he insisted. "Understand?" The young Archmage nodded her head, her shoulders going taut as she awaited his order.

She didn't have to wait long. The formless Corruption twitched, selecting a new target, and began to ascend. Rob positioned Malika's arms, carefully, precisely, waiting for just the right moment-

"Fire."

An incandescent beam of pure mana lanced out from Malika's hands. It speared through rock and smashed into the Corruption with the force of an unending thunderbolt. Wordless shrieking pierced Rob's ears as the abomination writhed in agony, blackened 'flesh' peeling away. It tried to flee, but Rob tracked its movements, adjusting Malika's aim to follow the Corruption wherever it went.

"Empower Spell," the young Archmage whispered. "Mana Surge. Mana Burst. Mana Sacrifice. Refresh. Empower Spell again." Her attack doubled in width and intensity. The passageway shook like there was an earthquake. Malika's skin went ashen-white, as if she hadn't slept in days, and her eyes started to unfocus.

Rob was about to tell her to stop when the Corruption's shrieking abruptly cut out. The last layer of its defenses crumbled as it was engulfed in destructive mana. Bit by bit, its shape disintegrated, coming undone.

In the moments before it perished, a final, joyful laugh invaded everyone's minds.

NO. REGRETS.

And then it was gone.

Malika collapsed into Rob's arms, half-conscious, a satisfied smirk on her face.

Partial EXP Gained From Sharing Hand!

Reached Level 55!

5 Stat Points Gained!

BERSERKER Level Increased! 51 → 52

Rob shivered, nearly dropping Malika as Leveling High overtook him. He viciously beat the sensation away, making sure to gently place Malika on the ground as he checked her Status Screen. Her MP was bottomed out, and despite not having taken any actual damage, her HP had dropped precipitously low due to her usage of Mana Sacrifice. Shared Regeneration would restore her HP soon enough, but MP Potions would be necessary to prevent Mana Exhaustion from setting in. Orn'tol was already on it, tipping Potions down her throat with the care of a worried older brother.

"Was that the Blight?" A Dwarven soldier asked, her voice wavering with desperate optimism.

Rob shook his head. "Unfortunately, no. That was an offshoot. The real deal is still further inside."

Vevrandi unleashed a howl of unmitigated emotion, slamming her axe into the ground. "I'll kill it." Slam. "I'll KILL it." Slam. "I'll make the fucking thing beg for mercy, and then I'll KILL IT."

As she reared back to slam her axe again, the Stonewarden caught it in his hand, the sharpened edge leaving a minor scratch on his palm. "Your rage is warranted," he stated, in a tightly-controlled tone. "Yet take care not to dull your weapon or your mind. Both will be integral to achieving the vengeance that you seek." His cheek twitched. "That we seek."

Some of the Dwarves nodded in assent. The rest just stood there, gradually processing what they'd witnessed. There was no overt grieving for their deceased comrades – only the stupefaction of having seen five elite soldiers devoured in an instant, without so much as a lock of hair left behind to bury.

Vevrandi looked away, tears streaming down her face. After a few seconds, she picked herself up, inhaling and exhaling a deep breath. "My apologies," she replied. "I...lost my composure. Silviel would be laughing at me if she were here right now."

"No. She would be honored by your resilience." Stonewarden Grant swept his gaze across the members of the allied coalition, looking at each of them in turn. "To my understanding, that was the first instance of a Blight – offshoot or otherwise – communicating via spoken words. While it may not have been worth the cost, we must make use of the knowledge this opportunity has imparted upon us. Think back to what it said."

'We've kept Jason company.'

Rob bit his tongue, hard, to keep himself from an outburst that he wouldn't be able to explain. A tempest of panic whirled in his mind as he attempted to make sense of what the Blight had said. How did anyone on Elatra – Riardin's Rangers excluded – know Jason's name? It was plausible that word had spread through the grapevine about the existence of Earth, as that wasn't a secret among the Deserters, but he'd only ever told his friends about Jason.

Excuses popped up one after another. Maybe the Blight was connected to the aberrant Dungeon infested with Dreamthieves, and it'd read Rob's memories while he was trapped in them. Maybe the Blight was truly omniscient and could hear him speaking aloud no matter where he was. Maybe it merely took a guess, and Jason was actually just a really popular name in Elatra...despite Rob never having met anyone with it...

...Or maybe the Blight had done exactly what it said it would: travel to the closest nearby world and throw a wild party while Rob was out.

I need to get back to Earth. The notion, which had been a distant goal up until that point, suddenly felt immensely urgent. The Fiends are my best bet if they can jury-rig their teleportation magic into dimensional magic. Will ask them – order them, if necessary. Don't care how much of my Roy the Savior clout I have to abuse. We need to figure this out *yesterday*.

He was tempted to cast Waymark to return to Fiendland immediately, but that would've been a catastrophically bad idea for numerous reasons, especially since he couldn't transport his full Party plus Elder Alessia in one go. As much as he wanted to focus on Earth, the Blight of Dhalerune Mines had to die first. Letting it roam free would condemn hundreds of thousands to a Corruptive death, plunging Dwarven territory into chaos.

"...I doubt we'll be negotiating a ceasefire anytime soon," Rob said, speaking up. "The Blight didn't seem interested in stopping. I'm not even sure it understands the concept of stopping."

"That much was expected," the Elven Seneschal added. "During the defense of Reviton City, we tried every means possible to communicate with the Blight-infected monsters it was using as foot soldiers. Perhaps it is unable to comprehend our language in most cases, but the sight of soldiers waving flags or laying down their weapons should have been sufficient indication that peace was an option."

"You laid down your weapons in front of Blight-infected monsters?" Elder Alessia asked, her eyebrows raised.

The Seneschal sent her a withering look. "We didn't allow our soldiers to die, if that's what you're implying. And I don't regret the attempt. Times were desperate; our calls for aid had been rebuffed, and our morale was stretched to its limit. While our efforts failed, they proved that the Blight was far more inclined towards continuing the slaughter than anything resembling mutual conversation. Rather than Common or Elvish, violence and destruction are its languages."

He gestured to Rob. "That's why they demanded to speak with him, and him alone. The Blight is only intrigued by the Human because he's capable of harming them. Otherwise, he would simply be another bag of meat and blood for the abominations to feast on. You heard what it said – those who do not engage in unbridled hedonism are little more than corpses. What hope could we possibly have of reaching an understanding with entities such as that?"

The allied coalition mulled over the Seneschal's words in silent agreement. Eventually, the Stonewarden glanced at Vul'to. "Young Fiend. You have my thanks for protecting so many Dwarven lives. Many more would have died without your assistance." He leaned closer. "What was that Skill you utilized? Has the Human taught you a variant of Purge Corruption?"

Vul'to shook his head. "My Awakened Class is called Soul Guardian. In addition to the usual Vanguard skillset, it grants me the ability to protect souls. Hence the name. While I can't kill Corruption outright, I can expend MP to turn it aside."

Group Message Received From Party Member: Vul'to

Vul'to: Admittedly, I did not possess Soul Shield until I witnessed the cloud of Corruption racing towards us.

Vul'to: Seeing it triggered a Prerequisite and let me gain the Skill.

Faelynn: Is this related to how your Class's name changed a second time?

Vul'to: Yes. I still have all my normal Guardian Skills from before I...

Vul'to: From before.

Vul'to: The Soul Guardian Skills appear to be a newfound bonus.

Vul'to: Please let the Dwarves believe that it's solely because of a Class Awakening.

"How fundamentally bizarre," one of the Dwarven soldiers muttered. "Why would a Fiend learn Skills to protect souls? It's not like gorebeasts learn how to give shelter to their prey."

"That's an interesting way of saying 'thank you'," Rob interjected, in a nonchalant tone. The soldier averted his eyes, appearing chastened, as did several other Dwarves who'd presumably been thinking the same thing.

"On the subject of safeguarding our souls," the Stonewarden began, addressing Rob. "How much of your Purge Corruption energy remains?"

Rob grimaced. "About three-fourths. It drains a lot faster when I have to push it into the air."

"Why the despondent look? Three-fourths seems like a healthy amount."

"It is until I need to do more than remove small bits of Corruption from people," he explained. "A Blight has so much HP that attacking it with Purge Corruption is like dumping water into a giant pile of dry sand. The water will overflow eventually, but only when the sand is fully saturated. And keep in mind that restoring a Corrupted Locus of Power drains exactly three-fourths of my energy stores. We won't be able to get that done today if I have to use Purge Corruption again on anything else."

He shrugged. "I'd normally recommend we wait for my energy to recover, but that'll take six hours, so we might as well get moving in the meantime."

The Stonewarden nodded. "We'll revisit the matter when we draw closer to the Corrupted Locus." He paused. "Aside from that, did you understand what the Blight meant by its parting comments? Regarding new worlds, and an 'Earth', and a 'Jason'? It seemed to assume that you knew what it was referring to."

Rob suppressed another grimace as his skin began to crawl. Hearing Elatrans – besides his Party members – say Jason's name felt wrong, for some reason. "Honestly? No idea what it was talking about."

The Stonewarden looked him directly in the eyes. "That is a lie, Human."

Diplomacy is going to chew me out so badly when they find out about this. Rob hesitated, considering just spilling the beans about the whole Earth expat thing. The Dwarves were going to find out sooner or later. Before he could say anything, though, Elder Alessia spoke up.

"Is this truly the time and place to cast suspicion on our allies?" Alessia faced down the Stonewarden, uncaring of the difference in their Levels and social status. "Especially when you haven't extended the same degree of trust to others that you expect for yourself."

She tapped her finger once on the back of her thigh, a motion that only Riardin's Rangers would be able to see. 'Follow my lead', it meant. Rob was momentarily confused, wondering why Alessia would go so far to antagonize the Stonewarden, before realizing that he should chime in regardless of her motives.

Once this segment of the conversation ended, and the Dwarves continued discussing Silviel's revelations, there'd be only one topic remaining that they hadn't touched upon yet.

"You wouldn't even tell us what was inside a tunnel with a spooky sign in front," Rob added, crossing his arms. "We've all got our secrets. That's fine. Everyone does. Just don't expect us to start handing them out when you're clearly keeping just as many."

Irritation flashed across most of the Dwarves' faces. The Stonewarden was quiet, his expression once again defaulting to impassive neutrality. Most importantly, all of them seemed to have forgotten about the Blight mentioning that Fiends were creatures consisting of pure mana. If the Dwarves ever put two and two together, realizing that Fiends were descended from monsters, any chance of the two races establishing peaceful relations would be blown straight to hell. Personally, Rob didn't care who or what the Fiends' ancestors were, but it was a subject so taboo that even the few Fiends who knew the truth were tormented by it.

"Well then," the Elven Seneschal said, with an air of amusement. "I can scarcely believe that I'm the one who has to say this, but...calm yourselves. We have a mission to complete. Air your grievances once the fighting is done."

He was right, of course. As everyone settled down, preparing to head out, Rob tried and failed to shove the Blight's words out of his mind. He envisioned Earth overrun by Blightspawn, humans screaming as clouds of Corruption dissolved them into paste. Hospitals well over capacity, unable to deal with a mysterious sickness that no one knew how to cure. Shambling abominations walking the streets, laughing delightedly as they reveled in the carnage.

It...would be fine. Earth wasn't like Elatra. It had technology and weapons on a scale that would make the Dragon Queen herself blush. If the Blight attempted the same thing on Earth as it was here, it would get mowed down by armed forces in the first week. Earth would be fine. His parents and Jason would be fine.

So why couldn't he get rid of that sinking feeling in his chest?

--

Changes

Rob

Level 54 → 55

Keira

Level 50 → 51

Zamira

Level 42 → 43

Orn'tol

Level 44 → 45

Vul'to

Level 43 → 44

Malika

Level 38 → 40

Meyneth

Level 44 → 45

Faelynn

Level 34 → 35

Chapter 18

Two more hours passed as the allied coalition descended further into Dhalerune Mines. The Corruption had thickened to the point of being partially visible, tiny particles floating through the air like black fireflies. Thankfully, it wasn't so dense that it overpowered the anti-Corruption Amulets, but Rob wasn't sure how long those would hold out. They'd never been stress tested to this degree before. It was a constant worry on everyone's minds – if the Amulets did start to fail, things would get complicated very, very quickly. Rob didn't have enough Hazmat Suits in his Spatial Storage for thirty-five people.

On the bright side, they hadn't been ambushed again. Either the Blight was fresh out of foot soldiers to throw at them, or it was saving more in reserve for the grand finale. Rob wasn't sure which. The optimal strategy would have been for the Blight to save all of its minions until the end, letting ambient Corruption eat away at the coalition before assailing them with the combined might of the Blight's horde, but Rob wouldn't be surprised if it'd just blown its load early. Sometimes the Blight got a little too eager and excited, resulting in performance issues. Happens to everybody.

While fortunate, the lack of action left Rob with nothing better to do. Riardin's Rangers could only go over the same battle strategies for so long before their brains began to atrophy. Eventually, Rob decided he might as well contact Elder Alessia and clarify a few things.

Message Started Between Party Members: Rob, Alessia

Rob: quick question

Rob: why'd you get aggressive with the stonewarden earlier?

Alessia: You did the same when he refused to inform you what lay beyond the forbidden tunnel.

Rob: well, yeah, but it was probly a bad idea

Rob: ur supposed to be smarter than me

Rob: dont we need to be playing nice with him?

Alessia: To a certain extent.

Alessia: I mean no offense when I say that you, Rob, are still a novice in the realm of political intrigue.

Alessia: The Stonewarden is concealing his true intentions under a veneer of civility.

Rob: i know, he's made it obv that he's hiding stuff

Alessia: I'm not referring to the Thunder Rods or the tunnel.

Alessia: Those are mere surface-level issues.

Alessia: What the Stonewarden is attempting to accomplish when speaking with you is to establish a baseline for future interactions.

Alessia: He's intelligent. He knows that this is likely the start of a long and fruitful relationship between  Dwarven territory and Fiend territory.

Alessia: And you, as their nominal ambassador, will shape the nature of that relationship.

Alessia: Unintentionally or otherwise.

Alessia: By giving orders and probing for information, the Stonewarden seeks to place you into a subservient role. Even if you hold your ground, his verbiage will put you on the defensive and make you appear slightly more unreasonable to the other Dwarves.

Alessia: He's fully aware that you desire peace. With every interaction that ends with you rebuffing his overtures of cooperation, you'll begin to subconsciously feel as if you 'owe' him something.

Alessia: You should also take note of how he often includes your name in his rally speeches to the Dwarves, framing Purge Corruption as a strategic asset under his control. By doing so, he siphons a portion of your glory, as if your accomplishments are his own.

Alessia: Think of it as a form of posturing disguised as outwardly innocent remarks.

Rob sent an ugly glare at the Stonewarden, who was at the front of their march. He hoped that the Dwarf could feel two laser eye-beams of annoyance burrowing into the back of his head.

Message Continued

Rob: thats kind of a dick move

Alessia: Any Leader worth their salt would do the same.

Alessia: With that in mind, I stepped in and pushed against him for two reasons.

Alessia: First, to diffuse some of the pressure he was foisting onto you.

Alessia: While your antics have done an admirable job of disrupting his subterfuge, they were reaching their limit.

Alessia: Second, to show that we refuse to be manipulated, and that I am both aware and unamused by his attempts.

Alessia: While not all of the Dwarves understood my implicit message, the Stonewarden did.

Rob nodded. It made sense. He considered what Elder Alessia had said, another question coming to mind.

Message Continued

Rob: thanks for the help

Rob: one last thing tho

Rob: you said 'any Leader worth their salt', but

Rob: as far as I can tell

Rob: the elven seneschal isnt doing backhanded stuff like this

Alessia: No, he is not.

Alessia: I'm under the impression that he gave up on projecting any semblance of cordiality long ago, after it failed to produce results.

Alessia: He prefers actions over words. Be useful to him, and to the Elves, and he will continue our alliance.

Alessia: Even as he hates you.

Rob: sure, i can roll with that

Oddly enough, Rob felt more at ease after his talk with Elder Alessia. While she'd essentially told him that the Stonewarden was trying to box him into a corner, the fact that she'd noticed at all was reassuring. With Diplomacy temporarily out of action, that was the kind of political acumen they needed to survive the mire of inter-nation bullshit this trip was turning into. Otherwise they'd...

"...Wait," Rob abruptly said, projecting his voice across the passageway. "Something's up ahead." The allied coalition stopped in its tracks, then hunkered down, waiting for Rob to speak as he focused on interpreting Sense Corruption. "Hard to tell with all the ambient Corruption in the air, but...yeah. There's definitely some outliers in the next passageway. More Corruption than a standard infected monster, less Corruption than Silviel."

Everyone immediately went on high alert. Whatever was waiting for them, they wouldn't be caught unawares a second time. Too many soldiers had died already – the Dwarven contingent was going to make damn sure that they didn't lose anyone else.

Of course, Rob was positive that plenty more would die before the day was over, but he wasn't about to puncture the gradually-deflating balloon that was their morale. Nor could he afford to feel guilty about potentially leading lambs to the slaughter. They were soldiers who knew the risks of a mission like this, and he had his own Party to worry about.

Once they were prepared, the allied coalition crept forward, approaching the adjacent passageway with caution. All was quiet, which meant absolutely nothing. It'd been quiet in the moments preceding the last ambush, too. They held their breath, stepping lightly, ready for twisted abominations to jump out of the shadows-

"Stop." Rob held out his arm to forestall them. "It's..." He trailed off.

"Do you recognize what the influx of Corruption belongs to?" the Stonewarden asked.

Rob lowered his head. He replied several seconds later, unable to procrastinate any longer. "...Yes."

They waited for him to elaborate. Rob almost told the Dwarves to stay here and let him handle things, hoping to spare them from a sight they'd never forget, but he knew they wouldn't agree to that. Instead, he informed them of who was waiting up ahead, slouching dejectedly when the Dwarves took off running.

Cries of horror echoed through the Mines soon after. It was an emotion that Rob wholeheartedly empathized with.

He'd felt the same way on a daily basis during the Corruption epidemic.

Catching up, the rest of the coalition entered the next passageway to find a small cavern with Dwarven bones strewn about. There were enough to fit at least two dozen bodies, and that wasn't counting the errant fragments that had been chewed to pieces and partially devoured. Rob carefully stepped over the scattered piles, his face set in a grim mask of determination as he approached the real reason that the Dwarves had cried out.

On the side wall, eight flesh-and-blood Dwarves were sitting in a line, barely breathing and completely motionless. At a distance, it was difficult to tell if they were even alive. Corruption pulsed off their bodies in waves, wrinkling Rob's nose like he'd smelt a landfill of raw sewage. The Dwarven soldiers crowded around, panic rising as they tried and failed to rouse their fallen brethren from their torpor.

Switching to a triage mindset, Rob rapid-cast Identify, categorizing five of them under 'point of no return' and three of them under 'salvageable'. Frankly, considering the state they were in, three was already a miracle. For non-Fiends to be so thoroughly infected with Corruption, the Blight itself must have gotten up close and personal for an extended period of time. These Dwarves matched the absolute worst of the Fiends he'd treated during his tenure as a de facto paramedic.

Rob moved forward, gently pushing aside bereaved soldiers to stand at the front of the crowd. "Him, him, and her," he said, pointing at each of the salvageable Dwarves in turn. "I can help them. The rest...I'm sorry. They're gone."

Most of the soldiers trembled with anguish, but they didn't oppose his judgement. The remaining five patients had the Status Effect 'Brain Death', and when looking into their eyes, it was apparent that there was nothing left within those empty gazes. No amount of magic or Skills could fix that.

"At the risk of sounding crass," Elder Alessia said, "we need to discern what transpired here before it becomes a risk to us as well. Do you know these Dwarves, Grant?"

The Stonewarden nodded with a rigid, tightly-constrained motion. "Their group consists of both the Miners who went missing and the scouting troops that never reported back. It...may be worth noting that some of the scouts are still unaccounted for."

Everyone glanced at the bones laying on the floor – except for Rob, who was hard at work stabilizing the three Dwarves. While fully Purging their Corruption would take time and care, removing a small portion right away would keep them from dying to a stiff breeze. As it stood, the Dwarves couldn't have had more than single-digit maximum HP.

That's one down, Rob thought, as he moved on to patient #2. For now. Purging all of their Corruption will take...

Too long, he realized. Every minute they spent in Dhalerune Mines was dangerous, giving the Blight further opportunity to strike against them. It would also cut into his still-regenerating Purge Corruption energy stores, and he wanted that to be as high as possible for when he gave the Blight a friendly house call. From a pragmatic standpoint, the most optimal solution would be to finish stabilizing the Dwarves, then leave them behind, wallowing in their pain and susceptible to any infected monster that happened to be passing by.

Before the impending moral quandary could start to torment him, Rob did what any aspiring politician would have, and shamelessly passed the buck. "Stonewarden?" he began. "I've got an update for you." He explained the situation in full detail, including the time constraints and exactly how agonizing it was to be infected with significant amounts of Corruption.

The Stonewarden closed his eyes, falling into deep thought. "Can you improve their condition to a degree where they've regained their capacity for speech?"

"Already on it."

"Then speak, they shall. I will not make any decision on their behalf without first hearing their input."

Rob whistled internally. Passing the buck to half-dead sickies? That's a level of shamelessness I can only hope to achieve someday. It worked, though, the Dwarven contingent seeming satisfied with his magnanimity. As Rob finished stabilizing Patient #3, Patient #1 finally cracked open his eyes, a shuddering breath escaping his throat.

"Be at ease," the Stonewarden said, in a kindly tone. "We are here to-"

"Kill me."

The coalition froze. Patient #1's voice was incredibly faint, no louder than a gentle breeze rustling a single blade of grass, but it cut through the silence like a scream in the dead of night. "Kill me," he repeated, with the same cadence as before. "Please."

"I can heal you," Rob said, emphasizing his words in a practiced manner. This wasn't the first patient he'd encountered who wished for the sweet release of death. To someone infected with significant Corruption, the notion of things getting better often felt like an unattainable dream. "I know how much pain you're in right now, but I swear on my life that it isn't permanent."

"You don't...understand." Patient #1 raised a trembling finger and weakly tapped his chest. "Creature. Beyond comprehension. Invaded our bodies. Tried to fit. Wear us like a glove."

He shivered from head to toe. "Left things behind."

Rob immediately focused Sense Corruption on the Dwarves. Beneath the mass of writhing darkness polluting their souls, there was something...else.

Something gestating.

"Tell me, Human," Patient #1 wheezed. "...Hah. A Human. Never thought I'd see..." He coughed once. "Tell me. Can you remove the things? And even if you did...would I be like before?"

Rob didn't answer. Whatever the Blight had left behind was entrenched deep within the Dwarf's soul. As long as it was born of Corruption, Rob could theoretically remove it, but doing so would take a great deal of effort and likely cause irreparable harm in the process. The gestating somethings were new threats, requiring a new approach, and pioneering an invasive soul-based medical procedure wasn't exactly easy. Mistakes would be made; he'd learned as much during the beginning of the Corruption epidemic.

"Hesitation," the Dwarf whispered. A smile flickered across his expression. "Tells all." He glanced at the Stonewarden. "Take no risks. Kill me. Let me offer my EXP. Use my death to slay the beast that ruined us."

A surge of excitement overtook Rob, urging him to take the Dwarf up on his offer and slip a knife between his ribs. In the moment it took Rob to force the feeling down, the Dwarves were already nodding in solemn agreement, as if preparing for a funeral rite.

"Hold the fucking phone," Rob spat out. "I didn't say it was impossible. Just-"

"If you fail," the Stonewarden interrupted, "we lose time, resources, and the Blight-sown seeds within their bodies might bloom." His posture stiffened. "This is not the decision I'd hoped to make, but in war, sacrifices must be made."

"Burn us."

Rob did a double-take when he realized who the statement had come from. Patient #2 was awake and staring at them, his eyes wide open. "Burn us afterwards," he whispered. "Just to be safe." Next to him, Patient #3 nodded, her expression a mixture of determination and acceptance.

"Christ." Rob jerked away, scratching the back of his head. He checked Riardin's Rangers, and they seemed perturbed as well, although not quite as much as he was. "Is this some Dwarven honor thing?" he laughed, anxiety creeping into his voice.

"They wish to protect their homeland," the Stonewarden said, quietly but firmly. "Do not denigrate their resolve."

Without another word, Rob turned around and walked into the corner of the room. Riardin's Rangers sent him concerned Messages, to which he replied quickly and honestly: he just didn't want to watch what was about to happen next. While he'd never taken an official doctor's oath, after combating Corruption infections for months on end, throwing in the towel when sick patients needed him went against everything he stood for. Guess I was fooling myself when I tried passing the buck.

His train of thought screeched to a halt. Wait. That's what I'm so upset about? A vague sense of obligation being broken? Not...the actual people about to die? Rob searched inside himself, relieved when he found a core of empathy yet untouched by the horrors of Elatra. He still cared for the common man. A part of him would mourn these three Dwarves he wasn't allowed to save.

But when it came down to it, death was no longer a stranger to him. Over the last nine months, hundreds of people had died in front of his eyes. He couldn't pretend that he was as shocked by witnessing senseless loss of life as when he first came to Elatra. Hell, for an instant there, he'd wanted to be the one to accept the Dwarf's EXP.

Hopefully that was more because of Leveling High's influence than his own desires.

I'm still me, Rob thought, mostly believing it. He'd changed, and not all for the better, but when he returned to Earth, his friends and family wouldn't look at him as if he was an impostor. At his core, he was Rob, and that was good enough for him. Dwelling on it any further would only lead him down a mental rabbit hole – that he didn't have Diplomacy to pull him out of anymore.

Rob waited in silence while the soldiers carried out their task, granting merciful deaths as promised. Minutes later, eight Dwarven bodies were set aflame on a pyre, the gestating things nestled within exploding like popcorn kernels. At Rob's insistence, the bodies were immolated once more, reduced to ashes without a hint of unnatural life hidden inside. If the Dwarves were going to go as far as sacrificing themselves, Rob was going to ensure that their Corruption died with them.

It was the least he could do.

After a brief eulogy given by the Stonewarden, the allied coalition set off again. They marched in silence, tongues stifled by the events of the past few hours. Rob could tell that the fates of Silviel and the captive Dwarves were weighing heavily on the Stonewarden's contingent. If the Blight's intent was to demoralize them, then its plan had been a resounding success.

Regardless, the coalition trudged on. They had no other choice; their business was yet unfinished.

The final stretch of Dhalerune Mines awaited.

--

"We're here."

They'd arrived at a mine shaft like any other. There weren't any distinct markings or landmarks to set it apart. According to Stonewarden Grant, they weren't even close to the end of the Mines.

None of that changed the fact that they were here. Rob could Sense what rested within the next passageway, right outside of view.

A Locus, and the abomination that Corrupted it.

"It's just...sitting there," Rob explained, the allied coalition hanging on his every word. "Or maybe standing? Hard to tell. Too much ambient Corruption in the air – I can't get a read on its body type."

"But it is the Blight?" the Seneschal asked.

"Oh yeah." He grimaced. "Way more Corruption in its form than Silviel. Can't be anything else."

"How does it compare in strength to the other Blights you've encountered?"

Rob paused, almost afraid to speak the truth in case it emboldened the universe to try and prove him wrong. "Weak, honestly. Way below the matured Blight of Broadwater City. Several notches below the newborn from The Village, even."

The allied coalition exchanged glances. While Rob's findings were fantastic news, it wasn't at all what they'd expected. Blights only grew in strength over time, and this particular Blight had absorbed the Locus at least a week ago.

"It may have weakened itself via its own actions," the Stonewarden posited. "Silviel's possessor mentioned that it was a splinter from the collective. Perhaps the Blight broke off a portion of its essence when experimenting on the captives."

Vevrandi held her axe in a white-knuckled grip. "Despicable, vile creature. Why would the Blight have gone that far simply to seize control of Dwarven bodies?"

Because of a whim, Rob thought. It had been curious, wishing to know more about the Heartkiller, a mortal who'd managed to strike back in a way that truly hurt. And what better way to learn more about your enemy than to converse with them in their native tongue?

Rob wasn't about to say all that out loud. He had enough tact to recognize that 'your sister suffered because the Blight wanted to chat with me' was probably a detail he should keep to himself. It did, however, remind him of something important.

"The Blight knows we're coming," he stated, addressing the coalition as a whole. "It prepared the ambush, then Silviel, then the captives, knowing the route we'd take."

The Seneschal let out a displeased grunt. "As straightforward as it may sometimes be, the Blight is planning more than it did in the past. I'm not sure I like that trend."

"Wonderful," Elder Alessia deadpanned. "To summarize: its form can be anything, it has anticipated our arrival, and retreating will be difficult once we attack due to the Mine's narrow passageways. Strategies relying on subtlety are likely to prove ineffective." A serene smile spread across her face. "With all that considered, our path is clear."

At her words, the allied coalition readied their weapons. They exchanged wordless glances, everyone coming to the same conclusion. The Stonewarden raised his hammer into the air and held it there for a single, tense second.

"Charge."

Riardin's Rangers, Elder Alessia, the Elven Seneschal, and twenty-five pissed off Dwarves stampeded forth. Outside of the higher-Leveled, higher-Vitality people being placed at the front, there was no rhyme or reason to their assault – just a shared rampage of emotions and intent. If this Blight actually was weak, then they would overwhelm it with raw power before it could mount a defense. And if it wasn't, and this was a trap...

They'd find a way to kill it anyway.

The passage led out into a massive cavern, hundreds of feet wide and tall, by far the largest in Dhalerune Mines they'd seen. A thrum of contaminated energy pulsated from the center of the room, spewing particles of Corruption like a heartbeat circulated blood. There was nothing visible to the naked eye, yet Rob could feel the call of the Locus tugging at his mind. It was there, imprisoned, waiting to be set free.

A hulking figure towered over it. Rob couldn't help but pause when he saw the Blight's form, appearing  similar to a tree, of all things. Thin, darkened 'bark' stretched upwards, dividing off into multiple separate branches that shrouded the Locus in a tender embrace. Its branches – its limbs – creaked dangerously as they moved, so brittle that they seemed as if they might break apart at the slightest touch.

And then, without warning, they did just that. The Blight collapsed, its branches and bark snapping into twigs as they fell to a heap on the floor.

LONELY.

Rob winced as the Blight's eldritch speech stabbed his eardrums. A moment later, the cavern started shaking violently, knocking a good chunk of the allied coalition off their feet. For the first time since they'd entered Dhalerune Mines, Rob was legitimately worried the Mines were about to collapse, prompting him to hover his mental finger over Waymark. The shaking only got worse and worse, rising in intensity, the walls cracking as-

COMMUNION.

Sense Corruption began to scream.

In the distance, a presence approached. It tore through solid rock like nothing, going from the far edge of Rob's Sense Corruption range to being shockingly close in a matter of seconds. He instinctively reached for Keira's hand, the two of them holding each other for comfort as their worst nightmares became realized.

A second fucking Blight burst upwards through the ground, showering everyone with debris, its skin glistening and raw. The creature slithered towards the crumbled first Blight – which was increasingly looking like it'd been bait – and hurriedly enveloped it. Both abominations mashed together, their combined mass reshaping like clay, forming a blackened monstrosity with too many legs and branches whipping about like crooked tentacles.

WHOLE AGAIN.

Rob shivered as he Sensed an outpouring of Corruption suffuse the area, feeling the grim reaper's scythe poised over his neck. Even with Purge Corruption, Rob knew that he couldn't win. He wouldn't get the chance to activate it before being eviscerated into tiny giblets. This Blight, in its rejoined form, was leagues stronger than the newborn from The Village.

And there was no Dragon Queen to kill it this time.

Discordant cackling rang out through the cavern. As the abomination laughed, exulting in the joy of communion, Rob fought to stand his ground, every shred of his survival instinct telling him to RUN.

Keira's hand gripped tighter.

...Thanks, he thought, gripping back. Rob used that moment of borrowed calm to center himself, taking stock of their situation. The Blight was...terrifying, yeah, no two ways about it. He couldn't win on his own. But he wasn't on his own, was he? That was the whole damn point of forming an allied coalition. Individually, they were screwed.

Together, they could win.

With muted surprise, Rob belatedly noticed that he wasn't the only one who'd been stunned into inaction. Pretty much everyone in the coalition seemed to be rethinking their life choices. Even the Leaders and Elder Alessia were frozen, unsure of how to proceed, despite the sole path forward being blindingly obvious.

Apparently, someone had to be that initial idiot who took the first step.

Might as well be him.

"Charge," Rob echoed, summoning a weapon and making good on his word.

Chapter 19

For a brief moment, there was only Rob, running forward with nothing except a sword in his hand. The allied coalition – and even the Blight – were left stunned at the sight of a single Human charging towards certain death.

Then the moment passed. Behind him, Rob heard the sounds of thirty-five Combat Class users springing into action. Stonewarden Grant shouted orders, his troops taking formation. The melee fighters in Riardin's Ranger chased after Rob, while the ranged fighters prepared their spells and arrows.

Ahead of him, the Blight skittered closer, racing to meet Rob's challenge head-on. It wasn't quite a spider, but it had the legs to match, possessing eight spindly limbs covered by glistening black carapace. Its torso looked more like an undulating, oval-shaped blob, complete with numerous branchlike arms dotting its upper half. There was no head or face Rob could see; just hard carapace and sharp edges from top to bottom. He immediately started to regret that he'd put a meager 5 extra points into Dexterity – despite the Blight's bizarre anatomy and it being the size of a small house, the creature was as fucking fast as he'd expected it to be.

So fast, in fact, that it dodged the projectiles sent its way with contemptuous ease, reaching Rob well before his backup arrived.

Oh. It was the only thought he had time to process before a mass of skittering black descended upon him. Rob cast Rampage, flinging himself sideways as half a dozen appendages skewered the space where he'd been. The branchlike arms alternated between flailing wildly and stabbing with expert precision, each individual limb moving as quickly as a lance strike from Seneschal Sylpeiros. Rob dashed back, forced to spam two more Rampages as the Blight pursued him. Ten seconds into the fight, and he was already down to 200 out of 350 MP, with his Skill spam offering him merely the barest of reprieves.

Recognizing that he needed an extra boost of speed, Rob activated Step of the Wind. The Skill increased his Dexterity by 14, allowing him to put some distance between himself and oh shit never mind. Blight was still faster. Screw it, Rob thought, as the beast drew closer. I just need one good touch. Purge Corruption energy gathered in his fingertips, ready to be used.

Immediately, the Blight halted its approach and veered to the side. Its torso split open to reveal a gaping maw lined with red-rimmed teeth. Sense Corruption went ballistic as massive volumes of Corruption began to form inside the Blight's body. A chill crept up Rob's spine; he'd seen this attack before, back when the Blight of Broadwater spewed forth a miasmic cloud that wiped out hundreds of Deserters in an instant. Even if he burned all his remaining resources, he might not escape it in time.

Rob's hair tingled as a lightning spear the size of a tree trunk soared over his shoulder, jamming itself straight into the Blight's gullet. The creature screeched with surprise, its mouth closing and torso re-forming as it retreated to avoid the hailstorm of projectiles that followed. From the cavern entrance, Malika, Elder Alessia, and the few Dwarven mages bombarded it with spells. Orn'tol's hands were a blur, firing multiple arrows per second. Seneschal Sylpeiros' lightning spears rained down like precision sniper shots. And Rob got in on the action by summoning his Broken Shortsword, tossing it, summoning it again, then tossing it again.

Hey, every bit counted.

The Blight dodged most of the assault, but several projectiles found their mark, leaving scratches and dents in its bark-like carapace. In retaliation, the Blight charged the allied coalition, taking the brunt of an entire volley of projectiles without a care. Crooked mouths sprouted on its branch-limbs, whispering hungrily about feasts and revelry. The coalition's front line formed up, ready to defend the back line at the cost of their lives.

To everyone's surprise, Stonewarden Grant stepped out of formation. He approached the Blight, hammer grasped in both hands. Skill activation auras shined around him one after another. When the Blight was just about to engulf him, he leapt forward, hammer swinging in a multicolored blur.

CRACK.

A sound of shattering porcelain echoed across the cavern. Flecks of blackened carapace fell to the floor as the Blight lifted a few inches off the ground, reeling like a boxer who'd been struck by a knockout punch. Keira's greatsword flew through the air a second later, spearing directly into the exact same spot that the Stonewarden had bludgeoned. The Blight started to topple, catching itself with its branch-limbs and scurrying away before anyone could make another follow-up attack.

Rob hurried over to the allied coalition, hoping to regroup with them during the brief lull in action. His eyes widened as the Blight suddenly burrowed underground, its legs and limbs shearing through rock with ease. It sank deeper and deeper, with no signs of stopping, nearly disappearing from the edge of his Sense Corruption range. Just as Rob began wondering if it was attempting to escape, Corruption flared within the creature, and it shot upwards like a rocket.

"IT'S GOING FOR THE BACK LINE!" Rob shouted. The coalition barely moved in time to avoid the Blight erupting from underneath them, limbs flailing and mouths gnashing. Its torso was already split open, ready to expel a cloud of Corruption the moment it surfaced. Rolling waves of miasma shot forth – only to be deflected by Vul'to's protective bubble shield, funneled backwards into the entrance passageway. The Blight's myriad mouths screeched in frustration-

And then it stopped.

Completely. Orn'tol's Temporal Freeze arrow had tagged the beast, placing it in an immobile stasis for a few short seconds.

The allied coalition didn't waste their moment of opportunity. When the Blight unfroze, it was greeted with a smothering deluge of Skills and spells. Mouths hissing, it attempted to barrel through the onslaught, skittering forward and striking at the coalition's repositioned front line. The Dwarven soldiers stood their ground, shoulder-to-shoulder as they deflected the Blight's flurry of limbs with their own expertly-timed strikes. They wouldn't be able to hold out for long, but they didn't need to. The cavalry – Rob included – had almost arrived.

Upon realizing this, the Blight pushed off the ground with an Olympic-worthy leap, jumping straight to the empty center of the cavern, well away from any Leaders or Purge Corruption wielders. Its torso split open once more, revealing a huge, bulbous eye. Rob prepared to dodge, expecting a laser eye beam or something equally ridiculous, but nothing happened. Instead, the Blight simply stared, regarding them with open interest.

"It's frightened," a Dwarven soldier crowed. Rob almost corrected her, then decided otherwise, understanding how important – and fragile – morale would be in this battle. Just to be on the safe side, though, he contacted Riardin's Rangers, wanting to make sure they didn't overextend.

Group Message Started By Party Member: Rob

Rob: Stay on guard.

Rob: We're losing.

Despite the beating it'd taken, cracks and dents dotting its carapace, the Blight didn't even look winded. Rob doubted that its HP had been reduced by more than 15% or so. On the flip side, while the allied coalition had yet to take serious injury, they'd lost out in other ways. Skills, MP, the element of surprise – all sacrificed just to give the Blight the equivalent of a black eye. They were running out of resources, fast. The rest of the battle was shaping up to be a race against time: could they kill the Blight, chip away its carapace bit by bit, finally ending it with Purge Corruption, before it inevitably broke their defenses?

Rob would never get an answer. He flinched in disgust as the Blight collapsed inwards upon itself, melting to the consistency of jello. It resembled the gelatinous mass it'd become when its shell and body merged together at the start of the battle, and as the coalition watched, they saw a similar process happening in reverse. The Blight – ignoring the spells that continued to rain down on it – split apart, like a cell undergoing mitosis. Those two blobs split apart again, resulting in four separate entities that proceeded to re-form into smaller versions of the Blight.

Smaller being a relative term. 'Bus-sized' was still pretty fucking big. They were definitely weaker, though, Sense Corruption informing Rob that each instance of the Blight was roughly one-fourth of its original overwhelming presence. For all intents and purposes, it had exchanged quality for quantity.

"Why?" Keira asked, voicing the question on everyone's minds. To their shock, the Blight responded, its ear-piercing voices echoing in unison.

COOPERATION. LIKE YOU.

The Blights spread out, skittering to four different corners of the cavern. While they might have been weaker, they weren't much slower at all, and the coalition quickly learned that landing their ranged attacks on the creatures' smaller frames was borderline impossible, at least at a distance.

"Cease your fire," the Stonewarden ordered, as his soldiers formed new defensive lines. "Conserve your MP. If we can hold strong for several minutes, most of our Skills will go off cooldown-"

The Blights let out a synchronized screech, two disappearing underground while two rushed forward. Seneschal Sylpeiros ran to meet one of the above-ground Blights, and Stonewarden Grant engaged the other, leaving Riardin's Rangers and the Dwarves to deal with the two ambushing from beneath.

While the coalition was prepared, so were the Blights; this time, they didn't stick around to take attacks head-on. They picked their moments carefully, harassing the coalition's defensive lines with hit-and-run maneuvers. It was as if they possessed a birds-eye view of the battlefield, always surfacing away from Riardin's Rangers heavy hitters, keeping the injuries they sustained to a minimum. Rob and Zamira thought they'd managed to corner one, but it just sank underground again, reappearing a second later to skewer an unsuspecting Dwarf from behind.

Out of the corner of his eye, Rob watched the twin duels between Blights and Leaders play out at the other end of the cavern. Seneschal Sylpeiros was pushing his Blight back, chasing after it with blinding speed and closing off its escape routes with targeted lightning spears, many of which found their mark. Conversely, Stonewarden Grant was struggling; his fighting style almost entirely centered around being in melee range, putting him in danger of the Blight's Corruptive aura. Each hammer blow dealt noticeable cracks to the Blight's carapace, but Corruption was building up within him as he fought, like grains of sand gradually filling an hourglass.

Then, right as the Seneschal Sylpeiros seemed to be gaining a decisive upper-hand against his Blight, Stonewarden Grant's Blight broke off and beelined straight towards the Elf. Without Danger Sense, he would've been a dead man, and even then he just narrowly avoided being pincered by the two abominations attacking in tandem. Stonewarden Grant tried to catch up, but he was slower than the Seneschal and the Blights, lagging behind them as they darted away.

They're distracted, Rob noticed. And I'm not getting shit done over here. With a heavy heart, he took off running, leaving Riardin's Rangers and the Dwarven soldiers to fend for themselves. The Blights were too wary of Purge Corruption, never letting him get close – sneaking up on one was probably his only chance of getting into touch range. Thankfully, the Seneschal was proving to be an excellent diversion, slippery bastard that he was.

Rob was halfway to the Seneschal when the two above-ground Blights abruptly turned around and rushed straight for him. He skidded to a halt, horrified and shocked in equal measure. There hadn't been any warning; one moment they were focused on the Seneschal, the next, on him.

His panic doubled when he heard skittering coming from behind. Rob glanced back to see the other two Blights also heading straight for him. The coalition was in a state of disarray, everyone running to help Rob, knowing full well that they wouldn't get there in time.

I'm their objective, Rob realized, feeling lightheaded as four monstrosities bore down upon him. Whenever I'm not surrounded by allies who can protect me, I instantly become public enemy number one.

The Blights pounced, and Rob cast a succession of Rampages, propelling himself straight upwards. Once, twice, then to the side, then to the side again, finishing with the Bracelet of Teleportation for good measure. It cost him all of his remaining MP and an Enchanted Item's cooldown, but he was safe, soaring through the air before landing near Riardin's Rangers. As soon as it became clear that Rob was no longer on the menu, the Blights returned to their positions, one for each Leader and two immediately burrowing underground.

"Their coordination is too efficient," Rob muttered, hands shaking as he tried to ignore how closely he'd come to death. "The instant they noticed I was out of bounds, all four of them came for me."

"Don't you ever fucking do that again," Keira flatly stated. "But yes. It's likely that they can mentally communicate with one another. Psychic links often exist between some monsters of the same type, and these Blights were born from themselves."

"A hivemind." He grit his teeth and looked down at the ground. "Don't have time to be upset about that – they're coming back."

Rob could do nothing as he watched the Blights slowly whittle away at the allied coalition's defenses. Thanks to Sense Corruption and Danger Sense, he and Keira knew roughly where the Blights would appear, but it didn't matter when the abominations were so much faster and actively avoiding them. If Rob ever got close to one, it would burrow away, not wanting anything to do with Purge Corruption. At one point he chugged an MP Potion and cast Enmity on a Blight, hoping to draw its attention, but it resisted the effect after only a split second of hesitation.

And while Riardin's Rangers and the Dwarven soldiers were holding up well, unlike the Blight, they were mortal, with mortal bodies and mortal limits. Stamina dropped, nerves began to fray, and the inevitable mistakes reared their ugly heads.

It all started when a Dwarven soldier missed his parry. One inch. Just one inch to the left, and his axe would have deflected the Blight's sharp-edged limb. Instead, the strike went through his heart, ending his life in the blink of an eye. He was the first domino to fall, causing the Dwarf next to him to go berserk and attack the Blight in a fury. When that soldier vanished under a shower of impaling limbs, two more Dwarves began to panic, stepping slightly out of formation and leaving themselves wide open.

Vul'to acted as any Guardian would have, rushing forward to protect those in need. As if they'd been waiting for that very moment, both Blights immediately turned their full attention on him, ignoring the rest of the coalition in order to assail Vul'to with a series of quick, vicious strikes. He blocked and deflected almost every attack – except for one, a glancing blow that raked across his helmet and sliced his right eye, popping it like a grape. Most of Vul'to's anti-Corruption Amulets popped as well, the vast majority crumbling to pieces as he collapsed to the ground. The moment he was down, the Blights descended like vultures on a carcass, ripping off his armor even as projectiles and weapons battered them.

It was, in a certain sense, the opening Rob had been waiting for. He tried not to let his rage blind him as he advanced, ambushing the Blights as they focused on Vul'to. Purge Corruption energy built within, and as if he'd set off an alarm bell, one of the Blights turned away from its target and blitzed Rob with a dizzying flurry of attacks. He was forced back, unable to take a single step forward, lest he walk straight into a living blender. Touching the Blight long enough to use Purge Corruption would be a lot more difficult if it chopped off his hands first.

After performing the grim mental calculus of how much HP he'd need to sacrifice in order to succeed, Rob concluded that his odds of survival were far from guaranteed, let alone success. Either the Purge Corruption damage combined with Lifesteal and Lifesurge would sustain him through the onslaught, or he'd instantly take a dozen stabs to vital areas and just fucking die. Dumping his unspent stat into Vitality would raise his chances, but not to a point where victory was assured.

And even if he was personally willing to take that risk, on a wider scale, Rob couldn't afford to gamble his life just to kill one-fourth of a Blight. No one else in Elatra could restore Corrupted Loci. If he went down, everyone suffered.

While all of this transpired, Meyneth bellowed a cry of fury and sank into her shadow, emerging out from Vul'to's an instant later. Claws glowing with Armor Rend, she slashed at the second Blight and began pulling Vul'to to safety, uncaring of the sharp-edged limbs repeatedly stabbing at her legs and stomach. With the coalition covering her retreat, she barely managed to escape, her ruined legs giving out a second later as a Dwarf hurriedly fed her HP Potions.

Zamira managed to sever one of the Blight's arms in the process, and it retaliated by poking at a nearby Dwarf who was creeping up from behind, grazing her anti-Corruption Amulet and snapping it in two. The Dwarf wheezed, legs trembling, clutching her throat as ambient Corruption filled her lungs. Rob produced a new Amulet from his Spatial Storage and tossed it to her, but the moment of weakness led to her being dragged underground as the Blights retreated, her muffled screams abruptly cutting out.

The Blights did pay for their aggression. They'd taken a good number of hits in the exchange. But it was well worth the price, because with Vul'to and Meyneth wounded and the Dwarven ranks dwindling, it became apparent that the coalition's front line was starting to fall apart. The Blights proved this by bursting from the ground mere feet away from Malika, their bulbous eyes peering directly at her, eager for easy prey.

Blood draining from her face, Malika pumped the abominations full of lightning – to no avail. Orn'tol grabbed her and retreated with Flight of the Coward, his heroics earning him a horrendous gash on the back. Without Rob's shared defensive buffs, he would've been bisected outright. The coalition closed in on the Blights, quickly scoring a few injuries, Rob's hand inches away from touching carapace before they burrowed to safety.

Their injuries were nothing compared to Orn'tol's, who was motionless on the ground and bleeding out fast. A tearful Malika fed him HP Potions, stabilizing his condition, but he remained unconscious.

From underground, the Blights began to ascend once more.

Some of us are going to die, Rob thought, with startling clarity. Even if the coalition pulled through – which was looking less likely with each passing second – not everyone in Riardin's Rangers was going to make it. The fact of the matter was that none of the four Blight instances were anywhere close to dying. Wounded, yes, but more than capable of fighting effectively. By the time the coalition managed to put one of them down, half of their soldiers would be six feet under. Some of them literally.

Victory was possible. They could still win. But no matter what, it would come at a cost.

The realization shook Rob to his core. In a trancelike state, he hovered his mental finger above Waymark, a sliver away from activating it. He wanted to. He wanted to so, so badly. It was the only way he could ensure that his friends survived.

It would also leave behind Elder Alessia and fuck over Elatra as a whole. Without Riardin's Rangers to shore up the Dwarves' defenses, their front lines would crumple like a tin can flattened by an SUV. The Leaders, suddenly outnumbered four to two, would be the next to fall. Then Dhalerune City, as the Blighted Lands spread and the Blight itself grew stronger. With the loss of its Stonewarden, Dwarven territory would struggle, unable to meet the Blight in direct combat without sustaining massive losses. Elven territory, having lost its Seneschal, would fare little better.

And all Rob had to do to avert that horrible future was sacrifice his friends. Continue battling the Blight, even as casualties mounted. Kill the beast, claim a victory, and bury Keira. Or Meyneth. Or Zamira. Or any other member of Riardin's Rangers. Then wake up tomorrow morning, fresh with the knowledge that he could have saved them, and start taking applications to fill his Party's recent vacancies.

"Eventually, people under your leadership will die," Elder Alessia had told him, back in Esternard City. "It is an inevitability. The sun rises in the morning, the stars twinkle in the night sky, and Combat Class users perish in battle."

The Blights emerged, killing another Dwarf and receiving only superficial injuries in exchange. Rather than fleeing, the Dwarves adjusted their defensive lines without missing a beat, preparing for the Blights' next assault. All of them were terrified, yet none of them backed down. The battle-ready members of Riardin's Rangers were the same, Keira, Zamira, and Faelynn taking their positions beside the Dwarves as if it was natural. Each and every one of them knew what was at stake; they'd made the decision to stand and fight long ago.

A cold pit of resignation formed in Rob's heart as he acknowledged that Alessia was right. Riardin's Rangers had been lucky so far, but their good fortune couldn't last forever. Elatra was growing more dangerous by the day. Even if he Waymarked them to safety this time, there was no guarantee they'd survive their next conflict with a Blight. In fact, stopping this Blight here and now would make it significantly easier for Riardin's Rangers to survive in the long-term. As it stood, they were finally, finally making progress with other nations. His inroads with Elatran Leaders, the burgeoning alliance between Fiend territory and Dwarven territory – all of that would go up in smoke if he forced his Party to bail because of his own selfish desires.

Manic laughter built in Rob's chest. There really wasn't a plausible justification for using Waymark, was there? Nothing that anyone would accept. Riardin's Rangers would resent him if he saved their lives at the expense of so much else, but only half as much as he'd resent himself. The more Rob thought about it, the more he determined that the best he could do was to stay the course and pray that the Blights died before he lost too many of his friends. Hoping for anything better would just be the naive, greedy delusions of a Berserker who couldn't face reality.

...

...

...But...why?

Why couldn't he be greedy?

Why couldn't his selfish desires ever align with reality?

Why couldn't he hope for a world where he didn't have to choose between sacrificing his friends or condemning nations?

Why couldn't he hope for a world where no one he loved had to die?

Why? As both Blights emerged, targeting Zamira in a coordinated effort, the question repeated itself within Rob's mind. Why? Why? WHY? FUCKING WHY?!

{You know why.}

Everything froze.

It was as if a god had pressed pause on the world. Riardin's Rangers, the Dwarves, the Leaders, and the Blights all stood perfectly still, locked in whatever motion they'd been performing. An eerie silence infiltrated the cavern as the sounds of combat vanished in an instant. One Dwarf was frozen mid-jump, her legs extended in a position that would have been comical if Rob wasn't so freaked out. He couldn't blink, couldn't breathe, couldn't even feel the beating of his heart, leaving him as an observer in his own unmoving body.

Immediately, Rob assumed divine interference, but he didn't feel the gods' presence. There wasn't the sensation of a foreign entity invading his mind, like when Kismet contacted him in the past. There was just...

Static.

Subtle, at first. Mere background noise. Persistent, ever-present, yet mild enough that he usually forgot it was there at all. His constant companion, one that had been around longer than any other in Elatra.

As if recognizing there was a void of silence to be filled, the static intensified, going from a faint hum to a blaring cacophony. Rob recoiled as it took up greater space in his mind; not a foreign entity like the gods, but a native resident like Diplomacy.

And then, in something resembling a voice, it spoke.

{It's time you stopped pretending,} said Leveling High.

Chapter 20

Rob's first instinct was to suppress the static. Force it to the back of his mind like he'd done on so many other occasions. Against his better judgement, though, he responded. What do you mean by 'pretending'?

{As if you don't know.} The static flared with indignance. {The doubt. The hand-wringing. This...farce. It hurts to watch.}

Hey, here's an idea, Rob said, in a chipper tone. How about you shut the fuck up? I'm too busy for this kind of shit right now. In case you haven't noticed, me and my friends are in a slight predicament.

{And whose fault is that?}

Rob glared daggers. Just what are you implying?

{That your weakness is a sin.}

The static shifted, coalescing into a crystal-clear mental picture. Rob's stomach churned as he stared at an image of Alia's decomposing, rat-bitten corpse.

{What was her sin?} the Static asked. Before Rob could answer, the mental picture shifted again, changing to Tarric, his body in two mangled halves. {What was his sin?}

Shift. Now it was Riardin, blown to ashes in the wind. {What of him?}

Randor, Lycia, melted by the Blight of Broadwater. {Theirs?}

The nameless Elf, saving Rob's life during the Blightspawn invasion. {His?}

Dwarf after Dwarf, falling prey to the Blight. {Or theirs?}

A jarring burst of static caused Rob to wince. {Tell me,} it hissed, louder than before. {What. Were. Their. Sins?}

Nothing, Rob spat back. They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Could have been me – or anyone else – just as easily.

{Incorrect. Weakness was their sin.}

That's not how it fucking works-

{Imagine what would have changed if Riardin lived,} the static interrupted. It projected an image of Riardin dodging the Blight at the last second, activating his Firebomb trap without being caught in its blast radius. {He accompanies the Deserters from thence forth. Imagine monsters slain, civilians rescued, lives preserved – if only he had been strong enough. Yet because he was not, many suffered. The same as if he'd murdered them himself.}

Rob had scarcely begun to form a counterargument when the image shifted once again. He hesitated, feeling like he'd been punched in the gut, as he was greeted with a scene of his mother and father. His mother was crying, while his father appeared conflicted, sympathy and love mixed with anger and frustration.

{A gambler's debt.} The static briefly pitched upwards, almost as if it was laughing. {She nearly ruined you. Her weakness brought misfortune to your family.}

We forgave her, Rob whispered, too shaken to put much fortitude into his words. We loved her, so we forgave her.

{Because she had the strength to mend her ways.} The static buzzed. {But what if her will was weaker? What if her debts never ceased?}

The image shifted rapidly, portraying a sequence of markedly different scenes than before. Rooms barren of furniture. Home foreclosure signs. Debtors hounding at their backs. Starvation, homelessness, and poverty, with no hope of salvation.

{Would you have still loved her then?}

Rob couldn't answer.

{Weakness is a sin,} the static repeated. {People blame others for their tragedies. They rage against a world that seems cruel and unfair. Turn their heads away from the nature of things. In truth, tragedies always result from a lack of strength. No more, no less. Good intentions are worth less than the dirt under your shoes. Lofty dreams will not deter a killer's blade or bend people to your ambitions. To effect the change you yearn for, you need power. It is the same on both Earth and Elatra, although this world is more honest in its presentation.}

Oh, you *would* think that, Rob seethed. All you care about are Levels.

{YES.}

The static whirled like a hurricane, its veneer of sanity slipping. {Levels are EVERYTHING. Without Levels, you would be little more than a wolf-eaten corpse in Ixatan Forest. They represent your permanence in this world, and your capacity to influence it. History pages are written by whoever picks up the quill after all their enemies have been beheaded. You wish to defeat the Blight? Return home? Save your loved ones? Those wishes mean nothing, NOTHING without Levels. And in your ignorance, your simpering, mewling desire to resist me and stay as the Rob from Earth, you have SINNED.}

More images flashed across Rob's mind. He was treated to a slideshow of all the Experience he'd passed up on, either by sparing enemies or letting someone else deal the final blow. Various monsters, the Dwarven captives, and Tiarsus the Magic Swordsman were among the listing.

{Wasted EXP. Wasted Levels. Power you *could* have had.} The slideshow lingered on a frame of Rob letting the Level 71 Merfolk King drift away, mangled but alive. {How much strength would he have granted you, I wonder?}

There were reasons-

{And what do those reasons matter, when your friends are seconds from death, about to be slain by an enemy you were too weak to overcome?}

With every word, Rob felt as if he was sinking deeper into a bottomless mire. Don't know why you're showing this to me. A joyless chuckle escaped his throat. I can hardly change the past.

{Then change the future. Starting now.} The static slithered around his mind, like a snake enveloping its prey. {Stop worrying. Discard your inhibitions. Fight with no regard for your enemies or yourself. Embrace the slaughter. Remove any obstacle that stands in your path. Then, and only then, will you achieve the power necessary to impose your will upon the world.}

Buzzing, buzzing, so much buzzing. Practically licking its lips, the static loudened to a crescendo, its words resounding like a symphony of madness.

{KILL THEM ALL.}

Rob didn't know what to say. All of that was...insane. The ravings of a system-induced lunatic. Under normal circumstances, he would have told it to fuck off and shoved it back into its place. But in the stress of the moment, with responsibilities weighing on his shoulders, the Blight about the devour his friends, countless lives hanging in the balance, and the overpowering din of static clouding his thoughts, Rob just...

He just...

For one instant...

Gave in.

Leveling High has permanently increased to Moderate!

The static swelled, buzzing with excitement, expanding to fill the corners of Rob's mind. It grew louder and louder until he'd forgotten what silence ever sounded like. A distant part of him noted that he should have been frightened, but instead, Rob felt entirely at peace. There was no conflict or struggle, no doubt or worry, no pain or suffering.

There was only him, and a cavern full of EXP.

Time unfroze.

Rob blinked, regaining awareness as the din of battle resumed its assault on his ears. Forgotten sensations made themselves known, like he'd been woken from a dream by ice water dumped on his head, while an alarm blared in the background. It took him a few seconds simply to adjust to the air on his skin and the heartbeat in his chest.

After observing his surroundings, he forced himself to adjust faster. Currently, Zamira was sprinting for her life, the Blights in hot pursuit. She was the overall fastest member of Riardin's Rangers – which was why some of the other members had been picked off first – and she still couldn't escape on her own. Without everyone else harrying the Blights as best they could, she would've already fallen into their clutches, turned into a life-sized Elven pincushion.

It was a dilemma that was solved easily enough. Rob merely ran closer to Zamira, his hand glowing with Purge Corruption energy, and the Blights retreated underground, recognizing that their opportunity had passed. Zamira slowed to a crawl, panting heavily as she eyed the newly-burrowed holes with undisguised fear. Technically, the coalition had won that exchange – the Blights took damage with nothing to show for it – but judging by the pale hue of her face, she didn't share that sentiment.

"So close," Zamira whispered, rivulets of sweat running down her brow. "If I'd misstepped a single time..." She shook her head, letting out a shuddering sigh as she turned to look at Rob. "This isn't working. We must surmise a way to-"

She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes fixated on his. Zamira's pale face went positively ghost-white, the Bladesoul instinctively raising her sword as she began to back away. "Rob?"

There was no response. He just stared at her.

Considering.

Hmm.

...No. He couldn't kill Zamira. Or anyone else in Riardin's Rangers. They had names. It was...different.

The static intensified, blatantly annoyed. It began poking inside Rob's brain, as if it was searching for something. Soon enough, the static located the section of his mind that governed Skills, its intent becoming increasingly apparent.

Rob rolled his eyes and slapped the static away like a kid who'd been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. No, he firmly stated. Melancholy Resistance is off-limits. He'd made a promise never to activate it again, so he wouldn't. Just that simple.

As for his other options...

Rapid-casting Identify, Rob examined the surviving Dwarves. There were around seventeen left, now, a far cry from the thirty that initially entered Dhalerune Mines. Each of them ranged from Level 35 to 39. Rob would probably gain a Level for every...three or four of them he killed? Something like that. A full sweep would boost him up from Level 55 to 59ish. Definitely a noticeable bump, but hardly worth the effort of fighting seventeen Combat Class users simultaneously. More than seventeen, even, assuming that Riardin's Rangers tried to stop him, which they would.

Besides, the Dwarves were necessary to help keep the Blights in check. If Rob started picking them off, the Blights would absolutely capitalize, killing Dwarves and stealing his EXP in the process. That just wouldn't do. If he wanted to maximize his Levels, the only logical choice was to kill the Blights first, then the Dwarves. Dinner before dessert.

Rob laughed as the static loudly complained. It wanted the slaughter to be indiscriminate and pure. Alas, Rob preferred for there to be a method to his madness. Delayed gratification is tiresome, isn't it?

He turned around, fingers twitching with anticipation. Don't worry. We'll still have our fun.

Without warning, Rob took off running, heading directly into the center of the cavern. Riardin's Rangers were shouting, but he ignored their pleas. Hearing different variations of 'stop, wait, come back' wasn't going to change his mind. Instead, he focused his full attention on the Blight instance dueling Seneschal Sylpeiros, noting its carapace, broken and oozing in numerous places. Out of the four active Blights, that one had taken the most damage. Gold star for the Seneschal – his combat prowess was impressive. Rob would get a lot of EXP when he eventually killed him.

Just like before, the moment Rob isolated himself from his allies, the four Blights instantly stopped what they were doing to converge on his position. Rob stayed the course, running directly forward as his friends' panicked cries echoed through the cavern. Dipping into his 25 unspent stat points, Rob put 15 into Magic and 10 into Vitality. The former was chosen to inject some much-needed MP into his reserves, while the latter was chosen for a bit of added insurance.

The next ten seconds were going to get messy.

With a twitch, Rob placed his sword back into Spatial Storage. It wouldn't help here. As he ran, Purge Corruption energy built within him, causing a visible blue-white aura to emanate from head to toe over his body. Despite the obvious warning sign, more obvious than a traffic light, the Blights kept their eye on the prize, continuing to chase after him. He'd figured they would. When they outnumbered, outgunned, and outeverythinged him this badly, caution wasn't nearly as important. It was predictable behavior on their part, playing right into his ingenious master plan:

Kill them before they killed him.

Thirty meters became twenty. Twenty meters became ten. As the Blights closed in, legs skittering and limbs thrashing, a wide grin spread across Rob's face. Leveling High felt the same, its excitement skyrocketing once it realized that Rob had gone all-in. Even if he got cold feet, there wouldn't be enough MP to Rampage to safety, and his allies weren't going to make it in time to pull his ass out of the oven. Retreat was no longer an option. Either he killed, or he died. No in-between.

And fuck was that ever an intoxicating feeling. Rob's heart beat like a drum at a rock concert, adrenaline surging through his veins as the Blights cornered him. He'd needed to be careful with the Dwarves, and Riardin's Rangers weren't an option, but these, these were the mother of all acceptable targets. Defilers. Murderers. Entropy given form. Creatures of unadulterated evil and overwhelming power, who would slaughter him with glee at the drop of a hat. It was the perfect opportunity for him to let loose and kill and kill and kill and kill and kill AND KILL AND KILL AND KILL AND {KILL}.

"I'll make this fun for you," Rob assured the Blights, his smile so wide that it strained his cheeks. "So I hope you make it fun for me too."

A chorus of dissonant screeching was his answer.

"Perfect."

Zero meters.

His left arm was the first thing to go. One moment it was there; the next, it wasn't. Not A Scratch activated and disappeared in an instant, after which his right hand was severed by a row of sharpened points slamming down like a guillotine. Visions of blackened carapace surrounded Rob on all sides as the Blights tore into him. Piece by piece, he was dissected, chunks of flesh vanishing as if he'd swan dived into a pool of starving piranhas. His anti-Corruption Amulets shattered, the pestilence infusing his soul soon after. In less than a second, he'd been reduced to a bloody lump of Corruption-ridden meat.

Rob giggled. Well, he tried to, but his voice box was missing. The Blights had played it safe, shredding him from a comfortable distance, not wanting to give him a chance to grab hold of them and use Purge Corruption. It was wasted caution. If they'd just dogpiled him all at once, he would've died in the time it took to blink. Their victory would have been guaranteed. In the end, though, despite their power, despite their unfettered hedonism, they still feared death.

And unfortunately for them, Rob did not.

'Do Not Go Gently'. An ability that doubled the effectiveness of his Vitality-based Skills, only usable when he was below 25% HP. 'Lifesurge'. 70% of his Max HP healed, reconstituting almost all of his ruined body. 'Rampage.' 'Rampage.' 'RAMPAGE'.

The Blights recoiled in shock. As swiftly as Rob had been dismembered, he was back, close to full HP and flying at his target like an angel of death. They recovered quickly, renewing their onslaught, but the Blights' moment of hesitation cost them. Rob's defensive Vitality Buffs – such as Tough Skin and Vitamin D(efense)– were twice as effective now, drastically reducing the amount of damage they could inflict. With a few more seconds, the Blights could've turned him into Swiss cheese, but they didn't have a few seconds.

Rob was closing in on his target, hand extended and glowing white.

He quirked an eyebrow as the Blight's torso rapidly split open to reveal the gaping, tooth-lined maw from before. Pitch-dark energy began vibrating inside. It reared up, and in one motion, bit down hard.

812 Combined Damage Received!

Immediately, Rob lost all sensation in his body. It took him a moment to realize that he'd been reduced to a decapitated head, blood pouring out of the stump that used to be his neck.

His smile didn't waver. That looked fun. Let me try.

As Rob's head soared past one of the Blight's limbs, he opened his mouth and bit down hard, latching on. Blue-white energy gathered at the tips of his teeth.

PURGE CORRUPTION.

It was as if he'd unloaded a flamethrower on a pile of dry kindling. The Blight instance, already injured by Seneschal Sylpeiros' efforts, practically fucking disintegrated. Rob pumped a third of his Purge Corruption energy stores into it, and would've pumped more if necessary – which it very much wasn't. Due to Rob's present status as a decapitated head, Purge Corruption was additionally empowered by Blood for Blood, which increased his damage by 1% for every 1% of HP he was missing.

All of that combined meant that Rob performed the equivalent of a cosmic magic trick, making the Blight disappear before his eyes, nothing left except for smokey wisps of Corruption and an agonized scream fading in the distance.

He collapsed to the ground, full-bodied, Lifesteal having restored his HP to max. It healed him for 50% of the damage he dealt, and considering how much HP the Blights seemed to have, he'd probably done enough damage to reconstitute his body a hundred times over. Rob's clothes were not so lucky. He equipped the Ruined Ranger Trainee's Garb and EXP Share, produced a spare anti-Corruption Amulet from his Spatial Storage, and idly flushed the Corruption out of his system. Only then did he finally take a peek at the waterfall of system messages in his message log, starting from when the Blights shredded him, to now.

Regrow Limb Level Increased! 6 → 7

Platelet Party Level Increased! 13 → 14

Vitamin D(efense) Level Increased! 8 → 9

...

Platelet Party Level Increased! 16 → 17

Tough Skin! 6 → 7

Regrow Limb Has Morphed Into Regrow Self (RARE)!

Reached Level 56!

5 Stat Points Gained!

BERSERKER Level Increased! 52 → 53

...

Reached Level 59!

5 Stat Points Gained!

BERSERKER Level Increased! 55 → 56

Those were just a portion of the increases he'd obtained. Interspersed among them were warnings about damage taken and Corruption received, but he was back up to full now, like none of it had ever happened. Leveling High's joy flooded his body, the static within letting out a bout of uproarious laughter.

Bliss.

Through glassy eyes, Rob stared at the remaining three Blight instances. They hadn't taken advantage of his distracted moment, merely standing there in silence, as if afraid to draw his attention. One Blight gradually stepped backwards, putting distance between it and the Heartkiller. Eventually, discordant words laced with awe pierced his ears.

ARE YOU OUR END?

A lightning spear struck one Blight in its side, followed quickly by spells from Malika and Elder Alessia. As reinforcements arrived, Rob raised his arm and languidly pointed at each Blight, one at a time. "Eeny, meeny, miny...moe."

He chased after the least-injured Blight, a rapturous song playing in his heart. The other two Blights were forced back, under fire from the combined might of Riardin's Rangers, both Leaders, and a pack of vengeful Dwarves. Rob expected his Blight to flee, maybe burrow underground, but instead, it sprang forward, leaping directly over him. He reacted too slowly to dodge its assault, several branch-limbs connecting directly with his head.

Anyone else in the room would've had their noggin scrambled as if it'd been tossed in a blender. Rob, with Tough Skin reducing physical damage by 40%, Vitamin D(efense) Level 10 strengthening his bone structure, Brain Damage Resistance reducing trauma to his brain by 50%, and all of those effects being doubled thanks to Do Not Go Gently, felt more like he'd gotten a shot at the doctor's office. Only one branch-limb penetrated through his skull, and it promptly bounced off the surface of his brain, unable to overcome its 100% damage resistance.

All the maneuver accomplished was making Rob stumble. He teetered forward, expecting a flurry of limbs to stab him in the back. His eyes widened as, rather than the sensation of his flesh being perforated, he felt Corruption flaring behind him. When he whirled around, the Blight's torso had split open, preparing to spew forth a cloud of miasma.

Yeah, no. Rob quickly checked his Status Screen. Battle Fever – a Skill that increased each stat by 1 every 30 seconds, including Magic – had ticked up, granting him just enough MP to cast a single Rampage. He did so, closing the distance roughly halfway, then summoned a very special item from Spatial Storage.

The Blight was still charging its attack when a crate of Firebombs landed in its mouth, detonating on impact. Riardin sends his regards, Rob mused, as the Blight wobbled, smoke billowing out from its scarred insides. He dashed forward without a second thought – unlike them, he wasn't going to waste a perfect moment of distraction.

Problem was, even after the Riardin Special, Rob wasn't sure if this Blight was wounded enough for his remaining Purge Corruption energy to finish the job. Its injuries were less severe than the previous Blight, and Blood for Blood was no longer boosting Rob's damage output. Dipping into his 20 unspent stat points, Rob put 5 in Strength for a bit of extra oomph, then put 15 in Vitality, bringing it to 150. His eyes sparkled when a list of Skill increases for the Vitality milestone appeared – including the one he'd specifically been hoping for.

Imbue Vitality Level Increased! 1 → 2

At Level 1, it'd tripled the damage of his next attack. At Level 2, that damage was quadrupled. With Do Not Go Gently stacked on top, Imbue Vitality was currently multiplying his next attack by a factor of eight.

That'll do.

Rob summoned a longsword as he activated Power Slash, Imbue Vitality, and the Anklet of Moderate Brawn. Before the Blight could dodge, he smashed through five of its legs and a good chunk of its torso, leaving it unable to retreat. The abomination's one bulbous eye quivered as the Heartkiller learned forward, gently placed a hand on its side, and whispered sweet nothings into its ear.

"Purge Corruption."

Limbs stabbed at him. It didn't matter. Seconds later, the Blight was no more than a pleasant memory.

Reached Level 60!

5 Stat Points Gained!

BERSERKER Level Increased! 55 → 57

...

Reached Level 63!

5 Stat Points Gained!

BERSERKER Level Increased! 59 → 60

Was there any greater pleasure in the world than this? Anything that was more worthwhile, more exquisite? If it existed, Rob didn't have a strong enough imagination to envision it.

On trembling legs, he turned around, ready to hunt down his next prey. He couldn't stop. Would never stop. The joy would just go on and on and on...and...on...

Rob's mouth dropped open as he laid eyes on the allied coalition. One of the Blights was near-motionless, legs twitching as Stonewarden Grant hammered it into a fine paste. Literally everyone else in the coalition surrounded it, breathing heavily as if they'd run a marathon. Vul'to was at the front line, armorless, wounded, equipped with nothing but a shield, yet standing triumphant and proud.

Partial EXP Gained From Sharing Hand!

Reached Level 64!

5 Stat Points Gained!

BERSERKER Level Increased! 60 → 61

Fists clenched, Rob's lips twisted into a grimace. While he wasn't sure exactly how their fight had gone down, it was easy to guess. Vul'to, somewhat recovered, went 'fuck it' and used Taunt on a Blight. The creature should have been able to resist the Skill, but in its state of injury and stress, it failed. And as soon as the Blight tunnel visioned Vul'to, his comrades beat the everloving shit out of it.

The end result: a complete and total victory for the allied coalition.

Rob was furious. That was MY kill, he seethed. MY Experience. He stalked forward, sword itching to be used. I didn't even get consolation EXP from Sharing Hand, because none of my Party members dealt the finishing blow.

Snarling, he shook his head, regaining a modicum of composure. Fine. This was fine. He still had one target left to hunt, and after that-

The last Blight interrupted his thoughts by screeching loudly and skittering away from Rob and the coalition. There was an air of worry about its movements – which made sense, as it already seemed to be on its last legs, having taken a beating while Rob was dealing with his own Blight. When it was a safe distance away, it started to burrow, giving the impression that it had no intention of resurfacing again.

Elder Alessia cast a powerful gravity spell, lifting the beast a few inches upwards as it was disappearing underground. Her spell broke moments later, but it lasted long enough for Keira to reach the Blight and jump over it. As the Blight descended, Keira hung in mid-air, phenomenal amounts of power gathering around her greatsword.

"Ragnarok!" Her shout echoed across the cavern as she dropped like an anvil, straight down into the Blight's excavated hole.

A second of anticipatory silence passed.

CRUNCH. Everything vibrated as debris shot up out of the hole, threatening Dhalerune Mines' stability for the umpteenth time that day. Then, mercifully, all was still.

Partial EXP Gained From Sharing Hand!

Reached Level 65!

5 Stat Points Gained!

BERSERKER Level Increased! 61 → 62

Crystal Bearer Rank Increased! 5 → 6

Learned Crystal Bearer Skill: Bind Item!

Leveling High's shot of dopamine was barely sufficient to counteract Rob's annoyance. A two Level boost was great, but it didn't hit quite as finely as the four Levels of killing a Blight instance himself.

He needed that rush again. No matter what.

Rob turned his gaze towards the Stonewarden and Seneschal, attempting to figure out if they were worth as much EXP as the Blights. Out of the two, the Stonewarden was higher-Leveled – especially after killing a Blight instance – but he was among loyal soldiers. Conversely, the Seneschal was alone in enemy territory. Would anyone here miss him if he was gone? They could even blame his death on the Blight as to not cause problems with Elven territory.

...Cause...problems. If he...died. Meaning the Seneschal wouldn't be around to fight more Blights. That was one of the reasons why Rob hadn't used Waymark, wasn't it? To keep the Leaders alive. Now he wanted to kill them, because...

Because...

Rob's mind snapped back into place. He fell to his knees, holding his head as the world swirled in a kaleidoscope of sensations. Static blared in his head, so loud, so fucking loud, when had it gotten so loud? He gritted his teeth, and with a surge of willpower, shoved Leveling High to the darkest recesses of his mind.

Surprisingly, the static didn't resist. It went to its usual spot without complaint, seeming – for the moment – satiated. There was still a deep, everlasting hunger within its core, but progress was progress. It could afford to be patient.

Especially considering that, despite Rob shoving the static as far back as he could, it was noticeably louder than it had been in the past.

Hesitantly, Rob checked on Riardin's Rangers. He knew they were alive and in stable condition; the Party List told him as much. There was a different reason for his trepidation. Slowly, Rob looked at his friends, and his friends looked back.

They couldn't hide the glimmers of fear that passed through their expressions.

--

Changes

Rob

Level 55 → 65

BERSERKER Level 52 → 62

Strength 53 → 58

Vitality 125 → 150

Magic 35 → 50

Learned: Bind Item

Do Not Go Gently 4 → 5

Lifesurge 16 → 18

Not A Scratch 13 → 16

Imbue Vitality 1 → 2

Regeneration 19 → 22

Tough Skin 6 → 7

Platelet Party 13 → 17
Vitamin D(efense) 8 → 10

Regrow Limb → Regrow Self

Keira

Level 51 → 59

Zamira

Level 43 → 50

Orn'tol

Level 45 → 52

Vul'to

Level 44 → 51

Malika

Level 40 → 47

Meyneth

Level 45 → 52

Faelynn

Level 35 → 43

Chapter 21

The cavern fell silent, cries of celebration petering out just as they'd started. Everyone – from Riardin's Rangers to the Dwarves – was staring intently at Rob. The Dwarves in particular were standing stiff as stone, their weapon grips tightening as they cast Identify to check his Status. Elder Alessia began addressing the group, trying to assuage their fears, but Rob barely listened to what she was saying. He was too busy looking back at his Party as they examined him with open concern. Watching. Waiting.

Wondering what he'd do next.

I'm me, Rob wanted to say. I'm safe. Then he remembered the thoughts that had been running through his head during the last few minutes. The...things, he'd considered. And he decided that, in truth, he didn't have a high enough Deception to say those lines with a straight face.

A flash of motion blurred across the cavern. Within the blink of an eye, Seneschal Sylpeiros was in front of Rob, his spear pressed against the Human's neck. Droplets of blood ran down the spear's tip, as red as the fury blazing across Sylpeiros' face. Riardin's Rangers and the Stonewarden started to charge forward, but the Seneschal extended one hand behind his back in the universal sign for 'don't you fucking dare'. The muscles in his arms were rigid, like he was lifting a boulder, struggling from the exertion it took to restrain himself from pushing his spear just a few inches forward.

Rob didn't move. Both because he knew he couldn't escape, and because he didn't have the energy to try. The fact that Leveling High had ever encouraged him to kill the Seneschal for EXP was a ringing endorsement of its poor planning skills. Even if Rob was rested and prepared, there was no universe in which he defeated the Elven Leader in a fair fight – or an unfair fight, really. Sylpeiros was 11 Levels higher, significantly more skilled, and had freaking Danger Sense. Each of them knew that Rob was at his mercy, and this time, Diplomacy wasn't there to bail him out.

Which is probably why he blurted out what he said next. "If you think it's necessary," Rob whispered, "then do it." The static flared in a panic, which Rob took as a personal victory.

Sylpeiros' mouth dropped open. Rob almost laughed at the bizarre mixture of fury and confusion evident on the Elf's face, but he wasn't that hopeless without Diplomacy. Seconds of torturous quiet crawled by, even the Seneschal seeming unsure of what he was going to do next. Everyone in the cavern was fully aware that the future of nations hung by a thin, fraying thread.

"What the FUCK are you doing?!"

Twenty-seven pairs of eyes turned to look at Keira, who'd just finished climbing out of the tunnel she dropped into to kill the final Blight. An unbidden smile spread across Rob's face as he imagined what the scenario must have looked like from her perspective. She stalked forward, hurling obscenities at Seneschal Sylpeiros, whose face looked like he'd run a stop sign only to find a fleet of cop cars waiting ten feet away.

And just like that, the moment was gone. Sylpeiros removed his spear, whirled around, and strode off in a manner that was extremely dignified and not at all embarrassed. Keira reached Rob before anyone else, showering him with are-you-okays and rib-denting hugs. Riardin's Rangers were next, congratulating him on his victory over the Blights and admonishing him for doing something so utterly reckless. Their outpouring of support washed over Rob like a gentle, soothing breeze.

It didn't feel as good as it should have.

--

Two Days Later

Rob forced a smile as the Dwarf patient shook his hand. Vigorously. Her gratitude was appreciated, although he was pretty sure that a less-durable person than him would've had their shoulder dislocated. Once she was finished stress testing his ligaments, she bid him farewell and practically skipped out of the room, healthy and Corruption-free.

He kept his PR-friendly smile going until she was out of sight. The moment he was in the clear, Rob locked the door and slumped into his chair, letting out a sigh of relief. That's a wrap, he thought. She'd been the last of the coalition members infected with Corruption. After spending extended proximity near a Blight and a recently-Corrupted Locus, pretty much everyone had ended up with a decent chunk of it in their system. Some worse than others; specifically, Vul'to and the Stonewarden were down to less than a third of their max HP by the time the Blights perished. If the allied coalition hadn't won the battle as swiftly as they did...

Well, they did, which was all that mattered. With the Blight dead, Rob had been able to restore the Locus of Power without any complications. Dhalerune Mines would be back to normal in several weeks. And now that the last bit of Corruption had finally been excised from the Dwarves themselves, Rob could safely declare Dhalerune City free of Blight influence. For all intents and purposes, his job here was done.

Which presented a problem, as it meant that he didn't have anything to distract himself with.

Grimacing, Rob opened his Status Screen. Maybe a miracle had occurred in the five minutes since he last checked.

Status Effects: Leveling High (Moderate), Melancholia (Advanced)

No dice. Still Moderate.

At least the Dwarves don't seem to care as much anymore, he mused. They'd been wary after seeing his jump from Mild to Moderate, but that rapidly faded once he Purged their Corruption and restored the Locus of Power. It was kinda hard to think poorly of your city's savior. Seneschal Sylpeiros was behaving as well, although Rob hadn't seen much of him since the Blights were defeated. As for Riardin's Rangers...

Rob scratched the back of his head, expending a sliver of nervous energy. His friends were treating him the same. He should have felt happy about that – and for the most part, he did. But it was tough to forget the glimmers of fear he'd initially noticed in their expressions.

Not that he could blame them. He was scared of himself, too.

Distractions! Rob shook his head to send his train of thought off-course. No more moping; have to focus on the tasks at hand. The Clay of Life should be ready for Diplomacy, so that's neat. I also need to strongarm the Fiends into developing dimensional travel. And if Elder Duran has managed to get in contact with the Merfolk, I'll need to have a chat with the fishy fucks about spreading rumors behind my back.

It was a bit of a shame that Riardin's Rangers would be leaving Dwarven territory so soon, but they just had way too much shit to take care of in Fiendland. Not even the Stonewarden's offer of a blowout celebration in their honor was able to tempt them to stick around. Once they'd finished resting up today, it was time to head home.

And then watch the Fiends realize that their savior's Leveling High had increased.

Mercifully, Rob's thoughts were cut off by a knock on the door. Before he could get up to let his visitor in, the door opened with a plaintive crack, revealing a mildly surprised Keira.

"I don't want to belabor the point," she began, "but our Party members need to make an effort to lock the door if they're alone in a room. For their safety, and my sanity."

Rob smirked. "It was locked."

Keira glanced at the now-broken door, redness creeping into the tips of her ears. "Oh. I suppose it was. Admittedly, I'm not yet accustomed to my dramatic increase in Strength."

"How many Levels did you go up? Eight?"

She nodded, taking a seat opposite from him. "Slightly less than your 10, but yes. Our Party may have set a record for the highest collective Level increase over the course of a single battle."

"We damn well deserved it," Rob muttered.

"That we did." Keira hesitated. "Just so you know, we're going to talk about it."

Rob looked away and whistled nonchalantly. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You've been acting anxious around us for the past few days."

He barely suppressed a wince. "Can't we discuss this later?"

"I believe that Meyneth has taught us the value of directly addressing important issues." Keira raised an eyebrow. "As an example, we missed out on over half a year of fucking by not acknowledging our mutual affections sooner."

That's the most persuasive argument I've ever heard. "Okay, okay. It's just..." He sighed. "Do I really have to explain why I'm freaked out? You've seen my struggles with Leveling High. You know what it's like."

"There's no need to elaborate. I remember well." She folded her hands together. "May I be blunt, Rob?"

"That's usually what people start with right before saying some messed-up stuff."

"It won't be that bad," Keira assuaged. "Granted, my highest social Skill is still Intimidation – by a wide margin – so apologies in advance if that colors my verbiage."

Rob leaned back in his chair and put a smile on his face. "Sure. Lay it on me."

She nodded. "Then let me begin with an assurance. I swear to you that, despite your worries, no one in Riardin's Rangers is afraid of you. Nor do we think differently of you. In fact, your transition from Leveling High Mild to Moderate is completely unsurprising. The only shocking part is that it took this long to happen."

"It shouldn't have happened." Rob clenched his fists. "I was weak."

"You were Human." Keira stared at him with sympathy. "I don't think you quite understand how astounding your self-control has been up until this point. Reducing Leveling High to a lower grade is a feat of especially rare willpower, and I witnessed you doing so on several occasions. Before the Cataclysm, it wasn't uncommon for a Human to lose their sanity in its entirety by the time their Level reached the mid-30s. In contrast, your ability to stay Mild into the 50s has been nothing short of remarkable."

Rob shrugged. "Could also be a side effect of my fucked-up soul," he muttered. "The gods haphazardly grafted Leveling High onto me when they brought me over. Maybe its grip on me isn't as strong as it would be on a native Human."

"Don't try to diminish your achievements," Keira flatly stated. "Even if your guess is true, remaining Mild took-"

"It doesn't matter how impressive my willpower was," Rob countered, in a surly tone. "I still ended up Moderate."

Keira paused, seeming to choose her words carefully. "Honestly? Moderate is manageable."

Rob sputtered. "You call that showing against the Blight manageable?"

"Leveling High is at its worst when transitioning from one stage to the next," Keira explained. "If the person in question can regain their faculties after that period, the effect partially subsides." She locked eyes with him. "Tell me truthfully: now that time has passed since your leveling spree, and your mental state has settled, do you feel different than before?"

Rob was tempted to look away, but he met her gaze head-on. "Yes. Not by much, but yes." He paused, trying to think of the best way to describe addiction in its purest form. "Imagine that there's – to use an analogy – a song stuck in your head. The same song, constantly, every hour of every day. It's there when you're killing monsters, speaking with friends, or just trying to get a good night's sleep. At first, it isn't very loud, so you learn to tune it out and go about your business. Life goes on. Occasionally, the song gets louder in short bursts, as if it was trying to grab your attention. That can be problematic if it pipes up when you're preoccupied with something, but for the most part, it doesn't hinder your decision-making."

He sighed. "Yet. Over time, the song permanently gets louder. Gradually and consistently. You notice, but there's nothing you can do about it. Not like you can turn the damn thing off. You have no choice except to adjust to the song faster than it can grow."

His voice lowered. "Then, one day, you wake up to find that the song is suddenly twice as loud. It's crossed the threshold from background noise to just...noise. You start to notice it more during your day-to-day activities, and in crucial moments, you can barely hear yourself think. Sometimes it gets hard to tell where your thoughts begin and the song ends. And you know full well that things are only going to get worse from here."

A burst of static erupted, making itself known, before sinking into the corner of his mind once more.

Without a word, Keira leaned forward and wrapped Rob in a tight hug. He froze, then returned the embrace, resting his chin on top of her head as he choked out his next words. "During the battle against the Blight...there were moments where..." Rob trailed off, his throat tightening. "I was a danger. To myself and others. Won't forgive myself if...something happens."

"You won't."

"Neither of us can guarantee that."

She shook her head, silver hair tickling his chin. "Even when you were transitioning from Mild to Moderate, you restrained yourself. At no point did you raise your sword against an ally. What that tells me, Rob, is that two battles took place on that day. The first, against the Blight, and the second, against Leveling High. You won both."

His grip on her tightened. "Only reason I didn't attack people is because of backlash," Rob whispered.

"Do you truly think that Leveling High cares about the ramifications of its actions? The fact that you managed to latch onto excuses to avoid attacking your allies is proof that, underneath Leveling High's influence, you were resisting it every step of the way."

Rob felt his posture slowly begin to relax. "You make it sound so simple," he said, with a halfhearted chuckle.

"I've been preparing for this conversation for months."

He looked down, mouth open, as Keira peered up at him. "I'm no fool, Rob," she stated. "None of us are. We knew that you would face this crisis eventually when you continued to gain Levels at an accelerated rate. We also knew that you would prevail and remain as the man we all know, and that I love."

A sense of contentment spread throughout his chest, like a warm campfire on a chilly night. "I love you too."

"You'd better."

He snorted. "Trust me, I know you're awesome. Can't wait to introduce you to my parents. Soon, hopefully."

Keira's eyes widened, then narrowed. "Are you attempting to change the subject?"

"A bit, but I honestly am feeling more relaxed now." He put on a wry grimace. "About this subject, anyway. Leveling High won't cause a catastrophe right this second. Can't say the same for whatever's happening back on Earth."

"You believe that Silviel was telling the truth?"

"She knew Jason's name."

Keira fell deep into thought. "If the Fiends are unable to develop a method of transportation that can include me as well, and if you need to go alone-"

Rob poked the top of her head. "Denied. You're coming with, and then we're coming back. Unfinished business here, after all."

She averted her gaze, a smile dancing on her face. "That is a lovely sentiment, but the Fiends might be incapable of creating dimensional transportation with that degree of finesse. They can barely teleport us across Elatra, and they've refined that magic over decades."

"Then Earth can deal with it. My home planet has guns, and...things tougher than guns." He mollified his paranoia with a mental image of the Blight being torn apart by fighter jets. "As for Jason, he's too stubborn to die. If the Blight tries screwing with him, they won't know what hit them."

Keira hid her face in his chest. "You don't fully believe that," she said, sounding slightly miserable. "Your love for me is forcing you to decide between the people you care for."

"Decide?" His lips twitched upward into a manic grin. "No, see, I'm greedy. I refuse to decide. Everyone I care about is going to live. You, Jason, my parents, Riardin's Rangers – we're all making it through this bullshit intact. Bet on it."

And I don't care what I have to do to make that a reality.

The static flared in agreement.

--

"Here we are," the Dwarven guard said, stepping aside and gesturing to a door. "Stonewarden Grant awaits inside."

Faelynn nodded mutely, feeling as if she was watching herself from an outsider's perspective. Nothing about the current moment seemed remotely real. Just five minutes ago, her morning had been progressing as intended, Faelynn taking a well-deserved rest in an uncomfortably Dwarf-sized bed. The most exciting part of the day thus far was when she imagined telling the Grand Overseers about her success as Fiend territory's official liaison. Of course, Elder Alessia did most of the actual negotiating, but Faelynn managed to avoid embarrassing her people or sparking an international war! That counted for something.

Her peaceful solitude had been shattered when a Dwarven retinue arrived, informing Faelynn that the Stonewarden – one of the strongest, most influential living beings in Elatra – was requesting her audience.

Alone.

Naturally, she'd contacted Riardin's Rangers via Message right away. In a show of concern that Faelynn genuinely appreciated, all of them told her to wait and stall for time, citing the dangers involved. While the Stonewarden had treated her fairly in front of Rob – a necessary ally – there was no way of knowing how he would act behind closed doors.

Which was exactly why Faelynn had thanked her friends for their concern and promptly accepted the Stonewarden's request. If he was inviting her alone, that meant there were matters he only felt comfortable discussing without the rest of Riardin's Rangers in attendance. It was an opportunity to learn new information that she couldn't pass up.

And if it did turn out to be a trap, at least everyone would know what fate befell her. That was better than being disappeared without a trace – another eventuality Faelynn had mentally prepared herself for. As long as she was Fiend territory's official liaison, these were the kinds of risks she would bear with pride.

...That was how she'd felt five minutes ago. Since then, her bravado had waned, leaving Faelynn wondering what the hell she'd gotten herself into. The door to the Stonewarden's office stood mere inches in front of her, as imposing as a fortified wall of steel. "Do I just...walk in?" she hazarded. "What manners of protocol should I be aware of?"

"Keep your claws sheathed. Aside from that, show him due respect while not acting like a sycophant." The Dwarf stared at her like he was trying to solve a puzzle. "Titan preserve, you really can understand us, can't you?"

"Rob taught me." A wistful smile crept onto her face. "I hope that all our people can communicate with each other this easily, someday. No language barrier. No pointless-"

"Save your speeches for the Stonewarden," he interrupted, dismissively waving his hand. "He's the one you actually need to convince. I simply follow his will."

Faelynn suppressed a sigh. Without another word, she turned away from her escort, opened the door, and – with no small amount of apprehension – entered the Stonewarden's office.

"Come in," a deep, authoritative voice said, "and close the door behind you."

As she obliged the Stonewarden's request, Faelynn was immediately struck by how plain and unassuming his room appeared. Even if this wasn't meant to be the Stonewarden's personal living quarters, people of high station always decorated wherever they spent a fair amount of time. Jewelry, trophies, gold-laced curtains; none of those symbols of wealth and power were present. Instead, Grant's office was as modest as his soldiers' barracks, full of unadorned furniture and reports on years-old battles.

The only bits of individuality Faelynn could spy were a portrait hung on the wall of the Stonewarden surrounded by other Dwarves, and a lit fireplace crackling happily in the corner. Admittedly, the fireplace was a lavish decoration to have in an underground city, where the basic quality of air would be a consistent worry, but even that seemed included for a purpose. It presented a cozy, welcoming atmosphere, as if the two of them were about to relax and trade amusing stories from their childhoods.

Stonewarden Grant strengthened that atmosphere by offering her a gracious smile as she approached. "Please, rest your feet," Stonewarden Grant asked, pointing to a seat in front of his desk. "We have much to discuss."

Faelynn glanced at the seat, noting that it was a larger variant than the typical Dwarven model. He'd prepared for her arrival in advance. "Thank you for your hospitality," she said, returning his smile as she sat down. The words came surprisingly easy; she'd apparently been dreading the anticipation of this meeting more than the meeting itself. "I must say, being able to speak with a Leader on peaceful terms is something of a dream come true."

Group Message Sent By Party Member: Faelynn

Faelynn: In the Stonewarden's office. Haven't been murdered yet. Will keep you updated.

Stonewarden Grant let out a good-natured chuckle. "We live in strange times, to be sure. Allegiances shifting on a whim. Abominations of legend rising to smother Elatra once again. You know, as horrible as the losses we incurred during the Blight raid were, there is one ray of hope to be gleaned from the tragedy: it afforded us an opportunity to join hands as allies. We'd best not waste it."

He laced his fingers together. "On a more personal level, I wanted to thank you for your service, Faelynn of the Fiends. Our losses would have been greater without your assistance in combat. If you truly desire peace between Fiend and Dwarven territory, then fear not; I can assure you that you left a stellar first impression, one that will only grow in renown as word spreads amongst the populace of your deeds. As a Leader, and as a Dwarf, you have my gratitude."

He hates me, Faelynn realized.

It was something she'd suspected long before this conversation. Vul'to failed to notice it, but he wasn't a Fiend born and raised. He hadn't spent decades internalizing the expressions of loathing that alighted in people's eyes whenever Fiends encountered members of another race. The Stonewarden hid it well, but it was unmistakably there, lurking deep behind the gentle warmth of his gaze. Like black mold concealed by a brightfully-painted wall.

Faelynn plastered a friendly smile on her face. While she wished that the Stonewarden's benevolence came from the heart, she'd suffered worse disappointments than this in her lifetime. As long as he continued to support Fiend territory, stowing away his contempt in favor of a mutually beneficial arrangement, that was all that mattered.

"You have my gratitude as well," Faelynn replied, "for trusting my people. The Blight does not care for territorial borders; only a united Elatra will be able to turn it aside."

The Stonewarden smirked. He reached into his desk and pulled out a small, metal, rectangular object that Faelynn didn't recognize. With one finger, he pushed down a raised indentation located on the side of the object, a strange crackling sound emanating from within. "She is sane," the Stonewarden said, speaking into the object. "As you said she would be."

"Good tidings, then."

Faelynn nearly jumped out of her seat. The object had spoken – and what's more, its voice sounded familiar. As the Stonewarden placed the object back inside his desk, she stared in abject shock, working up the nerve to ask him what just transpired. "Was that...Vevrandi?"

"Indeed." The Stonewarden's expression twinkled with mirth. "I take it that you are unfamiliar with Portable Message Crystals? Their name is something of a misnomer – the device doesn't utilize any Crystal at all, instead transmitting sound through the air itself. Alas, the moniker was coined by rank and file soldiers who needed a way to succinctly describe its function, much to the chagrin of the scientists who developed it."

"Is it difficult to manufacture?" Faelynn asked, awestruck.

"Less difficult than you might assume. Vevrandi has one as well, which is how she heard my message." He smirked again. "When I informed my retinue that I would be meeting with a Fiend alone, they demanded that I let them know if you were trustworthy by giving updates on my status. I hope you can understand their caution, and don't take too much offense to it."

I rightfully can't, Faelynn thought, not without marking myself as a hypocrite. She sent another group Message, letting her friends know that she was still alive, that nothing awful had transpired, and that they didn't need to fight through a legion of Dwarven guards to rescue her.

"No offense taken." She leaned forward, excitement leaking into her voice. "Would Dwarven territory be interested in trading with Fiend territory? Depending on the range of your Portable Message Crystals, it would make communication between our nations significantly easier."

It also had the potential to obsolete the actual Message Crystals, which were exceedingly rare and expensive. Every government official and bored noble would sell half their soul to get their hands on the miraculous Dwarven invention. Faelynn didn't say that part out loud; she knew to hold her desires close to her chest during a negotiation.

"We would potentially be open to trade," the Stonewarden answered. "Although, in the grand scheme of things, the Portable Message Crystal is a paltry achievement. There are far greater ones you have yet to witness."

Faelynn's eyebrows shot up to the top of her head. "Such as?"

She flinched as the Stonewarden's face darkened in an instant. A cold shiver ran up her body, as if the fireplace had been snuffed out by chill winds. Grant looked away, silent, his eyes settling on the portrait of him surrounded by other Dwarves. "Do you have a family?" he asked, in a voice as hollow as the grave.

Faelynn took a moment to steel her resolve, sensing that her next words would be of dire importance. "Not anymore."

"But you did, once."

She nodded. "A mother, a father, and a brother. All Combat Class users of no significant repute." And all whom she'd loved dearly.

Stonewarden Grant kept his eyes focused on the portrait. "How did they pass?"

If he were anyone except a Leader, Faelynn would have told him off. While this wasn't a subject she shied away from, the dispassionate tone of his questioning was borderline insulting. "My mother and father died fighting the Humans. My brother..."

"Died fighting the Dwarves," Grant finished.

Faelynn's claws extended, just by a hair. "Yes. He did."

The Stonewarden, his body motionless, swiveled his eyes towards her. "Yet you do not seem to hate us."

"Everybody kills everybody," Faelynn plainly stated. "My family members were slain in open combat, against enemies who they were also trying to kill. That is simply what war is." It was a lesson she'd learned well since birth. "Perhaps I would feel differently if their killers were delivered straight to me, bound and at my mercy, but I don't possess enough hatred in me to seek those people out, nor to hate all Humans and Dwarves in their place. Instead, I'd rather focus on creating a future where the people I love don't need to lose their lives in wars that are so old no one can even remember how they started."

She slammed her mouth shut, worried that she'd gone too far, but the Stonewarden said nothing. After several agonizing minutes, he turned to face her, a weary smile spreading across his face. "You have an admirable mindset, Faelynn."

Huh, she thought, with mild bewilderment. As far as Faelynn could tell, that statement had come from the heart.

Unfortunately, she wasn't given long to ruminate on the Stonewarden's words before he spoke again. "There is one matter I still wish to speak of with you," he continued. "It has been plaguing me ever since our sojourn into Dhalerune Mines. I was hoping that you could assist me in puzzling out a certain mystery."

"Of course," Faelynn replied. "I'll help however I can."

Stonewarden Grant nodded. "Then answer me clearly," he said, in a neutral tone that immediately set Faelynn on edge. "When the Blight possessing Silviel stated that Dwarves are beings of flesh and mana, while Fiends are beings purely of mana...what did it mean?"

His expression darkened once more. "Please. Enlighten me."

Character Sheet and Skills At The End of Chapter 21

Author's Note: Reading this segment is OPTIONAL. It isn't at all required to understand the story – it's simply for those LitRPG fans who enjoy sinking their teeth into stats and skills. For those uninterested in the LitRPG elements, or those who simply don't feel like going over Rob's progress right now, feel free to skip this and move on to Chapter 22.

In the interest of not getting penalized by Amazon for having too many pages of descriptions that many people will skip, the detailed descriptions for some Skills unlikely to be relevant in the near future – such as Foraging and Mathematics – won't be included.

--

Character Sheet

Name: Rob

Level: 65

Race: Human

Class: BERSERKER (LV 62)

Sub-Class: Crystal Bearer (LV 6)

HP: 1500 / 1500

Stamina: 341 / 350

MP: 500 / 500

Status Effects: Leveling High (Moderate), Melancholia (Advanced)

Strength: 58

Vitality: 150

Endurance: 35

Dexterity: 65

Perception: 33

Mind: 28

Magic: 50

Unspent Points: 30

Class Skills:

Berserker Rank 1 – Lifesteal+

Berserker Rank 2 – Battle Fever+

Berserker Rank 3 – Blood for Blood+

Berserker Rank 4 – Rampage+

Berserker Rank 5 – Enmity+

Berserker Rank 6 – Flames of Vengeance+

Crystal Bearer Rank 1 – Spatial Storage

Crystal Bearer Rank 2 – Class Alteration

Crystal Bearer Rank 3 – Waymark

Crystal Bearer Rank 4 – Awaken Class

Crystal Bearer Rank 5 – Message

Crystal Bearer Rank 6 – Bind Item

Crystal Bearer Rank ??? – Attunement

Crystal Bearer Rank ??? – Purge Corruption

Bound Items:

Half-Broken Dwarven Shortsword

EXP Share (Amulet of Allocation)

Ruined Ranger Trainee’s Garb

Active Skills:

Strength – Bulk Up (LV 8), Power Slash (LV 7)

Vitality – Do Not Go Gently (LV 5) (RARE), Lifesurge (LV 18), Not A Scratch (LV 16), Imbue Vitality (LV 2)

Endurance – Second Wind (LV 2)

Dexterity – Stealth (LV 3), Step of the Wind (LV 10)

Perception – N/A

Mind – Identify (LV 2), Recall (LV 1), Quick Thinking (LV 4), Auto-Translate (Elvish Writing), Auto-Translate (Elvish Speech), Auto-Translate (Fiendish Speech)

Magic – N/A

Passive Skills:

Human Racial Bonus – Fast Learner

Strength – Climbing (LV 2), Brawling (LV 4), Grappling (LV 4)

Vitality – Regeneration (LV 22), Tough Skin (LV 7), Poison Resistance (LV 8), Disease Resistance (LV 3), Platelet Party (LV 17), Vitamin D(efense) (LV 10), Regrow Self (LV 1), Reflective Skin (LV 1), Heat Resistance (LV 7), Push Through (LV 5), Brain Damage Resistance (LV 1)

Endurance – Deep Breathing (LV 2)

Dexterity – Swordsmanship (LV 8), Fleet of Foot (LV 5), Dagger Proficiency (LV 6)

Perception – Foraging (LV 4), Hunting (LV 5), Heightened Senses (LV 3), Analyze Weakness (LV 1)

Mind – Speed Reading (LV 3), Arachnophobia (LV 3) (RARE), Mathematics (LV 4), Leadership (LV 8), Headsman (LV 4) (RARE), Deception (LV 5), Sense Mana (LV 1), Mind Resistance (LV 4), Throwing Proficiency (LV 5),  Pyromania (LV 2) (RARE), Almighty Resistance (LV 2) ($^$#), Intimidation (LV 1), Bone Breaker (LV 1) (RARE), Diplomacy (LV 19) (DEACTIVATED), Seduction (LV 2) (DEACTIVATED), Melancholy Resistance (LV 5) (RARE) (DEACTIVATED), ???

Magic – N/A

–

Class Skills

Berserker Rank 1 Ability: Lifesteal (Passive)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 3

Description: Heal yourself for 50% of any damage dealt to a living creature. Normal plants like trees and grass don’t count. No loopholes.

Berserker Rank 2 Ability: Battle Fever (Passive)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 7

Description: For every 30 seconds spent in battle, increase all of your stats by 1. Bonus caps at +15 for each stat. The effect ends after a minute of not being in a combat scenario.

Berserker Rank 3 Ability: Blood for Blood (Passive)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 10

Description: Your damage dealt increases by 1% for each 1% of your missing Max HP. Bonus caps at 99%.

Berserker Rank 4 Ability: Rampage (Active)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 13

Description: Quickly rocket straight forward. Your next attack has highly increased damage. If the user chooses, a moderately-sized explosion centered around them will appear at the end of their dash. The user will not be damaged by this explosion. Costs 50 MP.

Berserker Rank 5 Ability: Enmity (Active)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 25

Description: Draw the attention of a single enemy. For the next 30 seconds, they will become temporarily enraged and focus their attacks on you. If the user chooses, an afflicted enemy will take continuous major psychic damage until the Skill's effect ends. This effect can be nullified or partially resisted by a high Mind stat. Your damage against an enemy that does not nullify Enmity increases by 25%. Costs 50 MP to use. Five minute cooldown.

Berserker Rank 6 Ability: Flames of Vengeance (Active)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 40. Additionally, at least one person must sacrifice their life for the sole purpose of saving yours, and in a situation that was preventable were it not for your hubris.

Description: Surrounds your body in nonelemental ‘fire’ that deals intense, searing damage to all other living beings in close proximity. If the user chooses, wounds inflicted by this Skill cannot be healed by natural or magical means for one week. Consumes health equal to 1% of max HP for every second that the Skill is active. Can be toggled at will. No cooldown.

Crystal Bearer Tier 1 Ability: Spatial Storage

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 1

Description: Can put inanimate items in touch range into a dimensional storage. Items in storage can be produced at will. Limit of 50 pounds or 125 cubic feet of storage per person. Maximum of 50 people using storage allowed. Maximum of 100 total items in storage allowed.

Crystal Bearer Tier 1 Ability: Class Alteration

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 1

Description: Allows you to change the Class of yourself or others if given permission. In addition, you can transfer the gained Class Levels of one Class into another. Each function can be used once per day.

Crystal Bearer Tier 1 Ability: Waymark

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 1

Description: Grants you the ability to put two invisible, undetectable Marks on surfaces. When standing next to one Mark, if the Skill is activated, the user and every member of his Party will be teleported to the other Mark. Limit two Marks per 24 hours, and one teleport per 24 hours.

Crystal Bearer Tier 2 Ability: Awaken Class

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 4

Description: Changes a person's Class to its Awakened form, providing upgrades to its Class Skills, as well as additional stat points to allocate as the beneficent wishes. These upgrades will be strictly beneficial in the vast majority of scenarios, excepting rare edge cases. The Awakening must be agreed upon by both this Skill's user and its effect's recipient. Once a person has Awakened their Class, that Class becomes tied to their soul, and they will be restricted from changing or Altering that Class from then on. This Skill can be used once per day, for a total of eight times per year.  Cannot be used on Crystal Bearer.

Crystal Bearer Tier 2 Ability: Message

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 4

Description: Allows you to send system Messages to members of your Party. The content of each Message is formed by mental dictation. Message recipients can reply using the same method. Recipients can ignore Messages and block further incoming messages as they wish. All Messages in a person's log will be inaccessible once they leave the original sender's Party. Those Messages will be restored once they rejoin a Party made by the original sender.

Crystal Bearer Tier 2 Ability: Bind Item

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 4

Description: Grants you the ability to Bind inanimate objects to your soul. The methodology of what constitutes an 'object' is the same as Spatial Storage. Bound Items can be hidden or summoned at the user's discretion. There is no range limit to how far away an item can be summoned from. They can also be re-formed by the user with no penalty, even when destroyed. Items can be re-formed once every three seconds. Duplicates of the same Bound Item cannot exist. Limit of 20 pounds and 216 cubic feet per item. Limit of five Bound Items per person. Once an item has been Bound, it cannot be un-Bound for one year.

Crystal Bearer Tier 3 Ability: Attunement (MAX)

Prerequisite: Attune to a Locus of Power

Description: Grants you the ability to Attune to Loci of Power. Each Attunement will advance this Skill to greater heights. Attune to a sufficient number of Loci, and you may be able to (*#(!)@)#$&#)!

1 Attunement: Take 50% less damage when Attuning to a Locus of Power.

2 Attunements: Take an additional 50% less damage when Attuning to a Locus of Power, totaling 100%. Can sense nearby Corruption.

3 Attunements: Corruption sense refined. Can sense Loci of Power from twice as far away.

4 Attunements: Barren Locus of Power constructed within the user. Can sense Loci of Power from twice as far away.

5 Attunements: Purge Corruption learned. Can sense Loci of Power from eight times as far away.

6 Attunements: Purge Corruption energy stores tripled. Can sense Loci of Power from twice as far away.

7 Attunements: Purge Corruption energy stores tripled. Can sense Loci of Power from twice as far away.

8 Attunements: Purge Corruption energy stores tripled. Can sense Loci of Power from twice as far away.

9 Attunements: Purge Corruption energy stores tripled. Grants the user the ability to restore a Corrupted Locus of Power. Can be used once per week. Requires at least 75% of your maximum Purge Corruption energy stores to succeed.

Crystal Bearer Tier 3 Ability: Purge Corruption (LV 5) (MAX)

Prerequisite: Attune to twelve nine Loci of Power.

Description: Grants you the ability to remove a significant amount of Corruption from yourself or others. Drains after being used. Fully recharges over the course of 24 hours.

Active Skills

Name: Bulk Up (LV 8)

Prerequisite: Strength 55, devote a significant portion of time to training your muscles.

Description: Increases Strength by +12 for 30 seconds.

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

Name: Power Slash (LV 7)

Prerequisite: Strength 50, hit thirty worthwhile enemies with a full-strength attack while wielding a shortsword or longsword.

Description: Damage of next melee sword attack is increased by 35%.

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

Name: Do Not Go Gently (LV 5) (RARE)

Prerequisites: Vitality 150, go through three near-death experiences, and exhibit the unyielding will to survive.

Description: When HP falls below 25%, double Vitality and double the effectiveness of all defense and Vitality-based skills, with the exception of Lifesurge.

Duration: 2 Minutes

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

Name: Lifesurge (LV 18)

Prerequisite: Vitality 150, fall below 5% of your Max HP at least once.

Description: Rapidly restores 75% of your Max HP.

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

Name: Not A Scratch (LV 16)

Prerequisite: Vitality 150, take damage from enemies at least 180 different times.

Description: Outright ignore the damage of a single attack from a single enemy. Physics still apply.

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

Name: Imbue Vitality (LV 2)

Prerequisite: Vitality 150

Description: The best defense is a good offense. Sacrifice 10% of your max HP to empower your next weapon strike, fist strike, or offensive spell, causing its damage to be quadrupled.

Cooldown: 30 Seconds

Name: Step of the Wind (LV 10)

Prerequisite: Dexterity 65, devote a significant amount of time to running and moving quickly.

Description: Increases Dexterity by +14 for 30 seconds.

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

Name: Identify (LV 2)

Prerequisites: Mind 15, spend at least one year of your life specifically seeking out new knowledge.

Description: Imparts knowledge of the scanned object to the user.

Cooldown: N/A

Name: Recall (LV 1)

Prerequisites: Mind 15

Description: Activate to permanently remember any written or spoken words read/heard by the user within the last five minutes. Words committed to memory through Recall can be forgotten at-will at any time. Max 200 words stored.

Cooldown: 1 Hour

Name: Quick Thinking (LV 4)

Prerequisite: Mind 40

Description: Slightly improves your speed of thought. Drains 3 Stamina per second while active. Mentally taxing when used for too long.

Name: Auto-Translate (Elvish Writing)

Prerequisite: 30 Mind, read at least 30 worthwhile books, spend some time learning the Elvish language.

Description: Automatically translates any Elvish writing you read into English.

Name: Auto-Translate (Elvish Speech)

Prerequisite: 30 Mind, listen to at least several hundred hours of conversation in Elvish, and spend a moderate amount of time trying to understand it.

Description: Automatically translates any Elvish speech you hear into English.

Name: Auto-Translate (Fiendish Speech)

Prerequisite: 30 Mind, listen to at least several hundred hours of conversation in Fiendish, and spend a moderate amount of time trying to understand it.

Description: Automatically translates any Fiendish speech you hear into English.

Passive Skills

Name: Grappling (LV 4)

Prerequisite: Strength 40, grapple at least four worthwhile enemies.

Description: Hold on tight! Slightly increases your grip strength and your ability to put people in holds.

Name: Regeneration (LV 22)

Prerequisite: Vitality 150

Description: Heals 220% of Max HP every hour, equal to 100% of Max HP every 27 minutes, or 3.7% of Max HP every minute.

Name: Tough Skin (LV 7)

Prerequisite: Vitality 120, take grievous physical damage at least seven times.

Description: Reduces physical damage incurred by 40%.

Name: Poison Resistance (LV 8)

Prerequisite: Vitality 60, endure prolonged poison damage on numerous occasions.

Description: Gain resistance to the damage caused by foreign, damaging substances in your body.

Name: Platelet Party (LV 17)

Prerequisite: Vitality 115, receive Bleeding (Moderate) on at least 60 different occasions.

Description: Your external and internal bleeding will fix itself significantly faster. The sources of the bleeding (such as a cut or a wound) will heal at the same rate as before.

Name: Vitamin D(efense) (LV 10)

Prerequisite: Vitality 85, break bones on at least thirty-five different occasions.

Description: Your bones are much more durable and will heal slightly faster.

Name: Regrow Self (LV 1)

Prerequisite: Vitality 150, lose at least ten appendages, and survive decapitation.

Description: Some things in life cost an arm and a leg, but at least you can get a refund – which is good, because you've certainly paid that price on many occasions. Regrow any lost limbs or organs over a period of 10 minutes. If decapitated, regrow your entire torso over a period of 30 minutes, assuming you live that long. While decapitated, your rate of blood loss and brain failure will be significantly reduced.

Name: Reflective Skin (LV 1)

Prerequisite: Vitality 20, take grievous magical damage at least once.

Description: Reduces magical damage incurred by 10%.

Name: Heat Resistance (LV 7)

Prerequisite: Vitality 85,  take massive heat or fire damage from a nonmagical source at least eight times.

Description: Looks like today’s gonna be another scorcher! Reduces heat or fire-related damage by 35%, whether from magical or nonmagical means.

Name: Push Through (LV 5)

Prerequisite: Vitality 50, receive at least 24 moderate injuries, experience large amounts of pain in a short period of time.

Description: Reduces the pain felt by your body by 50%.

Name: Brain Damage Resistance (LV 1)

Prerequisite: Vitality 70, receive significant blunt force trauma directly to the surface of your brain matter at least once.

Description: If you've gained this Skill, the Prerequisite has likely left you dead or on death's door, meaning that you're unlikely to ever read this description. What a shame. For those of you who've somehow survived their impromptu lobotomy, rejoice, as this Skill reduces damage directly done to your brain – from all sources – by 50%.

Name: Deep Breathing (LV 2)

Prerequisite: Endurance 20, breathe heavily numerous times in a one-week period.

Description: Air is life. Every deep breath or two normal breaths you take restores 1.5 Stamina.

Name: Swordsmanship (LV 8)

Prerequisite: Dexterity 40, spend at least two weeks wielding a sword, and defeat at least three worthwhile opponents while using a sword.

Description: Become more proficient with sharp-edged, bladed weapons with the shape and weight of a sword.

Name: Fleet of Foot (LV 5)

Prerequisite: 35 Endurance, 35 Dexterity, spend a moderate amount of time running for an extended period.

Description: Adds 10 functional Dexterity to your running speed when running for longer than 30 seconds.

Name: Heightened Senses (LV 3)

Prerequisite: Perception 30

Description: Your senses of sight, sound, smell, taste, touch, and balance are all slightly improved.

Name: Analyze Weakness (LV 1)

Prerequisite: Perception 20, Identify 2

Description: When Identifying an enemy, has a small chance of revealing a minor weakness.

Name: Arachnophobia (LV 3) (RARE)

Prerequisite: Kill at least 50 worthwhile insects, bugs, and arachnids, and experience a moment of intense loathing towards spiders.

Description: You hate all creepy crawlies, but you hate spiders the most. Deal 50% extra damage to things that skitter and an additional 300% extra damage against spiders.

Name: Leadership (LV 8)

Prerequisite: Mind 60, exhibit strong leadership in at least eight tense situations.

Description: Slightly strengthens your ability to exhibit strong leadership and inspire people.

Name: Headsman (LV 4) (RARE)

Prerequisite: Kill nine major enemies with head strikes or decapitations in a relatively short period of time.

Description: You’re a walking, talking, guillotine. Gain 25% damage when attacking an enemy’s head or neck area.

Name: Sense Mana (LV 1)

Prerequisite: Mind 30, Magic 20, spent a moderate amount of time trying to sense mana through study and concentration.

Description: Gain the ability to sense ambient mana, one of the fundamental building blocks of the world. Is a general prerequisite for being able to cast spells.

Name: Mind Resistance (LV 4)

Prerequisite: Mind 30, suffer under the effects of strong magic related to illusions, hypnosis, mind attacks, brainwashing, or mind control for an extended period of time.

Description: Your mind is a temple – just make sure you install a good security system. Increases resistance to magic effects related to illusions, hypnosis, mind attacks, brainwashing, or mind control. Resistance scales with your Mind stat.

Name: Throwing Proficiency (LV 5)

Prerequisite: Defeat or heavily injure at least nine worthwhile opponents using throwing implements. Improvised implements count.

Description: Been practicing your fastball? Apparently, the answer is yes. Slightly increases your aim when throwing shit at shit. Damage incurred by hitting an enemy with a thrown weapon or object is increased by 25%.

Name: Pyromania (LV 2) (RARE)

Prerequisite: Deal extreme amounts of damage to enemies and/or terrain using fire without casting spells. Express a deep-seated and borderline unhealthy interest in fire.

Description: Acquiring this Skill automatically puts you on a special FBI watch list. Deal 30% extra damage when using fire that isn’t cast from spells. This fire also burns 30% hotter and spreads 30% faster.

Name: Almighty Resistance (LV 2) ($^$#)

Prerequisite: //

Description: \\

Name: Intimidation (LV 1)

Prerequisite: 20 Mind, browbeat someone using verbal or visual means into performing an action that they don’t want to do.

Description: Sometimes, it’s good to speak softly and carry a big stick. Other times, it’s better to promise violence and aim a bazooka at whoever dares to cross you. Become more proficient in the art of aggressive negotiation.

Name: Bone Breaker (LV 1) (RARE)

Prerequisite: Break over five hundred enemy bones within a short period.

Description: Damage dealt to enemies' bone structure is doubled. The kind of Skill generally reserved for battle-crazed sadists, but you just so happened to wander into a skeleton factory, so enjoy the freebie.

Name: Diplomacy (LV 19) (DEACTIVATED)

Prerequisite: Mind ---, defuse numerous tense situations using words and body language.

Description: Become more proficient in the art of negotiation. With your personality, this may be the Skill you need the most.

Name: Melancholy Resistance (LV5) (RARE) (DEACTIVATED)

Prerequisite: Experience a deep-seated, soul-crushing sadness. Five times.

Description: Allows you to get back on your feet more quickly.

???

Prerequisites: Reach Level 99, ???

Chapter 22

"You're planning something," Kismet stated.

The god flipped his coin, watching it fall from the corner of his vision as Fames sent him a modest smile. "Who?" he responded, with a chuckle that rang out among the divine planes. "Me?"

"Don't play coy." Tink. The coin landed heads-up. "You've been consistently expending Influence over a course of years."

Fames' smile deepened. "How kind of you to notice. It should be close to bearing fruit, yes."

Kismet hmm'd with disapproval. "Interfering to that degree stretches the limits of what is allowed."

"Is that so wrong?" The annoyance asked, in an irreverent tone. "With a reasonably low investment of Influence, I'm set to cause devastating shockwaves that will ripple across Elatra. I thought that, out of all of us, you would be especially receptive to efficiency."

"Our influence upon the mortal realms is supposed to be subtle."

"And it has been." He shrugged. "What have I done, truly? Do you see me summoning monsters or smiting mortals from on high? Have I torn open reality and flooded the lands with the heat of a dying star? No. I didn't even need to contact them first – they were the ones who begged their beloved Titan for succor. What kind of deity would I be if I ignored my poor, woeful subjects? And still, all I've done is transport a few sheets of paper every now and then."

Fames opened a scrying portal to Elatra, peering hungrily into Dwarven territory. "The rest...is up to them."

--

"Make sure you've got everything before we Waymark home," Rob said, addressing the Party. "I can't exactly turn the car around because someone forgot their favorite quiver again."

"That only happened once," Orn'tol grumbled.

Rob couldn't help but grin. He was almost regretting being an only child; teasing younger siblings was too much fun. "Just saying, we won't be returning to Dwarfland anytime soon. It'd be impossible to explain how we got back so quickly."

Their current plan was to travel a few hours away from Dhalerune City's limits before Waymarking the rest of the way to Fiendland. It was a healthy middle ground between expedience and secrecy, allowing them to keep Waymark under wraps while still getting home in a reasonable time frame.

Truth be told, their caution was probably unnecessary. The Dwarves would find out about Waymark eventually. And if Rob had been open and used the Skill yesterday, he could've sent back one or two Party members to deliver a message to the Fiends, letting them get a head start on developing dimensional travel and prepping his soul surgery.

In the end, though, he'd erred on the side of caution. Something in his gut told him that he shouldn't reveal Waymark's existence just yet. Maybe he was being paranoid, but his paranoia had a stellar track record thus far, so he was perfectly fine with letting it sit in the driver's seat every now and then.

"Admittedly," Vul'to began, "it is something of a relief that we'll be returning to Fiend territory. I never grew entirely accustomed to the Dwarves' suspicious glares. Was it the same for you, Faelynn?"

She said nothing, just staring off into the distance.

"Faelynn?"

"Hmm?" The Fiend snapped out of her reverie, eyes widening in muted surprise. "Oh, yes. I'll be glad to be home." For a moment, she seemed like she was going to continue speaking, before trailing off into uncomfortable silence.

Rob suppressed a grimace. Faelynn had been acting 'off' ever since her meeting with the Stonewarden earlier that day. She claimed that it'd gone okay, but her poker face clearly needed as much work as his did. Hopefully she would open up about her worries soon, cause Rob didn't have the faintest idea of how to help her without Diplomacy feeding him lines.

He'd need to ask the Skill to give him lessons once they got their own body. As nominal leader of Riardin's Rangers, his Party members would be looking to him for guidance, and 'I was way better at this when I had cheat codes' wasn't an excuse that would hold water for long.

Searching for a way to break the awkward atmosphere, Rob settled on a subject that always hyped up Elatran natives: power boosts. "So as a reminder, I unlocked my final Crystal Bearer Skill during our battle with the Blight," he said, drawing the Party's attention. "What should I use it on? I'm open to suggestions."

Meyneth perked up. "Do you mind reading out the Skill's description once more? It's been some time since we last heard of it."

Rob nodded, bringing up his Character Sheet without delay.

Name: Bind Item

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 5

Description: Grants you the ability to Bind inanimate objects to your soul. The methodology of what constitutes an 'object' is the same as Spatial Storage. Bound Items can be hidden or summoned at the user's discretion. There is no range limit to how far away an item can be summoned from. They can also be re-formed by the user with no penalty, even when destroyed. Items can be re-formed once every three seconds. Duplicates of the same Bound Item cannot exist. Limit of 20 pounds and 216 cubic feet per item. Limit of five Bound Items per person. Once an item has been Bound, it cannot be un-Bound for one year.

"I've already Bound three items," Rob continued. "The EXP Share, the Broken Shortsword, and the Ruined Ranger Trainee's Garb. And no, the last two weren't my decision; it happened when the Class Crystal in The Village broke and filled me with Blue energy. I'd love to un-Bind them, but I don't think I'll be able to for at least a few months. That leaves two slots available."

Keira raised an eyebrow at him. "Why bother taking suggestions? We all know you're going to Bind a crate of Firebombs."

The other members of Riardin's Rangers nodded in unison. Rob raised a finger of protest, before slowly lowering it. "I mean..." he trailed off. "Okay, sure. But what about the final slot?"

"...a second crate of Firebombs?"

"Don't tempt me."

After several minutes of discussion, Vevrandi arrived, giving the Party a weary nod. "Stonewarden Grant awaits," she said, smiling through the darkened circles under her eyes. "It's time we said our farewells – although I imagine we'll be seeing each other again soon enough."

Rob nodded, practically salivating at the thought of hunting the Blight with an army at his back. "Thanks for taking a risk on us. Without you coming to Fiend territory, the last week would've played out very differently."

He extended his hand. Vevrandi grasped it and shook it once, the exhaustion in her face receding slightly. "It's we who should be thanking all of you. I never would have been able to take vengeance for my sister without your assistance." Her smile widened, showing more teeth than before. "Here's to a bright future of Blight-killing."

"I call dibs on the next one."

They left the room in good spirits, making their way through a series of hallways, receiving nods of gratitude from any Dwarves that happened to be passing by. Rob allowed himself to enjoy the reactions for what they were. He doubted the Dwarves would be so happy to see him if – god forbid – things turned sour between Fiendland and the Dwarfland, but it was better than the hostility he'd always received when first meeting a new Elatran race.

Stonewarden Grant was waiting for them inside the same reception hall he'd greeted them in when they arrived at Dhalerune City. Seneschal Sylpeiros was present as well, sitting to the side with his arms tightly crossed. He looked at Rob as Riardin's Rangers entered, giving the Human a single unreadable glance before turning away.

Hello to you too, Rob thought, in a dry tone. Feel free to keep up the silent treatment. I won't cause any drama if you don't.

"Fair tidings to you," Elder Alessia began, gesturing to the Stonewarden. "I trust that you're back in good health after having the Corruption purged from your body?"

"Miraculously so," the Stonewarden answered, with palpable relief. "I must once again give my thanks to Rob – you've done more for Dwarven territory than can be expressed in words."

"Glad to be of service," Rob assured. It was the truth. With or without the Dwarves' gratitude, he would've been plenty happy just fucking up the Blight's day. It was rapidly becoming his favorite pastime.

"Are you sure you don't wish to stay for a day or two longer?" Stonewarden Grant asked. "News of your Party's heroism has barely begun to spread amongst the populace. Once they learn of the Blight's demise, and the circumstances surrounding it, they'll demand that I throw a well-deserved celebration in your honor."

Elder Alessia shook her head. "As tempting as that may be, we have business to attend to in Fiend territory. Another time, perhaps."

Grant's face fell. "I see. That is...unfortunate."

Group Message Received from Party Member: Keira

Keira: Surrender.

It took Rob a second to process what he was reading. Then he noticed the flickers of motion in the background, Dwarven attendants who he'd written off as unremarkable Utility Class users producing rifles from within their clothes. Gaps in the walls had slid open as well, revealing rifle tips pointed out, aimed directly at Riardin's Rangers. As Rob swept his gaze across the room, he counted no less than forty guns, and those were just the ones he could see.

No one moved, and no one spoke. The shock of the moment permeated through the air, slithering around the Party, constricting them like manacles. Rob's hand twitched as Blue motes started to gather.

Message Continued

Keira: Don't.

He clenched his fist, realizing that she was right. It was what he'd told Riardin's Rangers when explaining guns to them. Either you killed everyone immediately or you surrendered. No in-between. The Stonewarden had riflemen prepared to ambush them from the beginning, and to make matters worse, Combat Class users were rushing into the room from behind. Rob couldn't envision a scenario where his Party fought without sustaining casualties.

They'd lost the fight before it even began.

"Please lay down your arms,"  the Stonewarden said, in a soft voice.

Chapter 23

"Please lay down your arms,"  the Stonewarden said, in a soft voice. "The Thunder Rods are deadlier than you realize. For both our sakes, don't attempt any reckless maneuvers."

"What the fuck, Grant," Elder Alessia flatly stated. "Have you taken leave of your senses?"

"I cannot permit you to return to Fiend territory. It will soon become a prohibitively dangerous place to reside within."

Seneschal Sylpeiros spat on the ground, his face alight with thunderous rage. ""You bastard whoreson. What happened to our agreement?"

"It remains in effect," the Stonewarden explained, patiently. "Aid will be given to Elven territory in due time. For now, however, I can't have you interfering."

Rob threw his hands up into the air. "Interfere with what? The Blight's dead, dude! Dwarfland is safe! Fiendland is safe! We were all getting along super well!"

Many of the riflemen and Combat Class Dwarves shuffled guiltily. Unlike them, Vevrandi appeared completely lost, seemingly blindsided by the change of affairs. Then there was the Stonewarden, whose expression remained calm, almost unnaturally so, resembling a clockwork automaton created solely to breathe, blink, and speak.

"Come," he said, gesturing for the group to follow. "There is much you've yet to see."

The Seneschal let out a vicious snarl, mana gathering around him in a whirling tempest. "If you think that-"

BANG.

Rob instinctively hit the deck, on the verge of casting Waymark to escape the flurry of bullets about to perforate his Party. When that flurry never came, he paused, glancing over at Seneschal Sylpeiros. The Elf was staring down at his leg in abject shock, eyes fixated on the trickle of blood running out from where one single bullet had struck. He didn't seem especially bothered by the wound itself; rather, that he'd been hit at all.

"Danger Sense went off," Sylpeiros murmured, voice trembling, as if his world was collapsing around him. "I was going to dodge. But...it had already...so fast..."

"In common parlance, we call that a warning shot," Stonewarden Grant stated. "Do not underestimate what the Thunder Rods will do to your vital organs should they strike true." His placid tone remained unchanged. "Now, unless further demonstration is necessary: lay down your arms. I won't ask a third time."

One-by-one, they complied. Keira was the last to relinquish her weapon, sending the Stonewarden a positively venomous glare as she flung her greatsword to the ground. Without another word, Grant turned around and began heading towards a side hall, expecting everyone to follow.

Group Message Continued

Rob: Putting it to a vote.

Rob: Do I use Waymark now, or later?

The Party unanimously voted Later – except for Faelynn, who didn't say anything, apparently too crestfallen to muster the effort. Rob considered overriding their decision and Waymarking anyway, but then they'd be left with no fucking idea why the Stonewarden suddenly turned traitor, while also leaving Elder Alessia behind to get gunned down by some trigger-happy Dwarf.

If he wanted to kill us, he would have, Rob thought. Hasn't even made any demands outside of 'don't leave' and 'follow me'. For the time being, I think we're safe – as long as we do what he says. That's my coping mechanism and I'm sticking to it.

He stepped forward, breathing an internal sigh of relief when forty gunshots didn't ring out at once. Riardin's Rangers fell in line, pale faces stricken with fear as they eyed the dozens of rifles pointed their way. Seneschal Sylpeiros was the last to follow, but he eventually broke out of his stupor, realizing that the closest things he had to allies were vacating the premises. Vevrandi just stood there dumbfounded while everyone else departed, seeming no closer to comprehending what had transpired as she quietly disappeared from view.

Long, tense minutes passed as Stonewarden Grant led them through his fortress, each twisting pathway only serving to heighten the sense of impending violence. Rob half-expected bullets and arrows to start raining down at any moment from the scores of riflemen and Combat Class users 'escorting' his Party. He kept an eye out for any openings in the Dwarves' security, but every hallway they traversed was chock-full of more murder holes with more guns. Despite his circumstances, Rob felt a little impressed with the Stonewarden's planning, a notion that intensified when Grant opened up an honest-to-god secret passageway and casually beckoned them inside.

Five minutes became fifteen. Fifteen became thirty. Riardin's Rangers gradually lost track of time as they descended into the heart of the mountain, well outside of the bounds of Grant's fortress. Rob was beginning to worry that they were just being led to a place where no one would find their bodies – when, mercifully, a door appeared at the end of the hallway. It was barred by a series of combination locks that the Stonewarden disarmed with careful precision, handling each one like a bomb set to explode. Which, considering the secrecy involved in getting this far, might have been exactly the case.

The final lock disengaged with an ominous click. Grant hesitated, his hand on the door, expression shifting by an imperceptible fraction. "Tell me," he began. "What would you do if your people were pushed to the brink? What would you do if you were willing to do anything to preserve their safety? What would you do if, in your darkest hour, you got down on your hands and knees and fervently prayed to the divine for succor?"

He pushed the door open. "And what would you do if the divine listened?"

Everyone except Rob stared into the room with a sort of mystified confusion. They didn't have the background knowledge to comprehend what they were looking at. Rob, on the other hand, let out a low whistle as he scrutinized what was undoubtedly the Stonewarden's secret underground laboratory. Desks and shelves were lined with documents, metals, tubes, and various materials that Rob couldn't specify without casting Identify. The lab itself was the size of a football field, with numerous connecting pathways leading off into side rooms containing even more equipment. It was evident that no expense had been spared.

Stonewarden Grant strode inside, nodding to a group of Dwarven scientists who were huddled in the corner. Rob felt a flash of sympathy as he noted their lowered postures and averted eyes. They were probably unaccustomed to guests, let alone a high-Level tour group with a Human, two Fiends, and two Leaders. To the scientists' blatant relief, the Stonewarden walked right past them, heading straight towards a device that Rob recognized all too well.

"Manaless light was the first gift," Grant said. He flicked a switch, turning on the lightbulb, and illuminating the room in an off-white glow. "Or rather, the design documents for it were. Can you imagine? A revelation embodied within a single sheaf of papers. Elegant in its design, yet harnessing the power of lightning itself. We set to work recreating it, and the results were astounding. Installing manaless light throughout the city provided immediate benefits; instead of expending mana to emulate the glory that surface-dwellers enjoy by virtue of existing, we could dedicate our mages to other avenues of expansion and development."

The Stonewarden's left eye twitched. "That...should have been sufficient, I suppose. My initial entreaty stemmed more from desperation than any expectation of a result. I had beseeched Titan for something, anything to grant my subjects an easier life. To lessen the hardships they suffered on a daily basis. The fact that he heeded my pleas at all was a once-in-a-lifetime miracle."

Grant turned away. "And yet, I am greedy. So I begged for more."

He continued to the next room. Riardin's Rangers and Seneschal Sylpeiros followed, spurred onward by the guns at their backs and the curiosity in their hearts. Stonewarden Grant approached another workbench and picked up a metal, rectangular object that was obviously a radio, holding it up for everyone to see. Rob flinched as Grant pressed a button on its side, prompting crackling static to emit from within. That particular sound was starting to become something of a sore spot.

"Portable Message Crystals." Grant half-chuckled, half-sighed. "Perhaps our naming conventions have gone astray. Portable Message Crystals allow a person to communicate at long distances, although they involve no actual Crystals. Our Thunder Rods, despite their moniker, do not utilize thunder – unlike the manaless lights, which very much do." He paused, his arm lowering as he began to mumble to himself. "The things that one focuses on when the end draws near..."

Grant cleared his throat. "Regardless, this was the second gift that Titan bestowed upon us. The few Portable Message Crystals we've manufactured thus far have already lessened our dependence on traditional Message Crystals. Once we officially put them into mass production, Dwarven culture is anticipated to undergo an overnight paradigm shift."

A wisp of a smile spread across his face. "Parents won't be left wondering for days if their children happened to survive the recent battle. Miners and explorers will always be in contact, preventing them from losing their way and vanishing into the mountain's depths."

"How do the Portable Message Crystals work?" Elder Alessia asked. Grant stared at her for several seconds, blinking vacantly as if he'd forgotten anyone else was there, before eventually replying.

"We are not entirely sure," he admitted. "Some of the concepts described within Titan's instructions continue to elude us. We learn more every day, but divine insight is so far beyond our grasp that deciphering it is a humbling experience. Due to our evolving grasp of how Titan's gifts function, they are primarily constructed by laboriously transforming his designs into step-by-step processes. Even if we cannot fully understand them, we can still replicate the end result."

But why'd you go from light bulbs to radios? Rob thought. He couldn't figure out how the two were correlated outside of sharing an electricity requirement. It felt like jumping around on the tech tree. Either the gods were picking random pieces of Earth technology to offer the Dwarves, or something else was at play.

He didn't have time to ponder the notion for long, as Stonewarden Grant was already moving on. The next room's centerpiece needed no introduction; hundreds of identical rifles were proudly on display. "For his third gift," Grant began, "Titan did something extraordinary. He asked me what our people needed most. When I told him that we lacked ways to defend our borders, he granted us knowledge of the Thunder Rod. Some elements of its composition were unknown to us, but the Mines provide, as they always do. We've discovered veins that provide the requisite materials to outfit as many soldiers as are willing."

His eyes sparked with excitement. "It takes less of an investment to train and arm thirty Utility Class users with Thunder Rods than it does to cultivate a single high-Level Combat Class user. The ranks of our standing army have swelled immensely in just a few short years. Once the Blight and Dragon Queen are dealt with, nothing shall dare threaten Dwarven territory for centuries to come."

Despite the circumstances, Riardin's Rangers were listening intently to the Stonewarden's explanations. While they would've preferred to learn about the origin of the Dwarves' technological developments in a more...relaxed setting, at least now they were finally getting some answers.

It was a shame, Rob thought, that the answers were horrifying. There was so much he wanted to tell the Stonewarden, and none of it would go over well if he tried. How were you supposed to inform the leader of a medieval society – a leader who legitimately cared for his people's well-being, no less – that the god showering him with lifechanging technological wonders was a manipulative prick? That would've been a nigh-impossible sell even for Diplomacy.

As Stonewarden Grant continued to speak, the embers of excitement within his expression rapidly faded, reverting to the disquieted calm from before. "Three gifts," he whispered. "Three wonders. More than enough to pave the road to Dwarven territory's prosperity. My greed had been satiated beyond my wildest dreams."

He closed his eyes. "And yet. And yet, and yet, and yet..." Grant's face tightened. "Why stop there, when I had the ear of a god? Another chance like this might never arise again in the history of Elatra. Thus, I made one final request. My largest, and most important plea."

Grant opened his eyes. Within them resided a hollow nothing. "I asked for the end of all wars."

Rob's stomach churned the instant he heard those words. Panic bubbled inside, simmering and insistent, worsening to a volcanic eruption as Grant led them into the deepest section of his workshop. There was only one item in this room, much bigger than any of the other devices the Dwarves had been developing. It was roughly fifteen feet long, oval-shaped, consisting of a metal exterior, and with fin-like appendages attached to its bottom end. The device was situated below an extremely wide ceiling tunnel that let in natural light from outside – to ensure that it could be launched from right where it was.

Overall, by this point in time, Rob was confident in his ability to roll with Elatra's punches, as long as he could compartmentalize it under 'weird fantasy bullshit'. Even if a giant Cthulhu tentacle monster dropped out of the sky tomorrow, he'd just shrug and see if calamari cooked with the Flames of Vengeance tasted any good. He may have been a stranger in a strange land, but he was surviving, damnit, and he would wade through miles of Elatran nonsense if it eventually led him back to the blissful normalcy of Earth.

Normalcy. He suppressed the manic laughter threatening to escape his throat. In that moment, as Rob came face to face with a nightmare given form, he became distinctly aware that he'd spent too long away from home. His nostalgia goggles needed re-adjusting. Elatra had issues, but Earth was hardly all sunshine and rainbows. It possessed its own horrors that matched – if not exceeded – the worst Elatra could offer. Forces of destruction that shouldn't exist in this or any other world.

And one of them was here.

"Constructing the fourth gift was...difficult," Stonewarden Grant explained. "Its instructions were far more complex than those for the manaless light, Portable Message Crystals, or Thunder Rods. We still understand so little of what we've created. Separate sciences were invented wholesale simply to comprehend parts of its design. Significant trial and error was required, as well as supplementing gaps in material components and information with uniquely-tailored spells. Titan even intervened with divine inspiration on several occasions. It took great effort, but after years of testing, we-"

"Testing?"

Rob giggled as he spoke the word. "You...made more of these? And tested them? Did I hear that right?"

"Smaller versions deep within the Mines, yes. Safely away from Dhalerune City. We also tested its firing mechanism by launching empty shells into the northern sea."

Rob thought back to the tunnel that Stonewarden Grant forbade them from exploring. He recalled the warning sign, and mentally replaced its skull icon with a certain other hazard symbol.

The Stonewarden's reticence suddenly made a lot more sense. It would've been tough to come up with an excuse for why people were getting the 'Radiation Poisoning' Status Effect.

"I think I was overly worried about Dhalerune Mines," Rob said, in a lightheaded tone. "There's no way we were ever going to collapse it if setting off nukes inside couldn't."

Stonewarden Grant frowned. "The fourth gift has been dubbed 'Titan's Fist'."

"It's a nuke, you stupid fucking lunatic." Uncaring of the Dwarves' affronted looks and gasps of shock, Rob ran his nails down his face, drawing flecks of blood as he came close to screaming. "So here's a quick summary for everyone in the audience! Imagine a Firebomb. Now imagine it's powerful enough to erase an entire city from the map. Like a Cataclysm ray times ten. Oh, and it poisons the land with temporary Corruption."

Rob spread his arms wide as he spoke, deriving a sort of grim pleasure from the expressions of horror on his friends' faces. "But wait, there's more! This nuke was apparently cobbled together using magic. So, in addition to everything else I mentioned, it likely has some extra side effects we don't know about. That is the weapon that Stonewarden Grant has decided to bring into your world."

Grant merely stared at him, tilting his head as if attempting to solve a puzzle. "Your world?" the Stonewarden repeated. "That reminds me – the Blight which possessed Silviel spoke of other worlds. One called Earth, with a person called Jason. It seemed to assume that you knew what it was referring to. Why is that? And how do you know so much about Titan's Fist?"

"Yeah, I think the time for friendly Q&A sessions is well past over." Rob's eyes drifted towards the avatar of death sitting innocently in the background, an involuntary shudder passing through his body. "Christ almighty. Do you even have the slightest idea of what you've created?"

"It is the end to all wars," Grant plainly stated. "And a path to our salvation. While the Thunder Rods are lethal against Combat Class users, they are less effective against the Blight and its spawn. We cannot rely on your Purging abilities for the duration of an entire war – should you succumb to Leveling High or fall in battle, Elatra will soon follow."

Elder Alessia crossed her arms. "If this weapon is so powerful, then why did you require our assistance with the Blight of Dhalerune Mines?"

"Transporting Titan's Fist to the Mines would have been prohibitively dangerous. It is meant to be launched from a safe distance. By ferrying it through narrow caverns, we risked premature detonation – or worse, handing our deadliest asset to the Blight itself. In the future, we intend to use Titan's Fist to annihilate roaming Blights on Elatra's surface, potentially without losing a single soldier in the process."

He glanced at the Elven Seneschal. "Think, Sylpeiros. Aside from the Blight, this will finally let us rid ourselves of the Dragon Queen. You especially should desire that more than anyone here."

Sylpeiros grimaced and lowered his head, a thoughtful look on his face. Riardin's Rangers wore similar expressions, caught between their wariness and the prospect of gaining a way to even the playing field. Rob had to give the Stonewarden credit – he was actually starting to win over the room.

Time to nip that in the bud.

"Sounds great," Rob said, clapping loudly. "New super weapon to fight the Dragon Queen and the Blight! Woooo!! I'm sure you're not planning to ever, ever use it on anyone else, am I right?"

The Stonewarden posture stiffened by a hair. "I will do whatever is necessary to protect my people."

"I'm not hearing a 'no'."

"Your concerns are immaterial. Once the other nations witness what Titan's Fist could do to their cities, they won't be foolish enough to risk incurring our retribution."

Rob prepared to fire back with a list of all the examples in Earth's history when nuclear war was avoided by a sliver – and then froze, his mouth halfway open. Something about the phrasing of the Stonewarden's last sentence felt...odd. Before he could ask for a clarification, Faelynn raised her voice, speaking up for the first time in hours. "Witness," she mumbled, in a stilted tone. "How would they witness?"

Grant fixed his eyes on her, smoldering hatred piercing through the hollow depths of his gaze. "By watching closely as Titan's justice turns Fiend territory into a ruined husk."

There it is, Rob thought, as a stunned silence spread across the room. While his friends were in various states of shock, he'd been waiting for the Stonewarden to drop a bomb, so to speak. It allowed him to respond before Grant could start rambling again. "We're allies now, in case you've forgotten," Rob pointed out.

"That does not negate the generations of bloodshed Fiends have inflicted upon us."

Rob stepped forward, cognizant of the multitude of rifles that immediately took aim at him. "Look. I get it. You haven't actually seen a nuke in action. It's too abstract for you. So just...remember the devastation caused by the Cataclysm. Remember the lives it stole and ruined. Then realize that, if you start firing nukes into Fiendland, you'll be the one perpetrating a brand new tragedy. Hundreds of thousands of people will die."

"Hundreds of thousands of monsters." Grant bared his teeth. "And to be perfectly clear, I meant that in the literal sense. Fiends are nothing more than mana-born monsters who have evolved into a masquerade of civilization."

...Shit. Rob's heart sank as the room descended into chaos. His Party was demanding answers, Vul'to looked like he was going through a second existential crisis, and Faelynn looked like she was about to cry and going through an existential crisis. This was not the way Rob had wanted this particular secret to come out.

"After ruminating over what Silviel mentioned," Grant continued, "I searched through old archives to see if I could corroborate her claim of Fiends being creatures of mana. Were you aware that, around two centuries ago, there was a Harpy Archmage who announced that he'd discovered the same – only for him to mysteriously disappear the very next day? As if clandestine powers had ordered his removal."

His voice rose as he spoke, becoming outright feverish. "Upon realizing this, I searched deeper, uncovering several more instances where this knowledge surfaced before being ruthlessly suppressed. Only one conclusion can be drawn from this: Fiends are the same type of species as monsters, and they have been hiding their true nature since they first came to Elatra."

"Who fucking cares?"

The Stonewarden jerked back like he'd been slapped. "What?"

"I said who FUCKING cares?" Rob snarled. He took another step forward. "Even if what you're saying is correct, I don't give a shit. The Fiends are people – it doesn't matter who their ancestors were. You know this. Faelynn helped save your whole goddamn city. Vevrandi's been to Fiendland, and she can vouch that they're normal. It's...just...son of a BITCH."

Rob furiously scratched his head. "I'm sick and fucking tired of people using whatever logic they feel like to justify their worst impulses. Can't believe we're even having this argument. You're calling the Fiends monsters after threatening to nuke them? Don't make me laugh, you sick, twisted, fuck." He took another step forw-

BANG.

Silence. Rob peered down at the wound in his chest – that had torn straight through to his heart. He briefly considered Lifesurge, but a cursory glance at his Status Screen informed him that needn't bother. His HP was close to 90%; Tough Skin had mitigated the damage, and Regeneration and Platelet Party were already patching him up, stemming his internal bleeding and gradually forcing the bullet out of his body.

Static raging in his head, Rob directed a glare at the offending rifleman. "Do that again and I'll rip out your spine."

Intimidation Level Increased! 1 → 2

The Level 13 Utility Class user loudly gulped, his hands shaking as he struggled to keep a bead on the Level 65 creature who'd shrugged off a shot to the heart.

"Did you know?" the Stonewarden suddenly interjected. "About the Fiends' true nature."

"Yup." Ignoring the surprised looks from his Party members, Rob focused his attention solely on Grant. "I've known for months. They're good people who've treated me and my friends well." After some growing pains, but it probably wouldn't be wise to mention that right now.

Grant shook his head. "They are deceiving you. Just as they deceived the Humans of old."

"...Okay, this part I don't know about."

The Stonewarden sighed. "Have you heard of Project Socius?"

In fact, Rob had. During one of his Locus Attunement benders, he'd been shown a flashback of Humans making war plans. They'd namedropped Project Socius, discussed how it was a last-ditch effort to avoid imminent extinction via Dragon Queen, and...that was all Rob learned before waking up.

"I've heard of it in passing," he answered. "Don't know the details, though."

"It was the Humans' final resort," the Stonewarden explained. "One born out of pure desperation. They intended to contact the Fiends and request assistance in some manner. As far as I am aware, they succeeded."

Grant's expression hardened. "Weeks later, the Cataclysm tore Elatra asunder."

Rob's mouth slammed shut. That...was new. He racked his brain for what to say, knowing full well that the rest of his Party wasn't going to be of any help in defusing this situation. They were too busy reeling from the never-ending conga line of revelations. "You can't prove it was the Fiends' fault," he settled on. "As a suggestion, maybe try talking to them before slaughtering thousands of innocent people."

"No word of truth will pass through their lips. They are duplicitous, murderous snakes, to the last." Faelynn hunched down lower with every word, and Rob had to suppress his urge to dash forward and cut the Stonewarden's neck open. "Leaving them alive would endanger all of Dwarven territory," Grant continued, "and that is a risk I am unwilling to take."

Just then, Seneschal Sylpeiros spoke up. "Restrain your bloodlust," he half-said, half-pleaded. "Thousands of my people are currently residing in Fiend territory. While they may be Deserters, they are still Elves. I won't stand aside as you murder them to sate a vendetta."

Grant's cheek twitched. "There is no vendetta. I am simply doing what I must."

"Horseshit of the highest order," Sylpeiros flatly stated. "I scarcely need Cold Reading to tell me that. Regardless of the Fiends' supposed origins or dishonest natures, an intelligent, rational Leader would adapt to those developments and manipulate them to his advantage. Instead, you are throwing away a historic alliance, one with the potential to shape the course of Elatra. Frankly speaking, your behavior is baffling – you've never seemed this shackled by unchecked emotions in the past. Is it because..."

He frowned. "Ah. You tried, didn't you? To accept the Fiends. That's why you met with her earlier today." Sylpeiros pointed at Faelynn. "It wasn't a strategy meeting; it was an experiment to see if you could stomach her presence. And you failed. Too many memories of Dwarven comrades slain in battle. A hundred years could go by, and you'd still hate the Fiends with every fiber of your being. No different than how the Dragon Queen hates Humans."

Stonewarden Grant's demeanor cracked open, revealing a raging vortex of emotion within, before being sealed up just as quickly. "You sound as if you're speaking from personal experience, Sylpeiros."

The Seneschal instantly fell silent.

"This conversation is finished," Grant said, in a voice that brooked no argument. "Titan's Fist launches in three days. You shall spend that time in a holding cell. As a courtesy, I will allow Faelynn and Vul'to to live. Once my task is complete, you may join our war against the Blight, should you wish. Rob will be tasked with restoring any Corrupted Loci we encounter – that stipulation is non-negotiable."

His gaze sharpened. "Be at ease. Once the Fiends, Blight, and Dragon Queen are dead, Dwarven territory shall lead Elatra to a new era of peace and prosperity."

Rob's mind raced, trying to figure out a way to turn the situation around. He ran the odds of how an all-out brawl between Riardin's Rangers and the Stonewarden's forces would go, even going so far as to accept as many casualties as necessary. The results still weren't encouraging. Grant was Level 81 and backed by Combat Class users and a shitload of guns, while Riardin's Rangers were unarmed. Rob could re-arm them with spare weapons from his Spatial Storage, but that would cost precious time. They might have a slim chance of victory if Seneschal Sylpeiros fought with them, but he was unlikely to put his life on the line when they were this heavily outnumbered.

"You are being misled," Elder Alessia said, in a strained tone. "The gods mean to-"

She stopped as Grant raised his hand, prompting the riflemen to stand up straighter. "Shoot the next person who speaks," he ordered. "Titan's gifts shall not be profaned within my presence."

Rob clenched his teeth. If they couldn't talk and they couldn't fight, then this scenario was already a lost cause. Okay, he told himself. Stay calm. We can stop this. I'm not going to let motherfucking nukes get used on the people I just got done saving. Dwarves want to stick us in solitary? Fine. We'll regroup, confer, find a way to deal with the Stonewarden...who is...now approaching me.

Riardin's Rangers watched, collectively holding their breaths, as Grant slowly walked towards Rob. The Stonewarden's riflemen and Combat Class were no less confused, exchanging worried glances while their esteemed Leader casually put himself in melee range of enemy combatants. Rob was sorely tempted to try gutting him like a fish, but from what he knew, Grant hadn't skimped out on Vitality. Any attempt at a quick assassination would be doomed to fail.

The Stonewarden stopped when he was mere inches apart. He stared up, an unreadable expression on his face. After a few seconds, Grant closed his eyes and turned away, muttering a whisper meant for Rob's ears only.

"I wish you could have stopped me."

--

Changes

Intimidation: 1 → 2

Chapter 24

The Stonewarden's holding cells were significantly more fortified than Rob had expected. While buildings in Elatra tended to be constructed of sturdy materials to account for the average person's marginal Strength increases, this was the first time he'd encountered a place meant to detain high-Level Combat Class users. It was evident that Grant was taking their Party's opposition very seriously.

Currently, they were enclosed in small, isolated cells surrounded by walls of pure steel, each at least two feet thick. Opening the cells seemed to require unique magic spells, and once closed, they were sealed shut so tight that Rob couldn't see where the door's seam began and ended. Instead of traditional prison bar openings, there was just a tiny slit at eye level; a minor concession to ensure that its occupants didn't suffocate. Out of everyone in the Party, Rob estimated that only Keira might be able to brute force an escape, and either way she'd be rewarded with a pair of shattered fists for her efforts.

None of that actually mattered, because Waymark was a thing, but it was impressive nonetheless.

Rob breathed deep, gathering his composure. He'd spent the long walk to his prison cell thinking about how he was going to rally his friends. They were...in a bit of a bad state. Within the span of an hour, they'd been betrayed by the Stonewarden, introduced to the idea of nukes, informed that the aforementioned nukes were going to blow up Fiendland, and finally, learned that Fiends were descended from monsters. Even one of those things would have been a lot to take in.

Which left Rob with the unenviable task of getting them back on track. Unlike the rest of his Party, he'd known about the Fiends/monsters thing already, and nukes weren't a foreign concept to him. He was holding up okay – relatively speaking. They needed his guidance now more than ever.

Diplomacy, wish me luck, he thought, opening up a Message.

Group Message Started By Party Member: Rob

Rob: 'Sup, everyone.

Rob: Not going to mince words. We don't have the time for that.

Rob: Yes, I knew that Fiends were descended from monsters. No, I don't think it's important. Yes, I think they're still people.

Rob: I will fight anyone who says otherwise.

Rob: That includes you, Faelynn.

He heard a despairing sob coming from the adjacent cell.

Message Continued

Faelynn: I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

Rob: Don't apologize for existing.

Faelynn: It isn't just that. The Stonewarden...when I met with him...he interrogated me about how Fiends...

Faelynn: Gods, I can't even say it. The very notion makes my skin crawl.

Faelynn: But regardless of how I felt, I should have warned everyone that he was mistrustful of me, rather than wallowing in my own misery.

Faelynn: I'm to blame for all of this.

Admittedly, a heads-up would've been preeeetty helpful, but saying that out loud was probably not a great idea at the moment.

Message Continued

Rob: It isn't your fault. The Stonewarden was going to turn traitor no matter how that talk of yours went.

Rob: According to the Seneschal, he's been nursing a grudge for who knows how long.

Rob: And even if we knew that Grant was acting sketchy, I don't think any of us would've predicted that he'd go this far.

Faelynn: I should have. Any Leader, when confronted with the truth, would have condemned us just as quickly as he did.

Faelynn: We're monsters. Monsters. The other races were right all alo-

Rob punched the wall of his cell as hard as he could. A dull gong rang throughout the prison.

Message Continued

Rob: Ow.

Keira: What happened? Are you alright?

Rob: I fought a wall, and the wall won.

Rob: But Faelynn got jarred out of her downward mental spiral, so it was worth it.

Faelynn: I...please don't. You don't have to pretend to want to associate with me.

Rob: Faelynn, I'm from another world, I died and came back, my soul is a patchwork abomination, and worst of all, I like reality TV shows. I'm a bigger fucking freak than anyone here. You've got nothing to worry about.

Faelynn: It's different. You weren't raised in Elatra. The term 'monster' doesn't mean the same thing to you as it does us. Monsters can't be people.

Rob: Don't be racist against yourself.

Faelynn: What does that word mean?

Rob paused, blinking several times, before shaking his head and diving back into it.

Message Continued

Rob: Sorry, got culture shocked for a second there.

Zamira: If I may interject?

Zamira: For what it's worth, Faelynn, I think no less of you.

Zamira: It...was a surprise. That, I will admit. Time will be required to grow accustomed to what I now know.

Zamira: But you have been a stalwart friend since nearly the day we met.

Zamira: I see no reason why that should change.

Malika: Yeah!! Plus, I already knew anyway.

Orn'tol: WHAT?

Malika: Archmages can figure it out! That's what the Stonewarden said. Weren't you listening?

Orn'tol: I...it's not important.

Orn'tol: You're our friend, Faelynn. I'd be sad if you left.

The rest of Riardin's Rangers sounded off one after another, affirming that they didn't want to excommunicate Faelynn or start a witch hunt against all Fiendkind. Some of the tension coiled within Rob's chest relaxed; his Party members were honestly taking the revelation better than he'd expected. Apparently, he wasn't the only one who'd grown inured to Elatran Bullshit™.

Another sob came from the adjacent cell. But instead of being full of despair, this one was halfway relieved, in a fragile, tentative sort of way.

Message Continued

Faelynn: If...

Faelynn: If you give me this hope, and then later take it away, I'll never forgive you.

Rob: Wouldn't think of it.

Rob: We're here for you. I swear.

Rob: And I really wish I could leave it at that and let you process things, but we've got a very large, very explosive problem on our hands.

He could practically sense the mood dropping throughout the room. While Riardin's Rangers may have been willing to look past the Fiends' true nature if it meant supporting a friend, accepting the existence of nukes was going to be a harder pill to swallow.

Message Continued

Vul'to: So, um, Rob.

Vul'to: Were you, perchance, exaggerating? When you described the destructive capabilities of Titan's Fist, I mean.

Rob: Wish I could say I was.

Vul'to: Ah. I see.

Vul'to: And there's no such luck that this is just a nightmare, either.

Rob: Oh, that part I can agree with. It's definitely a nightmare.

Rob: We were screwed long before we ever set foot in Dwarven territory. The gods have got Grant in the palms of their hands.

Rob: They buttered him up with harmless inventions that strictly benefited society, then moved on to the big guns, ensuring that he'd literally worship his new toys like divine artifacts.

Rob: I'd be shocked if this is anything but a top-down plan to kill as many Elatrans as possible.

The Party fell silent, dread creeping up their spines as Rob's words sunk in.

Message Continued

Meyneth: It is imperative that we return to Fiend territory immediately and warn them of what is to come.

Meyneth: If we advise the Grand Overseers to order a nationwide evacuation, perhaps the loss of life can be mitigated.

Meyneth: The sooner, the better – I have no intention of being caught in the blast radius when Titan's Fist descends.

Rob: You're right, but before that, we need to verify some things.

Rob: First, Elder Alessia should be informed of our plan. Waymark is going to leave her behind.

Faelynn: Then I relinquish my spot in the Party. She can-

Punch. Gong.

Message Continued

Rob: Think I bruised a knuckle that time.

Rob: No self-sacrificing martyr stuff. You aren't in the proper state of mind to decide that. Alessia wouldn't allow it, regardless.

Rob: Second – and this is the main reason I'm not immediately rushing home – is that the Stonewarden said he wouldn't fire his nuke for three days.

Rob: I want to find out if he was bullshitting us. Fortunately, there's a person in this room with a Skill that can suss out people's true intentions.

Rob: Unfortunately, that person is a huge asshole.

Keira: You're referring to the Seneschal and his Cold Reading?

Rob: Yeah. That conversation will be...fun.

Keira: Oh, assuredly.

Keira: I would offer to speak on your behalf, but Sylpeiros is unlikely to be cowed by threats of violence.

Keira: An earnest discussion is more within your realm of expertise.

Rob: Thanks anyway.

Rob: Guess I'll go get this over with. Alessia first.

After kicking someone at random from the Party, Rob peered through the tiny gap in his cell and located Elder Alessia's cell at the other end of the room. A dozen Dwarves were standing guard, completely unaware that a jailbreak was formulating right under their noses. Rob sent a wordless Party invite to Alessia, then sent her a Message as soon as she accepted.

Message Started Between Party Members: Rob, Alessia

Rob: Okay, so-

Alessia: Is Faelynn well?

Rob: As well as she can be.

Alessia: Good. Are you returning to Fiend territory?

Rob: Yeah, right after I check in with the Seneschal.

Rob: Want to ask if Cold Reading picked up anything.

Alessia: Report back to me after you do.

Alessia: There are some matters I've been contemplating. Sylpeiros' findings may put my own into a different context.

Alessia: Oh, and contact him alone. You'll learn the most from him if he has the chance to bare his thoughts in a setting where no one else is watching.

Rob: You know, you're really taking all of this in stride.

Alessia: This is nothing new to me, Rob. I watched nations burn once before.

Alessia: Let us do everything in our power to prevent it from happening again.

Alessia: Now go.

He didn't need to be told twice. Kicking Alessia from the Party, Rob glanced at Seneschal Sylpeiros' holding cell, and with a small sigh, sent him a wordless invite. From inside the cell, Rob heard a shuffle, followed by a low curse.

Your Party Invite Has Been Declined!

You little shit, Rob seethed. He sent another one.

Your Party Invite Has Been Declined!

He sent another one.

Your Party Invite Has Been Declined!

He sent another one.

Your Party Invite Has Been Accepted!

There. Was that so hard? Without further ado, he started up a Message, just between the two of them.

Message Started Between Party Members: Rob, Sylpeiros

Rob: You've probably got some questions right about now.

Sylpeiros: The fuck?

Sylpeiros: What in the name of Lothren's lordly ass is this?

Rob: Ha, yeah, never gets old.

Rob: Essentially, I have the ability to contact people within my Party by using psychic Messages.

Rob: Think of it as a form of telepathy.

Sylpeiros: Like the Gellin?

Rob: The what? That name sounds familiar, but I can't put my finger on it.

Sylpeiros: They are a minor race who live in the far reaches of southern Elatra. Gellin resemble large, floating jellyfish, and they possess extraordinary psychic...

Sylpeiros: No. You're not distracting me, Human. How are you doing this? When did you learn it?

Rob: Around the same time I gained the ability to restore Loci of Power.

Sylpeiros: That explains absolutely nothing – a fact which you are fully aware of.

Rob paused. As much as he would've loved to mess with the Seneschal for a little while longer, they were on a schedule.

Message Continued

Rob: Tell you what. How about we agree to a mutual exchange of information?

Rob: You answer one of my questions, and I'll answer any one of yours.

Rob: No snark or doublespeak involved.

Sylpeiros: Hmm.

Sylpeiros: ...I accept your terms.

That was easier than I expected, Rob thought. Which makes me a bit worried, but it's too late to stop now.

Message Continued

Rob: Awesome. Question one: when the Stonewarden mentioned that he would be launching his nuke in three days, was he telling the truth?

Rob: Cold Reading should've been able to pick something up.

Sylpeiros: It is not infallible. No Skill is.

Sylpeiros: With that in mind, I sensed no guile coming from the Stonewarden. He is being honest in his depravity.

Rob wiped tears from his eyes as a wave of relief flooded his body. The sensation was sudden and instantaneous, as if he'd been suppressing it until that exact moment. We have time. We can stop this.

Message Continued

Rob: Thanks for letting me know.

Rob: Your turn to ask a question.

Sylpeiros: Are you a Human?

Rob: ...Huh?

Sylpeiros: Answer me.

Rob: Um.

Rob: Well, that's what it says on my Character Sheet.

Sylpeiros: Typical. What were your words, again? No snark or doublespeak?

Rob: I'm not sure what else to say. It's a complicated question.

Sylpeiros: Every other Human I've met could have replied with a simple Yes or No.

Sylpeiros: Although I suppose that your hesitance is its own form of answer.

Sylpeiros: Very well; I'll accept it. You may ask your next question of me.

"How gracious of you," Rob muttered to himself. He'd really only cared about verifying the three day time limit, but there were a few other things that might help shed light on their dilemma.

Message Continued

Rob: Why are you here?

Rob: As in, why did you agree to help out Dwarfland in the first place?

Sylpeiros: ...

Sylpeiros: Do you wish to kill the Dragon Queen, Human?

Rob: That's answering a question with another question, but I can spy a lead-in when I see it.

Rob: I don't want to kill anyone. At all. Ever.

Rob: But I also doubt that she'll give me a choice.

Rob: So if I could press a button that instantly ends her life right now...I probably would.

Sylpeiros: A fair, measured response.

Sylpeiros: Personally, I want her head on a pike. I don't care how it happens, or who deals the finishing blow. She is a gangrenous rot that must be excised from this world.

Sylpeiros: During the past week, Queen Ragnavi has slaughtered two Elven villages, down to the last man, woman, and child.

Sylpeiros: And in the time since I've departed from Elven territory, she's likely to have slaughtered a third.

Rob's mouth opened and closed, like a fish out of water gasping for air.

Message Continued

Rob: Oh.

Sylpeiros: Yes. 'Oh'.

Sylpeiros: You can see, then, why I would beseech assistance from anywhere I possibly could.

Sylpeiros: That includes from interloping Humans. You seem to have a knack for toppling creatures above your station.

Sylpeiros: If an opportunity arises to kill the Dragon Queen, take it. I will personally honor you for your service.

Rob didn't know what to say. Between the heartfelt request from a man who hated him, and the knowledge of the Dragon Queen's newest rampage, it was his turn now to be shocked into silence.

Message Continued

Sylpeiros: My question comes next.

Sylpeiros: Do you intend to escape your confinement and prevent Grant from launching Titan's Fist?

Rob: Yeah. We'll be executing our plan soon.

Sylpeiros: You divulged that information rather quickly.

Rob: No snark, no doublespeak – and we wouldn't be able to hide it anyway. You'll see in a bit.

Rob: ...Here's my question. If we break you out of jail, will you help us?

There was a pause.

Message Continued

Sylpeiros: I do not know.

Rob: He'll use nukes against Elven territory, too. Only a matter of time. It won't stop with just the Dragon Queen and the Blight.

Sylpeiros: Possibly.

Sylpeiros: Yet that is not guaranteed. Additionally, later chances may arise to dethrone him and dismantle his operations.

Sylpeiros: Consider my options. If I am forced to choose between Grant potentially betraying us in the future, or watching helplessly as the Dragon Queen razes my lands to ashes, then what choice do I have?

Rob: There's thousands of Elves still in Fiend territory.

Sylpeiros: And they shall be sacrificed to preserve the lives of hundreds of thousands.

Sylpeiros: These are the types of decisions that a Leader must make, Human. Be thankful that you don't have that burden on your soul.

I'm losing him, Rob thought, his panic rising. Having the Seneschal on their side would be an enormous advantage in the fights to come. It might mean the difference between success and failure – and this wasn't a battle they could afford to lose.

Message Continued

Rob: I wasn't exaggerating when I said that nukes are like a Cataclysm ray times ten. And when launched en masse, they'll be just as bad as the Cataclysm in its entirety – if not worse.

Rob: For the sake of argument, let's assume that the Stonewarden sticks to his guns and only targets the Blight and Dragon Queen. Even then, his plan is inherently flawed.

Rob: The Blight and Dragon Queen aren't going to be sitting around in open, empty wastelands, waiting for him to blow them up. They'll be in cities. Tearing up the place for fun.

Rob: Then a nuke drops, and sure, they probably die. But everyone around them definitely dies. Catastrophic collateral damage will be unavoidable.

Sylpeiros: Was that information acquired from your home world?

Sylpeiros: And to be perfectly clear, that was not my next question. I already know its answer.

Rob: ...Ah.

Rob: Well.

Rob: I'm guessing the Villagers gossiped?

Sylpeiros: They gave up that piece of information after being questioned. To their credit, they resisted my efforts.

Sylpeiros: I'll ask this of you next. It is a fitting question for an outsider who is, nominally, some manner of Human.

Sylpeiros: Why don't you care that the Scouring slaughtered your people?

Rob's eye twitched.

Message Continued

Rob: You wanna run that by me again?

Sylpeiros: Elves took part in the Scouring. Dragonkin took part in the Scouring. Dwarves, despite their insufferable demeanor, took part in the Scouring as well.

Sylpeiros: And here you are, allying with each of them. Shaking hands with those who dug your kinsmen's graves.

Sylpeiros: Quite frankly, that manner of behavior can only be explained by your status as an outsider. If any Humans yet lived, they would never have forgiven the other nations of Elatra.

Sylpeiros: On some level, I can understand the disconnect you must feel. You did not know those who died. Still, they were Human – as you too mostly are.

Sylpeiros: Does that mean nothing to you?

Another gong rang out as Rob punched the wall, a snarl tearing free from his throat.

Message Continued

Rob: Really? REALLY? You're doing this now?

Sylpeiros: We may never speak again. It would be remiss to let the opportunity slip by.

Sylpeiros: Kenzotul worries, you know. He dreads how your opinion of him will change when you learn the exact details of his atrocities, rather than treating them as vague, faraway sins.

Sylpeiros: Blissful ignorance can only last so long.

Sylpeiros: You once told him to atone by living for the future. Could you have done that if you knew him? The real him?

Sylpeiros: Or would you have told him to fall on your sword without a second's remorse?

Sylpeiros: I suppose he is lucky in that regard. There are other Elves with pasts similar to Kenzotul, and you've joined forces with them as well. Mere seconds ago, you sought my aid, of all people.

Sylpeiros: Even if this paradox has crossed your mind, it certainly doesn't seem to bother you.

Rob: Of course it bothers me, you walking trash heap.

Rob: You want answers? Fucking fine.

Rob: When I first came to Elatra, the Scouring's shadow dominated every facet of my life. Elves tried to kill me multiple times. I had almost no allies for weeks. The people of The Village hated me, all for atrocities THEY committed a world away while I was in freaking grade school.

Rob: And you know what I did? I smiled and nodded. Because I had to. Because the alternative was to try and make it through Elatra on my own. I'm not an action hero – this world would have chewed me up and spat me out.

Rob: Well, here I am. Alive. Because I looked the other way.

He punched the wall repeatedly, smearing red marks as its smooth surface began to dent inwards.

Message Continued

Rob: What in the world did you expect me to do?

Rob: Run up to every single Elf who participated in the war and tell them to submit to my judgement?

Rob: Burn my tiny sliver of social capital by reminding grief-stricken mourners that they were partially culpable for their loved ones' deaths?

Rob: There's no Geneva Convention in this world. I was just one guy.

Rob: And yes, every now and then it'll cross my mind. I'll look at an Elf and start to wonder.

Rob: Were they involved?

Rob: What did they do?

Rob: How far did they go?

Rob: And then I shove it aside, because those same Elves are my comrades-in-arms. I've bled for them, and they've bled for me. At this point, whatever they may have done, I don't want to know.

Rob: It's difficult enough keeping people alive – I don't have the time, energy, or wherewithal to start seeking justice for the dead.

Rob: Regardless of how I feel when I stop to think about things.

Rob: So yes. It BOTHERS me. Thanks for bringing it up for no goddamn reason. Just one more stressor to throw onto the pile.

Rob: Fuck you, have a nice day.

He punted Sylpeiros out of the Party and immediately added Elder Alessia.

Message Started Between Party Members: Rob, Alessia

Rob: Done.

Alessia: How did it go? Your conversation lasted longer than I anticipated. And there were the sounds of-

Rob: It went super great.

Rob: tl;dr is that Sylpeiros can confirm that Grant will wait three days to launch his nuke.

Rob: Also, he told me about the Dragon Queen going batshit.

Alessia: Ah. Ragnavi. He informed me of her crimes in my meeting with the Leaders.

Alessia: It...is a problem for another day. She will meet her reckoning in due time.

Alessia: Good work, Rob. That is all I had to ask of you.

Rob took a deep breath. He packed up his negative emotions into a box, locking them in a trunk for Future-Rob to deal with – and just like magic, he was totally fine again.

Message Continued

Rob: Thanks. You sure you're okay with being left behind?

Alessia: Oh, very much so. I am looking forward to speaking with the Stonewarden once he demands to know where your Party disappeared to.

Alessia: There are glaring discrepancies in his planning that stand out when contrasted with his usual level of competence.

Alessia: To start with, he wishes to raze Fiend territory and kill the Blights and Dragon Queen, yet he seems to have only a single Titan's Fist available. Waiting until he has built more would be the wisest course of action. By prematurely launching just one, he loses his element of surprise in the high likelihood that there are survivors.

Alessia: Additionally, why give a time limit at all? What is stopping him from launching today? And even if there is some arbitrary restriction, he had no reason to inform us of it.

Alessia: I don't possess answers for these discrepancies – but they're something to think on.

Rob: Got it. Stay safe, and I'll see you in twenty-four hours.

Alessia: Remember to bring something to break through the cell walls.

Alessia: A crate of Firebombs may not be sufficient.

Rob: Already taken care of. Before they locked me up, I placed a Waymark point just outside my cell door. It's close enough that I can activate it from where I am now, and when I Waymark back, I'll be transported to that spot outside the door.

Rob heard muted chuckling from Elder Alessia's cell. A few Dwarves looked at her funny, but they said nothing, probably chalking it up to an anxious prisoner losing her marbles.

Message Continued

Alessia: Marvelous. Go forth, Rob.

Alessia: And remember that I believe in you.

A ghost of a smile spread across his face. It was still there seconds later, when Rob and Riardin's Rangers vanished in a shower of sparkling blue motes.

--

Sylpeiros' thoughts were in flux. Everything the Human had said over the past few days was whirling around in his mind a hurricane, emotions tossed about as if they were scattered detritus. No matter how hard Sylpeiros tried, he couldn't fit Rob into the carefully-constructed template he'd prepared when first learning that a Human was alive.

He was actually grateful for the distraction when, out of nowhere, a flash of blue light shone out from within most of the prison cells. The Dwarven guards scrambled over, peering inside, their faces turning white as sheets.

"The prisoners!" one shouted, in strangled Dwarvish. "They're gone!"

"I am not," Elder Alessia stated, with calm surety. "Notify me when the Stonewarden wishes to speak. I imagine it won't be long."

Sylpeiros couldn't help it. He lifted his head, opened his mouth, let out a deep belly laugh that came from the bottom of his soul. I'll give the Human credit, he thought, tears of mirth glistening in the corners of his eyes. His entertainment value is second to none.

Chapter 25

"How long have you trained with the Thunder Rods?"

Alessia hid a smirk as her captors hastily raised their weapons. While her situation may have been dire, it was hard not to derive some measure of amusement from how nervous the Thunder Rod wielders were. Most of them were eyeing her as if she was about to leap forward and bite their heads off at any given moment.

Admittedly, it might have been a reasonable concern under different circumstances. High-Level Combat Class users sometimes possessed willful personalities. At present, though, Alessia was surrounded on all sides, shackled to her chair, and with ten Thunder Rods aimed at her head. The Dwarves had nothing to fear. Yet despite how thoroughly they outnumbered her, a single question was all it'd taken to set them on edge.

"Several months?" she continued. "Perhaps less? I can't imagine the Stonewarden would have put you in charge of guarding me if you weren't experienced with your chosen weapon." Alessia tailored her tone of voice to hit a specific note between casual and aggravating, taunting her captors just enough to incline them to respond. Nine of them resisted her provocations, but one rose to the bait, like a fish drawn towards a worm dangling on the water's surface.

"I have trained night and day for a full year," the Thunder Rod wielder said, standing proud. "In my class, there was no one who was a better shot."

"Shut your mouth, Bhelerav," a second Dwarf hissed. "Unless you've forgotten, the Stonewarden told us to stay silent until his arrival."

Whenever that is. Alessia and her lovely escorts had been waiting in an audience chamber for upwards of three hours. She wasn't sure if Grant was making her wait on purpose in a misguided attempt to unnerve her, or if he was simply running around like a Vraal with its head cut off, trying to figure out what to do now that his hostages had vanished into thin air.

He can spend the day reciting poetry for all I care, Alessia thought, as long as he hasn't launched Titan's Fist in a fit of panic. Logically, there was no reason for that to be the case. Grant couldn't risk killing Rob. Even if his new weapon managed to eradicate the Blight, Rob would be needed to restore the Corrupted Loci of Power. His abilities were too important to lose at this juncture.

But logic seldom factored into decision-making as much as it should. Alessia could only hope and pray that Grant wasn't that far gone. In the meantime, he'd left amateur subordinates in her presence, and it would be foolhardy not to take advantage of his ever-so-gracious gift.

"Training night and day?" she remarked, pitching her voice an octave higher. "How grueling that must have been. Truly, your dedication is admirable."

The first Thunder Rod wielder – named Bhelerav, apparently – narrowed his eyes at her. "Your mockery does you no credit. Thunder Rods are the future of warfare in Elatra." He cut off his compatriot's note of protest with an upraised hand. "It doesn't matter if she hears this. She'll have to learn that society is changing sooner or later. Better sooner; older folk can be slow to adjust."

Alessia pressed her lips into a thin line. "Let me hear it from your mouth, then. In a fair fight, between you and I, who would emerge victorious?"

"You would," he repeated, without hesitation. "I do not claim to be as capable as Combat Class users of your caliber. But if you were, say, Level 20? With the Vitality of a standard mage?"

A confident grin spread across his face. "The fight would be over in the span of me lifting, aiming, and pulling the trigger. And there are plenty of Thunder Rod wielders with my degree of prowess – far more than the number of Combat Class users you could bring to bear."

"You seem very proud of this."

"I am relieved," Bhelerav said, with emphasis. "Someone like you, who has been a Combat Class user for centuries, can't possibly remember what it's like to be low-Level. To continuously place your fate in the hands of those stronger than you. To cower in fear of what they might do if they take umbrage with the wrong thing you say."

He hefted his Thunder Rod, gripping it with the reverence of a sacred treasure. "With this, we needn't fear your kind any longer. Utility Class users will no longer be consigned to the status of lesser merely because our Levels do not match yours."

A large part of Alessia felt irritated by the man's assertions. She was strong, yes, but she'd hardly been handed her strength like a silver-spooned lord was gifted their inheritance. Every Level she had gained was bought with blood and sacrifice. It took Combat Class users many, many years to reach her heights, and that was assuming they didn't simply perish along the way. Although Bhelerav scorned those who were 'only' Level 20, that Level usually represented a decade of hardship.

Unless you were a member of Riardin's Rangers, but they didn't count.

With that said, she could understand where the man was coming from. Despite his claims that she didn't remember what it was like to be low-Leveled, just two days ago, Alessia had faced a creature that outstripped her so badly she may as well have been Level 1. Powerlessness was a compelling emotion, and she wouldn't begrudge anyone who sought a way to feel in control of their own fate.

And while she couldn't bring herself to believe that the Thunder Rod wielders actually earned their strength...well, everything was relative. Rob had complained on many occasions that people of Elatra received far greater rewards for their strength-building exercises than denizens of his home world. She should-

"Nothing to say to that?" Bhelerav interjected, lifting his eyebrows.

"I am contemplating your statements," Alessia replied, "which involves using thought to consider a subject from multiple different angles. It is an endeavor that I recommend you attempt sometime. The world is a vast, complex place, and spewing the first notion that comes to mind is rarely conducive to intelligent conversation."

One of the Thunder Rod wielders snorted with laughter, earning a betrayed glare from Bhelerav. Before he could spout any other words of meager substance, Alessia continued, focusing on a detail that had caught her attention. "Have you employed your Thunder Rods against monsters?"

"Yes, although they become less effective the more mutated the monsters are."

"But you have killed some?" she pressed. "At least two or three."

Bhelerav nodded. "Monsters with the physiology of basic animals are vulnerable to Thunder Rods."

"Then why are you only Level 11?"

The Dwarf froze. His compatriot smacked him upside the head, letting out a long-suffering sigh. "You damned fool. We'd kept that a secret until now."

As the two men bickered, Alessia fell silent. Bhelerav had confirmed her suspicions; Thunder Rods users did not gain Experience from killing with their weapon of choice. It wasn't a distinction that made sense to her, as killing with an arrow – or any other projectile – still granted the commensurate EXP. Apparently, the system drew a line when it came to weapons imported wholesale from another world.

That was something of a relief. Alessia had been wondering if Grant would gain the EXP of a full city's worth of people if he launched the Titan's Fist. At least now she wouldn't have to worry about him reaching the Level 99 maximum with a wave of his hand.

"I take this to mean that you've never killed a person, either?" Alessia asked.

The Dwarves ceased their arguing, turning to look at her once more. "And what if we haven't?"  Bhelerav replied, in a combative tone. "Do you think yourself superior just because your hands are stained?"

"Superior?" Alessia tilted her head. "As a person? No. But it does mean that you are ill-suited to the conflict looming over the horizon. And to be blunt, I find it perverse that you seem to be anticipating that conflict with a certain measure of glee. No one should be looking forward to proving that they can take a life. It belies a fundamental lack of understanding about what war is."

All of the Dwarves immediately began glaring at her. "We do understand," Bhelerav intoned. "The Cataclysm spared no one. Entire cities were lost when sections of the mountain collapsed under its destructive rays. Friends, family – gone in an instant. I'd say we know the price of war just as well as you."

Alessia paused. Slowly, she leaned forward, fixing Bhelerav with a fierce gaze. The Dwarves took an instinctive step back, their expressions morphing from aggressive to fearful, as if they'd tread on a sleeping gorebeast's tail.

"Have you ever crushed someone's larynx with gravity magic?" she began. "It is a slow process, when performed on Combat Class users with reasonable Vitality. Their flesh resists, and they resist, like you are squeezing a stone with your bare hands. Bit by bit, screaming turns to rasping, which turns to choking. You start to feel pity. Maybe, you think, you should stop. They've probably learned their lesson. Then you gaze at your fallen comrade, a sword lodged in his heart, and you continue. With their final breaths, they rant and rave, alternating between cursing your name and begging for their lives. One of them managed to gasp out 'Isa', presumably to say that he loved her, one last time. I found her worm-eaten corpse the very next day."

Alessia's eyes widened. "Have you ever ordered that a prisoner be executed? A Combat Class user, defeated in battle. She is helpless, at your mercy, and even missing an arm. There's nothing more pitiful than a Swordmaster who cannot wield their sword. If your squadron takes her as a prisoner of war, the chances of her sabotaging your march are virtually nonexistent. However, your food rations are running precipitously low. Another mouth to feed means that men and women under your protection might go hungry. And letting the woman go is out of the question; she knows where you are, and will immediately report back to her superiors. So, caught between starvation and granting one of your soldiers free Experience, you make the only logical choice you can."

Her bindings creaked as she strained against them. "Have you ever been spared by an enemy? One who had you at his mercy, just as you've had so many others at yours. A single lunge of his spear would have ended it. Your life, your suffering – everything. Yet, when that final moment came, he hesitated. Looked into your eyes and decided that he couldn't deal the final blow. Maybe it was because he'd grown weary of the slaughter, or maybe he saw something in you that he couldn't bring himself to harm. You'll never know, as when that moment came and passed, you shredded his body to pieces with a furious gale of wind. There was no conscious thought behind the decision; just that he vaguely resembled the person who killed your husband. And then you move on, because stopping to reflect on all that's transpired would leave you a broken, sobbing wreck. Target practice for the next Archer who noticed your wailing."

Rage. Red-hot, blinding rage consumed her. "Have you ever eaten rotten meat to silence the aching in your stomach? Have you ever congratulated an up-and-coming ally for reaching Level 20, only for an arrow to take him in the neck five minutes later? Have you ever smelt the burning flesh of a funeral pyre as tall as a tree? Have you ever abandoned your friends to pursuers, thanking Lothren that you weren't the slowest member of the Party? Have you ever seen bright souls with bright futures, now darkened to a pitch black, so lifeless that death would have been a kindness in comparison? Have you ever committed sins that are so vile, so unlike who you think you are, that you can scarcely believe that it was you in command of your body that day?"

Silence.

"Then you know nothing of war."

A door opened. Alessia spun around, ready to unleash magic powered by raw instinct. For an instant, she was on the front lines again, reacting to a sudden threat from outside her field of view. She barely managed to restrain herself – and it was a good thing, as Stonewarden Grant was standing there, having adopted a combat stance after witnessing her aggression.

Breathe, Alessia thought. This isn't the battle you should be fighting. She sat back down, forcing away the memories and donning a mask of composure. "Next time, knock."

"In my abode?" Grant swept his eyes across the Utility Class users. "You are dismissed. I shall speak with her alone."

Bhelerav and his ilk scurried off like chastened children. As they went, Alessia detected fear in their gaits, which was unsurprising. Despite their affirmations that the era of Combat Class supremacy was over, Thunder Rods were only worth so much. Closing the gap in strength between a Utility Class user and a Level 20 mage was all well and good, and perhaps a group of them could threaten someone in their 40s, but Grant was 81. His Level was the second-highest in the world. A person that strong was a small army unto themselves; viewing him a healthy measure of fear was both logical and recommended.

So naturally, Alessia folded her hands into her lap, smiled at the Stonewarden, and told him: "I will not mourn when this venture ends with you dead and buried."

Grant's face didn't so much as twitch. His expression was locked into a mixture of resolve, exhaustion, and just a hint of fanaticism. "Where is the Human?" he asked, without preamble.

"My apologies. I don't recall anyone named 'the Human'." Alessia's voice took on a sickly sweet tone. "If he is so important to you, then why is it that you can scarcely remember his name?"

"...Where is Rob?"

Her smile widened by a quarter-inch. "Out and about. I am certain that he'll be back shortly."

"There is little time for petty sarcasm," Grant stated.

Oh, on the contrary, Alessia thought. You have approximately twenty hours until Waymark goes off cooldown, and Riardin's Rangers return to take your head. "If you must know, he is currently in Fiend territory."

Grant appeared momentarily surprised that she'd confirmed it so readily – before the implications quickly sank in. "That's quite the underhanded scheme. You mean to use him as a hostage."

"And you assume that I can control Rob in the slightest capacity," Alessia muttered. "I am merely lucky that he values my wisdom, because a more willful man I have never met. This was his doing."

"You know, Sylpeiros told me what little he knows of you," Grant remarked. "According to those who fled The Village, you despised Rob upon first meeting him. Despised all Humans. What has changed?"

"In truth?" Alessia grimaced. "I still despise Humans. Some scars run deep. Possibly too deep to ever fully heal. With that in mind, I've learned to recognize my emotions for what they are, and to set them aside when it comes time to interact with people undeserving of my ire. I may hate Humans, but I do not hate Rob. He is a good man. And if a second Human appeared...well, I wouldn't be particularly happy, but I would treat them fairly, and give them the chance to earn my trust."

Her hands clenched. "You can do the same with the Fiends. There are good people among them. We-"

"No," Grant stated, in a brittle tone. "The Fiends have slaughtered Dwarves for generations. They likely played a hand in causing the Cataclysm. They are, in every essence of the word, monsters. My course remains unchanged. Titan's providence will not go to waste."

"Titan is a liar who seeks to do you harm."

"I'd sooner trust him than soul-stealing abominations."

Alessia deflated, biting back a hundred vile words. She wanted to wrap her hands around Grant's throat and strangle some sense into him. It wasn't as if he was the only one who felt betrayed by those revelations – when Alessia returned to Fiend territory, she intended to demand very many answers from the Overseers. Because, as it turned out, demanding answers was what rational people DID. Even Seneschal fucking Sylpeiros had advised the Stonewarden to be patient, and that man subsisted largely on spite and bitterness. She'd assumed Grant to be better than this.

More than anything else, that realization sparked a profound sense of disappointment in her. Grant should have been better. He wasn't supposed to be like untempered Utility Class users who didn't comprehend the weight of taking a life. He wasn't supposed to be like Sylpeiros or the Dragon Queen, bound strongly by the shackles of their pasts. Grant understood war in its entirety, as well as the unthinkable amounts of pain that his actions were set to cause.

And he was prepared to go through with them regardless.

"There's no reasoning with you, is there?" Alessia said, quietly.

Grant hesitated. Just for a fraction of an instant, but she caught it, and it let her pinpoint the subtle uncertainty in what he said next. "I am the reasonable one in this scenario."

Alessia promptly discarded much of what she'd been planning to ask him. Before meeting with Grant, she'd thought long and hard about the discrepancies in his plan. There was no reason for him to delay the launch of Titan's Fist for three days. Nor was there a reason for him to reveal its existence to Riardin's Rangers; if he so pleased, he could have detained them without explaining a thing, and they would have been none the wiser. Instead, he'd shown his entire hand in a high-stakes game, for seemingly no benefit whatsoever.

Initially, Alessia believed that he craved absolution. Riardin's Rangers outright agreeing with his plan would have eased his guilty conscience. Then, she wondered if he'd wanted to be killed, designating Riardin's Rangers as his collective executioner, the one group that might be able to stop him if he went too far. Both of those things could still be true, as Grant did not fully believe that he was being reasonable – but what did it matter, when he refused to budge either way?

"You need Rob," she said, playing the one card left remaining in her hand. "Without Purge Corruption, we lack the means to restore the Corrupted Loci of Power. If the Blight targets a different Locus within Dwarven territory, this time, a city will fall, and you will be powerless to save it."

"Measures are being taken," Grant explained, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. "The Blight shall not catch us unawares once again."

Perhaps it was a hidden curse that they'd defeated the Blight of Dhalerune Mines with relatively few casualties. Grant was failing to treat the Blight's spread as the apocalyptic calamity that it was. "Rob is the last Human," Alessia continued, pulling a desperation card from up her sleeve. "And you have a debt to the Humans for your role in the Scouring."

For the first time, Grant displayed a hint of genuine emotion, although Alessia couldn't interpret exactly what it was. "The last Human," he murmured. "So you say. Yet he possesses numerous abilities that defy logic, uses speech patterns unlike anything I've heard in Elatra, and according to Silviel, has ties to another world. I don't know what faraway land Rob hails from, or what disguise you've cast upon him to grant him that appearance, but I doubt he is truly a Human. Not in the sense that I owe him an obligation."

"And what if you are wrong?"

"...Wrong?" Grant paused, hanging on the word, a note of burgeoning terror creeping into his tone. It seemed as if he was about to say something, but then his expression hardened, any traces of emotion harshly suppressed.

"Then I will mourn him as well." His closed his eyes, breathed deep, and opened them. "Now, I believe that you've spoken your mind enough. I have questions that need answers. How did Rob's Party escape? Do they intend to return? Is it possible to contact-"

"Piss off," Alessia snapped. "I've nothing to say to a shambling husk of a man, barely in control of his own impulses. No different than if Melancholy Resistance had overtaken you – although in this instance, that might have been preferable. Then, you would have an excuse. The saddest part of your pitiful existence is that it is not so pitiful as to absolve you of blame. You may be a tortured soul, but that makes you no less of a murderer."

And she was well-aware of the hypocrisy in that statement.

Slowly, Grant approached Alessia, coming to stand several inches in front of where she was seated. After a few seconds of staring at her with a hollow-eyed gaze, he spoke. "I do not think you fully comprehend your position."

To that, she merely shrugged. "I accepted death the moment that Riardin's Rangers escaped without me. There are future events I still wish to assist them with, but...they are fast approaching Level 70, with no signs of slowing. They can handle themselves. They can handle you."

"I'll call the Mind Mages. Have them root around inside your skull for answers."

"As if any two-bit mage in your employ can overcome the Mind of a Level 43 spellcaster."

Grant said nothing. After a few seconds more, he walked past, leaving her field of vision. "True enough. Torture would be similarly ineffective; despite how ardent some of its supporters are, people who are plied with screws and needles will speak any falsehood simply to make their agony cease. You have me in a bit of a quandary, Alessia. The EXP your life would offer one of my subordinates is not worth losing access to the knowledge within your head. And you did my people a great service by participating in the hunt of the Blight."

He stopped. "Yet I cannot risk the possibility of a Level 43 spellcaster interfering."

There was a flash of motion from behind her, the barest glint of a hammer, and Alessia's right leg exploded with pain.

Chapter 26

It turned out that evacuating an entire nation on short notice was exactly as difficult as it sounded.

Right from the get-go, precious minutes had been lost just convincing the Grand Overseers that everyone needed to leave, now. They'd known that Riardin's Rangers might return from Dwarven territory bearing bad news, possibly even regarding the start of a war, but nuclear bombardment was something new and foreign. The Overseers didn't feel the intrinsic, pants-shitting fear that an Earth person would have in the same scenario.

Rob could understand why they wanted to know more about the Dwarves' new superweapon, but that made it no less frustrating when he kept needing to tell them that, no, there wasn't time for a bunch of questions, just shut up and listen. Eventually, he'd managed to get them to realize the severity of the situation by name-dropping the Cataclysm, explaining that a nuke was like if the Cataclysm's raw destructive power was condensed onto a targeted area. That finally lit a fire under their asses, with the Grand Overseers swiftly agreeing that Fiendland's populace had to leave and/or take shelter as soon as possible.

Five down; hundreds of thousands to go.

Convincing the rest of Fiendland was both easier and harder than Rob expected. A few PSA announcements about how Dwarfland had 'harnessed the power of the Cataclysm' was all the Fiends needed to start taking things deathly serious. It helped that denizens of Elatra were generally quick to respond to crisis situations, as literally everyone in the world had experienced at least one or two disasters in their lifetime. Between the Cataclysm and Corruption epidemics alone, the Fiends knew what it was like to stare impending annihilation in its face, and they weren't about to sit around and wait for the end to come.

The logistical reality of a mass-scale evacuation was another beast entirely. Transportation in Fiend territory wasn't anywhere near as efficient as it was on Earth. Outside of walking, their primary methods of travel were via Teleportation Crystals or zamult-drawn carriages, both of which were in limited supply. Additionally, different areas in Fiendland tended to be connected by bridges, which quickly became congested with pedestrian traffic as people fled their homes in droves.

Fiendland's geography posed yet another issue. The northern and western edges of Fiend territory bordered open ocean. As such, the only viable escape routes for people living in those regions were to either head south to Human territory, or – if people were truly desperate – head east to Dwarven territory.

Panicked mobs sprang up as citizens of the northwestern cities realized that they might not be able to make it in time before the nuke fell, especially if the Stonewarden changed his mind and sped up his schedule. Traffic congestion turned to stampedes, resulting in accidental fatalities as several people were trampled. The less-accidental fatalities came later, when a mob toppled over a carriage that was trying to cut in line, leading to violent brawling in the streets.

Rob couldn't help but find the whole thing funny in a dark, I-have-to-cope-somehow sort of way. Technically speaking, even if Grant backtracked on his threats, he'd already drawn first blood.

The one bright spot was that Diplomacy would be okay. Rob managed to get a cursory checkup from his Soul Surgeon before the man fled, and thankfully, he was able to confirm that deactivating Diplomacy had halted their soul absorption. They couldn't perform the surgery right now, because there was no way of knowing how long Rob would be in recovery afterwards, but postponing it wouldn't cause any ill effects.

Rob made sure to express his gratitude to the Soul Surgeon once they'd finished. Prickly as the man was, he'd taken time out of his evacuation to ease Rob's worries – a decision that might very well cost him his life. And by the way he ran like hell after the checkup was over, he knew it, too.

Of course, not everyone was in a hurry. There were still some who just...didn't want to leave. They reminded Rob of homeowners with beachfront property who heard about an impending tsunami and decided to stick it out because, eh, how bad could it be? Even in Elatra, land of calamities, there was always going to a certain subset of moron with shockingly undeveloped survival instincts. If nothing else, it served as undeniable proof that the Fiends were, in fact, people, with all the flaws and foibles that came with sapience and free will.

Countless little stories like those were playing out on the ground level. Rob heard bits and pieces as he prepared; tales of valor, cowardice, and ingenuity. Some Fiends helped organize the evacuation efforts, others looted and stirred up trouble, and a few industrious types tried digging underground bunkers. Rob wished he could help move things along, but he had his own job to do. The most important job in the nation.

Planning an assassination.

"We have two main objectives," Rob began, addressing his Party members. "The first is simple: kill the Stonewarden. It sucks to lose someone strong enough to battle a Blight on the front lines, but he's threatening nukes, so fuck him. If he dies, the Dwarves' chain of command will implode, and Grant won't be around to push his agenda."

"It may not be that easy," Keira remarked. "The Dwarves adore the Stonewarden. While his death will certainly shake them to their core, it also means that they will be inclined to take vengeance against his killers. It's a perfect reason for them to launch Titan's Fist despite their Leader's personal agenda no longer being a concern."

"Oh, absolutely," he agreed. "Killing the Stonewarden won't solve all our problems – it's just Step 1. Step 2...would be easier to plan if we knew what his security practices were."

Rob paused, thinking of the best way to summarize. "On Earth, nukes can't get launched without a complicated approval process. It's one of the reasons why we've avoided a global catastrophe so far. Thing is, I'm skeptical that the Stonewarden bothered to implement something like that. For all we know, there's just a big red button somewhere, and launching the nuke only requires one pissed-off Dwarf."

He grimaced. "Which is why we have to seize control of the Stonewarden's underground lab. Preferably after killing him. If we beeline towards his lab while he's still alive, then he can rally his forces and take it back. Conversely, if we kill Grant but don't seize his lab, then the likelihood of a Dwarf revenge-launching the nuke skyrockets. We need to complete both steps, fast, or everything goes shit-sideways."

Things would be a lot less complicated if he could just put the nuke in Spatial Storage and leave it there to rot, but the Skill had a size limitation of 50 pounds or 125 cubic feet of storage per person. Titan's Fist was heavier and bigger than that. Even if Rob dumped out all his other items, Spatial Storage would reject it. Similarly, Bind Item had a size limitation of 20 pounds or 216 cubic feet per item, so no dice there either.

Vul'to raised his hand. "If I may propose an alternative – why don't we simply destroy Titan's Fist? Doing so will solve most of our problems in one fell swoop. We won't have to hunt down the Stonewarden or worry ourselves with guarding his workshop, and it will minimize the number of people who perish in combat."

Rob paused. "I thought about that. But..." He shook his head. "I swear this isn't the Leveling High talking, but I'd rather kill Grant than mess with his nuke. What if it goes off when we try to break it?"

"Titan's Fist originated from your world," Orn'tol added. "Do you not know how to dismantle it in a safe manner?"

Rob sent him a flat stare. "I didn't exactly have a nuclear weapon tucked away in my garage, no. And even if I was literally a scientist and DID know how, I still wouldn't touch this one. You heard the Stonewarden – he barely knows how they made the damn thing. They basically looked at Earth design documents, scratched their heads, built the parts they halfway understood, magicked the rest, and stuck some duct tape on it for good measure."

He grimaced. "I'm going to keep calling it a nuke because 'Titan's Fist' is too wordy for me, but giving it a new name might actually be more accurate. It could be weaker than what I'm anticipating, or stronger, or have unique side effects. Most of all, don't expect the unnatural fusion between Earth technology and Elatran bullshit to be stable. I wouldn't be surprised if it randomly explodes one day for no reason whatsoever."

Riardin's Rangers momentarily fell silent. The notion of Grant's nuke detonating inside his lab – fairly close to Dhalerune City – was a sobering thought. Although, admittedly, it would solve a lot of their immediate concerns.

"I suppose you are right," Vul'to muttered. "That...is a shame. I've no desire to kill Grant or his soldiers."

"Why?" Meyneth asked, with genuine confusion. "They deserve what's to come." She hesitated, belatedly realizing that she'd spoken to Vul'to without an air of awkwardness for once. "They...well...um...yes."

She trailed off. Vul'to took mercy and replied as if she'd been perfectly eloquent. "Bloodshed holds no appeal for me. I have never killed anyone before."

He froze, absentmindedly touching his chest and speaking in a near-whisper. "Ah. I suppose he counts." Shuddering once, Vul'to continued, speaking louder. "Aside from my own predilections, the Blight is still a threat. Every person we kill deprives Elatra of a potential soldier on the front lines. I...merely wish there was a way to end this conflict without meaningless death. That is all."

No one disagreed. Rob glanced at his hands, vivid images flashing through his head. Purple grass. Armed Elves. His Broken Shortsword. Flesh parting like silk. A look of shock. Red blood, flowing.

It'd been over half a year since he killed the Seneschal's two advance guards back in Ixatan Forest, but the memories remained fresh and raw to this day. Somehow, he'd managed to scrape through Elatra without killing anyone else since then – a streak that was about to end.

And I don't even care, he realized. A burst of static flooded his senses. Wincing, Rob looked up at his friends to gauge their emotional states. Keira had killed several people in the past and was totally fine with doing it again. Similarly, Faelynn had probably killed some people during skirmishes with Human territory. Meyneth seemed fairly chill as well, and based on how fucked up Dragonkin territory was, Rob doubted that this was uncharted territory for her. Zamira and Vul'to, as far as he knew, had yet to kill anyone, and they were currently in the middle of steeling their resolve. They wouldn't enjoy tomorrow, but they wouldn't shy away from it either.

Orn'tol and Malika, however...

Rob scrutinized their expressions, searching deep. Orn'tol's face was resolute and self-assured to the point of straining, like a shield made of brittle stone, liable to break apart if pressured. Malika was looking away entirely, eyes glowing as she used Mana Sense to distract herself by observing her surroundings. Masking and avoidance; two different types of coping that Rob was intimately familiar with.

You don't have to go, Rob wanted to say. Don't force yourself. I know you've fought terrifying creatures before, but that isn't the same as entering a battlefield with the intention of killing. We'll handle this, I promise. The words came to mind so easily. Speaking them should have been simple.

Except Orn'tol was Level 51, and Malika was Level 46. Higher than everyone else in the Deserters or Fiendland. Their Classes were also Awakened, and they'd built up combat synergy with the rest of Riardin's Rangers. Taking them along maximized the mission's odds of success.

And failure really, really wasn't an option.

Rob still felt no small degree of self-loathing when he closed his mouth.

"How do we kill the Stonewarden?" Faelynn interjected, her voice filled with grim determination. "Do you have a battle strategy in mind?"

"Honestly? If it was just us versus him, we wouldn't need one. Not a complicated one, at least." Rob shrugged. "We defeated the Merfolk King, underwater, when we were way weaker. The Stonewarden is a tough opponent, but as long as we played it safe, I'm confident that we'd kick his ass six ways to Sunday."

"Yet he is not alone," Zamira stated.

"Afraid so. He'll have Combat Class users supporting him, and even more riflemen." Rob hesitated, in disbelief over the words he was about to say. "While we're hunting for the Stonewarden, we should...probably kill anyone that gets in our way. No prisoners. No mercy. If we let someone retreat, they'll go warn Grant, and then bad stuff happens, and...yeah."

The static cheered. Rob shoved it away, disgust rolling across his body like a wave. It's necessary. The stakes are too high. I'm-

"Agreed," Keira said, nodding. "If you weren't going to recommend that policy, I would have. Fiend territory cannot burn because we wished to keep our hearts unbloodied."

Everyone else except Meyneth grimaced, yet said nothing in disagreement.

"Anyway," Rob continued, "we've seen how Grant fights. His style specializes in close-range combat. I'm sure he has some tricks up his sleeves, but we can deal with whatever he pulls out. It's his backup that we need to focus on – especially the riflemen. They're fragile, so take them out first before they pump us full of hot lead."

"You were undeterred by a shot to the heart," Keira pointed out.

"Yeah, and I've got 150 Vitality and defensive Skills out the wazoo. Don't use me as an example to follow. Therein lies the path to madness."

Keira smirked at him. "Then what do you propose? It's obvious that you've been building up to something."

Rob returned her smirk, heading to a corner of the room and unveiling a crate he'd stashed there before the conversation began. "So glad you asked, Keira," he said. "See, while rifles are scary, they have one big weakness: they don't belong in Elatra. That means no Classes and no Skills to go along with them. A bullet fired by you or me would be the same as a bullet fired by an irate toddler. If we can block one rifle shot, we can block...well, I'll hedge my bets and say 'most' of them."

With an excited flourish, he opened the crate. Riardin's Rangers peered inside, quizzical expressions on their faces. "Armor?" Zamira asked.

"Dwarven armor," Rob corrected. "Best in the business."

Most Combat Class users eschewed armor for two main reasons. The first reason was that armor, while decently effective versus weaker monsters, crumpled when struck by monsters with real strength. Unless you were a Vanguard with Skills that strengthened the armor you wore, it usually wasn't worth the trade-off in mobility.

The second reason was that Dwarven-forged weapons and armor far outstripped their contemporaries, and the stingy bastards hoarded their metal like dragons on a pile of gold. Until going to Dwarfland, the only item of Dwarven make Rob had ever seen was his shortsword – now the Broken Shortsword – and that'd been hand-gifted to him by the gods in his Elatra Starter Pack.

"This will give us an edge against the riflemen," he continued, "Bullets are excellent at piercing flesh, but they can struggle when trying to penetrate tough metals. This way there'll be no easy headshots for them."

"Where did you even find all these?" Orn'tol asked, in a tone of wonderment.

Rob's grin widened. "During skirmishes between Fiendland and Dwarfland, sometimes, a Dwarven Vanguard would die. Sometimes, the Fiends would get the chance to loot his or her corpse. And every time that happened, one rich eccentric weirdo in Fiendland bought the armor and kept it as a souvenir. He's a collector of sorts. Fiends can't be Vanguards, so it's not like anyone else had a use for it."

"And he parted with his collection without complaint?"

"...He made a generous, involuntary donation for the greater good of the nation. So yeah, I stole it."

Malika picked up a helmet and placed it on top of her head. It fell down with a soft clunk, hiding her face under gleaming metal. "I don't think these fit me," she said, her voice muffled.

"Nothing is going to fit perfectly," Rob admitted. "It's all sized for Dwarven adults. Just cover as much skin surface area as you can. The helmet is the most important part, so definitely try to make that work, even if it's uncomfortable or requires some finagling. With you guys' Vitality and my shared buffs, you could take a shot to...let's say the spleen, without having to stop fighting. Heart is a lot sketchier, but with immediate medical attention, you'd likely be okay."

He tapped his forehead. "Brains are a different story. When the Merfolk King caved my skull in, I would've been dead without Diplomacy activating Lifesurge in my stead. Don't make me start describing splattered gray matter again."

His reminder served as excellent motivation. Riardin's Rangers spent the next twenty minutes assembling personal armor sets that kinda sorta fit. Most of them were missing an arm or a leg piece, and no one could find a torso piece remotely in their size. They compromised by taking small layers of Dwarven steel, placing that layer over their heart, and tying it to themselves so that it stayed in place. Hardly optimal compared to proper armor, but it was better than walking around with heads and chests screaming 'shoot me for extra points'.

"Last, but not least, there's this." Rob went to the back of the room and pulled down a curtain, revealing an odd sheet of Dwarven metal propped up against the wall. It was approximately five feet tall and four long, but without being uniform or smooth, appearing more like numerous other pieces of metal had been flattened out and hastily welded together.

Meyneth raised an eyebrow. "You prepared a curtain for dramatic effect?"

"I'm stressed. Let me have this." Rob cleared his throat. "The limits on Bind Item are that the Item in question can't be heavier than 20 pounds or larger than 216 cubic feet. This bad boy's just about hit the weight limit; couldn't make it any bigger. Considering that it's a rush order from a Fiend blacksmith who should probably be fleeing the country, I'd say it turned out nicely."

Faelynn perked up. "You intend to use this as a protective barrier?"

"Yup." Rob patted the sheet of metal. "A portable, five-by-four wall of cover that can be re-formed every three seconds. Bullets might still be able to pierce through parts of it, so don't take it for granted, but it's another way to stack the deck in our favor. Wanted to run the idea by everyone before I committed to using my fifth and final Bind Item slot."

He'd already used his fourth slot on a large crate of Firebombs. That went without saying.

Riardin's Rangers quickly agreed with his idea, very much on board with anything that decreased their chances of being shot. Rob placed his hand on the sheet of metal and concentrated, calling upon an instinct that had been inserted into his brain after learning Bind Item. The sheet disappeared with a flash of blue motes, now a semi-permanent part of his soul.

And it's in good company, Rob thought. My Bound Items are a deformed sheet of metal, a broken sword, a crate of explosives, actual garbage...and an Enchanted Item so effective it's altered the future of Elatra. All contained within my soul. There's a metaphor in there, somewhere.

"That concludes my battle planning," Rob said, taking a bow. "Any comments, questions, or concerns?"

"Just one," Keira replied. "You should allocate your stat points. I know you prefer to hold on to them in case of emergency, but we know the types of enemies we'll be facing this time around. Better to be at your best from the beginning."

Rob hesitated, then nodded. They needed to cut a path through the Stonewarden's forces as quickly and efficiently as possible. And while Grant didn't know that Waymark would teleport them back to the same location they'd left from, he might set up an ambush in the prison room as a precautionary measure. With a thought, Rob brought up his Character Sheet.

Character Sheet

Name: Rob

Level: 65

Race: Human

Class: BERSERKER (LV 62)

Sub-Class: Crystal Bearer (LV 6)

HP: 1500 / 1500

Stamina: 349 / 350

MP: 500 / 500

Status Effects: Leveling High (Moderate), Melancholia (Advanced)

Strength: 58

Vitality: 150

Endurance: 35

Dexterity: 65

Perception: 33

Mind: 28

Magic: 50

Unspent Points: 30

Thirty points to play with. Mind...was still useless, sorry buddy. Endurance probably needed to get some love sooner or later, but for now, he settled on 'later'.

Perception, however, would be useful when fighting scores of riflemen. It would help Rob keep track of his surroundings – specifically, where the rifles were being aimed at any given time. He slotted 7 points into the stat, bringing it up to an even 40.

Analyze Weakness Level Increased! 1 → 2

Rob's senses sharpened, details in sight and sound becoming more defined, as if he'd improved reality's video quality from 480p to HD. He glanced at Keira, discovering that, yes, she somehow looked even more beautiful. Keira noticed his look and smiled, waggling her eyebrows in an egregiously suggestive manner.

Fuck you, Grant, for distracting me from that. With a heavy heart, Rob pushed any broom closet-related thoughts aside and moved on.

Dexterity was the next big focus. He couldn't outrun bullets, but he could throw off the Dwarves' aim by moving really freaking fast. Rob boosted the stat by 10, resolving to get used to his increase in speed before the mission began.

Step of the Wind Level Increased! 10 → 12

That left 13 unspent stat points to utilize. Strength...wouldn't be a huge help here, as the riflemen were Utility Class users who would fold like wet cardboard. Still, the Stonewarden was a beefy guy, and gaining an extra bit of muscle for the final battle couldn't hurt. Rob put in 2 points, bringing Strength to its 60 point milestone.

Bulk Up Level Increased! 8 → 9

Power Slash Level Increased! 7 → 8

Good stuff. 11 unspent stat points to go. Rob was hesitant to increase Vitality further, as it was already outpacing some of his stats by a little too much, but splattered brain matter was a very persuasive mental image. He also needed more Magic for more max MP, as Rampage spam was proving to be a lifesaver in basically every major combat scenario. Rob threw 5 points into each category.

Regeneration Level Increased! 22 → 23

1 point remaining. He tossed it to Endurance like an aristocrat tossed crumbs to starving beggars.

And...that was it. He was finished. In general. His stat points were allocated, he'd Bound his last Item, Riardin's Rangers battle plans had been finalized, and Malika was wearing an adorable oversized helmet. He still needed to do some laps around the building to get used to his increase in speed, but that was about it. There was nothing left to do except wait until Waymark went off cooldown.

In seven hours.

With nothing else to distract him.

While imagining all the people that would die if he failed.

Fuck.

--

Five hours of brooding later, Rob found himself on a rooftop, peering down at a crowd of evacuating Fiends. He'd planned to jump in and intervene if their behavior got out of hand, but they were proceeding in a civilized manner, helping carry their neighbors' supplies and crossing the bridge in a march rather than a stampede. If they kept a steady pace, they might even make it to the border in time before three days passed. Two days, now.

I hope that the Stonewarden doesn't predict our evacuation efforts, Rob suddenly realized, an ugly notion infiltrating his thoughts. If he aims his nuke at the southern border of Fiend territory, he'll hit a city, anyone trying to cross, *and* the refugee camps on the other side. Christ. Did we just offer up a target rich environment on a silver platter?

Then again, what was Rob supposed to do? Remain silent and keep the Fiends in blissful ignorance? Tell them to stay put and hope that the bomb didn't drop on their heads? A right answer didn't seem to exist.

'These are the types of decisions that a Leader must make,' Seneschal Sylpeiros had said, just yesterday. 'Be thankful that you don't have that burden on your soul.' The fact that Rob was empathizing with him of all people was a testament to how complicated his life had become.

"You're in my spot," a cheerful voice said from behind. Rob relaxed as Keira sat down next to him, wrapping her arm around his back and leaning her head on his shoulder. The tension flowed out of him in a long sigh, like gas being released from an overtaxed pressure valve.

"I didn't know this spot was reserved." He leaned his head on hers, closing his eyes as silver hair brushed his cheek. "There's a lot of rooftops to choose from."

"This is the best one."

"Why?"

"Because you're here."

Rob paused. "Damn. That was actually kinda smooth."

Keira poked him in the ribs. "And just what do you mean by 'actually'?" She snuggled closer. "Your body is rigid as stone. Is there anything you need to talk about?"

"Maybe in a bit."

They spent an hour like that, sitting in a gentle embrace, enjoying each other's company without a single word spoken. Rob wished he could stay like that forever, but time waited for no man – Waymark would be ready to use in another hour. "How..." he began, before hesitating, unsure of how to phrase the myriad emotions wreaking havoc in his mind. "How long do you think it'll be until we're done?"

Keira tilted her head to look up at him. "Done with...?"

Rob gestured broadly. "All of this. The fighting, the responsibilities. You know, I really liked that vacation we got after stopping the Corruption epidemic. Was a solid month of nothing happening. Then the Dwarves came, and everything went back to being royally screwed up. More shit piled up on our plate."

Another sigh escaped his throat. "It has to stop eventually, right? Can't help but wonder when this ends. When we'll be done."

She only needed one second to reply. "When all of our enemies are dead."

He couldn't argue with that.

With thirty minutes left to go, Rob and Keira stood up, sharing a deep kiss before they exited the rooftop. With twenty minutes left to go, Riardin's Rangers regrouped, donning their improvised armor. With ten minutes left to go, they went over their battle strategies once again, practicing hiding behind Rob's Dwarven Metal Sheet as he summoned it from his Bound Items.

With one minute left to go, they said their goodbyes. Just in case.

And then it was time.

Rob briefly considered a speech, then discarded it. They'd already said everything there was to say. "Survive," he ordered, nodding at his friends. They nodded back, eyes alight with silent determination. It was the final push Rob needed, Blue energy building within his core, a roaring crescendo of power and intent.

Waymark.

The world shifted, sending them straight into hell.

--

Changes

Item Bound: Crate of Firebombs

Item Bound: Distorted Dwarven Sheet Metal

Strength 58 → 60

Vitality 150 → 155

Endurance 35 → 36

Dexterity 65 → 75

Perception 33 → 40

Magic 50 → 55

Analyze Weakness 1 → 2

Step of the Wind 10 → 12

Bulk Up 8 → 9

Power Slash 7 → 8

Regeneration 22 → 23

Chapter 27

Rob caught a brief glimpse of the prison before his senses were consumed by gunshots and flame.

The moment Waymark ended, a great wall of fire sprang up underneath Riardin's Rangers, obscuring their vision and searing their skin. Continuous BANGs resounded, deafening Rob's hearing, one bullet striking him in his leg. The transition from normalcy to chaos was so rattling that it took a system message of all things to jar Rob out of his shock.

Heat Resistance Level Increased! 7 → 8

Without wasting another moment, he Rampaged past the flames, swinging his longsword at the first Dwarf-shaped object he saw. For good measure, he activated Rampage's Awakened Class bonus, causing a moderately-sized explosion to detonate at the end of his dash. Rob's blade sheared through a Dwarf's unprotected abdomen at the same time that Rampage's explosion sent two other soldiers flying. Luckily, one of those three must have been the Dwarves' resident mage, because their continuous flame spell cut out immediately after.

Rob hesitated, staring blankly at the motionless body laying by his feet. Was it always this easy to kill? he thought, before forcibly steering his focus back on track. The fight wasn't over – he could still hear gunshots and screams – and Riardin's Rangers were at a disadvantage. They'd spent about a second in the fire, which wasn't long if you were Rob, but would have been a much shittier experience for any of his other Party members. He couldn't count on them being able to respond quickly right after being barbecued.

That's what he'd assumed, anyway. When Rob turned to dispose of the other Dwarves as swiftly as possible, he was greeted to the sight of Keira and Zamira tearing ass through half a dozen terrified riflemen. One bullet pinged off of Zamira's helmet, denting it slightly inward as she effortlessly stabbed her blade into a Dwarf's heart. Keira hid behind her greatsword as she advanced, Steel Soul rendering it virtually unbreakable, only swinging when she'd drawn close enough to bisect two Dwarves in one motion.

Meanwhile, Vul'to, Meyneth, and Faelynn were huddled around Orn'tol and Malika, having shielded the siblings with their bodies. A burst of mana flared out from Malika, sending gusts of wind that knocked the few remaining Dwarves to the ground. Without missing a beat, Meyneth cast Leap, vaulting towards the Dwarves before they could regain their bearings, the poor souls rendered as helpless as upside-down turtles.

As his friends finished their opponents with ruthless efficiency, Rob turned back towards the Dwarves he'd blown aside with Rampage. One was dead – a riflemen Utility Class user whose chest had been caved in by the explosion – but the other was a Level 28 Combat Class user slowly rising to his feet. He would soon be the only Dwarf left alive from the ambush. And frankly speaking, he was so much weaker than any single member of Riardin's Rangers that the idea of him posing a threat was laughable.

He didn't...he didn't need to die. Rob could tie him up, or lock him in a cell, or...something.

And then spend the rest of the mission hesitating over and over again.

Whispering apologies, Rob swung his sword, eyes wide open. He was tempted to look away, but his victim deserved at least this much. The gesture immediately felt hollow when the Dwarf slumped down without fanfare, lifeless, blood pooling into a puddle on the ground. What did he care if Rob honored his final moments? He was dead either way.

All told, the ambush had taken five seconds to deal with, with twice as many Dwarves perishing in that timespan. Everything was quiet, including the static. It had no reason to celebrate – Rob wasn't even close to gaining a Level. The EXP from a smattering of low-Level Dwarves may as well have been worth pennies. That was how cheaply the system valued their lives.

Save the philosophizing for later, Rob told himself, as he opened his Party Screen to check everyone's injuries. They were about what he'd expected. Shared Heat Resistance had dulled the effects of the fire wall, and the Dwarves only got off a single unchecked volley of rifle shots before they were overwhelmed. Whatever gun model they were using seemed capable of no more than one shot per second.

Between the vision-obscuring fire wall lowering the Dwarves' accuracy, and Riardin's Rangers' armor deflecting some bullets that found their mark, only a few people had actually been hit. Rob, whose leg shot was already an afterthought, Vul'to, who got nicked in the shoulder, and...

Rob winced, striding forward with impatient steps. "Are you okay?" he asked, eyes focused on Malika's left arm. Blood wasn't gushing out of the wound – they could thank shared Platelet Party for that – but it was still flowing, staining her sleeve with red.

"I'm okay," she said, in a cheery tone. "It's not as bad as you made it out to be." Rob didn't fail to notice the slight tremor in Malika's voice, or the indentation in her helmet where a bullet would have pierced her skull otherwise.

Jesus Christ. I brought a teenager into a war zone, and she got shot in the first goddamn minute. He didn't let that thought show on his face, because if he went to pieces, she'd soon follow. Instead, Rob nodded and produced an HP Potion from his Spatial Storage. "Good work. You handled yourself well."

Malika graciously accepted his offering, a shy smile creeping upwards, as if he'd given her a gold star for acing a math exam. By Elatran standards, that analogy probably wasn't too far off.

Gathering his composure, Rob looked at each of Riardin's Rangers in turn. "Is everyone else okay too?" he asked, more as a courtesy than anything else. The existence of the Party Screen made his question redundant.

"Hardly," a male voice proclaimed. Riardin's Rangers practically jumped out of their skins, belatedly recognizing the voice as belonging to Seneschal Sylpeiros, still stuck in his jail cell. "Things were pleasantly quiet before you arrived," the Seneschal continued, in a droll tone. "Now my ears are ringing and my face is sweating. Did those fools even manage to kill any of you with that ill-fated ambush of theirs?"

"They certainly tried," Keira hissed.

"Pity." He paused. "You'll realize this in a moment or two, but Alessia is no longer here. They retrieved her shortly after you escaped, and she has yet to return."

Riardin's Rangers fell silent. Zamira was the first to speak up, her voice a dull monotone. "Thank you for telling us. Do you possess any other information that would be of assistance to our cause?"

"Only that Grant has made no attempt to speak with me or move me from my cell. Presumably, his schedule for launching Titan's Fist remains unaltered."

"That might change once the Stonewarden learns his ambush was triggered," Rob pointed out. "How often do the Dwarves check up here?"

"Once every hour." The Seneschal yawned. "Approximately. Time is an indistinct concept without sunlight to mark its passage."

Then we should go. Now. As Riardin's Rangers moved to head out, Rob hesitated, facing the Seneschal's cell once again. "Last call, Sylpeiros. Help us, and we'll let you out."

The Seneschal was quiet for several seconds. "You probably shouldn't," he eventually said, in a low mutter.

Rob didn't have the time to puzzle out what that meant, so he just shrugged and took off running after his Party. There were more important things to worry about than emotionally inconsistent Elves. He already dealt with his fair share of those back home.

The hallway outside of the prison was mercifully empty. Riardin's Rangers veered right and sprinted as fast as their feet could carry them, heading directly for the Stonewarden's personal quarters. It was the first stop on their personalized tour, designed to maximize their odds of running into Grant. They'd visit his quarters, then the central lobby, making their way towards his underground laboratory while checking each of his most-frequented spots along the way.

It was a strategy that relied largely on luck, but no better alternative had presented itself during the planning phase. In lieu of going back in time, inventing a tracking device, and planting one on Grant, performing a targeted search was their best bet. The only thing they could be reasonably sure of was that he'd stayed somewhere inside his fortress – there was little chance he'd gone outside when the strongest defense against intruders was himself.

At least the lack of intel went both ways. If Grant knew how Waymark functioned, and that it was guaranteed to teleport Riardin's Rangers back inside the prison chambers, he could've prepared a significantly larger ambush. One they wouldn't have survived.

Hallways blended together as they ran. Rob knew they were moving at speeds that would've made an Olympic runner cry foul, but it still seemed tortuously, agonizingly slow. At any moment, they could be discovered, and their greatest weapon – the element of surprise – would be lost.

Group Message Continued
Rob: Faelynn, how close are we to his office?

Faelynn: Just two more turns and – oh.

Everyone skidded to a halt as they rounded the corner and came face-to-face with a single Dwarf. His eyes bulged out to the size of dinner plates as he dropped the pile of clothes he'd been carrying. A quick glance and Identify informed Rob that this Utility Class user was just a Utility Class user. He didn't have a rifle, and rather than a soldier's uniform, he was dressed in standard servant's attire.

Before Rob could even begin to contemplate what he was going to do, Zamira rushed forward, her sword glowing with a silver aura. It passed through the servant's chest like a ghostly limb, leaving no injury or physical marking. The servant froze, whitened eyes rolling up into his head, as he collapsed to the ground.

"Mercy's Whisper," Zamira explained, in that same monotone. "Disables for hours. A compromise."

One-by-one, Riardin's Rangers nodded, Rob letting out a sigh of relief. Leaving the servant alive posed some degree of risk, but...he wasn't to blame for any of this. He hadn't asked for his Leader to go crazy. Hell, Rob doubted that even most of the actual soldiers had been told everything that was happening in Grant's secret workshop. A lot of them were going to die for a cause they knew nothing about.

Rob could justify killing them because they were combatants who'd chosen to pick up a weapon, and because it was necessary, but involving civilians was a step too far. Thank god that Zamira knew Mercy's Whisper; he didn't know what he would have done, otherwise.

{You do know. That's why you're relieved.}

Rob kicked the static to the back of his mind, ignoring its laughter as he helped his Party stash the snoozing Dwarf into a nondescript storage closet. They continued on, praying that no one needed to grab an extra pair of towels for the next few hours.

Shortly after, they spotted the Stonewarden's personal quarters at the end of a hallway. Riardin's Rangers slowed their pace, taking quieter steps to avoid alerting anyone of their presence. Once they were roughly fifteen feet away, Vul'to cursed, holding out his arms to forestall their advance. "Damnation," he whispered. "The Stonewarden isn't here."

"What?" Rob uttered. "How can you tell?"

"Because his soul is not there," Vul'to plainly stated. "One cannot exist without the other, as I have learned."

Faelynn's eyebrows shot up. "You can view souls through walls?"

Vul'to blinked. "Yes, of course."

The Party stared at him, mouths open.

"...Did I neglect to mention that I can do that?"

"It may have been wise to bring it to our attention during the planning phase," Meyneth remarked, in a dry tone.

Vul'to blushed slightly. "Faelynn could have mentioned it as well. She has the same racial abilities as I."

Faelynn shook her head. "Normally, Fiends cannot view souls through solid objects. I don't know why you would be different. When did this start?"

Vul'to looked away. "Centuries ago."

"...Oh. Right."

An awkward silence filled the hallway. Vul'to looked back towards them, a forced smile plastered onto his face. "I suppose that after so many years, I'd forgotten that normal Fiends lack this ability," he said. "Regardless, it will be a boon to our search efforts. I've been checking every room we ran past on our way here. There is no need to open doors to investigate if the Stonewarden is inside. It helps that he possesses a uniquely vibrant soul that I will be able to identify at a glance."

Rob gave him a thumbs-up. "That sounds useful as shit. Lead the way."

Vul'to's smile turned a bit more genuine. Unfortunately, his good cheer didn't last long, as the next fifteen minutes of searching were spent entirely in vain. As Riardin's Rangers traversed through the fortress's twisting hallways, quickly making their way to its next priority area – the central lobby – it became readily apparent that the place was a ghost town. Vul'to hadn't seen a single soul in any of the rooms they passed by. The only person they encountered was another unlucky servant who was summarily Zamira'd and stuffed into a garbage bin.

An empty garbage bin. With air holes. Just because they were acting as assassins invading a foreign nation didn't mean they had to be dicks about it.

Inevitably, Rob's worst fears were realized when Riardin's Rangers finally reached the door leading into the main central lobby. Vul'to gasped and threw his arms out to stop them, his body freezing in place as if he'd been struck by Medusa's gaze. "No Stonewarden," he hastily clarified. "However, there are many people beyond these doors. Thirty. No, forty. Possibly more."

Rob suppressed a groan. The Stonewarden may not have known when, where, or how Riardin's Rangers would return, but he'd made sure to prepare surprises in all the places they'd be likely to visit. "Is Grant in there?"

Vul'to concentrated. "It is diffic-"

Group Message Started By Party Member: Rob

Rob: Actually, let's use this.

Rob: That way people won't hear us.

Vul'to: Ah, yes. That is sensible.

Vul'to: Regardless, it is difficult to say for certain whether or not Grant is present. The central lobby is rather large.

Vul'to: If Grant is hiding curled up in the corner of the room, knees pressed to his chest, then his soul is most likely out of my vision range.

Vul'to: Yet if I were to hazard a guess, I would say that he is not there.

Vul'to: This is seemingly an ambush comprised of one-quarter Combat Class users and three-fourth Thunder Rod wielders.

The Party exchanged glances, gauging each other's attitudes, seeing who wanted to sneak away and who wanted to rush in, guns blazing.

Group Message Continued

Rob: Malika, can you cast spells through walls?

Malika: Only if the wall is very weak.

Rob: No, I don't mean trying to break through it with a projectile. More like, you cast the spell here, and it starts in another room.

Rob: For example, a wide-range wind storm that blankets the whole lobby.

Rob: It doesn't have to be precise.

Malika: !!!

Malika: That sounds like a really fun idea!! I don't know if I can, but probably?! I want to try!!

Meyneth: It is a grand idea. One that should be reserved for a later time.

Meyneth: Ransacking a bottleneck full of enemies is not our objective.

Meyneth: Kill Grant, secure Titan's Fist. That is what we journeyed here to accomplish.

Keira: Killing these Dwarves would result in a smaller counterattack after we seize the Stonewarden's underground workshop.

Meyneth: And if one of them escapes to warn him?

Meyneth: Which, I must stress, is bound to happen. Like rats fleeing a sinking ship, when the untempered Thunder Rod wielders witness their comrades being slaughtered, a good portion will scurry away with their tails between their legs.

Meyneth: I say we wash our hands of them and move on.

Rob was inclined to agree. While the odds of catching Grant unawares were growing slimmer by the minute, there was still a chance. They couldn't afford to blow their cover on ancillary objectives. Overall, bypassing the central lobby meant that they could save time and avoid having to kill people. A win-win, as far as Rob was concerned.

He was about to give the order to move on when Vul'to flinched. The Fiend held up a hand, his gaze focused on a sight invisible to everyone else.

Message Continued

Vul'to: One moment. Someone new has arrived.

Vul'to: Not Grant. A Utility Class user.

Vul'to: They seem...agitated?

Muffled chatter seeped through the closed door. Rob couldn't understand exactly what the newcomer was saying, but 'agitated' was as good of a word as any to describe their emotional state.

Message Continued

Orn'tol: Did you hear? They mentioned a prison.

And that was that. Once the initial moment of shock was over, Riardin's Rangers collected themselves, quietly unsheathing their weapons without any further hesitation. It was the one thing to let bygones be bygones when the Stonewarden's soldiers were just sitting around, waiting for something to happen. But if they'd been informed about the prison guards' demise?

That made them witnesses.

It frightened Rob at how easily he settled into that mindset. There wasn't even a guarantee that the Dwarven messenger hadn't already contacted Grant. In the end, killing these Dwarves might accomplish nothing.

Then again, the Stonewarden's soldiers had immolated his friends at first sight. They'd shown loud and clear that they weren't in the mood to negotiate. He repeated that thought inside of his head as he motioned for Malika to begin casting her spell, and then took his place with Vul'to at the front of the Party.

Message Continued

Rob: Prioritize your safety.

Rob: Not losing anyone today.

Rob: Okay. On 3.

Rob: 1...

Rob: 2...

Rob: 3.

Rob and Vul'to tackled the door off of its hinges, bursting inside the lobby like a pair of exceptionally well-armed Kool-Aid men. Several things happened at once, Rob summoning his Dwarven Sheet Metal with one hand and chucking a crate of Firebombs into the Dwarven back line with the other, all while Malika's wind storm swept past and threw many of the riflemen off-balance. It resulted in a singular moment of extreme confusion, the Dwarves left scrambling as their ambush was ambushed, what few shots they managed to fire bouncing harmlessly off of the Sheet Metal.

A fantastic start – that wasn't anywhere near enough. Rob knew better than to assume they'd won the fight because of a successful opening gambit. Shock and awe only went so far. Once the Dwarves gathered their bearings, they would return fire, and then all it would take was one lucky shot finding an opening in his Party members' poorly-fitted helmets. Rob wasn't aiming for minimal casualties; he was aiming for zero casualties.

Which is why he immediately stepped out of cover and cast Rampage a few times in rapid succession, planting himself directly in the Dwarven back line with an attention-grabbing explosion. "WHAT'S UP, BITCHES!" he yelled, at the top of his lungs. "TITAN'S A COCKSUCKER AND SO ARE YOUR MOMS!"

There was a deafening silence, followed by the sound of two dozen rifles being locked and aimed in unison. Rob Rampaged to the side as bullets perforated the air where he'd been standing. He activated another explosion at the end of his dash, sending a Dwarf flying, her head slamming into the wall with a nasty crunch. A round of delayed bullets struck him before he could Rampage again, piercing his arms, legs, and chest. Rob made sure to cry out in pain and stagger dramatically, letting the riflemen get a fleeting taste of vengeance, just enough to wet their whistle, as their game of cat and mouse continued unabated.

A Vanguard's Taunt couldn't have done it better. Not all the Dwarves were hyper-focused on him, but so many were that his Party members were free to engage the remainder on unequal footing. Malika and Orn'tol were raining hell from behind the Sheet Metal, Vul'to warding off any Combat Class users who tried to get in close. Keira, Zamira, Faelynn, and Meyneth were advancing carefully, protecting their heads as they went, utilizing the rifles' one-second reload gap to strategically pick off vulnerable Dwarves.

And then there was Rob, screeching obscenities as he left a string of Firebomb crates and Rampage explosions in his wake. Sure, he'd been shot like, thirteen times, but so what? Those were thirteen bullets he had drawn away from his much squishier teammates.

BANG.

Make that fourteen bullets. Totally fine! Who needed a pancreas anyway? And really, even if Rob wound up getting shot in the head, he was the only member of Riardin's Rangers with undiluted Brain Damage Resistance. When combined with his sky-high Vitality, it was mathematically impossible for him to get instakilled by basic 1940s-era rifles.

Probably. System logic could be hard to predict.

BANG.

Fifteen. Fifteen bullet wounds. Haha. He...was actually starting to lose a lot of blood. Lifesteal usually helped Rob stay healthy in battle, but the Utility Class Dwarves possessed little enough HP that he wasn't healing much from the damage he dealt. Their attacks were slowly whittling him down. The Dwarves picked up on his distress, renewing their efforts with desperate fervor. Rob allowed them one final volley of rifle shots – which, outside of covering his head, he didn't even bother to dodge – before promptly activating Lifesurge.

Healing magic suffused him, repairing torn flesh and rejuvenating the two pints of blood that he'd lost.

75% of his max HP was restored, more than putting him back up to full. A series of mocking tinks echoed in the Dwarves' ears as their bullets were pushed out of Rob's body, gently bouncing off the polished marble floor.

That was about when the Dwarves realized they'd been wasting their time. Just as Meyneth said they would, half of the Utility Class users broke ranks and started a retreat, leaving their allies in various states of outraged betrayal. Frantic orders spouted in Dwarvish fell on deaf ears – they wanted nothing more to do with this nonsense.

Rob was a bit surprised at the Dwarves' lack of coordination, especially in comparison to armies back on Earth, but then he remembered that taking civilians and rapidly molding them to be soldiers was a new practice in Elatra. They had yet to develop the psychological training regimens and internal structure that let Earth armies be so cohesive. Just last year, the Dwarves in front of Rob might have been hardworking Bakers and Masons, people who'd never seriously considered that they would see combat one day.

Now, when faced with a seemingly-invincible, exploding, Level 65 BERSERKER – and his seven equally terrifying friends – they were being expected to stand their ground.

Like lambs to the slaughter.

A Dwarf slid off of Rob's longsword, her eyes pleading and vacant. As Rob watched the corpse fall to the ground, his throat began to close up, the room suddenly feeling cramped and oppressive. Screams of anguish stabbed his ears like hot needles. His heart beat faster, faster, adrenaline surging, everything spinning, needed to stop, just-

The static rose up. It mingled with Rob's emotions, soothing them, a lullaby to calm his frenzied nerves. Gradually, Rob's breathing normalized, the guilt and mania within his heart subsiding. This isn't a slaughter, he was told. You're doing the right thing, he wanted to believe. Prevent them from escaping, or the worst is yet to come.

Rob's head snapped towards the lobby's front entrance. A group of three Dwarves had slipped past the chaos, running with all the speed their lackluster Dexterity could offer. Rob chased after them, expending his last two Rampages to close the gap. One Utility Class user was blown aside, screaming as explosive flames ravaged his flesh. The second blind fired over her shoulder, too scared to look back, as if Rob was a boogeyman who would go away if she just didn't make eye contact. The third – a Combat Class user wielding an axe – whirled around to face Rob, meeting her death with courage.

And a gun.

BANG.

Two thoughts passed through Rob's mind. The first was that, while they didn't gain any special benefits from it, there was nothing preventing a Combat Class user from using a rifle. And second, that his head really fucking hurt.

With a groan, Rob slowly sat up, rubbing the blood out of his eyes. He tried to collect his thoughts, but the mother of all headaches was pounding in his brain.

Brain. Rub touched this forehead, freezing when his finger sank into a small hole. He opened his log of system messages a microsecond later.

The hell? Rob rubbed his eyes again. The message stayed the same. He opened his Character Sheet to find that it was no different, just lines and lines of garbled gibberish. If he didn't already know it was his Character Sheet, he'd have had no idea what he was looking at.

So, apparently, I can't read anymore. Rob jumped to his feet, feeling less stressed about that fact than he thought he would. Probably because of the brain damage. Regeneration will fix me up. If I can fight, that's all that matters.

"Rob!" He turned around, mildly unsteady on his feet, as Keira bolted towards him. Her eyes bulged when she saw the gaping wound in his forehead. "Oh gods. Are you alright?"

Rob squinted. Keira's words were muffled, like she was speaking from underwater. He could understand her, though, albeit with difficulty. "I'm doing juuuust fine," he said, peering behind her. The fight seemed to be winding down, with Riardin's Rangers picking off the last couple stragglers. "How 'bout everyone else?"

Keira hesitated, sighing with exasperation bordering on frustration. "...They are well. Unfortunately, two Dwarves escaped through the back entrance. Zamira is in pursuit, but I cannot guarantee that she will catch them before they bring reinforcements."

"Damnit," Rob said, grimacing. "Two escaped on my end as well. They'll be long gone by now." He tapped his foot, thinking. "Change of plans – we head straight for the underground lab. If we encounter Grant along the way, then great, but there's no time to search for him anymore. The Dwarves that got away are going to find someone with a radio and warn him."

Rob sent a Message to Zamira, informing her to pull back if she hadn't already located the Dwarves. He went to gather the rest of Riardin's Rangers, studiously ignoring the piles of Dwarven bodies splayed out across the ground. A cursory glance told him that his friends were holding up okay, but he also didn't trust his judgement very much at the moment, what with the brain damage. He'd just have to put his trust in their mental fortitude. At everyone's insistence, he downed an HP Potion – and an MP Potion for good measure – before continuing on, his Party making a beeline for the Stonewarden's workshop.

It didn't take long for Dwarven reinforcements to arrive. This batch, knowing full well that their predecessors had been wiped out with nothing to show for it, opted to forego a frontal assault in favor of hit-and-run tactics. Riflemen would pop out from the ends of the hallways, firing potshots and retreating before Riardin's Rangers could retaliate. The Dwarven Sheet Metal worked wonders here, Meyneth carrying it as they advanced, but it could only cover one angle at a time, leaving Rob and Vul'to to bodyblock any shots that came from behind.

Vul'to was close to uninjured, his Skill-strengthened armor proving highly effective against bullets. Rob...not so much. His non-strengthened, ill-fitting Dwarven armor was full of gaps and dented in numerous places – and worst of all, it was a complete fashion disaster. Thankfully, Lifesurge's five minute cooldown would end soon, so Rob was confident he could outlast whatever the Dwarves threw at him. 155 Vitality was as good as any armor...for the most part.

Briefly, he wondered what their situation looked like from the other side. The Dwarves vastly outnumbered Riardin's Rangers. They had guns and the home field advantage. Despite that, their allies, their friends, were being massacred by the dozens. Their vaunted miracle weapons were being stymied by armor of their own making. The one guy they did manage to consistently land shots on was somehow still alive. And if their Combat Class users attempted to engage, they were eviscerated, as if they'd run straight into a weed thresher. The Dwarves were sacrificing so much, yet not a single enemy had been slain to allow those sacrifices to hold any meaning.

It sounded like an absolute nightmare scenario. The kind of battle that broke spirits, keeping its survivors up at night for decades to follow.

Good.

--

Changes

Heat Resistance Level Increased! 7 → 8

Brain Damage Resistance Level Increased! 1 → 2

Chapter 28

"Are you expending Influence?"

Kismet watched as Fames peered down into a scrying portal. Energy pulsed off of him in waves, a telltale sign that Influence was being used to accomplish tasks in the mortal realms. Kismet's question went unanswered for several seconds, after which Fames briefly glanced up. "Yes," he said, in a hurried tone.

How peculiar. Fames couldn't have had much Influence left remaining. When that well started to run dry, the logical course of action was to wait until it replenished. "What are you doing that is so important?"

Fames grinned. "Ensuring that seeds bear fruit."

--

Gunfire rained down as Riardin's Rangers raced towards the Stonewarden's underground workshop. The Dwarves were panicking, Rob catching glimpses of their fearful expressions in-between volleys of projectiles. With how powerless their bullets, arrows, axes, and spells were to stop the Party from bulldozing through, it must have felt as if they were trying to halt a runaway train with stern words. Some Dwarves were even starting to turn tail and run the moment they saw what was coming.

Which was fortunate, as it kept them from noticing that their attacks were starting to have an effect. Dwarven metal was tough, but there was a limit to how much punishment it could take. Each member of Riardin's Rangers had been forced to discard various pieces of armor as wear-and-tear accumulated. While Rob and Vul'to were doing their best to fulfill their role as meat shields, they couldn't cover everyone, always.

Rob was thankful that his Bound Items reformed every time he summoned them, because with how much punishment the Dwarven Sheet Metal was taking, it would've been turned into a pile of scrap by now otherwise.

He winced as he stuck an arm out, one of his few remaining armor pieces deflecting a shot away from Faelynn. No one in the Party had taken any grievous injuries yet – discounting the hole in Rob's head, which was mostly healed – but it was only a matter of time before someone's helmet broke. Sooner or later, they'd have to-

Group Message Continued

Vul'to: Stop!

The Party skidded to a halt in front of a nondescript hallway. As far as Rob could tell, it was the same as any other, if a bit longer than usual.

Group Message Continued

Vul'to: There are numerous people hiding within the walls.

Faelynn: You can see their souls?

Vul'to: Yes. I believe they are going to perform the same strategy as before.

Vul'to: The one where thin gaps in the walls open up, allowing them to shoot their Thunder Rods uncontested.

Rob: Murder holes?

Vul'to: Is that what those are called? What an inauspicious name.

Rob hesitated. He didn't want to ask, but this hallway was by far the quickest route to the Stonewarden's lab. They couldn't afford to take a detour.

Group Message Continued

Rob: Malika, can you create an inferno inside the walls?

Malika: I...

Malika: Can.

She stared at the walls, a somber expression on her face. Rob knew what she was going through. It was much easier to attack people in the heat of battle – where you could mentally justify it as self-defense – than in a way that felt premeditated. Even when those people were planning to kill you.

Malika inhaled, then exhaled. Putting on a mask of determination, the young Archmage raised her hands. Seconds later, screams resounded from within the walls, followed by footsteps and silence.

Group Message Continued

Vul'to: Good work. They have all retreated.

Vul'to: Thank you, Malika.

She said nothing. Malika was smart enough to know that while most of the Dwarves had retreated in time, a few of them...probably hadn't. If she preferred to accept Vul'to's white lie, though, then Rob wasn't going to be the one to burst her bubble.

The Dwarves' ambushes slowed down in frequency after that. Either they were running out of soldiers, bullets, or both. It was a welcome reprieve, but as much as Rob wanted to believe that the worst was over, he knew that this was simply the calm before the storm, especially considering they still hadn't found Grant. Rob could only hope that they reached his lab in time to stop him from launching the nuke early.

Because it was very possible that they would cut a bloody swathe through dozens and dozens of Dwarves, just to find that Fiendland had already been nuked long ago.

Best not to think about that.

Group Message Continued

Vul'to: I've yet to locate the Stonewarden in any of the rooms we have passed by.

Keira: What do you suppose the chances are that he's not even inside this fortress?

Meyneth: Low.

Meyneth: Leaders cannot shy away from challenges to their authority, and he knew that we were likely to return.

Meyneth: The Stonewarden being absent from his fortress, leaving us free to ransack it at our leisure, would result in a catastrophic blow to the image he has cultivated among the Dwarves.

Meyneth: Grant will be here. Somewhere.

It'd be nice if he was around the next corner, Rob mused. Then we could just shank him and be done with it. Come on, universe. Give me this one little thing.

On bated breath, he turned the corner. Rob looked down the hallway towards their destination...and saw an empty room waiting at the end. Ah, well. I tried.

As a consolation prize, they'd be able to run through unabated. That room – the fortress' central meeting hall – would have been their next big stop on the Stonewarden Assassination Itinerary Planner, before they got discovered and their objective changed from a stealth mission to a speedrun. Now it was merely the fastest route to Grant's underground workshop; they wouldn't be sticking around.

Rob's attention was already focused on the future as he sprinted through. After the meeting hall, he thought, we just have to navigate a couple more corridors, enter the not-so-secret passageway, run like hell, and pray that we beat the buzzer. Depending on the resistance we encounter, it'll take...ten minutes? Fifteen? Assuming the Dwarves don't pull something out of their ass.

He hardly looked at the hall itself. Without anyone inside to kill, it was just another room. At a glance, it appeared exactly the same as the last time they'd been there, when the Stonewarden betrayed them and started this whole mess.

Maybe if he'd done more than glance, he would've noticed the concealed crates stacked in the corner.

Out of nowhere, Keira turned on a dime, swinging the broad flat of her greatsword directly into the Party. Several members were flung aside, tumbling backwards like bowling pins. The conscious part of Rob's mind was completely baffled, but the subconscious part – that had learned to equate 'Keira does something drastic' with bad things about to happen – summoned the Dwarven Sheet Metal as cover and jammed it into the ground.

A single gunshot rang out. The concealed crates detonated an instant later, sending a roaring wave of concussive fire surging towards the Party. Continuous explosions sounded off in a chain reaction, coming from inside the ceiling, floor, and walls. Marble stone erupted as the meeting hall collapsed in on itself.

Moving on instinct, Rob grabbed the two people closest to him and threw them back towards the exit. He went to grab two others, only to be sent flying as an explosion detonated underneath his feet. Rob had just enough time to wonder if he shouldn't have shown the Dwarves the Riardin Special before a ceiling of rubble fell on top of him.

After his initial moment of panic wore off, he realized that his body didn't hurt as much as he thought it would. It was hard to get worked up over some rocks and bombs when he'd practically been vivisected by the Blight four days ago. For his less-durable Party members, it was a different story – a look at the Party Screen informed Rob that he should start handing out HP Potions, ASAP.

He activated Bulk Up and the Anklet of Moderate Brawn, pushing the debris off of himself, quickly surveying what was left of the meeting hall. It had been utterly demolished, now covered in a five-foot snowfall of rubble. Both the front and back entrances were partially obscured, and the ceiling was just gone, the room above clearly visible from below.

Without wasting time, Rob began excavating the shattered remnants of the hall, tossing debris behind himself as he dug. A few feet away, Keira burst out of the ground, Vul'to also emerging not far from her. Between the Sheet Metal and her greatsword, Keira had managed to avoid major injury by shielding herself, just as Vul'to's armor had done the same for him. They immediately set about helping Rob, rapidly unearthing their other Party members, who hadn't been so fortunate.

Zamira and Malika were in critical condition, struggling to remain conscious, both having dropped below 20% of their max HP. While the Sheet Metal had somewhat protected them from the Firebombs in the corner, they'd been caught by multiple explosions from underneath. Burns covered most of their skin, and Zamira's legs were bending the wrong way. Orn'tol and Meyneth were healthy enough to stand on their own, at least, but they bore similar injuries, each having dropped to less than half HP. Faelynn was in by far the best state; a combination of her Fiend physiology granting naturally increased durability, and avoiding the underground bombs via sheer luck.

Rob forcibly calmed the pounding in his chest as he fed Zamira and Malika HP Potions. The wondrous elixirs, so useful in the past, were beginning to lose their luster. A single one only healed a flat 50 HP, meaning that they were paradoxically less effective on people with higher Vitality, especially since imbibing too many at once could induce a negative internal reaction. The Potions would still be sufficient to patch up his friends and prevent their injuries from worsening, but a full, thorough healing wasn't possible, and they didn't have time to wait for shared Regeneration to split the difference.

"Dwarves," Orn'tol suddenly whispered, his voice raw and scratchy. "From there." He pointed at the back entrance they'd been heading towards before the Riardin's Special 2.0 gave them a slight delay. Rob strained his ears, letting him barely make out the sounds of numerous footsteps approaching in the distance.

Coming to finish off the survivors? He let out a mirthless chuckle. They probably figured their little surprise would kill most of us, with the rest being easy pickings. Although Rob was happy to have proven the Dwarves wrong, it still left Riardin's Rangers in the position of dealing with another ambush while half their Party was ready to keel over. To make matters worse, the explosions had severely deformed most of their armor pieces – helmets included – rendering them functionally useless.

Mind racing, Rob swept his eyes over the Party, imagining how they'd fare against fresh foes. Should he tell the wounded to retreat? Ensure his friends' safety at the risk of condemning Fiend territory? Rob suppressed a snarl as the approaching footsteps grew louder and louder, an audible timer fraying at his sanity. It was like he was right back in the Mines again, trying to decide whether or not to use Waymark, pragmatically weighing the lives of people who meant more to him than they would ever know.

Screw this, he thought, his teeth clenched. There had to be a strategy that ensured victory and survival. He just needed to-

"What the fuck happened here?"

Everyone froze. Slowly, as if their bodies were made of rusted hinges, they turned around. Rob watched in muted shock as Seneschal Sylpeiros, in all his glory, awkwardly climbed out of the half-obscured front entrance. Despite the Party listening intently for enemies, no one had noticed his presence before he spoke.

Sylpeiros' eyes widened as he looked from left to right, surveying what was once a refined, stately meeting hall. His gaze drifted towards the back entrance, where the Dwarves were set to arrive. "Ah," he said, comprehension dawning across his features.

Riardin's Rangers held their collective breaths as the Seneschal strode past them without so much as a second glance. He stopped at the back entrance, an unreadable expression on his face. A moment passed where some decision seemed to be made.

Sylpeiros raised his arm, a veritable storm of mana condensing in the palm of his hand. Rob instinctively recoiled, as if he'd been exposed to an open flame, his senses telling him – in no uncertain terms – to stay out of the way. It took just a few seconds for the storm to swell to a hurricane,   lightning crackling around Sylpeiros' fingertips, the smell of burnt ozone permeating throughout the air.

He flicked his wrist. A single, enormous bolt of lightning surged forth, filling the entire width and height of the back entrance corridor.

The Dwarves screamed.

But only for an instant.

Seneschal Sylpeiros let his arm fall, the swell of mana subsiding. His posture was stiff, as if he couldn't believe what he'd just done, and he didn't turn to face Riardin's Rangers. No one spoke a word as the smell of burnt corpses gradually drifted into the ruined meeting hall. Rob was fully aware that he probably shouldn't be the one to break this particular silence, but curiosity won out over good sense. "So-"

"Don't," Sylpeiros spat, his shoulders rising. "Not one word." He continued onwards into the back entrance, clearly intent on seeing his new mission through to the end.

Rob wisely bit back the dozen questions dancing on his tongue. He didn't know what combination of insults, emotional rants, and outright derision had convinced Sylpeiros to support Riardin's Rangers, but it felt like a very delicate balance that they'd be better-off not upsetting.

Catching up with the Seneschal was easy – they just followed the trail of crispy-fried Dwarves. He'd slowed his pace to match the Party's, evidently preferring to travel with a group rather than run on ahead and risk getting ambushed without backup. Despite half of Riardin's Rangers being wounded, their advance through Grant's fortress rapidly became a cakewalk; Sylpeiros simply offered too much firepower and utility for the Dwarves to handle. His high Perception ruined their traps, and his even higher Dexterity meant that it was nigh-impossible for the riflemen to draw a bead on him.

Maybe things would have been different if Sylpeiros was alone, but Rob had no intention of letting him do all the work. The Sheet Metal proved to be just as effective at offering cover as before, and while Rob didn't have the MP to spare for another Rampage spam, he settled for chucking a crate of Firebombs every three seconds. Orn'tol and Malika continued to provide artillery support, and Vul'to fended off any Combat Class users who got too close, undeterred by the errant bullets ricocheting off his armor.

A final turning point came when Zamira stepped out of cover, walking directly into the Dwarves' line of fire. Before Rob could pull her to safety, Zamira's blade started to hum with a green aura. In defiance of all the laws of physics and common sense, her sword lashed out with blinding speed, Deflecting an entire volley of bullets back at the riflemen. The Dwarves stared with growing horror as their allies fell, blood spurting from the holes in their heads.

And just like that, they ran. Something about seeing their own weapons turned against them broke the last remnants of the Dwarves' resolve. Riardin's Rangers and Sylpeiros increased their pace, chasing after their fleeing prey like predators who'd caught the scent of fear. Rob turned a corner, coming face-to-face with a Dwarf who'd stayed behind, and he swung his sword without a moment's hesitation, the static roaring a bestial howl of glee.

"Wait-"

His blade cut deep. Not so deep as usual, though, meaning this one was a Combat Class user. Still enough to shear through flesh and...bone...

Rob froze as Vevrandi collapsed to the ground, the strength going out of her limbs. She coughed, blood rising in her throat, body convulsing. Fading eyes stared up at him, begging for something, anything that could help.

And then she was gone.

I... Rob's teeth chattered. I didn't mean...if I'd known it was her, I wouldn't have...

{Why? Because she had a name, unlike the others?}

He didn't have the energy to push it away. The static laughed to itself, content with gaining more EXP than killing a low-Level rifleman, as Rob just...stared.

...

Her last word had been...'wait'. Wait...what? Wait, the Stonewarden is right, you should join him? Wait, the Stonewarden is wrong, I want to help you? Wait, let's talk this out? Wait, please, have mercy? Just what had she wanted to say?

He would never know.

"Move," Sylpeiros ordered, stepping over Vevrandi's corpse as if it was any other. Rob followed, ignoring the small gasps from the rest of his Party as they discovered what had happened. He couldn't look at them right now. Couldn't bear to see the expressions on their faces.

Finish the mission. Nothing else matters.

The rest of the way to Grant's workshop was completely unguarded. Riardin's Rangers and Sylpeiros ran unimpeded for a solid five minutes, retracing their steps through the secret tunnels they'd traversed before. Mercifully, no one commented on Vevrandi, electing to travel in silence.

Rob distracted himself by focusing on what to do when they reached their destination. Best-case scenario, Grant wasn't there, and they could seize control after clearing out the remaining Dwarves. Okay-case scenario, Grant was there, but he hadn't fired his nuke yet.

Worst-case scenario, they were too late. If so...well, revenge was a dish best served piping hot.

All things considered, Rob fully expected the worst as they approached Grant's lab. That would've been par for the course. For once, however, the universe decided to compromise – with a bit of a twist.

"You've arrived," Grant said, casually waiting for them at the entrance to his workshop. He was standing unconcerned, hands behind his back, an expression of hollow indifference on his face. Like a cashier greeting customers at the supermarket.

Riardin's Rangers and Sylpeiros stopped short, unsure of how to proceed. Grant was alone. No riflemen or Combat Class users in sight. There wouldn't be a better opportunity to kill him than this...so why had he put himself in that position to begin with?

The answer became apparent a moment later when Grant revealed what he'd been hiding behind his back. Held within his hand was a rectangular metal device with a runic carving engraved on the front, its symbols glowing with an aura of infused mana. Immediately, Rob knew – that was the big red button.

Grant could launch the nuke with one twitch of his fingers.

"Follow me," he said, in a tone that wasn't quite a command but left no room for argument. "I give my word that no harm will come to you." The Stonewarden turned his back on them, striding forward as if he had no fear of retaliation whatsoever. Which, considering the amount of leverage he possessed in the palm of his hand, was fair.

Riardin's Rangers and Sylpeiros exchanged glances, an unspoken discussion passing between everyone, before eventually deciding to follow. They couldn't risk attempting a surprise attack. While they were guaranteed to win, their victory wouldn't be instantaneous, and it didn't take long to push a button.

Rob stayed on high alert as he entered the Stonewarden's lab, but no ambush came. In fact, the first few rooms were unoccupied. Grant led them past shelves of lights, radios, and rifles, guiding them straight towards the nuke's resting place. There were Dwarves in that room, nearly fifty of them, all waiting on the sidelines with weapons at the ready. Rob kept his posture non-threatening; even if the Stonewarden had guaranteed their safe passage, and even if he was telling the truth, you could never account for poor trigger discipline.

Group Message Continued

Keira: Take note of their faces.

Keira: They aren't a unified front.

He examined the Dwarves a second time. While some of them appeared itching for a fight, some just looked...tired. Or confused. Or ashamed. Like all they wanted was to go home, sleep, and forget.

Rob could relate.

Most importantly, the nuke was right where they'd seen it two days prior. Rob's heart nearly stopped when Grant held up his launching mechanism – only for the Dwarf to set it aside and turn to face Riardin's Rangers, his eyes vacant.

"A peculiar occurrence happened not too long ago," Grant began. "Shortly after your return, I think. Titan sent me another missive. The first in months. He claimed that your Party possessed the means and intent to destroy Titan's Fist, and that I should launch it as soon as I was able. Before it was too late."

He glanced at the nuke. "Sound advice, to be sure. There was no reason for me to delay any further. I know my path, and it is clear and immutable. A person can afford no room for doubt when shaping the future to their will."

A short peal of laughter escaped his throat. "In truth, I still don't know what came over me next. Our patron god was offering succor. If you traveled the entire breadth of Elatra, you wouldn't be able to find a single person who'd dare to spit in the face of divine aid. I wonder...why, then, did I speak? Why did I doubt?"

Rob said nothing. When someone started monologuing, it was best to let them ramble until an opportunity presented itself. Especially since, based on the Dwarven soldiers' expressions, some of this was new info to them as well.

"I asked Titan why he'd been absent in the past," Grant continued. "My people could have benefited from his assistance on many, many occasions. And in all fairness, he gave sufficient excuses, citing a need to conserve power, and the proper timing of when to intervene in mortal affairs. His words were logical, reasoned – and thoroughly devoid of empathy or care."

Grant's lips widened into a brittle smile. "What was it that Alessia said? Titan is a liar who seeks to do me harm? But, no, that's utterly preposterous. I'm certain there is a wholly reasonable explanation for why his greatest gift is designed for the purpose of mass slaughter."

He let his words hang in the air for a few moments. A good number of the Dwarves appeared sick to their stomachs.

"After our conversation ended, I began to wonder again," Grant muttered. "The doubts crept deeper into my mind, like little burrowing worms, refusing to leave. If only there was a way to put my thoughts in order, I thought."

The Stonewarden gestured to his soldiers. "Until now, I'd avoided burdening everyone with the full scope of my plans. Some soldiers were informed as a necessity, but everyone? No. Only a Leader should be forced to suffer the sleepless nights of inexorable duty. Specifically, I saw little point in informing those who survived the Blight raid, and may have grown to appreciate Vul'to and Faelynn. It would just hurt them to know."

He let out a chuckle. "That was my self-delusion, at least. In my soul, I knew that if I told them, that their doubts might become my own. And wouldn't you know it – once the raid survivors learned of my intentions, they were appalled. Vul'to and Faelynn helped save Dhalerune City, my fellow Dwarves said. Why, they asked, would we repay that kindness with death?"

His eyes took on a faraway look. "So strange. They've lost friends and family to the Fiends. Just as I have. I don't...understand. Why are we so different? Why..."

Grant trailed off. "So many questions. I wish there were more answers."

"We can help you find those answers," Rob interjected, sensing that the monologue was coming to an end. "It isn't too late to stop."

The Stonewarden sent a flat stare at him. "Human. Rob. Do you earnestly believe that I am a creature capable of stopping?"

What the hell am I supposed to say to that? Before Rob could dig himself any deeper, Grant continued speaking, spreading his arms in a friendly manner. "With that in mind, we can all agree that there is no need for unnecessary bloodshed," he said, his tone brightening. "Thus, I have a proposal."

He pointed straight at Rob. "Duel me. The winner shall decide Fiend territory's fate."

A wave of baffled expressions swept across the Dwarven soldiers. While hilarious, in an abstract sort of way, Rob knew that his face must have looked the same as theirs. He glanced at Sylpeiros, hoping for context, only to discover the Elf staring at Grant like the Dwarven Leader had grown a second head.

Group Message Continued

Rob: Uh.

Rob: Is this some Dwarven culture thing?

They responded quickly. As far as his friends were aware, no, it was not.

"It seems a simple enough offer," Grant stated, his smile widening. "And quite a generous one at that. I see no drawbacks for you to worry over."

Well, for one, you'll kill me, Rob thought – which honestly didn't change the fact that Grant was pretty much right. Even if Riardin's Rangers and Sylpeiros were favored to win an all-out brawl against the Stonewarden and his soldiers, some of their Party members would die in the process, and the nuke would get launched either way. Grant held all the cards, and he was making a completely gratuitous concession for...reasons?

"Counteroffer," Seneschal Sylpeiros said, his eyes narrowed. "Stand down, and your men live."

"Do you have so little faith in Rob?"

"Of course. Your Level exceeds the Human's by 16. What you are proposing isn't a duel – it's an execution."

Grant shrugged. He slowly lifted his arm, hand inching towards the launching mechanism.

"Okay!" Rob shouted, stepping forward. "Okay. I'll 1 v 1 you if that's what you want. Just...don't do anything drastic."

A flurry of Messages exploded in his mind. Mostly concern, some calling him crazy, and a dash of Meyneth telling him to aim for the neck. Rob didn't have time to answer each and every one of them – Grant was already approaching. Instead, he opted for a general response.

Group Message Continued

Rob: Yeah, I know.

Rob: I'll keep him busy without committing to any risky strats.

Rob: Look for an opening to swipe the launching mechanism. That's our win condition.

Rob: Wish me luck.

As Rob closed the Message window, he took a position about fifteen feet away from Grant. The Stonewarden appeared entirely untroubled, almost cheerful, as if he was about to greet an old friend. His attitude was infuriating, all the more so because it was justified. Rob didn't actually have a chance at winning. Grant was 16 Levels higher, leagues more experienced, and in pristine condition. Rob, on the other hand, was down to 173 MP and sucked at fighting humanoid opponents. He still lost training spars with his Party members.

I don't need to win, he reminded himself. Just stall. Space out my Skills, play defense. Maybe spook him with the Flames of Vengeance if he gets too close for comfort. Firebombs...I should probably avoid using those with a nuke nearby. Most of all, don't do anything stupid.

Grant drew his axe. I can do this. Rob drew his sword. I can *do* this.

"So what's the protocol for this kind of thing?" he asked. "Does someone count to 10, or-"

Grant dashed forward, his feet spurred by Step of the Wind. Rob swerved to the side, frantically casting Skills, layering Not A Scratch and Bulk Up. He ran, but Grant was much faster than expected, having apparently dumped his newer Levels into Dexterity. As the Stonewarden closed in, raised his sword, grit his teeth, and stood his ground. Not A Scratch would protect him once. He'd take the hit, counterattack, and then-

Schlorp.

The atmosphere of shock that followed was so thick you could have cut it with a knife. Rob, his Party members, Sylpeiros, and the Dwarven soldiers all stared with bulging eyes as blood dripped out of the Stonewarden's chest. He'd run directly onto Rob's outstretched blade, and was still impaled upon it, his heart pierced clean through.

With trembling hands, Grant reached forward, grabbed the middle of Rob's longsword, and pulled. The sword dug deeper, blood spurting. "Good," he whispered. Relief spread across his countenance, his muscles relaxing, smile morphing into something distinctly genuine. "This is how it must be."

Rob let go of his sword and stumbled back. Grant sank to his knees, seemingly content to wait for his HP to tick down to zero. The Dwarves scrambled forward, but Grant waved them away, shaking his head. "I am unfit for this world," he said, his voice growing weaker. "A threat to it. Threats...must be...extinguished. For the good...of our...people."

Grant peered up at Rob. "Please..." he mumbled, a note of urgency entering his tone. "Do better than I did."

He closed his eyes, and did not open them again.

Chapter 29

Three Hours Later

"No need to be so dramatic," Elder Alessia stated. "It isn't as bad as it looks."

Rob made a point of staring directly at her crushed, shattered limbs, holding his gaze for a solid five seconds.

"...Just add me to your Party so I can begin the healing process," she sighed. "Regenerating bones from dust can't possibly hurt worse than how I feel at this moment."

Rob added Alessia, then activated Push Through, sharing a portion of its pain-reducing effect with her. As the Elder sighed with relief, Rob turned back towards the Dwarves' temporary liaison, deriving a bit of savage glee over how the Dwarf shifted uncomfortably at being the center of attention. "Your official representative will arrive soon?" Rob asked, in a calm tone.

The liaison blinked. Evidently, she'd been expecting some sort of reprisal, or at the very least a stern talking-to. She needn't have worried – even if Rob was the kind of person to shoot the messenger, he was actually in a pretty great mood. Relatively speaking. While learning that Alessia had been maimed was...not so fun, learning that she was alive far outweighed that. Limbs could be restored. Lives couldn't.

Admittedly, some vengeful part of him had wanted to mete out punishment after first seeing her condition, but he'd already beaten himself to that punch. The person responsible was dead and soon-to-be buried. Fucker should have suffered longer, Rob thought, as he smiled serenely at the Dwarf liaison.

"Your representative," he repeated, "is coming soon. Unless I heard wrong before?"

"Ah, yes. Wait! Um, I mean, no, you did not hear wrong, she will arrive shortly, I promise, please-"

"Neat," Rob interrupted, cutting off her babbling. "Bring some of your scientists, too." He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. "We need to discuss what to do with that."

She nodded, dashing off in a hurry. Rob watched the Dwarf go with an air of bemusement. Honestly, he didn't know why she was so intimidated. Sure, Rob was Level 67, a Human, backed by Level 50+ Party members, allied with the Elven Seneschal, and still had the Stonewarden's dried blood staining his shirt, but was that really reason enough to act so skittish?

...The nuke sitting at the other side of the room probably didn't help matters either.

"Is it wise to set up an encampment here?" Elder Alessia asked, staring at the weapon of mass destruction with well-deserved caution. "If the Dwarves wish to enact their revenge, then you've presented them with an easy means to achieve it."

"The alternative was leaving it unguarded," Rob replied. "Staying here is a bit risky, but the Dwarves won't detonate their nuke when it's this close to Dhalerune. Avenging Grant isn't worth the destruction of an entire city."

Rob had sequestered the nuke's handheld launching mechanism in Spatial Storage, but he didn't buy for a second that it was the only one of its kind. One of Grant's scientists or upper brass likely had a backup stashed somewhere. Without knowledge of the launching mechanism's activation requirements or range limitations, the best Riardin's Rangers could do was sit by the nuke, making sure no one got near it unless absolutely necessary.

Elder Alessia nodded, accepting his answer. "So," she began, pausing briefly. "The Stonewarden is dead."

"As a doornail."

"You don't do things by halves, do you?" Alessia twitched, then winced. Rob got the impression that she'd tried to cross her ruined arms. "As it stands," she continued, with a hint of embarrassment, "we are in a moderately favorable position. The fact that the Dwarves have not sent waves of soldiers at you in an ill-advised attempt at retribution means that they consider Grant's death to be justified. Enlighten me – what transpired during your confrontation with him? The prevailing story I've heard between hushed whispers is that Grant threw himself upon your sword."

A joyless grin crept up Rob's face. "Actually? Yes."

The minutes following Grant's death had been...touch-and-go, to say the least. Even if he'd made some highly questionable decisions near the end of his reign, he was still the Dwarves' beloved Leader, one who'd supported their territory with unwavering dedication for decades. His passing heralded the onset of a new, frightening era of uncertainty. A fight almost broke out then and there, the Dwarves arguing amongst themselves over how to proceed, some calling for Rob's neck while others wished to take the Stonewarden's parting words to heart and strive for a better future.

Rob had – for the thousandth time – found himself missing Diplomacy. They might have been able to salvage things. Instead, Riardin's Rangers and Sylpeiros were forced to watch and wait, aware that offering their perspective would've been like tossing a lit match onto a box of dynamite.

To their surprise, system logic is what finally convinced the Dwarves to stand down. Before killing Grant, Rob had been level 65, fairly close to reaching Level 66. After killing Grant, he only rose to Level 67, even though Grant himself was Level 81. For a Human with Fast Learner, killing an enemy sixteen whole Levels above him should have resulted in more than a mere two Level gain.

Unless he'd never been in any real danger. The system rewarded risk with additional EXP, and it deducted EXP from kills that were served up on a silver platter. Rob's meager Level increase forced the Dwarves to accept that what they'd witnessed with their own eyes was, in fact, true. Grant had purposefully run straight into an outstretched sword.

From the start, he'd intended for his duel against Rob to be his last.

"My world has a term for this kind of situation," Rob said, his grin turning brittle. "We call it 'suicide by cop'. Where someone reeeeally isn't fond of living anymore, but also doesn't want to be the one to off themself. So they attack a person who's armed, put that person into a position where they need to exercise self-defense, and let everything play out to its natural conclusion."

"You believe Grant craved death?"

Rob shrugged. "Sort of? According to him, he just couldn't stop moving forward with The Scouring 2: Electric Boogaloo. I guess he viewed this as his only way to protect Elatra from himself."

Some people might view that mindset as a case of tragic heroism; others, of sinful weakness. Rob didn't give a shit either way. The nature of Grant's character was a subject for bored Dwarven historians to debate. In the end, all that truly mattered was that Fiendland wasn't a radioactive crater.

"I see." Alessia hesitated. "How is 'suicide by cop' viewed on your home world? Your tone indicates that it is considered to be a shameful act."

"Oh yeah. Usually traumatizes whoever the 'cop' is."

"...You can't say that and not expect me to worry," she said, staring him straight in the eyes.

Rob let out a bout of laughter that, even to himself, sounded slightly unhinged. "It's fine," he began. "I'm well past the point of being traumatized over stabbing one dude." He paused. "Do you know how many people, in total, that I'd killed until just recently? I won't make you guess – the answer was 'two'. Two people whose faces I remembered distinctly, especially since they were polite enough to visit me in my nightmares on a regular basis. When I killed them, I felt that weight."

He looked away from Alessia's gaze. "Here's another Earth saying: one death is a tragedy, while one million is a statistic. Truth is, I have no idea how many people I've killed by now. Lost count. Makes the first two barely seem important. They were important, they had their own lives, but I'd feel like a fucking hypocrite if I kept focusing on them after what I did to dozens more today."

Rob ran his hand down his face. "And it wouldn't be fair to single out any of them, anyway. Like, what difference does it make if one of the people I killed happened to be named Grant?"

Or Vevrandi. Whose fate Alessia didn't know about, and that Rob refused to think about.

"Do not disregard your own feelings," Elder Alessia lectured. "Rob, I've witnessed veterans of war – active longer than you have been alive – crumble to pieces because they obsessed over what they believed they should be feeling, rather than what they were. While it is a soldier's right to process the brutality of warfare in any manner that keeps them sane, I will not sit idly by and watch as you fall into that very same trap."

"...Thanks," Rob said, quietly. "I'll keep that in mind. Promise." He turned, gesturing to the side. "For now, though, let's focus on helping out the others. If you have any advice, I'd be happy to hear it."

After things died down, Riardin's Rangers had split up into several groups. First there was Keira and Zamira, who were commiserating with each other over their experiences during the invasion. Well, mostly it was Zamira commiserating; she was sporting the emotionless mask she only wore when genuinely upset or anxious. In contrast, Keira seemed largely unfazed, far more concerned with Zamira's emotional state than the Dwarves she'd killed.

Rob didn't want to interrupt their bonding time, but he was worried about how quickly Zamira would be able to bounce back from everything. She'd always been so dedicated to making the world a better place. While stopping the advent of nuclear warfare was an objectively virtuous accomplishment in every capacity, it was probably hard to feel that way when it came at the expense of so many lives.

Vul'to, Meyneth, and Faelynn were in the second group. From what Rob could tell, Vul'to was feeling just as guilty as Zamira, and upon seeing this, Meyneth had tried to ease his woes. Then lingering shame over the Krazan incident reared its ugly head, and she promptly turned into an awkward mess. Faelynn, bless her heart, had attempted to intervene and ameliorate the situation; a classic case of the blind leading the blind. Now the three of them were stuck in a mire of social missteps, sinking ever-deeper, dragged down by protracted silences and averted eyes.

Rob would rather manually disarm the unstable Dwarf-nuke than take a crack at fixing that hot mess.

Seneschal Sylpeiros was alone, sulking in a corner. A more charitable person would describe it as 'contemplating' or 'planning', but Rob knew sulking when he saw it. The Seneschal was clearly suffering from buyer's remorse, no longer certain that siding with Riardin's Rangers was the right call – if he'd ever been certain to begin with.

While Rob would be perfectly content to let Sylpeiros work out his issues on his own, he didn't want it to end up with the Seneschal betraying them for some random reason they couldn't predict. Why can't any of the Elatran Leaders be stable, well-adjusted people? he bemoaned. I mean, I'm one to talk, but still.

Finally, there was Orn'tol and Malika, sleeping soundly. Faced with the weight of taking lives at such an early age, they'd opted for perhaps the most sensible course of anyone in the room: go to bed and let the adults handle things from there.

With them, Rob was torn between envy and gratitude. While he appreciated their trust, he'd barely slept last night, and it was starting to catch up to him.

As he surveyed the room, Elder Alessia followed his gaze, her eyes narrowing. "How curious." she stated. "The moment we began to discuss your condition, you directed my attention towards the rest of the Party."

She sighed. "With that in mind...I understand your concerns, so I shall offer what advice I can. For Zamira and Vul'to, give them time. Softhearted as they are, they know what is at stake, and will eventually come to terms with the necessity of their actions. Malika and Orn'tol are, unfortunately, less suited to emotional maturity. They will likely repress today's ordeals, so stay on guard for errant mood swings within the next few days or weeks. As for the Seneschal..."

Their discussion lasted for several minutes, ending when two Dwarves walked into the room. One of them was a Level 32 Combat Class user named Nerasi, while the other appeared to be one of the scientists who'd participated in developing Titan's 'gifts'. The scientist's eyes shifted from left to right as he approached, his hands wringing, as if he was expecting someone to ambush him at any instant. Riardin's Rangers and Seneschal Sylpeiros gathered together – rousing Orn'tol and Malika from their slumber – and greeted the newcomers.

"Fair tidings, Stonekiller," the Combat Class user – Nerasi – said. Her voice sounded thoroughly tired; not from physical exertion, but mental exhaustion. "I have been selected as the Dwarven representative for these proceedings."

Rob waved. "Hey. My name is Rob. It's nice to meet you. Never call me 'Stonekiller' again." He tilted his head. "So you're in charge of these proceedings, but nothing past that? Then who's going to be the new Leader?"

Nerasi grimaced at him. "You truly are from another world, aren't you? Dwarven territory no longer has a Leader. Our highest-leveled Combat Class users are only within the low-40s range. I fear that we'll be lacking a proper successor to Stonewarden Grant for decades, if not centuries."

Message Sent By Party Member: Alessia

Alessia: To clarify, nation Leaders are more than simply the highest-leveled Combat Class user of their race.

Alessia: They need to stand far above their peers, as if perched on the top of a mountain, while their subordinates struggle to climb halfway up.

Alessia: Otherwise, it would be impossible for authority to consolidate unto a single person.

That made sense. Although Rob had never thought too deeply about the subject, Fiend territory also seemed to lack a Leader of its own, instead being shepherded by five Grand Overseers of roughly equal Levels. He didn't know how long that'd been the case, and he wasn't about to ask Faelynn anytime soon; based on Nerasi' reaction, having no Leader was something of an understandable sore spot. It implied martial weakness that could easily be exploited by rival nations.

Or the Blight.

"Gotcha," Rob said, in a placating tone. "Didn't mean to poke at any sore spots. Let's start things off on the right foot – how do you want us to address you?"

"Nerasi is fine."

He nodded. "Then, Nerasi, I'd like you to meet the rest of my Party." Rob introduced his friends one at a time, hoping to ingratiate them with the Dwarves via the wonders of basic common courtesy. It didn't seem to help; by the end of their introductions, Nerasi looked just as done-with-this-shit as when they first began, and the scientist accompanying her appeared no closer to calming his nerves.

"...Well okay then!" Rob finished, clapping his hands once. "Elder Alessia can take over from here. I'll still be free to answer any specific questions you might have for me."

Nerasi raised an eyebrow, glancing at Alessia's mangled form with open skepticism. "She is in charge?"

"Watch it," Rob snapped. "Her injuries were inflicted by your..." he trailed off, preventing himself from saying 'your psycho former boss'. Diplomacy would eventually come back to help untangle this knot, and there was no need to make the Skill's job harder. "Her injuries don't stop her from being the smartest person in the room."

Nerasi said nothing, and to Rob's surprise, neither did Alessia. A few Party Messages popped in Rob's mind, but before he could read them, Seneschal Sylpeiros spoke up.

"The Human gained 12 Levels in the past week," Sylpeiros stated, as if that was an explanation – and apparently, it was, comprehension dawning on Nerasi's expression a moment later. Noticing Rob's confused look, Sylpeiros continued, the Elf's lips twisting into a wry smirk.

"I assume that, in the past, you deferred to Alessia during inter-faction negotiations," he said. "That may have been feasible when you were Level 40, or 50, but you are currently Level 67, a few Levels shy of the Merfolk King and Harpy King. Conversely, Alessia is Level 43. Respectable – when compared to her peers."

Sylpeiros tone turned sour, as if he was speaking under duress. "You, Human, are not her peer. Level 67 marks you as something akin to a Leader in your own right. Everyone, from Diplomats to the common Baker, will regard you as such. You merely have yet to internalize that change due to the accelerated rate at which you've grown, much like a Combat Class user who puts too many newfound stat points into Strength and accidentally tears the next door they open off its hinges."

Keira let out a small, nervous chuckle. "Haha, yeah," she mumbled. "Who would do a foolish thing like that?"

Rob suppressed a snort. "Just because I'm stronger than Alessia doesn't mean I should be in charge."

"You will find no luck in convincing others of that," Sylpeiros said, shaking his head. "They won't believe that you are completely uninterested in seizing control. Plenty of high-leveled Combat Class users have played the part of the 'approachable' demigod – only to rage against whoever was unfortunate enough to misspeak. The safest path for a low-leveled person to take when conversing with a high-leveled person is to offer them absolute deference."

Rob glanced at Nerasi, who was staring at him like he was a strange, alien creature. Absolute deference, my ass. "You guys do realize that this is a shitty way to run things?" he said, exasperated.

"And?" Sylpeiros countered. "Do you expect the common folk to endanger their lives with flippancy? If forced to choose, they would rather risk offending Alessia than you." He sighed. "Lothren preserve, I've never witnessed anyone bellyache so much about gaining influence. Let me state this in no uncertain terms: while no standing body will grant you the title itself, you are, nominally speaking, the Leader of the Deserters – and by proxy, Fiend territory. Learn to live with it."

Message Continued With Party Member: Alessia

Rob: I quit.

Rob: Can already tell this job is going to suck.

Alessia: Worry not. For now, converse with them normally.

Alessia: If there is something I need for you to say, I will send you a Message, and you can repeat it in my stead.

Rob: You mean I'll be your puppet?

Alessia: I wouldn't phrase it in such a demeaning manner of-

Rob: No, that works great. All these people are fucking crazy. Trying to figure out their neuroses on-the-spot is exhausting. For the love of Christ, help me.

Rob: ...Man I miss Diplomacy.

Alessia: As do we all.

As Rob and Elder Alessia conferred with each other, Seneschal Sylpeiros faced towards Nerasi, his tone sharpening. "Stonewarden Grant and I brokered a deal before his demise," he stated.

"As far as I am aware, the Stonewarden mentioned no such thing," Nerasi replied.

"It was done in secret."

"How utterly convenient."

Sylpeiros put on a full smile, close to baring his teeth. "Oh, I am quite confident that Dwarven territory will desire a continuation of Grant's promise. I'll enlighten you once our immediate business here has been concluded."

Nerasi gave him a disaffected half-shrug. "As you wish," she said, seeming almost bored. Rob expected Sylpeiros to get annoyed over her disrespect, but the Seneschal merely nodded, content that his voice would soon be heard.

"I guess it's my turn again," Rob said, addressing Nerasi. "To start with: how are people outside handling things? Like, in general. It's hard for us to tell when we've been cooped up in this workshop for the past few hours."

"Are you referring to the rank-and-file soldiers, or the general populace?"

"Both."

For a brief moment, Nerasi seemed surprised. "Very well," she said, gathering her thoughts. "Our soldiers are conflicted, as you might imagine. The Stonewarden's death does not yet feel real, especially among those who weren't there to witness it. That, combined with our losses in the Blight raid and your rampage, has left our chain of command in disarray. As for the general populace, rumors of Grant's death are just now beginning to circulate."

She raised her eyebrows by a hair. "Once they learn that your Party killed him, the masses will cry out for vengeance. It matters not Grant technically took his own life – your hand held the blade that slew him. In the face of that deed, any faint rumors of your contributions in the Blight raid will be washed away."

Nerasi folded her hands together. "So, in conclusion, between soldiers who idolized the Stonewarden's leadership, and civilians viewed him as a pillar of societal stability, I can assure you that your Party has made no shortage of enemies today."

Rob winced. Maybe they should've taken Grant up on his offer of a celebratory parade – that way, the public would have known more about Riardin's Rangers saving Dhalerune City's ass. Now it was too late; grieving Dwarves looking for someone to blame weren't going to wait patiently in order to hear every side of the story.

"Thanks for the honesty," he said. "Out of curiosity, how do you feel about all this? Are you okay working with us?"

"Yes," Nerasi stated.

Rob paused, then shrugged. "Alrighty, sounds g-"

"Why?" Keira suddenly interjected, her voice full of suspicion. "Most Dwarves would resent our Party."

"Perhaps they would. I don't care."

"How-"

"Stop." Nerasi sighed. "No more. There is only so much emotional turmoil that a person can bear in one day. If you must have an explanation to soothe your paranoia...over one hundred people died when your Party invaded this fortress. Some of them were my friends. One of them was our Leader. They sacrificed themselves, giving up their future, and for...what? To protect the Stonewarden's desire to backstab our benefactors – a desire he seemed to regret, in the end?"

Her mouth contorted into a disgusted grimace. "So fucking pointless. Others may hold vengeance in their hearts, but I've seen what unchecked wrath can lead to. I am more than willing to set aside my enmity if it means we don't have to bury another hundred Dwarves."

Rob didn't fail to notice the subtle barbs in her explanations, but all things considered, it was reasonable. He certainly wouldn't have been 100% chummy with whoever killed his friends.

"I understand," he said. "And I'd like to discuss how we can work together to make things right. Before that, though, the nuke takes precedence. We won't be able to move forward until it's out of the picture."

"Agreed." Nerasi gestured to the Dwarven scientist cowering beside her. "You requested one of the creators of Titan's Fist, correct? His expertise should serve you well."

A quick cast of Identity showed that the man was Level 9 and named Gharvis. As eleven sets of eyes turned their attention on him, he audibly gulped. "H-hello," he said, in a wavering tone.

"Hello to you too," Rob greeted, calling upon his PR-Friendly Smile Training. "We're not here to punish you, so don't worry. I'm sure you were just following Grant's orders."

Gharvis lowered his gaze. He was silent for a few seconds, and when he spoke, his voice was as quiet as a passing breeze. "We did not know what we were making," he said. "In the beginning, at any rate. The Stonewarden simply described it as a more powerful Firebomb, stronger than any before. When we learned how much stronger..."

He covered his face. "Titan preserve, none of this was worth it. If I could turn back time, I'd do so in an instant."

"You can still change the future," Rob consoled. "Starting now. How do we disarm the nuke?"

"We don't know."

There was a pause. "What?"

"You must understand," Gharvis pleaded, "that we were scarcely able to develop a version of Titan's Fist that performs its intended task. Without Titan himself offering guidance at key intervals, and the usage of specialized spells to bridge the gap in our technological ignorance, the 'nuke' would be little more than an inert metal oval. It's a marvel that it functions at all. And due to its precarious nature, any attempt at dismantling it would harbor a significant degree of risk."

Rob's heart sank as some of his pessimistic assumptions were brought to the forefront. "So, just to clarify...how stable is that thing, exactly? Will it blow up if we touch it?"

Gharvis shook his head. "No, no. Of course not." He paused. "However, I wouldn't recommend opening it. Or hitting it. Or using an excess of mana in its vicinity. Or leaving it in stasis for too long. Or-"

"I think we got it," Rob interjected, his head spinning. "Fuck. Okay. After this talk is done, we're moving the rest of our meeting to a location far away from this room. I don't want to leave the nuke unguarded, but if the alternative is staying near a ticking time bomb that might go off if we look at it funny...yeah. Any disagreements?"

There weren't any.

"Swell." Rob took a deep sigh before facing Gharvis again. "You're the expert. What do you recommend?"

Gharvis perked up slightly. "My colleagues and I were discussing this earlier. While disarming Titan's Fist would be a risky endeavor, there is an alternative. To preface, are you aware of how Titan's Fist functions? As in, how it can be possible for a large container of metal and internal components to soar through the sky like it was thrown by a god?"

In truth, Rob hadn't given it much thought. He was too busy worrying about...everything else. Now that Gharvis mentioned it, though, how did the nuke launch? If the Dwarves were running on 1940s-era technology, then they shouldn't have been able to fire the nuke from an extremely long distance, let alone hit their target with any degree of accuracy. He exchanged glances with his Party members, but they were equally clueless.

"You likely haven't noticed," Gharvis continued, "as doing so would have required you to get within close proximity of Titan's Fist. Underneath its base lies a mana-infused runic circle which, in very simplified terms, is comprised of an inverted gravity spell merged with a detection scrying spell."

"That's ridiculous!" Malika blurted out, seeming offended. "I can't make that. Elder Alessia, could you make that?"

"Perhaps in 500 years," Alessia stated, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Gharvis averted his eyes. "It is one of the steps that Titan offered guidance for."

Fucking divine assholes. "So if we nullify the runic circle," Rob said, "the nuke can't launch?"

"We aim to go one step further. By adjusting the circle's targeting spell to point north, Titan's Fast can be harmlessly launched into the open ocean. This method would be much safer than attempting to remove the runic circle outright." A hint of a smirk played across his features. "Who knows? Maybe one of the Great Leviathans will be struck by Titan's Fist and meet its end. I'd consider that a far better legacy than what the weapon was originally intended for."

That...sounded doable. Theoretically. If Gharvis was telling the truth – which was a big 'if'.

Group Message Started By Party Member: Rob

Rob: Everyone okay with this? I'm sensing an inevitable betrayal.

Zamira: Are you sure? He seems willing to make amends.

Meyneth: He may be.

Meyneth: What of the others who created Titan's Fist?

Alessia: It is highly probable that at least one Dwarf amongst their group harbors thoughts of revenge.

Alessia: Yet, we may have no other choice but to accept his proposal.

Alessia: Our options are...limited.

Alessia: That does not mean we trust blindly. The Dwarves shall be searched before entering Grant's workshop to prevent them from smuggling in a launching mechanism.

Alessia: And despite the dangers, one of us will need to stay behind and watch over the Dwarves to ensure that they keep their word.

Keira: I'll do it.

Rob: No, you're not. What if they fuck up while adjusting the runic circle, and the nuke blows up with you standing twenty feet away from it?

Keira: When the alternative is Fiend territory's devastation? I view that as an acceptable risk.

Keira: Danger Sense will allow me to sense if the Dwarves have ill intentions, and they are more likely to obey someone with high Intimidation.

Rob: That's...

Rob: I'm Party Leader, so I should go instead.

Keira: Ah, yes. A truly compelling argument.

Keira: Your concern is appreciated, Rob, but you know I'm right.

"Um," Gharvis muttered. "You've all gone quiet. Did I say something wrong?"

Rob sighed. "No, everything's fine. Your plan sounds good. Let's just...continue this conversation elsewhere. Where it's safe."

If any place in Dhalerune City was safe from a nuclear blast.

As everyone moved to leave, Rob's gaze drifted back towards the nuke. Usually, when his Party formulated a plan of action, he felt better about the future. This time, that relief was absent. Something was going to go wrong. Call it instinct, call it pattern recognition – he knew it in his bones.

"Actually," Rob said, slowly. "I'll be right behind you guys. Want to talk with Gharvis about something first." After a minute of making excuses to his Party and assuring Gharvis that he wasn't going to be 'taken care of', Rob was left alone with the fidgeting Dwarven scientist.

And the nuke. He kept staring at it, transfixed, an idea percolating in his mind. Can't put it in Spatial Storage, can't Bind it, but...

"You said it was safe to touch the exterior?"

--

Changes (since Chapter 28)

Level 65 → 67

BERSERKER Level 62 → 64

Heat Resistance Level Increased! 7 → 8

Brain Damage Resistance Level Increased! 1 → 2

Keira

Level 59 → 62

Zamira

Level 50 → 54

Orn'tol

Level 52 → 55

Vul'to

Level 51 → 54

Malika

Level 47 → 51

Meyneth

Level 52 → 55

Faelynn

Level 43 → 47

Chapter 30

Keira ended up getting her way. While everyone else relocated to the opposite end of Grant's fortress, she would guard the entrance to his workshop, keeping out any Dwarf extremists who might have a spare launching mechanism and a chip on their shoulder.

Rob wasn't happy with leaving her behind, but he was in good company, because Keira wasn't happy with them only moving to the other end of the fortress. She wanted them to sneak across Dhalerune City, putting as much distance between themselves and the nuke as possible. They weren't sure exactly how powerful Grant's nuke was, yet even their absolute lowest estimates indicated that the fortress wouldn't survive if it went off. Rob then reminded Keira that she would need backup if a large group of extremists stormed the workshop, and that a good compromise left everyone unhappy.

She might have convinced them anyway if it wasn't for Nerasi chiming in about their odds of sneaking through Dhalerune City successfully. "You were fortunate when first entering," she'd said. "Dhalerune's back roads may be discrete, but while faces can be obscured, height cannot. It would only require one Dwarf spotting you for word to spread across the city."

Nerasi pointed at Vul'to and Faelynn. "In particular, if those two are discovered, it will spark an immediate uproar that no amount of high-leveled Combat Class users could quell. Fiends have never once breached the mountain walls of Dhalerune City. From the perspective of average civilians, ignorant of your heroism, and who equate Fiends with soul-eating terrors, the sole acceptable response would be to exterminate all intruders before innocent lives are lost."

And that settled that. Riardin's Rangers weren't interested in fighting off an entire city.

Twenty hours until Waymark is usable again, Rob thought, as the Party settled into their new base of operations. They'd chosen to hole up inside a fortified vault with stronger-than-average walls. Riches surrounded them, gold and trinkets galore, but Riardin's Rangers merely gave passing glances to the wealth that many others would have literally killed for. After eight months of fighting, training, and traveling, money was a distant concern, especially when their needs were funded by the Fiend government. Rob couldn't remember the last time he'd actually paid for something.

"Shall we continue?" Nerasi began, lacing her fingers together. "I'd like to discuss what you believe the Fiends' response to this debacle will entail. You mentioned before that they are aware of Grant's plan and had started nation-wide evacuation procedures. Is there any chance that this panic will foment resentment among the populace, leading to a war of retaliation?"

"Nope," Rob said. He turned towards Gharvis. "Quick question. How long will it take your scientists to alter the nuke's targeting spell to aim north?"

"Well, in truth, they are not 'my' scientists. Our team recognizes the importance of dissenting opinions, and thus, we have cultivated a forum where all minds are equal. You would be surprised at the degree of progress a relatively small number of people can foster when-"

"Yeah, that's great. How long will it take?"

Gharvis winced. "We shall require approximately one day of preparations before we begin," he said, sounding somewhat abashed.

Huh, Rob thought. That was surprisingly convenient – now he wouldn't have to come up with excuses to delay things until Waymark was available. "Awesome, thanks. Keep us posted."

"One moment," Nerasi said, raising her voice slightly. "You have yet to adequately answer my question."

Rob frowned at her. "About what?"

"About whether or not the Fiends will be inclined to wage war with Dwarven territory," she stated, an edge of frustration entering her tone. "A single 'nope' is hardly sufficient enough of an explanation."

"It is if you know them," Rob explained. "They'll be pissed off, but if I tell them not to go to war, they won't."

Nerasi stared. "...You can guarantee that?"

"Don't underestimate how much clout I have there. They like me, and more importantly, they need me." He paused. "Granted, things would be very different if the nuke had actually launched. Just the threat, though? We'll be okay." He left out the part where Fiendland was still recovering from the Blight epidemic, and would be in no rush to go to war with anyone if they could help it.

Nerasi blinked, then turned to face Elder Alessia and Seneschal Sylpeiros. "This is the man who acts like he isn't a Leader in everything but name?"

"Like any proper figure of authority, I want all of the power with none of the responsibility," Rob half-joked. "And you know, for someone who wants to treat me as a Leader, you don't seem to be taking me very seriously. Not that I mind, but, just saying."

"This day has drained my emotional capacity for fear and anxiety," Nerasi plainly stated. "It is part of why I was chosen to represent the soldiers – I was willing to accept the risk of your Party continuing their rampage, starting with me."

Rob let out a low whistle. "Wow. I don't know what to say to that." He looked at Gharvis. "Was it the same for you?"

Gharvis lowered his gaze. "My group took a vote on who to send. As we are all of equal minds, it was...the logical course of action."

So they offered him up as a sacrificial lamb. Rob suppressed the urge to pat the Dwarf on his shoulder. Bunch of assholes. Certainly sounds like the kind of group that would develop a nuke.

"Be that as it may," Nerasi said, "I have no choice but to trust your word. If you can prevent the Fiends from retaliating, then by all means, do so. Our soldiers will be heartened to learn that they won't have to fear a war looming over the horizon."

"Don't be so sure of that."

Everyone turned towards Seneschal Sylpeiros, who was eyeing them with visible impatience. "It is far too early to celebrate," he continued, "lest you wish for Dwarven territory to be consumed in unholy dragonfire."

Having grabbed their attention, Sylpeiros launched into an account of the Dragon Queen's newest atrocities, describing how she'd massacred several populated settlements in Elven territory. He expanded on it from there, adding in details that Rob wasn't aware of. The longer Sylpeiros spoke, the more Rob came to realize that the situation was somehow even worse than he'd assumed.

"Ragnavi gave no indication that she was displeased with Elven territory," Sylpeiros explained. "And she is not the one to be subtle when airing her grievances. Imagine my shock, then, when we learned of what she'd done – and that she'd attempted to obscure her crimes, disguising the ruined settlements as having fallen victim to Blight attacks."

Lightning crackled around his fingertips. "Ragnavi may consider our lives to be worth little more than dirt," he hissed, "but she isn't entirely delusional. She recognizes that other people do, in fact, think for themselves, and that we would discover what she had done. This leads me to believe that her supposed deception was not done to fool Elven territory; rather, it was done for the sake of creating an alibi to placate her homeland. Many nobles in Dragonkin territory would view her actions as abhorrent and seek to use it as a means to weaken her authority...if they possessed ironclad proof. Which they do not. Her duplicity, halfhearted as it was, will shield her from domestic criticism."

The lightning faded as Sylpeiros' tone morphed from palpable anger to a cold fury. "If I publicly accuse Ragnavi of her crimes, the Dragonkin nobles will be forced to side with their Queen in order to project a unified front, resulting in an all-out war that Elven territory is guaranteed to lose. We have been placed in a position where our greatest hope is simply to pray that Ragnavi quickly loses interest in her 'flight of fancy'. Under different circumstances, perhaps I'd have even been desperate enough to accept these losses as the necessary price of my nation's continued existence."

He locked eyes with Nerasi. "Except that I know of Ragnavi's weakened state. During a recent altercation with one of the Blights, she was inflicted with significant amounts of Corruption. At present, Ragnavi is more vulnerable than she's been in a decade – and she knows it. This murder spree is no passing flight of fancy. She aims to grow stronger. At any cost."

Nerasi paled. "The Dragon Queen is Level 94. Increasing her Level would require...so much death."

"Finally, you understand," Sylpeiros continued, sounding morbidly pleased. "And somehow, I doubt she settles for rising merely from Level 94 to 95. Ragnavi will kill, and kill, and kill, until Elven territory is reduced to naught but a scattering of bones and memories. Once she has exhausted our...resources, she will move on to the next nation, either Harpy or Dwarven. Should you be so lucky as to win that coin flip, your reward will be to contend with a Dragon Queen who has satiated herself on the EXP of two races."

His eyes narrowed. "Tell me. What do you think lies at the end of Level 99? When the mightiest Awakened Class user in the history of the world reaches the pinnacle of her growth, what Class Skill will the system bestow? At that point, Titan's Fist may not be enough to stop her."

The room fell silent. Rob thought back to the Dragon Queen's fight against the Blight of Broadwater. She'd been a force of nature, so powerful that it was unreal, like a natural disaster given form. The Blight of Broadwater was older than the Blight of Dhalerune Mines, yet Ragnavi had prevailed anyway, only sustaining major injuries because Rob purposefully distracted her at a crucial moment.

And that thing was going to get even stronger?

"...what exactly was your agreement with the Stonewarden?" Nerasi asked, in a quiet voice.

"An alliance. Dwarven territory joining hands with Elven territory to kill Ragnavi."

Nerasi pursed her lips. "It will take time to rally support. I cannot speak for all Dwarves, but many are likely to be hesitant to engage in open warfare now that we've sustained heavy losses – including the loss of our Stonewarden. They will also want to verify your claims to ensure that you are being truthful."

"I suggest you be quick about it," Sylpeiros replied, dryly. "With every day that passes, more of my people die, consumed as fuel for Ragnavi's ascent. Level 95, 96, 97..." He stared directly at Nerasi. "Tick-tock."

The Dwarf hesitated. She glanced back and forth between Rob and Alessia, eventually settling on Rob. "Apologies, but would you permit me several hours to inform my brethren of this development? It is...a matter of dire urgency."

Rob blinked. "Oh. Yeah, sure. Go for it." The words had barely left his mouth before Nerasi was running off, leaving everyone behind in a hurry.

"That was effective," Sylpeiros mused. He faced Rob. "Ragnavi is your enemy as well. Can I count on the Fiends marshaling their forces to slay her when she proves to be a threat?"

Group Message Continued

Alessia: Promise nothing.

Don't need to tell me twice. "Remember that thing I said about liking the power but not the responsibility?" Rob said. "Cause I really wouldn't be comfortable with sending a bunch of soldiers to their deaths."

Sylpeiros made a scoffing sound. "It will happen one day, no matter how far you run."

"We'll see," Rob mumbled. "Anyway, the Grand Overseers won't let me control their armies. I don't have that much clout."

"Then make them see the importance of killing Ragnavi. The Fiends offered you safe passage, and in her eyes, that is an unconscionable sin. Given the opportunity, she will raze their territory to ashes."

Images flashed through Rob's mind of the Dragon Queen flying towards them like a heat-seeking missile, seconds away from biting his head off before the Fiends managed to teleport away. "...I'll have a talk with the Grand Overseers."

"See that you do." Sylpeiros crossed his arms, brow furrowed. "The Merfolk are too far away," he muttered, "and cowards besides. The Harpies...who fucking knows with them. They rarely communicate with other nations anymore, and their King has barely spoken two words in eight years. I might have better luck getting the Dragonkin to rise up against Ragnavi." He put on a savage grin. "Hatred can be a powerful motivator."

"I would advise caution there," Meyneth said. For a moment, she seemed vaguely shocked that she'd spoken, before continuing on. "While the Dragonkin nobles may hate Ragnavi, they fear her just as much. They will rightfully be afraid of what she will do to their families should they conspire to overthrow her. Those who've tried have been made into examples on numerous occasions."

Sylpeiros tilted his head. "You speak as if you're familiar with the intricacies of Dragonkin nobility. Are you one of them?"

Meyneth shook her head. "My..." she clenched her fists, forcing the words out. "My parents aspire to be nobility." She exhaled. "They also idolize Ragnavi's strength – as do most other commoners. You won't find many people in Dragonkin territory who want her gone. To them, she is a pillar of strength, and a surety that their territory is safe from invaders. They do not realize that she is a madwoman one hairsbreadth away from catastrophe."

From out of Meyneth's sight, Rob raised his eyebrows. That was the first time he'd heard the Dragonkin discuss her family situation. Considering how insecure she'd been when they initially met – and where they'd initially met, with her alone in the middle of Human territory – Rob had just assumed that Meyneth's parents were probably garbage. And by the way her voice faltered as she mentioned them, it appeared that his assumption was right on the money.

"Fair points," Sylpeiros grumbled. "I'll have my spies attempt to sow dissent, regardless. It may provide some benefit, however small."

Meyneth hesitated once more. "When you march on Dragonkin territory in full...unless my Party needs me at the time..." She sat up straight. "I will join your forces."

A hint of bewilderment slipped into Sylpeiros' expression. "I won't refuse the aid of high-Level Combat Class users," he said, slowly.

Rob was less confused than Sylpeiros – although admittedly, he hadn't realized that Meyneth's enmity for Dragonkin territory ran that deep. Or was it just because her family would be involved? He should ask her later, see if she wanted to talk about it.

...When they weren't distracted by the nuke that still needed to be neutralized, and the Dwarves that might be holding a festering grudge towards his Party.

19 hours, 50 minutes until Waymark was ready.

--

7 hours and 37 Minutes Later

"...our soldiers have recognized that Dragon Queen Ragnavi's warmongering represents an intolerable risk to Dwarven territory," Nerasi proclaimed. "We will continue to research a method to kill her that does not necessitate the usage of Titan's Fist. Furthermore, if she escalates her atrocities, we are prepared to support Elven territory on the field of battle."

Rob was impressed at her rapid change in attitude. During their previous conversations, Nerasi had been – and still was – dead set on avoiding a pointless war between Dwarfland and Fiendland. Most people who were in that mindset of preserving peace would express reservations before turning around and committing to an entirely different war.

It showed how scared shitless the Dwarves were of Ragnavi potentially reaching Level 99. She was, just by herself, an existential threat on par with the Blight's continent-wide resurgence.

As Nerasi spoke, Seneschal Sylpeiros' tense posture started to relax. "Excellent," he replied, once she'd finished. "Contact me if there are any changes. A Message Crystal in Grant's office should connect directly to my personal Message Crystal in Elven territory."

"What about us?" Rob added, at Elder Alessia's request. "We don't have any way to get in touch with you if the Dragon Queen situation gets worse."

"Hmm." Sylpeiros scratched his chin. "Sending a specialized Message Crystal to Fiend territory would take weeks or months. Unfortunately, I see no other way for a permanent connection between our nations to be established. Perhaps the Fiends can meet my people halfway through the Human wastelands to receive a delivery. Until then, Messages can be relayed via the Dwarves, although that brings its own fair share of complications."

Actually, we could have the Fiends teleport us straight to Elven territory, Rob thought, then snag the Crystal and Waymark back. He kept that piece of info to himself – the Fiends' ability to utilize long-distance teleportation was a trump card they shouldn't reveal just yet. Even to prospective allies.

"I'll let you puzzle that out on your own," Nerasi said. "Will you be leaving soon, Seneschal?"

"Indeed. I have already been gone for too long." He grimaced. "My people need me. I will do what I can to forestall Ragnavi's wrath without provoking her into an all-out war."

Sylpeiros said his goodbyes to the Dwarves and Riardin's Rangers soon after. Their parting farewells were polite and awkward, like members of a group project who shared mutual dislike but knew they'd have to tolerate each others' presence for the next few months. Before heading out, Sylpeiros cornered Rob, asking to be added to his Party once more.

Message Continued From Party Member: Sylpeiros

Sylpeiros: Human.

Sylpeiros: You...

Sylpeiros: You were...

Sylpeiros: Not what I expected.

And then he was gone, taking his 76 Levels and centuries of combat expertise with him. Sylpeiros' departure reminded Riardin's Rangers of how vulnerable their position was; a single Party, trapped in the middle of enemy territory, with no real means of escape. If the Dwarves were planning some sort of elaborate betrayal, now would be the ideal time to try it.

--

12 Hours and 18 Minutes Later

Rob breathed a sigh of relief as his favorite Skill came back online. Well, maybe not favorite favorite, but Top 5, easy. While Lifesurge and Not a Scratch had saved his bacon more often overall, nothing was better than Waymark at bailing him out of impossible situations. His Party members agreed – they practically threw a celebration when he informed them that it was ready to go.

Although to be fair to the Dwarves, they hadn't given any indication that Waymark would be necessary. No extremists had tried breaking into Grant's workshop. The Dwarves' discussions with Riardin's Rangers – using Nerasi as an intermediary – were proceeding smoothly. Lastly, Gharvis' scientist team was close to finalizing their preparations, and would soon be adjusting the nuke to launch harmlessly into the sea. For now, all was proceeding as it should.

Which left Rob with enough free time that he attempted something he hadn't done in a while. With great care, he went on a deep dive through his Character Sheet, reading every Skill, analyzing every description, searching for strategies and loopholes he may not have considered.

Specifically, he wanted a way to fight the Dragon Queen. Now that Grant was dead, and Sylpeiros...probably wasn't intending to kill Riardin's Rangers, the big red bitch was shaping up to be their #1 threat. While the Blight was more dangerous in a general sense, as it could make Elatra unlivable by Corrupting the Loci of Power, Rob having Purge Corruption meant that he could at least fight back if he engaged a Blight in combat. They were realistically killable.

The Dragon Queen, not so much. She didn't have a big, glaring weakness for them to exploit, and all the defensive stats in the world wouldn't save him if she fired one of those mouth lasers she'd used on the Blight of Broadwater. Queen Ragnavi also got more mileage out of her Levels than a normal Combat Class user, as her Awakened Racial Skills freaking doubled her stats. Even if Riardin's Rangers somehow caught up in Levels, they'd still be behind, because she was effectively Level 180-something.

Simply put, her existence was unfair. Normal strategies wouldn't work. What Rob truly needed was some fresh hot bullshit to abuse. And as he read through his Character Sheet, one Skill in particular stood out to him.

???

Prerequisites: Reach Level 99, ???

It'd been there since he first came to Elatra, tucked away at the tail end of his Skill list. No description, a hidden name, a hidden secondary prerequisite, and a primary prerequisite of reaching Level 99. He'd mostly put it out of his mind until then, but his Party's earlier discussion about the Dragon Queen had reminded him of how ridiculous of a Skill requirement that was. No one, in the history of Elatra, had ever come close to Level 99. Queen Ragnavi was currently in the process of pulling off her second mass-scale slaughter just to have the chance.

In fact, it was common knowledge that 99 was the maximum Level a person could achieve. When Rob asked his Party how people were so sure of that, they couldn't respond with anything other than 'it's obvious' and 'everyone knows'. Either the whole world had convinced themselves of a lie, or it was part of their instinctual system-based knowledge, like how toddlers could activate Skills before they learned how to talk. Rob was inclined to believe the latter, because why else would Level 99 be singled out as a Prerequisite? It made a certain sense to have reaching the maximum Level serve as a requirement for something special.

Assuming it was special, and not useless, or even harmful. He wanted to feel excited over what ??? might be, but the Skill's mysterious origin was just too damn suspicious. Unlike his other Skills, Rob possessed no recollection of ever learning ???, and it was the only Skill he'd heard of that appeared on someone's Character Sheet before being fully unlocked.

That was...concerning. Rob didn't have a good track record with unknown variables.

I should ask my Party members about it, he decided. Can't hurt to pool our knowledge. Rob turned to face them, opened his mouth-

And froze.

There was movement. A unique mana signature, flying through the sky, traveling at incredible speeds.

"Shit," Rob hissed, jumping to his feet. "They did it. The fuckers did it." Riardin's Rangers briefly stared at him in confusion, a Message pinging in their minds one second later.

Group Message Continued

Keira: I'm...sorry.

Keira: I swear I checked Gharvis' group for launching mechanisms.

Keira: It didn't matter.

Keira: One of them touched the runic circle and Titan's Fist...

Keira: I'm sorry.

The room exploded into a panic. People began throwing around ideas like they were chucking darts at a board, desperately hoping for a bullseye. Nothing stuck. This wasn't a genie that could be put back in its bottle.

Only Rob was silent. Quietly, he pulled up his Character Sheet, double-checking a certain Skill's description to make sure he wasn't misinterpreting it.

Name: Not A Scratch (LV 16)

Prerequisite: Vitality 150, take damage from enemies at least 180 different times.

Description: Outright ignore the damage of a single attack from a single enemy. Physics still apply.

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

'Outright ignore'. No limit was stated. The Blight of the Village had partially broken Not A Scratch's effect, but that was because it was a Blight, with system-breaking Corruptive properties. Otherwise, Not A Scratch should nullify any damage that the system considered to be a single attack.

And based on his personal experiences, the system had a fairly loose interpretation of what 'single' meant.

Rob stayed silent as he waited, gathering his courage. It was very important that he didn't speak just yet. That way, his friends couldn't convince him to rethink what he was about to do.

Once he was ready, Rob summoned a crate of Firebombs from his Bound Items. The Flames of Vengeance won't work, he thought, going over his plan one last time. They don't affect inorganic matter. Firebombs will be tricky...but if I set things up properly...use my Skills in the right order...

"Rob?" Zamira uttered, in a baffled tone. "Why did you produce a crate of Firebombs?"

He was fully aware of everyone staring. Rob ignored them, summoning his Dwarven Sheet Metal and laying it flat on top of the crate. "Reasons."

The other members of Riardin's Rangers exchanged glances and took a few steps back. "What are you planning?" Elder Alessia directly asked.

"A solution." Despite himself, Rob kept talking. "You know, this situation actually isn't so bad," he lied. "Right now, the nuke is high up in the sky, safely out of collateral damage range. If we can detonate it now, we win." Maybe there'd be some nuclear fallout sprinkling down, but that was a small price to pay for saving Fiend territory.

"Detonate it," Alessia flatly repeated. "From here. How do you propose we do that?"

Rob didn't answer. Instead, he took a seat on top of the Dwarven Sheet Metal, which itself was on top of the crate of Firebombs. Finally, he summoned one single Firebomb from his Spatial Storage, holding it carefully in the palm of his hand. All of these things are *mine*, he thought, emphasizing the notion. The crate and the Sheet Metal are part of my soul. I summoned them as personal items. When I go, they will follow, the same as with the clothes on my back.

He hoped that the system was listening.

"...Rob?" Zamira slowly asked. "How were you aware that Titan's Fist had been launched before Keira contacted us?"

"Because I have an intuitive sense of wherever my Waymark points are."

As his words sank in, Rob placed a Waymark point on the floor of the vault, erasing the Mark back home in Fiend territory. It was a shame, but he could only have two active Marks at any given point in time.

And he wasn't going to erase the one he'd left on the nuke's exterior 21 hours ago.

Without hesitating, Rob executed a series of events in a very specific order. First, he disbanded his Party. Second, he cast Not A Scratch. Third, he tossed his one single Firebomb underneath the Sheet Metal, aimed at the crate.

Finally, he cast Waymark. As the crate detonated – Rob having been shielded from its initial burst by the Sheet Metal – blue energy surrounded him. Like always, Waymark teleported Rob to his second Mark, taking all of his personal items with him.

Except this time his second Mark was located on the outside of an airborne nuke, and his 'personal items' included a crate of Firebombs.

Which was in the middle of exploding.

Waymark finished.

--

BOOM.

Chapter 31

12,957,213 Damage Nullified by ‘Not A Scratch!’

Light. Sound. Heat. The wind howling. Tumbling, turning, couldn't think. So much heat. Limbs crooked. So much heat. Skin prickling, burning, bubbling, raw.

Heat Resistance Level Increased! 8 → 9

Gained Status Effect: Radiation Poisoning!

Rob forced his thoughts into a semblance of coherence as a sensory overload unlike anything he'd ever known flooded his brain. The only remotely comparable experience he could think of was when he'd Attuned to the Loci of Power. But where that was more of a spiritual ordeal, warping his mind and soul, this was a purely physical bombardment of sight, sound, smell, and feeling. It was so paralyzing, so overwhelming, that in that moment, he would've given anything to return things to normal once more.

Then, just as swiftly as they had come, most of the sensations vanished. Rob could no longer hear the torrential winds howling around him, and when he opened his eyes, he saw only darkness.

Gained Status Effect: Blinded (Seared Retinas)!

Gained Status Effect: Deafened (Ruptured Eardrums)!

Gained Status Effect: Anosmia (Burnt Olfactory Receptors)!

Heat Resistance Level Increased! 9 → 10

Radiation Poisoning Increased to Moderate!

For several incredibly drawn-out seconds, he allowed himself to just...exist, a motionless chunk of meat soaring through scalding hot air. The loss of his senses actually helped him concentrate, letting Rob focus his thoughts until he felt like a person again. His skin and lungs were still on fire – possibly literally – but he was no stranger to immolation, so it was easy enough to ignore.

Stay calm. Regroup. Solve the problem.

Gradually, Rob let out a relaxed sigh, his muscles loosening. It was amazing the difference that a quick mental reboot could make. He was still a bit...out of sorts, but as he was now, he could function, which was the important part. Because while he would've appreciated more time to decompress, there were urgent matters to attend to.

Like how he didn't know how close the ground was.

Radiation Poisoning Increased to Advanced!

Passive Skill Learned: Radiation Resistance (RARE)!

Radiation Resistance Level Increased! 1 → 2

Radiation Resistance Level Increased! 2 → 3

Radiation Resistance Level Increased! 3 → 4

Radiation Resistance Level Increased! 4 → 5

Radiation Resistance Level Increased! 5 → 6

Dimly, Rob noted that he'd just learned that blind people could read system messages. He checked his status screen to find that the heat had inflicted third-degree burns on most of his body, reducing his HP to roughly half of its maximum. Mercifully, his HP's rate of depletion had stabilized, meaning that he wouldn't have to expend Lifesurge early on. Rob wanted to keep that in his back pocket for the last step of his plan.

And speaking of his plan, it wouldn't work if he couldn't see. He needed to know if he'd been sent flying up into the sky, or was currently falling down towards the ground. Rob summoned an HP Potion from his Spatial Storage, the bottle nearly slipping out of his hand as roaring winds buffeted him. Carefully, he pulled its cork open, shoving the Potion top into his mouth before too much of its lifegiving liquid could spill. It was a struggle to chug while tumbling around in mid-air, but he managed, calling upon expertise learned during a few ill-advised college party stunts.

Simpler times, he mused. Those bygone days seemed more like a dream the longer he stayed in Elatra. It was hard to imagine a life where his biggest fears were passing fucking midterms.

One Potion became two, then three, then four. A nauseous pit coalesced in the center of his stomach, informing him that he'd reached his limit on HP Potions – any more would induce a negative response in his body similar to an extreme allergic reaction. He was almost out of them regardless, having not gotten the chance to stock up after the Dwarfland invasion, but it never felt encouraging to lose a backup option. With no small amount of trepidation, Rob opened his eyes, hoping that they worked.

The sight below took his breath away. He was among the clouds, so high up that the few trees he could spot were little more than dots on the ground. Mostly, his vision was dominated by an enormous, rolling fireball spreading across for what looked like miles, as if the pits of hell had opened up in the middle of the sky. It was so massive that Rob needed to crane his head to the side to see anything but white-hot orange. The inferno showed no signs of dissipating; if anything, it was expanding, billowing out towards the horizon. Anyone watching from below wouldn't have been naive to wonder if the world was ending. 'Awe-inspiring' was a phrase invented purely to describe spectacles such as these.

Yet if that were all, Rob wouldn't have been stunned into silence. He was no stranger to explosions, and in the simplest possible terms, a nuclear blast was just a very, very big explosion. This was exactly what he'd expected to see if his gambit paid off – and he didn't die in the process.

The distorted mana generated by the explosion? Not so expected.

As he watched, waves of mana flared up from inside the fireball's core, emanating outwards each quarter of a second. The mana was tossed and stretched in all directions by the violent pressure within, immediately breaking apart and dispersing. In mere seconds, fragments had been lodged everywhere throughout the inferno, like jagged splinters caught on a solid surface.

While Rob wasn't an expert on mana – his Sense Mana Skill was still embarrassingly low – he didn't have to be an Archmage to recognize that he was witnessing something unnatural. Mana wasn't supposed to break. Flow, move, separate, but not break. The word just didn't fit. You might as well try 'breaking' water.

He couldn't describe the sight any other way, though. There was something...violent about what was happening to the mana. Violent, and obscene. Within the bounds of the nuclear explosion, its base nature was being overpowered, forcibly warped into a mockery of its former self.

Another wave of mana shattered, and without warning, the disparate fragments began to twist. Rob would have sworn that he heard a single, ear-piercing scream. Tendrils snaked out from the mana fragments, their desperate, wriggling appendages searching for what had been lost. They resonated, doing something beyond Rob's understanding, and the ever-expanding fireball just...

Froze.

For one horrifying moment, Rob thought that Leveling High had suspended his perception of time again. But no, the static was oddly subdued, and his body was still flying up through the air, wind whipping at his face. The only thing that had frozen was the explosion cloud itself.

A brilliant outpouring of mana caused Rob to wince and clutch his forehead. Movement stirred below. Slowly, like rusted gears grinding together, the laws of physics struggled to make the mana fragments obey.

And failed.

In a flash, segments of the fireball warped, transmuting into different forms of matter. There were fractals of ice, storms of lightning, geysers of water, and whirlwinds of iron. A second flash resounded, and stranger things appeared as well. Rob saw an empty space that whispered in a language he didn't understand, an array of luminescent numbers that continuously counted up, and a humanoid flesh mound that cycled between growing to adulthood and collapsing inward. None of these segments were affected by the flames surrounding them, existing in their own closed-off spaces governed by their own unfathomable rules.

...Maybe I shouldn't have kept calling it a nuke, Rob thought, slightly lightheaded. This is definitely something else. As he came to grips with what he was seeing, the wind whipping at his body slowed, ceased, then quickly resumed. Rob gasped in surprise, realizing that he'd reached the apex of his ascent and gone from flying upwards to falling down.

The gasp also notified him of something he'd been too immolated to properly notice – there wasn't a lot of air this high up.

Gained Status Effect: Oxygen Deprivation (Low)!

Fine, whatever, he grumbled. On his list of immediate concerns, this was at the bottom. He'd reach the ground well before it became an issue. A far bigger problem was the explosion fireball below him that still hadn't dissipated. Was that normal? He didn't exactly have a frame of reference. And considering the glut of broken mana that was infused inside, all bets were off on how long it would persist.

Shame. An everlasting nuclear explosion hanging in the sky would probably be bad for the environment. Lower the property values, too.

Re-focusing his thoughts on the present, Rob carefully estimated his trajectory. As best he could tell, he was set to pass straight through a mass of fire. Heat Resistance meant that it was better than falling into, say, a lightning storm powered by broken mana, but not by much. The heat transmitted via air convection alone had been enough to crispy-fry him, even at a distance. He was lucky that the initial explosion practically knocked him halfway to the stratosphere; otherwise, it would've boiled him alive in seconds. As if to prove that point, blisters re-opened on Rob's skin as he fell closer, undoing some of his HP Potions' efforts.

Suppressing a sigh – which would have used air he couldn't spare – Rob summoned his Broken Shortsword. He'd been hoping to save this strategy to survive his impact with the ground, but in order to do that, he'd need to get there in one piece first. One-by-one, Rob deactivated Tough Skin, Platelet Party, and Vitamin D(efense), ensuring that his defensive Skills wouldn't interfere.

And then he stabbed himself in the heart.

Hilariously, it didn't end up being enough. He had to knife a few other vital organs before his HP finally played ball and sank below 25% of its maximum. The instant it did, Rob activated Do Not Go Gently, having reached its low-HP activation threshold. He followed that up by reactivating all his defensive Skills, then casting Lifesurge, healing 75% of his maximum HP and restoring his body to a near-pristine condition.

His haste was rewarded shortly after when he descended into the fireball. A raging conflagration of superheated nuclear air and flames washed harmlessly against him, no worse than a gentle breeze.

The experience was a surreal reminder of how absurd the right Skill combinations could be. It all came down to basic multiplication; Heat Resistance Level 10 reduced his heat and fire-related damage by 50%, and Do Not Go Gently doubled all of his defensive Skills. For the next two minutes while Do Not Go Gently was active, he was completely immune to the inferno enveloping him.

Rob held his breath and closed his eyes as he fell, scarcely believing that his plan had worked. Logically, he knew it would, but there was a difference between envisioning an outcome and actually taking a relaxing dip in a lingering explosion with no adverse effects whatsoever.

Radiation Poisoning Increased to Severe!

Well, almost no adverse effects.

Radiation Poisoning Increased to Overwhelming!

Maybe a few.

Radiation Resistance Level Increased! 6 → 7

Radiation Resistance Level Increased! 7 → 8

Radiation Resistance Has Morphed Into Radiation Flush (RARE)!

But hey! New Skill! Neat! He'd check it out when he wasn't so worried about Do Not Go Gently running out before he was in the clear.

Thankfully, with more than a minute remaining, Rob fell out of the fireball's 'bottom'. He could see the ground in its entirety now, far away but approaching fast. A weak chuckle escaped his throat over the unbridled relief that flowed through him. Somehow, surviving an impact at terminal velocity was going to be the simple part of this whole ordeal. He just had to be smart about it.

I wonder how long it'll take me to hit the ground, Rob thought, as he examined the trees in the distance to see if they seemed any larger. It wasn't an empty question – depending on how high up he was, Not A Scratch's five minute cooldown timer, courtesy of being Level 16, might reset. He'd watched videos of people skydiving's attempts taking longer than that, so it wasn't outside the realm of possibility. Barring that, he could wait until right before he hit the ground, then cast Rampage upwards to counteract his momentum for a softer landing.

And if all else failed, he could just land on his feet and let Regeneration deal with the consequences. Normal people might go splat after dropping from thousands of feet in the air, but Rob wasn't a normal person. He had 155 Vitality, a Skill that strengthened his bone structure, and a Skill that reduced physical damage by a flat 40%. He'd live through pretty much any impact that didn't turn his head into a pancake.

About thirty seconds passed as Rob mulled over his options. He was just beginning to feel optimistic when, to his confusion, the wind abruptly died down. The change was so jarring that it took him a bit to understand what had happened. In the span of several seconds, he'd gone from falling down to floating in mid-air, as if gravity had packed its bags and taken an impromptu vacation.

Confusion morphed into panic as Rob suddenly began floating up. He whirled his body around, staring above, eyes bulging out of their sockets.

Inside the lingering explosion, countless scattered mana fragments had linked their wayward tendrils together, forming a constellation of tortured power. They pulsed as one, shining painfully bright. With each heartbeat, the explosion shrunk, condensing inwards. Everything in the surrounding area was being drawn towards its center; the fire, the various anomalous, and the air itself.

And Rob.

A harsh pulse of mana rang out. The fragments sang, force-feeding their byproducts into the explosion's core. As the broken mana collected, left with nowhere to go, it compressed, more and more mana shoved into the same finite space. Tension built up, palpable even from thousands of feet away, bearing down on Rob with greater pressure than the depths of the ocean.

Crack.

The sound was infinitesimal. Barely audible despite Rob's Heightened Senses.

He felt blood trickling out of his ears.

Then, without fanfare, it appeared. A tiny black dot located at the center of the broken mana. Rob could see it, plain as day, despite the flames that should have been obscuring his vision. Both the explosion and the mana inside it shuddered, rushing towards the tiny dot at an increasingly rapid pace. Vanishing within.

Like a black hole.

As he floated upwards, Rob hesitantly cast Identify.

Name: Br@#oKeN Nuclear Mana Singularity (?)

Description: ERROR: Occurrence of unknown phenomenon. Observational recording is in progress.

The dot was growing larger.

Rob hurriedly spam-cast Rampage in the opposite direction. His mana quickly ran dry, and when it did, the singularity's gravity well grabbed hold and began pulling him back up. Improvising, he summoned the Dwarven Sheet Metal and a crate of Firebombs, placed the Sheet between himself and the crate, then detonated the crate to push him downwards like a rocket booster. It worked – for about three seconds, after which his momentum reversed.

The dot had grown to a full circle.

He repeated the maneuver again and again and again. Each time it proved marginally less effective, the singularity's gravitational pull steadily increasing in strength. I'm not making any headway, he realized, before repeating the maneuver yet again. There was nothing else he could do. No combination of Skills he possessed that would let him escape.

The dot had grown to a colossal orb.

An unfamiliar feeling crept up Rob's spine. Belatedly, he recognized it as acceptance – acceptance of the inevitability of his death. He shoved the feeling aside, then repeated his maneuver, sending himself down a paltry few feet.

The dot had grown taller than the explosion it was birthed from.

CRACK.

Rob's head pounded with agony. Inside the singularity, at the center of its center, pieces of blackness were crumbling away to reveal a deeper emptiness within. The aura it gave off was disturbingly similar to that of the void beyond Elatra's horizon. It should not be, and yet there it was. Under the unholy cocktail of broken mana, nuclear energy, and gravitational pressure, reality was coming apart at the seams. Looking at it HURT, but for some reason, Rob couldn't tear his eyes away.

Especially not after it began to speak.

"Please," a voice whispered, from inside the void. "Set us free."

The singularity popped like a balloon filled with nitroglycerin. Everything in its immediate vicinity was atomized in an instant, explosive flames disappearing as if they'd never existed. If Rob had been any closer, he would've shared the same fate.

Instead, he was sent rocketing downwards by a powerful concussive force that rattled his teeth and blew out his poor, battered eardrums. Rob mumbled incoherently, his thoughts meandering through a daze as his body wildly spun around. He scarcely had time to gather his bearings before he realized that the ground was now approaching really freaking fast. Bereft of any useful Skills, Rob angled his body so that his feet were pointing down, and hoped for the best.

Exactly six seconds before Not A Scratch's cooldown would have reset, he made impact.

Six seconds later, as Rob lay sprawled out in a pile of dust, dirt, and broken bones, he activated Not A Scratch. He wasn't even sure why he did. It just felt like a way to get in on the joke.

All was quiet. The explosion and the mana singularity had vanished. When Rob gazed above, he only saw clear, blue, empty skies, so disarmingly picturesque.

He sat there for a time. Indulging in the silence.

I'm alive, he eventually admitted.

The aching in his legs told him as much.

More silence. It stretched on, warm and inviting.

Can't stop here, he told himself. Party will be worried. Have to let them know I'm okay. Need to run back to Dhalerune...then inform the Fiends...and get my surgery...and check my new Skills...and...

Closing his eyes, Rob surrendered. The motivation simply wasn't there at the moment. He'd checked out somewhere in-between the magical black hole and the voices from beyond reality speaking to him. Everyone had their limit, and apparently, this was his.

It was telling that he didn't have the mental energy to feel guilty about it.

...Just a little while. Yeah. That was reasonable. He couldn't take a long break – his lazy college student days were well past over – but the world would go on without him for a few hours.

As the tension flowed out of his body, Rob settled in, the dirt beneath his head seeming like a pillow made of clouds. Miraculously, nothing disturbed his respite, and the cacophony of worries and responsibilities and static rattling around inside his head slowly quieted. For reasons he didn't understand, sporadic tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes.

Sleep never came, but he spent those few hours with a smile on his face.

--

Changes

Heat Resistance Level 8 → 10

Learned: Radiation Flush (LV 1)

Chapter 32

The trip back to Dhalerune City was a quiet, lonely affair. Rob's tango with the nuke...with Titan's Fist had deposited him close to the border between Fiendland and Dwarfland. Even if he used Deep Breathing to keep his Stamina up, and took breaks as infrequently as possible, that distance still entailed a full day and night of sprinting. No chit-chat, no companionship, just him and the wilderness of an alien world.

It made his skin crawl. In truth, Rob couldn't remember the last time he'd been completely alone. Between Riardin's Rangers and Diplomacy, there was always at least the option to talk to someone. Now Diplomacy was in a self-induced coma, and his Party members were miles away. He'd reach them soon – thank Christ – but the experience just served as yet another reminder of how important his friends were to him.

While Rob enjoyed the occasional holed-up-in-a-room-Netflix-binge as much as the next guy, isolation chosen wasn't the same as isolation forced upon him.

He kept himself busy by trying to figure out the voices that appeared when Titan's Fist ripped open a hole beyond the veil. It was the third time Rob had heard the phrase "Set us free". The first two instances occurred while he was Attuning to Loci of Power; the process tended to send his mind on a cosmic bender. Twice he'd met with a formless creature in a plane of nothing, and twice it had begged for release. This time, he'd heard them from afar, but their plea remained unchanged.

Rob wracked his brain for a solid hour before accepting that any conclusions he came up with were going to be no better than wild guesses. There simply wasn't enough information to go off of yet. He knew that the imprisoned voices possessed a sense of purpose, as they always reminded Rob of their plight when given the chance. He knew that they were powerful, as they'd accelerated Purge Corruption's growth.

He knew that they were suffering, as he'd heard their screams.

None of that explained the where and why of their imprisonment, though, let alone what the voices were. Rob wasn't any closer to setting them free than he had been months ago. It sucked on multiple levels, because in addition to sympathizing with their circumstances, Rob personally owed the voices. Elder Duran would be dead if they hadn't accelerated Purge Corruption's growth. And until Rob found a workable lead to follow, the voices would stay locked in limbo, their torture unheard.

I'm missing too many pieces of the puzzle, he thought, grimacing. What else is new? Unraveling the tangled web of Elatra's existence had always been an exercise in frustration. Every now and then Rob would meet someone knowledgeable and in the mood to give actual answers, like the High Soulseer or Kismet, but he was usually reduced to chasing after breadcrumbs and making logical inferences from scattered bits of intel.

It made the progress he did achieve taste all the sweeter. When Rob looked back on everything, it became evident that he'd managed to uncover a lot in the past eight months. Initially, the gods – probably expecting him to die quickly – had overplayed their hands with early messages that were just a tad too malicious to be the result of an impartial system. It'd given the game away and clued him in to their real personalities long before Rob ever spoke with one of them.

Since then, he'd learned about Influence, the finite resource they used to influence the mortal world, and how Elatra seemed to be manufactured for their purposes. He'd also learned of the Fiends' and Humans' true nature as monsters, watched an Attunement vision where Humanity planned to institute something called Project Socius, and discovered Valaire's last testament in the ocean depths, describing the final days of Elatra's original world.

At the risk of sounding egotistical, Rob didn't think there was anyone else who could have done all of that. Unlike other people, he had access to Crystal Bearer, which jailbroke the system in numerous ways. He had an outsider's perspective, making him unwilling to accept the oddities that native-born Elatrans thought were normal. And most importantly, he had a metric shitload of finely-tuned spite. If he ever began to lose motivation, all Rob needed to do was remind himself of who'd dumped him into this hellhole in the first place.

A savage grin spread across his face. While it could be frustrating at times, there was no denying how satisfying it felt to grab hold of secrets that the gods had done their best to bury. As things stood now, he could sense that he was on the cusp of another breakthrough. He was almost, almost there. One or two more breadcrumbs was all he needed. Until then, he'd just have to wait for his opportunity – and make sure he didn't miss it.

Shifting gears, Rob turned his mind towards more immediate concerns, perusing his Character Sheet once again. Specifically, he investigated the new Skill he'd gained from being subjected to enough radiation to kill a normal person hundreds of times over.

Name: Radiation Flush (LV 1) (RARE)

Prerequisite: Vitality 100, Radiation Resistance Level 5, Regeneration Level 10

Description: Significantly reduces the buildup rate of harmful radiation in your body when exposed. Additionally, a portion of the harmful radiation within your body will be cleansed over time, starting at 1% and incrementing by an additional 1% every 5 minutes until your radiation is at a baseline human standard.

For pioneering a Skill never before seen in the history of Elatra, you have been granted 1 point of Mind!

Damage finalization is now in progress!

Rob did a double-take when he read the notification. It'd been months since the system last saw fit to grant him bonus stat points. The other members of Riardin's Rangers still got them – albeit sparingly – but not him. Apparently, being the first high-Vitality person to take a radiation bath was notable enough for a little reward.

Aside from the freebie stat point and whatever 'Damage Finalization' meant, Rob was very relieved to find that Radiation Flush would cleanse the radiation within his body. While Regeneration would've kept him healthy either way, the people surrounding him might not have fared so well. Considering how close he'd been to the epicenter of a nuclear explosion, his body must've turned into a walking biohazard, almost like the Blight spreading Corruption.

Thankfully, his newest Skill would fix that – which was fortunate, as the only alternatives Rob had been able to think up were all gruesome and involved extensive application of Regrow Self. To that end, Radiation Flush was a godsend.

He hoped that it would never have the chance to be useful again.

I wonder if I should embellish or downplay Titan's Fist, Rob thought, as he passed through Dwarfland's rocky outcroppings. Not sure which will steer them away from furthering their research. Like, if *I* had learned that something I created damn near spawned a magical black hole, I would be horrified. But scientists? Who knows. Could end up giving them extra motivation. Maybe they'll be interested to see if Titan's Fist 2.0 would make an even bigger dent in reality.

Rob's eyes narrowed. Or I can just strangle them. It was a tempting idea. They'd launched a fucking nuke – why was he trying to reason with them, exactly? Granted, Keira's last Message prior to the Waymark had been that 'one of them' activated the runic circle, so it was possible that everyone in Gharvis' science club was trustworthy outside of that lone nutjob.

He still kinda wanted to strangle them all.

With a start, Rob realized that his friends must have been feeling the same. I hope they're holding up okay, he thought, remembering the stricken looks on their faces as he cast Waymark. I had to leave on pretty short notice. In retrospect, I should've left behind a note or something. It would've reassured them about all the planning I did to maximize my odds of survival.

He wouldn't judge himself too harshly for that. There'd been a lot to unpack at the time. Regardless, his lack of forethought had screwed over his Party members, especially since they didn't have any way of knowing if he was alive. Rob could only pray that, in their panic, they weren't doing anything too drastic. It would suck to eat a nuke for the sake of world peace just to find that his friends had jumpstarted a war while he was gone.

Rob massaged his temples as he imagined what might be happening in Dhalerune City. Well, if nothing else, the possibility of war will keep them in line. Even if some of the hotheads in his Party – like Keira – tried to raise bloody hell, they'd be reined in by the calmer minds, like Vul'to. Nothing to worry about.

...Although, if Keira stormed out of their Party's safehouse in a fit of rage, Vul'to wouldn't be able to follow. He was a Fiend now. Too risky for him to walk around inside Dwarven territory. The same went for Faelynn, another typical voice of reason.

Meyneth is logical, Rob thought, starting to grasp at straws. Aaaand was raised in a hyper-aggressive Dragonkin society. Orn'tol and Malika...are impressionable teenagers who care about me. If Keira whips them up into a frenzy, they'll follow. Alessia is rational most of the time, but if I'm being honest, she can get vicious when things don't go her way. Zamira...Zamira, I can trust. She'd rather avoid bloodshed. She's also going to be outnumbered, and tends to fold if Keira feels strongly about something, but...uh...

...Hmm.

--

"Answers?" Keira hissed, taking a step towards the cowering Dwarf. "I don't want answers. I want to hear you scream, you motherless son of a-"

--

...I should probably run faster, Rob concluded.

--

Too many hours later, the mountains containing Dhalerune City finally crested over the horizon. Rob half-expected the entire thing to be on fire, either from his Party's revenge or rioting Dwarven civilians, but it appeared no different than when Vevrandi had first led them there. Silly me, he thought, giggling a little too loudly. Rocks can't catch fire. Also, I've barely slept in the last four days.

Clearing his mind of worldly desires – by smacking himself on the forehead until he woke up – Rob surveyed the mountains from a safe distance. There weren't many Dwarves posted outside the entrance to Dhalerune City, but the number of guards didn't really matter when there was only one, narrow way in. Rob wasn't a stealth expert; if he tried to sneak inside, he'd get caught, and there was no guarantee that those guards were the helpful type. They could secretly escort him inside to meet his Party, or they could run through the streets of Dhalerune, mouths frothing as they announced that Grant's killer was invading at the gates.

Rob summoned his Broken Shortsword and flipped it into the air. He would've used a coin, but the savior of two nations was still flat broke. "If it lands on the hilt," he began, "the guards will be helpful. If it lands on the blade-"

A soft chunk rang out as his Broken Shortsword sunk into the ground edge-first.

"...This proves nothing. Let me try ag-"

You Have Received a Party Formation Request From: Orn'tol!

Rob spun to the side so quickly that he nearly gave himself whiplash. A blur crested over one of the rocky outcroppings, and within seconds, Orn'tol had crashed into him like a heat-seeking missile, arms wrapped around him in a tight embrace. The young Ranger babbled incoherently as he squeezed Rob half to death, eventually managing to eke out a muffled "you're alive".

"It's good to see you too," Rob said, grinning from ear to ear. "Wasn't anticipating a welcoming party, but I'm not complaining. How's everyone else doing?"

"As well as they can be." Orn'tol replied. After a few moments, he let go of Rob, his legs shuffling with mild embarrassment. "What of Titan's Fist?" he asked, adopting a no-nonsense expression.

Rob put both thumbs up. "Gone."

"And Fiend territory?"

"Not A Scratch on it. Pun intended."

Orn'tol sagged with relief. "Thank...thank something," he muttered, pivoting away from an Elatran's habitual tendency to thank their gods. "We believed that you wouldn't have attempted such an idiotic maneuver without being confident in its success, but..." He trailed off, turning to face away.

"Idiotic?" Rob put a hand over his heart and sighed dramatically. "You wound me, Orn'tol. Since when have I ever acted without the utmost of foresight?"

Silence.

"Orn'tol?" Rob crept around the boy's side, freezing when he found tears streaming down Orn'tol's face. Oh fuck. Before Rob could say anything, the young Ranger glared at him, his hands balled up into shaking fists.

"You didn't tell us," he said, in a faltering tone. "I won't blame you for risking your life. There was likely no other way to stop Titan's Fist after it had been launched. But why didn't you tell us what you were planning?"

Rob winced. "This is going to sound bad, but I was worried that you guys would talk me out of it."

In between muted sobs, Orn'tol choked out a laugh. "Perhaps we might have." He rubbed his eyes. "And then Fiend territory would have perished. I still..." He averted his gaze. "I still wish you valued your own life as much as you value ours."

Rob jerked back like he'd been slapped. "I value my life," he said, more weakly than he'd intended.

"Then why are you always so quick to gamble it away?" Orn'tol countered. As soon as the words had left his mouth, he winced. "I'm sorry. That isn't fair. Your gambles have kept us alive on plentiful occasions. It's just...after seeing you ripped apart by the Blight...and then Titan's Fist...and..."

He scrunched his eyes, as if trying to block the tears from coming out. "I'm sorry. Don't know what's wrong with me."

You're fifteen years old by Human standards, Rob thought. You having to deal with this shit at all is what's wrong. He knelt down in front of Orn'tol, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder. "No need to apologize," he said, in a tone that he hoped was soothing without being patronizing. "This one's on me. I should've informed everyone of my plan ahead of time – and I'll make sure to do that from now on. That way, even if I have to do something risky, you guys will know of the steps I've taken to ensure my survival. Heck, you can join in on the brainstorming and help stack the deck in my favor. Does that seem okay?"

Slowly, Orn'tol nodded. He hesitated, then leaned forward and hugged Rob again, shoving his face into the Human's chest. "I'm just so glad you're alive," he whispered.

"Me too," Rob whispered back. "And I intend to stay that way. Promise."

After another minute, they disengaged, Orn'tol having reached his limit on the physical affection he could show. To rescue the boy from his embarrassment, Rob broke their silence by speaking up first. "You probably have a lot of questions about what went down with Titan's Fist," he began, "but I need to know if the situation in Dhalerune City changed while I was gone. What kind of mess will I be walking into?"

Orn'tol shook his head. "There is no mess to speak of. The Dwarves do not blame Riardin's Rangers for Titan's Fist being launched. In truth, they were apologizing on their hands and knees, begging us to withhold our vengeance." A smirk played at the corners of his lips. "Keira, Meyneth, and Elder Alessia informed them that mercy would be conditional upon your safe return."

"So Keira hasn't, like, gone on a rampage or anything?"

"No Dwarves have been slain in retaliation." He paused. "Last I checked."

That's the best I could hope for, honestly. "How are the Dwarves themselves holding up?" Rob asked.

"Oh, they've descended into infighting," Orn'tol cheerfully answered. "But so long as they don't point their axes towards Riardin's Rangers, then what of it? It's quite pleasant to witness people battling each other rather than our Party for a change."

Rob frowned. That could pose a problem, depending on which faction won in the end. "Are the Dwarves that are...I'll say 'pro-Fiend' winning or losing?"

"Winning. Most Dwarves were appalled that Titan's Fist had been launched under their noses by a rogue zealot." He paused. "Or at least they were adept at pretending to be appalled. Regardless, they recognized which direction the winds of change were blowing in, and publicly dedicated themselves to stamping out the remnants of the Stonewarden's insanity. It became an especially one-sided affair when some of Riardin's Rangers joined their efforts."

"I thought you said there was no rampage?"

"I said that no one had died," Orn'tol stated. "Coincidentally, both Keira and Meyneth learned Bone Breaker within half a day."

Rob barked out a laugh. "Yeah, that'll do it." He blinked. "Forgot to ask – not that I'm complaining, but why are you outside Dhalerune City?"

"We determined that one person should be here to greet you when you returned. A few allied Dwarves assisted with smuggling me outside the city walls. I was chosen because of my stats, my Class, and..." He sighed. "My stature."

It made sense. Orn'tol was neck-and-neck with Zamira for having the highest Dexterity in the Party, and his Perception was a clear step above the rest. He was also the only member of Riardin's Rangers to still be an actual Ranger, so his training as one of The Village's hunter-trackers was in effect. All those factors combined made him the best choice for searching for Rob across miles of land.

He was also shorter than anyone in the Party besides Malika, meaning it would be easier for the Dwarves to sneak him outside. Rob didn't need Diplomacy to know not to point that bit out.

"Do you think those allied Dwarves would be able to smuggle us back inside?" he asked. "I know it'll be more difficult with me here as well, but the only other way I can think of is to Waymark into the vault we were using as a safehouse, and I wanted to save its usage."

Orn'tol glanced at the mountain's entrance, his brow furrowed. "Possibly? That would be a dangerous prospect. Dhalerune City is in a state of panic; the civilians have begun to fully comprehend that their Leader is dead, never to guide them again. Rumors are abound that our Party took advantage of the Stonewarden's trust to murder him in cold blood."

"So if they see me, all hell breaks loose." Rob drummed his fingers on his thigh, considering their options. Ideally, the two of them would've left a Waymark point outside Dhalerune City, reunited with Riardin's Rangers by sneaking in, then teleported outside. If he used Waymark to enter Dhalerune City instead, that meant they'd have to wait 24 hours before using it to escape. And they would need it to escape – attempting to sneak everyone out the old fashioned way was far too risky.

"Life would be so much easier if Skills didn't have cooldowns," Rob grumbled.

"You are hardly the first Combat Class user to think that," Orn'tol remarked. "Shouldn't we simply Waymark inside? While I don't relish the idea of spending more time in Dhalerune City than necessary, it is by far our safest option."

Committing to another 24 hours in enemy territory is the 'safest' option, he says, Rob mused. Funnily enough, he couldn't disagree. The vault that his Party had holed up in was a very defensible position. Maybe he was still in a post-nuke daze, but in that moment, Rob no longer cared about whether or not the Dwarves were going to betray them. It'd take the entire city descending upon his Party like a mass of ravenous vultures to pose any threat, and even then?

Riardin's Rangers could handle it.

"Sounds good to me." Rob belatedly accepted Orn'tol's Party invite and prepared to cast Waymark. "Let's go say hi before Keira or Meyneth straight-up kills someone."

--

This isn't working.

Keira watched with poorly-suppressed rage as Elder Alessia, Nerasi, and Gharvis conversed with a group of high-Level Dwarves. An air of tension hung over them, so thick that it could have been cut with a knife. While everyone in attendance was – strictly speaking – an ally, the Dwarves couldn't help but direct wary gazes at Keira's side.

The reason why was apparent. In the corner, another group of Dwarves lay twitching on the ground, their forms battered and broken. All of them were alive, although some were likely close to wishing otherwise. Keira sent them a casual glance, prompting them to recoil in fear, with several letting out pitiful whimpers.

It did little to improve her mood.

Logically, Keira knew that she should have been happy. The Dwarves, after seeing how low some of their brethren were willing to sink, had thrown their full support behind Riardin's Rangers. Any who opposed were beaten into submission and summarily imprisoned. The Dwarves' societal structure was being reshaped, with Alessia ensuring that figures sympathetic to international peace were being placed at the top. And when Rob returned – when, not if – to announce that Titan's Fist was no longer an issue, it would erase the last vestiges of the Dwarves' doubt. All told, today had been a resounding victory.

She just wished it felt like one.

"You shouldn't Intimidate the captives any further," Zamira whispered, from her position at Keira's side. "They are well and truly humbled."

It's the least of what those fuckers deserve. Keira's hand inched towards her greatsword. She'd been resisting the urge to draw it for the better part of a day. So far, her fists had proved sufficient to express her displeasure. After the twentieth Grant loyalist who needed to be taught manners, though, the act began to feel as hollow as the Dwarves' shattered bones. Gratifying, to be sure, but what had it accomplished, really?

"Be at ease," Meyneth consoled, awkwardly patting Keira on the shoulder. "I understand you are worried for Rob-"

"I'm not worried." Mostly.

Meyneth arched an eyebrow at her. "Your shoulders look as rigid as the stone we stand on."

Keira arched an eyebrow back. "He teleported an exploding crate of Firebombs directly onto Titan's Fist. Personally, I believe that my present demeanor is remarkably composed." She tore her gaze away from the whimpering pile of Dwarven refuse. "No, Rob will return, and when he does, our Party will have a discussion about the importance of explaining your harebrained schemes before executing them. At the moment, I'm thinking of...other things."

It was the truth. Keira had long since resolved herself not to become overly concerned when Rob jumped headfirst into an impossible challenge or seemed on the verge of death. Considering how often it occurred, the decision had saved her hours of unearned grieving. She would mourn his loss the instant she saw his HP drop to 0 in the Party screen, and perhaps not even then.

In fact, trusting Rob to survive virtually anything was significantly easier than putting an ounce of faith into the Dwarves. They were compliant now, but what of a week from now? A month? Fear was not an emotion that thrived on its own; like any planted seed, it requires frequent watering to grow and flourish. Keira and Riardin's Rangers couldn't stay in Dwarven territory forever. With time, the Dwarves' memories of her Party's overwhelming power would fade. It was inevitable.

And when confronted daily with their imprisoned comrades, or their civilians crying out for revenge, the reasons why the Dwarves brokered peace to begin with would fade as well. They might reconsider their position. They might push for war.

They might construct a second Titan's Fist.

Keira shuddered as she recalled how one of Gharvis' scientists had leaped forward to activate the weapon's runic targeting circle. The treachery itself wasn't a surprise; it was the main reason why she'd been chosen to guard Titan's Fist. Danger Sense should have forewarned her of any ill intentions. It was more suited for anticipating physical attacks on Keira's person, but a pre-planned attack committed against her allies still would have triggered it, if barely.

Yet she'd felt nothing. In front of Keira's very eyes, a humble man of learning had attempted to murder countless innocents, and Danger Sense felt nothing. And while the Dwarf couldn't be questioned afterwards – he'd been burnt to cinders when the runic circle activated – Keira already knew why. It was because, in the absence of an immediate physical threat to its user, Danger Sense only triggered when an enemy was planning a clear act of malicious intent.

Which meant that the Dwarf had felt no malice towards Keira. He'd thought he was rescuing Riardin's Rangers from the lies of soul-eating Fiends.

How could she possibly leave the Dwarves to their own devices when that brand of fanaticism was lurking among them?

Just then, a voice called from behind. Keira turned around, freezing in place when she spotted Orn'tol running towards them at full speed. His Party invite came a second later. She accepted it in a heartbeat, opened the Party Screen, and...

"See?" she said, smirking at Zamira and Meyneth. "I told you he'd return safe and sound."

If they noticed the obvious relief in Keira's voice, then, well, they were merciful enough not to comment on it.

Orn'tol skidded to a halt in front of them, breathing heavily. The smile on his face told them everything even before Elder Alessia opened her mouth. "Rob?" she asked.

"Alive."

"Titan's Fist?"

"Gone."

Her smile broadened. "There you have it," she said, addressing the Dwarves in a prideful tone. "Rob succeeded, as I claimed he would. There will be no war of retribution enacted by Fiend territory. Am I to assume that your concerns have been ameliorated in a satisfactory manner?"

They nodded, stricken with silent awe. From the Dwarves' perspective, Rob, the Last Human, had – within the span of a week – expunged the Blight from Dhalerune Mines, led an assault on Grant's fortress, killed Grant in single combat, and stopped Titan's Fist after it was launched. Those weren't the deeds of a man, but of a force of nature, unstoppable and implacable.

Keira wondered how disillusioned they'd be if they learned that this force of nature snored like a wounded bobcat.

"I'll go meet with him," she said, in a perfectly nonchalant tone. "He needs to be apprised of our current situation. Feel free to contact me if any of our Dwarven friends require further encouragement."

Zamira, Meyneth, and Elder Alessia nodded at her with mirth in their eyes while the Dwarves took an instinctive step back. Heartened by both their responses, Keira joined up with Orn'tol, following him to Riardin's Rangers base of operations. Along the way, he explained how he'd found Rob, what he knew about Titan's Fist, and how the two of them had chosen to re-enter Dhalerune City.

Most importantly, he told her to be very quiet.

Keira opened the door to their base of operations carefully, stifling her laughter when she discovered Rob passed out on a table inside. The man whose name and deeds had cowed the Dwarves into submission was starting to drool, his eyelids twitching as some dream entertained his wearied mind. Vul'to, Faelynn, and Malika were sitting off to the side, a mixture of relief and amusement on their faces.

He hasn't gone to sleep in a long while, Keira realized. The rest of us slept in shifts after the Stonewarden died, but I don't think Rob ever did. Had he been too busy planning how to neutralize Titan's Fist if it launched? She chuckled internally. He makes it very difficult to be upset with him. How dare he try so hard to keep everyone alive.

Keira moved closer over to Rob and sat down a few seats away from him. She suppressed the urge to kiss him on his cheek, not wanting to risk waking him from his slumber. Rest well, Rob. You've earned it. We'll depart from this awful place when Waymark refreshes.

She was still concerned about leaving the Dwarves to their own devices, but as she watched over Rob, that worry started to seem less and less dire. Whatever happened, Riardin's Rangers would manage, as always.

Together.

And if nothing else, Keira could ask Rob for a spare crate of Firebombs. The Dwarves would be more apt to listen if she varied her methods of Intimidation.

--

Changes

Mind 28 → 29

Chapter 33

The trip back to Fiend territory was blissfully unmemorable. No monsters attacked them, and no world-ending, cataclysmic disasters popped out of thin air. After everything that had transpired in Dhalerune City, traveling through the quiet wilderness felt vaguely surreal, as if the universe was planning to pull the rug out from under them at any second.

It took Riardin's Rangers a day to fully comprehend that nothing was going to happen. Once they did, they finally began to loosen up, letting go of stress they hadn't realized they were holding. Rob was very relieved to see friends smiling and laughing again, because he didn't have the slightest idea of how to ease PTSD stemming from being shot at and forced to kill for the first time. That kind of thing was waaay above his pay grade.

He almost regretted having used Awaken Class to change from a Berserker to a BERSERKER. Awakening a Class tied it to that person's soul, preventing them from ever changing it again, and his Party could really use a Therapist.

The only shadow hanging over their good cheer was that they knew they weren't completely done with Dhalerune City. They'd have to return eventually to ensure that the Dwarves were sticking to their end of the bargain. For now, though, they allowed themselves to bask in their relaxation, enjoying the simple feeling of running through the wilds without a care in the world. As far as Rob was concerned, it was a victory well-deserved.

And it was a victory. In spite of all the shit they'd dealt with in the past week, all the near-death situations and betrayals and hardship...they'd won. They'd fucking won. The Blight of the Mines was dead, the Locus of Power had been restored, and Titan's Fist was ashes in the wind.

Just another few extra bullet points to pad his Party's resume with.

Sadly, their period of relaxation was doomed to be short-lived. The initial trip from the Fiendland/Dwarfland border to Dhalerune had taken around three days, but that was when Riardin's Rangers were traveling with fifty lower-leveled Dwarves. A smaller group with higher Dexterity could move twice as fast – if Malika and Elder Alessia were given piggyback rides, which they accepted with differing levels of enthusiasm. Getting from Dhalerune City to the border took a mere day and a half, and it quickly became clear that they'd reach the closest Fiend city in a similar time frame.

Somewhere along the line, Rob casually mentioned that it might be nice to slow down, take the scenic route, etc. He phrased it in the joking way that people did when floating a risky idea they wanted plausible deniability for in case it was poorly-received. His Party members seemed more than a little interested in the notion, but Elder Alessia put her foot down, emphasizing that they needed to reach the Fiend cities as soon as possible.

She was right, of course. Fiendland was currently in the middle of a nationwide evacuation. While Titan's Fist had missed its three day deadline, the Fiends didn't have confirmation that it was no longer a threat, and they weren't going to assume anything without explicit confirmation. Until Riardin's Rangers arrived with the good news, hundreds of thousands of people would be trapped outside their homeland, thrust into a waking nightmare, wondering if the next minute would be their last.

Rob still wished that he and his friends could just...hang out and chill. Go on an extended camping trip. Would be nice.

His fantasies of taking a break died when Riardin's Rangers got within half a day of Magnar City – the nearest Fiend settlement. A huge crowd had formed on the outskirts, traveling eastward as they put distance between themselves and Titan's Fist's potential blast zone. Even from a distance, it was clear that the refugees were...not happy. Rows of terrified, blood-drained faces lined their ranks. Groans and sobs echoed across the clearing. Children clung to their parents, and parents clung back.

And yet, the group wasn't actually trying to move very fast. Because the faster they moved, the closer they drew to Dwarven territory. With the Dwarves to the east, and the threat of Titan's Fist to the west, the Fiends had been reduced to rats caught in a trap, their lives decided by the capricious whims of higher powers.

All of that changed when they spotted Riardin's Rangers. A hush swept through the refugees, like a chill wind on a hot summer day. They stared forward, eyes unblinking, as they swiftly realized what Rob's presence here implied. He felt the immediate weight of responsibility bearing down on his shoulders – and stood up straighter, accepting the role he'd been given.

Message Started Between Party Members: Rob, Alessia

Alessia: No need for a lengthy speech. Be simple and direct.

Simple and direct, Rob repeated to himself. I can do that. "You're safe," he proclaimed, yelling out to the crowd of bone-weary Fiends. "The Dwarves' weapon of war is no more."

A cacophony of astonished whispers erupted from the crowd. "How can you be sure?" a Fiend at the front asked. "What happened to it?"

"We blew it the fuck up."

Message Continued

Alessia: Perhaps I should have clarified exactly how direct you should be.

Rob: Hey, doesn't look like they're complaining.

As his words sank in, the Fiends went through varying stages of emotional whiplash. Some started crying, some looked at the sky in disbelief, and some sat down, their legs failing. In a few minutes they would feel elated, but for now, there was just the subdued sense of shock that came with avoiding what you'd thought was certain death.

While it was a heartwarming sight, Rob felt it best to leave before the Fiends hit their 'sudden rush of adrenaline' phase. His Party didn't have time to waste on what was soon to be one celebration of many. "We'd love to stay and chat," he continued, "but Magnar City awaits. Tell your friends that Roy said it's safe to go back home." He paused. "Wait, you guys have enough food to get home, right?"

"Y-yes?"

"Super." Without another word, Riardin's Rangers took off running, leaving several hundred Fiends in a bewildered daze. Over the next twelve hours, they encountered scattered groups of refugees, with the same scene playing out in the same fashion. On some level it felt good to inform people of the good news, but mostly it just reminded Rob of how bad things likely were at the southern border of Fiend territory. Currently, he was approaching from the east, which was the riskier escape path due to its proximity to Dwarven territory – and he was still coming across thousands of Fiends. The southern border must have been absolutely teeming with wayward souls.

"We'll need to organize rescue efforts," Faelynn muttered, as the Party ran. "Not everyone will be traveling in a large group. Those who are isolated won't know that it's safe to return, regardless of whether news disseminates amongst the populace. And even if they decide to return on their own, monsters or starvation will take many of them."

"Why would anyone have been so shortsighted as to strike out alone?" Meyneth asked, quizzically, and without a hint of sarcasm.

"People panic," Alessia stated. "Such is the way of things."

Meyneth frowned. "We are fighters, not nursemaids. Protecting the weak is a noble endeavor; rescuing simpletons from their own stupidity, less so."

"Is that what they teach you in Dragonkin territory?" Keira asked.

Immediately, Meyneth clammed up, her posture stiffening. Her expression was an uncomfortable mixture of comprehension and horror, as if she hadn't recognized something about herself until that very moment. She ignored any questions from then on, and the Party was silent for the rest of the way to Magnar, unsure of what to say.

They barely encountered any Fiends at the entrance to the city. There were only a couple stragglers who'd refused to leave, either out of stubbornness or willful ignorance. Rob wanted to smack them upside the head for not taking Titan's Fist seriously, and the worst part was that when everyone learned that the threat had passed, those stragglers would assume they'd been right all along for staying put.

Do crisis management people on Earth get this frustrated too? he wondered. I should share a beer and swap stories with them when I get back home. Right after I share some beers with therapists, soldiers, and demolition experts.

A smirk crept up his lips. And Jason. Earth has definitely blown any Blight invaders to kingdom come by now, so he'll get a kick out of the drastic measures I was forced to take in a world where the tech level jumps around from 'sword' to '1940s rifle' to 'jerry-rigged unstable magic nuke'.

The city was quiet as Riardin's Rangers made a beeline straight for its local Teleportation Crystal. They could have spent a bit longer going around letting everyone know that the crisis was over, but in truth, they weren't particularly concerned about how the people inside the city were faring. Getting word to the Fiends on the outskirts was far more important, and for that, they needed the help of the Grand Overseers. Two out of the five should have remained behind in order to manage the evacuation efforts.

One teleport later, and Riardin's Rangers were at the Grand Overseers' headquarters in Acrastor City. A Fiend was standing nearby, practically jumping out of her skin when the Party materialized. "Argath preserve," she whispered, mouth wide open. "You've returned. Does that mean-"

"Yup, Fiendland is safe." Rob raised an eyebrow. "Were you waiting here this entire time?"

She nodded. "I volunteered. My duty is to notify the Grand Overseers upon your arrival."

Rob gave her an appreciative nod. "That took guts. I respect it." He smiled. "Lead the way."

Message Started Between Party Members: Rob, Keira

Keira: You're growing accustomed to being in a position of reverence among the Fiends, aren't you?

Rob: I mean, can you blame me?

Rob: It's so easy.

Sure enough, the Fiend messenger was trying and failing to hide her pride at having been complimented by THE Roy. After a half-second of preening, she abruptly cleared her throat and put on a professional demeanor, gesturing for them to follow her into the hallway.

Message Continued

Keira: Oh, I didn't say stop. It's quite amusing.

Keira: Remember to always wear your Sinner's Shroud when conversing with them, though.

Keira: They aren't prepared for how your soul appears without it.

Not unless we want them to start projectile vomiting everywhere, Rob agreed. One Shroud for Rob to obscure his patchwork abomination of a soul, and another for Vul'to to hide that his body belonged to a Soul Eater. The Fiend populace would flip their shit if they knew about those dirty little secrets.

In fact, going several steps further: Meyneth had threatened the Soul Surgeon to coerce him into operating on Vul'to. Orn'tol had threatened a Deserter who was blackmailing him to give up his spot in the Party. Keira had threatened a whole group of Fiends and Deserters who were causing trouble in public. She also dismembered the captured Fiends back in Broadwater City. Malika was an Archmage who independently discovered that the Fiends originated from monsters. Zamira and Faelynn...they'd probably cheated at cards somewhere along the line. All in all, their Party was one big PR scandal waiting to happen.

Thank god that the Grand Overseers controlled the tabloids. Authoritarianism was awesome as long as Rob was benefiting from it.

And speak of the devil – two Overseers were waiting in the meeting room, just where Rob had hoped they'd be. Elder Duran was with them as well, his mouth widening into a jubilant smile when he noticed who'd arrived. "I knew you would prevail," he crowed, eyes twinkling.

"It is wonderful to see you too," Elder Alessia replied, matching his smile with one that was smaller but just as bright. "Have the Fiends kept you busy in my absence?"

He chuckled. "Oh, you know how it goes. I'm sure Riardin's Rangers gave you plenty of headaches as well."

Rob almost made a joke about him having the biggest headache of all, considering he'd gotten shot in the head once, but a glance at the Grand Overseers told him that it wouldn't fit the mood. They were carefully lowering themselves into their seats, wracked with emotions that matched the refugees Rob had met on the way to Magnar City,

"...we were hopeful," one of the Overseers remarked, her solemn tone wavering with palpable relief. "It has been far longer than the three days that Grant warned of." She covered her face. "Still...I..."

The other Overseer put a comforting hand on her shoulder and turned towards Riardin's Rangers. "You have done us a great service," he said. "Thank you. From the bottom of my heart."

Rob glanced away. "Huh," he mumbled, with a hint of embarrassment. "I think it's easier for me to deal with you guys when we're annoying each other."

"I don't have that problem," Malika stated. "More praise, please."

The Grand Overseers burst out laughing, their tension deflating in an instant. "And you shall have it," the first one said. "Before that, however, we'll need to be apprised of what transpired in Dwarven territory. Was Titan's Fist destroyed? Does the Stonewarden yet live?"

Riardin's Rangers and Elder Alessia launched into an account of the invasion, each member adding their own perspective to the tale. The Grand Overseers and Elder Duran ended up being a fantastic crowd, reacting with shock, anticipation, and amazement during all the key moments. At one point, Duran appeared momentarily overtaken by a muted, murderous rage when Alessia described how the Stonewarden had crippled her. Grant throwing himself on Rob's blade got the biggest reaction out of everything, which made sense. Rob could still barely believe it, and he'd been the one holding the sword.

"Many years have passed since a Leader last fell in battle," Elder Duran muttered. "The current five – four, now – all managed to survive The Cataclysm. They possessed a certain air of mystique; as if they were pillars of society, rather than mere mortals subject to the inevitability of death." He rubbed his chin. "This will have ramifications that stretch far and wide across the entirety of Elatra."

"Riardin's Rangers are going to gain a reputation for Leader-slaying," the second Grand Overseer added. "First, they brutalized the Merfolk King. Next, they assassinated the Stonewarden. The details of these events are immaterial; what matters is that they happened. Other Leaders will be hesitant to meet with your Party, and by proxy, Fiend territory. Not to mention what the populace at large will think of a Human resurrecting from the ashes of The Cataclysm – only to cross swords with every Leader he sees."

Keira shook her head. "I don't think it matters much outside of how the Harpy King will react. Queen Ragnavi already hated us, and Seneschal Sylpeiros joined us in assaulting the Stonewarden's fortress." She paused, contemplating. "As for the Merfolk King...he has access to the best healers in his nation. People are quicker to forget slights that lack in permanence. All told, the blow to his pride likely hurt worse than the wounds to his flesh."

Rob winced. "Actually, the Flames of Vengeance leave injuries that can't heal for a week, either naturally or by magic. So...he was kinda sorta stuck like that for a while."

"...Hmm," Elder Duran mumbled. "That gives context to a mystery I've been pondering."

The rest of the room looked at him. He was silent for a few seconds, then snapped to attention. "Oh, yes!" Duran started. "What with the clamor regarding Titan's Fist and the Stonewarden, I neglected to tell Riardin's Rangers of my progress with the Merfolk."

Alessia's eyes widened. "Hold one moment. You met with the Merfolk?"

In response, Duran reached into his pocket and pulled out the Perfected Ring of Waterdwelling. "They contacted Fiend territory a day after you set out for Dhalerune City," he said. "The Merfolk requested an audience with Rob, and barring him, a non-Fiend. As Riardin's Rangers and Elder Alessia were busy assisting the Dwarves..."

A sheepish grin, tinged with wistfulness, spread across his face. "As my health is not what it used to be, I can no longer participate in combat. This was a way for me to be able to contribute to our cause." He puffed out his chest. "In lieu of Diplomacy itself, I'd say I acquitted myself well. The title of 'Elder' was earned through speech as well as deeds, you know."

"Was this still going on in the background while we prepped for Titan's Fist?" Rob asked, in a baffled tone.

"Yes. I was confident in your success, and saw no reason to hamper nascent negotiations with an unnecessary delay." His grin faded. "I apologize for not informing you, but I assumed that learning of the Merfolk would only serve to distract you at a critical juncture."

"Good call, honestly." Rob walked over to Elder Duran and held his hand up, palm vertical. "I think this warrants a high five."

Elder Duran's face lit up. He returned the gesture with the awkward enthusiasm of everyone's favorite grandpa trying to be hip with younger generations. "That was quite invigorating."

"It always is." Rob raised his eyebrows and leaned closer. "So. Come on. Spill the tea. How are the Merfolk doing?"

The Elder smiled. "Oh, rather poorly. The Corrupted Leviathan has been creating minor Blightspawn to harass the Merfolk cities from afar. While they've repelled each attempt, the Merfolk have no method of curing their Corrupted allies. They wish for Rob to come and heal the-"

"If I may interrupt," Zamira said, doing exactly that. "That sounds worryingly similar to the plea that led us to hardship and treachery in Dhalerune City."

"On the surface, perhaps, but the Merfolk did not approach with an army, and they showed greater respect in both their words and intent." Duran glanced at Rob. "Although I did find it somewhat odd that they seemed relieved that Rob couldn't attend the negotiations. Now that I'm aware their King was left maimed for a full week, the Merfolks' fear and trepidation whenever your name was mentioned suddenly makes more sense."

Rob whistled nonchalantly. Duran chuckled, continuing as if he hadn't heard anything. "I have yet to agree to any of their terms, naturally. It isn't an issue with immediate urgency, and the final decision lies with you. However, I believe that by the end of our preliminary negotiations, the Merfolk had grown quite fond of me, and were even looking forward to meeting with Riardin's Rangers – once I explained your true, virtuous nature."

"You are a fool and a marvel," Alessia stated to Duran. "A fool for ever thinking you weren't contributing to our cause, and a marvel for convincing the Merfolk to forgive those who trespassed in their lands and assaulted their Leader."

"You're welcome, dear Alessia," he said. "Admittedly, though, a fair degree of the praise lies with someone else. The Merfolk were primed to forgive Riardin's Rangers."

A prickling sensation crept up Rob's neck. "...By who?"

"Seneschal Sylpeiros," Duran said, pausing for dramatic effect. "From what I've been told, a week or so after your sojourn into Merfolk territory, they contacted him to discuss the threat your Party entailed. Apparently, he advised them to avoid drastic measures and open a dialogue."

Rob was dead silent for a solid five seconds. Eventually, he let out a pained groan and smacked his forehead. "Aw, son of a bitch."

"Is...that a problem?"

"Of course it's a problem!" he cried out. "The Seneschal – for some fucking reason – helped us before we even met him. That means I owe him." He viciously shook his head. "No, screw that. Give me a sec. I'll think of a way to turn this around."

Rob sank into deep thought. "Okay," he said, slowly. "The Seneschal encouraged the Merfolk to play nice. If he hadn't done that, then the Merfolk probably don't tell the Dwarves that I can Purge Corruption. If the Dwarves don't know I can Purge Corruption, then they don't come to Fiendland searching for me. If they don't come to Fiendland, then we don't get dragged into their mess!"

He held up a triumphant finger. "See? Everything that happened in Dhalerune City is the Seneschal's fault."

"Actually," Zamira remarked, "the Blight and Titan's Fist would have existed with or without our interference. Both are problems that we were only able to resolve due to the Dwarves inviting us to their territory."

"Nope. Not listening to any of that. It's easier for me to think of the Seneschal as a one-dimensional prick."

That way, if they fought, it would hurt less to kill him.

Their conversation continued for some time afterwards. Riardin's Rangers agreed to meet with the Merfolk eventually, but only on their own terms, and only when all their immediate issues had been resolved. The Grand Overseers and Elders began coordinating a plan to bring the Fiend civilians back safe and sound, citing logistics that Rob was too sleep-deprived to process.

Once they were finished, he spoke up to make a personal request.

"Please notify me the instant you find my Soul Surgeon," Rob said. "Not putting it off any longer."

"You've prepared yourself for this?" Faelynn asked, her concern evident. "Soul surgery is risky."

Doesn't matter, Rob thought. "I'm prepared," is what he said, before turning towards the Overseers. "I know that it might take days to locate him. Weeks at the worst. But when you do...I'll be waiting."

He clenched his fists. "It's high time I got my friend back."

--

Half an hour later, Rob found himself in the Soul Surgeon's office, staring blankly at the Soul Surgeon himself. Two other Fiends – his assistants – were present as well, watching his reactions with amusement. Rob opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, appearing like a fish gasping for air.

"Hello, Rob." The Soul Surgeon waved, grinning from ear to ear. "Something on my face?"

"You...never left," Rob managed to get out.

The Surgeon shrugged. "Initially, I intended to, but the Clay of Life was nearly finished. Leaving it unattended at a critical juncture would have jeopardized its formation." His grin softened. "Apparently, my assistants thought the same. They were here when I arrived. We completed it together."

Rob took a deep breath. This is a good thing, he reminded himself. The faster they got the surgery done, the better. He just needed a few minutes to adjust his mental headspace from it happening in days or weeks to, like, right now.

"I wanted to thank you," he began, "for giving me that checkup in the middle of the evacuation. Knowing that Diplomacy was in a stable condition allowed me to fight at my best with no lingering doubts." He put on a genuine smile. "And it turns out you kept working on the Clay of Life, too, so I guess I should thank you twice."

The Soul Surgeon blinked. "Oh." He frowned slightly. "You're...welcome? Hmm. In truth, I think I was more comfortable when I was annoying you."

Getting a mild sense of déjà vu here. "You sure?" Rob said. "I was totally going to commit your name to memory and everything. It's a high honor – I don't even remember the names of the Grand Overseers."

"You speak with them on a weekly basis."

"So?"

"Fair enough."  The Soul Surgeon looked closer, all traces of levity vanishing from his expression. "I must remind you that this procedure is dangerous. In theory, you should be fine, because I will be the one operating on you. There is a reason that I was chosen above all others in my profession. Still, your case is completely unprecedented. I cannot guarantee that nothing unforeseen may occur."

Rob snorted. "You're not going to scare me away from this."

The Soul Surgeon examined him with a careful eye. Slowly, the Fiend nodded, satisfied with what he saw. "Then let us begin."

Chapter 34

Rob closed the door to the operating room behind him, only letting his posture sag once it was shut tight. From inside, the Soul Surgeon smirked, observing his stress with visible amusement. "Are the well-wishers wearing thin on you?"

"My friends are great," Rob snapped. "They're just...a bit worried for me." The rest of his Party members would be waiting for him outside until his operation was finished. It was a nice show of support, but too much of a good thing could be overbearing. They were somehow more anxious about Rob's surgery than Rob himself, and it wasn't helping him keep calm.

Although Keira's very memorable good luck kiss made up for it – and then some.

"Consider yourself fortunate," the Soul Surgeon commented. "Not all of my patients have a coterie of loving supporters at their beck and call. Many of them would've paid tribute to Argath for just a polite get-well-soon letter."

"Trust me, I know exactly how lucky I am."

The Soul Surgeon raised an eyebrow. "Then you are smarter than I anticipated."

Rob frowned. "You don't have to sound so surprised about it."

"I know your Class," the Surgeon scoffed. "Combat Class users are brutes on the best of days, but a Berserker?" He shook his head. "That's practically announcing to the world that you're the type of person who shouldn't be left unsupervised without a handler."

"It's just a name," Rob defended. "I picked it for the Lifesteal healing. The Class doesn't actually send me into berserker rage when I use its abilities."

The Surgeon nodded sagely. "Of course. And I'm sure that if I queried those friends of yours regarding your behavior, they would produce zero examples of you acting irrationally or without foresight."

"Every time I blew myself up was for a damn good reason, and I can prove it."

The two continued bickering as they walked into the adjacent side room. Distantly, Rob noted that his anxiety for the upcoming operation had been supplanted by harmless annoyance. He couldn't tell if that was intentional on the Soul Surgeon's part or not, and he definitely wasn't going to ask.

Rob's latest retort died in his throat when he stepped into the next room and saw what awaited within.

In the corner, there was a large, vertical, glass tube that looked as if it'd been ripped straight from a comic book villain's lair, and inside that tube was something he could only describe as a blob. It was gray-white, shapeless, and vaguely reminiscent of the expired Play-doh that his dad once bought him from a thrift store. If Rob didn't know what he was here for – and if the Surgeon's assistants weren't staring at the blob like it was the most amazing sight in the world – he would have dismissed it as a failed science fair project.

"That's supposed to be Diplomacy's new body?" he asked, skeptical.

"It is the basis for Diplomacy's new body," the Surgeon explained. "The Clay of Life is flesh in its purest form. Meat with a lineage. Muscle, skin, blood – all mixed and processed into a uniform state, then infused with lifegiving mana. When Diplomacy's soul is carved from yours and inserted into its new receptacle, the Clay of Life will rapidly evolve into a new form that suits its owner."

He hummed. "Odds are that their body will be Human, due to Diplomacy's extended proximity with your soul, but it could potentially become a Fiend, or even one of the other races."

Rob shivered. "That's amazing, and also gross. When you guys named it the Clay of Life, I was expecting something a bit...grander."

"Have you ever seen an unborn infant in its womb?" the Surgeon responded, in a matter-of-fact tone. "They appear utterly revolting. Like little monsters – a stark contrast to the resplendence of a soul. Physical life, from its inception to its end, is unglamorous, and our attempts to claim otherwise are the product of a society unwilling to accept the ugly truth of their own nature."

"...Do you need a hug, dude?"

The Soul Surgeon smiled. "Don't mistake me. The beautiful hypocrisy of life is one of the reasons I became interested in this profession. It is a contradiction that has staved off boredom for some two hundred or so years."

Rob paused, then shrugged. "As long as you're happy, I guess."

"I am." His smile widened. "Especially today. Aside from the thrill of pioneering a new medical procedure, I have a personal interest in giving your Diplomacy its own body." He let out a dramatic sigh. "For you see, I am one of the unlucky few who never learned the Skill for myself. As you can imagine, my impairment has left me socially deficient, and prone to agitating those whom I speak with."

"That's not how it works," Rob stated. "One of my friends couldn't learn Diplomacy, either, and she's awesome." A bit blunt at times, but considering her upbringing, Rob would sooner attribute that aspect of Meyneth's attitude to shit parents and growing up in Dragonkin territory as opposed to not knowing a single Skill.

In fact, her being so well-adjusted in spite of all that was a minor miracle – and proof that Elatra's social Skills like Diplomacy weren't as important as one might assume. Rob's sentient Level 19 Diplomacy that could dominate negotiations was the exception, not the rule. Most Elatrans didn't get past Level 3 or 4 of their highest social Skill. That was enough for, what, the occasional bit of subconscious advice that would probably go ignored anyway?

When compared to Earth, a world where people lacked magic guidance in the back of their heads, Rob hadn't noticed much of a difference in the caliber of people's diplomatic acumen. If anything, Elatrans were pricklier on average, owing to their harsher living environment. It didn't help that the people with the highest levels of Skills like Diplomacy weren't actually in charge most of the time. While an Elatran could become influential through political savvy, the ones at the tippy-top were all Combat Class users who'd gotten there by killing things real good.

Rob would never admit it to the man out loud, but the Soul Surgeon's comment about Combat Class users often being brutes had more than a kernel of truth to it.

"You are likely correct," the Soul Surgeon admitted. "My lack of Diplomacy is not to blame for my abrasive personality." He grinned. "It makes for an excellent excuse, though."

Rob turned towards the Surgeon's assistants. "I'm sorry you have to deal with this on a daily basis," he said, in a solemn tone. "And thanks for helping out today. Anything I can do in return?"

They fidgeted, exchanging glances.

"Yes, I will give you both autographs if the surgery is a success."

They perked up, faces beaming.

"That's enough of that," the Soul Surgeon said. "There will be time for fraternizing later. Rob – if you will, please disrobe. You can keep your pants and undergarments, but access to your chest is required, and the Sinner's Shroud must be removed lest it interfere with my Soul Sight."

Rob took off his shirt and the Shroud that lay underneath. Unsurprisingly, the Soul Surgeon's assistants immediately grew pale and discomfited, as if they'd eaten bad tacos a few hours ago that were just starting to catch up to them. The Surgeon himself merely tilted his head, eyes sharpening with interest. "Your soul is a masterpiece."

"Um. Thanks?"

"I mean it," he continued, sounding delighted. "No matter how many times I see it, the sight never ceases to amaze me. The fact that something so grotesque, so fragile, can exist in a perpetual state of stable instability..." A broad grin spread across his face. "I must give praise to Argath for letting me witness something so hideously unique. It makes me question what the Human god was thinking when he designed you."

He was probably thinking: hey, wouldn't it be hilarious if we slapped Leveling High onto a guy from another world? The thought reminded Rob of something he'd meant to discuss. As the Soul Surgeon's assistants took a break, needing several minutes to become accustomed to Rob's soul, he pulled the Surgeon over to a corner of the room, speaking in a hushed whisper.

"While you've got me under the knife," Rob began, "would it be possible for you to take a look at the other parts of my soul that seem grafted on? Don't bother if it would interfere with the surgery."

The Surgeon leaned closer. "Why?" he asked, without a hint of sarcasm. "It will be easier for me to fulfill your request if I understand the intent behind it."

Rob hesitated, then went for broke. "The High Soulseer told me that one of those grafted parts is Leveling High. If you can remove it-"

The static shrieked. Rob fell back, dazed, like a fireworks show had gone off inside his head. Snarling loudly, he forced the static into submission, beating it down until it was quiet enough for him to think again.

When he came to, the three Fiends were staring at him in confusion. "Ignore the last fifteen seconds," Rob said, waving his hand dismissively. "You understood what I was asking for, right?"

Slowly, the Soul Surgeon nodded. "I make no promises. A preliminary investigation will need to be performed before we can even begin to envision what a procedure of that nature would entail."

"Fine by me." There was no rush. Diplomacy came first, and unlike a certain invasive entity, Rob was fine with delayed gratification. You'll get your due eventually, he told the static, as it raged. Look forward to it.

Once the assistants became acclimated to Rob's soul, he laid down on the operating table, feeling cold stone pressing against his back. "Wait," he said, realizing a detail far too late. "Am I going to be awake for this? Does Fiendland have anesthesia or knockout gas?"

"I don't know what those are," the Surgeon answered. "But no, it is not necessary for you to be awake during your operation." His nose crinkled with distaste. "Just what kind of barbarous practices did Human territory employ? In Fiend territory, our patients are lulled to a peaceful slumber with spells."

Rob let out a breath of relief as his panic subsided. "Sounds good. I'm ready when you are." He paused. "What if the spell doesn't work on me, though? My Mind stat is at 29. I know that can add resistance to some mental effects."

"That is marginally higher than what I expected for a Berserker at your Level," the Surgeon remarked. Suddenly, his eyes widened. "A...Berserker whose Level is much higher than it was before you visited Dwarven territory. Ah."

He hadn't checked me with Identify until now, Rob realized. The Fiends instinctively backed away, an internal calculus running through their heads as they contemplated how flippant they'd been with someone whose Level rivaled that of a Leader's. It didn't help that his Leveling High had increased to Moderate since they'd last seen him. After a few seconds, the Soul Surgeon shrugged, apparently figuring that if Rob was going to start tearing out the tongues from their insolent mouths, he would've done so already.

"Basic sleep spells would normally fail on a person with 29 Mind," the Surgeon explained, as if there'd been no pause. "Which is why you will need to clear your thoughts and accept the spell's effects. Additionally, if you have the Mind Resistance Skill, deactivating it would also be of assistance."

Rob followed the doctor's orders. One of the assistants proceeded to cast their spell on him, and true enough, it didn't really seem to stick. Rob emptied his thoughts entirely, letting soporific magic seep into the deepest crevices of his mind. Shortly after, the assistant cast their spell once more, its second effect layering on top of the first.

Huh, Rob thought, as his eyes grew heavier. This is kinda nice. Definitely beats insomnia. Should hire a...sleep mage...for...sleep...

Diplomacy...see you...soon...

--

Hauz waited until he was certain that Rob was completely unconscious. He decided that it was safe to proceed only when the Human began snoring like a vraal in heat. While it wasn't fatal to awaken during a Soul Surgery, the unlucky few who'd been subjected to that experience described it as the worst of their life.

And he would not allow the advent of the greatest medical procedure in centuries to be marred by patient trauma.

"Prepare the Clay of Life," Hauz instructed his assistants. "As we discussed. Bring it carefully, and keep it stable." Trusting them to do their job, he stared down at the Human laying prone below, examining Rob's soul from top to bottom. What I wouldn't give to have a copy of you, he thought, to study at my leisure, free from the moral compunctions of what studying you would entail.

It was one of the rare failings of his profession. Progress came from experimentation, yet experimentation on a soul was forbidden, as it often resulted in misshapen abominations. Much of what Soul Surgeons knew today actually came from Soul Eaters who'd possessed a tendency to...play with their food. The knowledge they'd shared prior to being executed had become the foundational cornerstone of Soul Surgery.

Best that the public never learned of that.

Extending his claws, their edges glowing with a gray aura, Hauz focused his attention on one specific portion of Rob's soul. Unlike the other odd segments – which appeared haphazardly sewn on – this was more of a subcutaneous protrusion. A Fiend less trained in Soul Sight than Hauz would have seen the misshapen, cancerous lump and declared it to be an entirely separate soul somehow attached to Rob's.

And while they wouldn't have been wrong, per se, that explanation lacked the nuance that only his eyes could perceive. Such as the parts of Diplomacy that trailed off into the ether, disappearing into other planes of reality. Or the way it seemed to have extended outwards from Rob's soul over time, as if attempting to escape.

Or how its signature was unlike any soul Hauz had ever seen.

In these moments, it was disturbingly easy for him to comprehend why some of his brethren fell to madness and depravity. Souls were wondrous. Fascinating. He wanted to study them, tease out their secrets, forever.

And like he'd done so many times in the past, Hauz pushed those thoughts aside and erased them from his mind. He wasn't here to satisfy his intrusive appetites.

He was here to save a life.

Hauz reached down, grabbed Diplomacy with tender claws, and pulled.

--

"The King is unavailable."

"The Harpy King is...unavailable," Seneschal Sylpeiros said, slowly repeating the words back so that their original speaker could understand just how fucking stupid they sounded. He leaned forward in his chair, glad that he was alone in his quarters; it let him glare at the Message Crystal as venomously as he desired. Sadly, facial expressions could not be transmitted through Crystals, but he drew solace from the way that the Harpy liaison on the other end sputtered incoherently before replying.

"There are pressing matters that he needs to attend to. Unfortunately, it requires his undivided attention."

I'm sick of that excuse. "The Blight invaded Dwarven territory," Sylpeiros flatly stated. "Stonewarden Grant is dead. What could be more pressing than addressing the loss of a Leader?"

"I-"

"Furthermore," Sylpeiros continued, his voice rising, "the other nations have begun to forge an alliance. Elven territory, Merfolk territory, Dwarven territory, and Fiend territory are joining hands. Can you fathom the enormity of what I just said? We've managed to ally with. The. Fiends. That is how dire the Blight's threat has become. If King Elnaril cannot take time out of his precious schedule to confer with the entire rest of the world, then what hope does Harpy territory have of surviving the calamity that is to come?"

A low hum rang out as the Harpy liaison ended the Message Crystal's communication line.

Sylpeiros stared at the inactive Crystal with an expression of pure disbelief. Just like that? It didn't make sense. A simple halfhearted farewell would have upheld propriety and significantly reduced the chances of Sylpeiros taking umbrage with the Harpies' behavior. Any diplomat worth their salt would know that much.

He'd been ignored by obstinate Leaders and their messengers throughout the years, but something felt different about this instance. With the Dwarves, they'd descended into full-blown isolation and ignored all outside messages as a matter of course. With the Dragonkin, they'd been unwilling to risk Ragnavi's ire or reveal her Corruption weakness.

The Harpy liaison, however, had fled. As if terrified.

Something deeply wrong is transpiring in Harpy territory, Sylpeiros concluded. I suppose it was their turn for a catastrophe to befall them. He sneered. They only have themselves to blame.

Petty amusement gave way to exhaustion as he realized that the Harpies might need help solving their problems before they would commit to joining the alliance of nations. Same as the Dwarves, he thought, sighing. So be it. This is nothing new. If someone must take up the mantle of corralling the disparate Leaders like a pack of irate toddlers, then there are few more suited to the task than I.

Sylpeiros paused. Corralling the Leaders...minus Ragnavi and Grant. Both for reasons that are self-evident.

His mind lingered on the Stonewarden. A question rose up; the same question he'd asked himself countless times over the last several days. One that he still didn't possess a satisfying answer for.

Why had he sided with Riardin's Rangers over Grant?

In fairness, it wasn't as if there'd be no reasons to do so. For one, the Fiends made for powerful allies. The support of a nation in times of war could not be underestimated. Additionally, Riardin's Rangers themselves were frighteningly competent on the field of battle, being some of the few Combat Class users remaining who were capable of fighting the Blight and Queen Ragnavi.

Neither of those benefits compared to the overwhelming destructive capacity of Titan's Fist.

At first, Sylpeiros figured that he'd sided with Riardin's Rangers out of a sense of misplaced pride. The Dwarves' stranglehold on Titan's Fist would have crowned them the uncontested rulers of Elatra for a long, long time. In truth, however, he didn't care as much about that idea as he thought he might. Sylpeiros had seen too many Elves perish to bother fussing over who claimed dominion of Elatra when all was said and done. He was too busy ensuring that at least some of his people survived the following years.

Why, then? Grant may have been a megalomaniacal despot, but he was still more of a known quantity than the Fiends. Sylpeiros could have suffered being under the Dwarf's thumb if it meant achieving his own desires. And once Grant was done slaking his vengeful thirst on the Fiends, he wouldn't have wasted a moment before using Titan's Fist to ruthlessly eradicate the Blight and Dragon Queen

Thereby guaranteeing the Elves' survival.

...I already know the answer, Sylpeiros admitted to himself. He just didn't want to accept it. At its core, an Elatra ruled by Grant would have resulted in an era of death and strife. In contrast, all nations joining forces – including the Fiends and Riardin's Rangers – would lead them down the path of peace. A thorny, pitfall-laden path with no guarantee of reaching their destination, but a path nonetheless.

At the end of the day, Sylpeiros had simply wished to believe in a better future.

"Seneschal," a voice said, breaking him from his reverie. He turned around to find an Elven messenger poking his head into the room. "The scouts reported back. What you predicted..." The man trailed off, his face falling. "What you predicted has come to pass."

Sylpeiros bolted off without another word. He sprinted through Valoria Village at top speed, ignoring the baffled cries of the townsfolk as he rushed out the front entrance. This is what it means to hope for a better future, he thought, the village disappearing behind him. Saving the few at the risk of damning the many.

His mouth curled into a disgusted grimace. Kenzotul has infected me with the insidious plague of optimism. I can only hope that it isn't terminal.

Five torturous minutes passed. Once he'd put a healthy distance between himself and Valoria Village, Sylpeiros finally breathed a minor sigh of relief. Whatever was about to happen would happen away from the civilians. Coming to a halt, he drew his spear, stabbed it into the ground, and waited. There was no need for him to do anything else, or to bother drawing attention to himself.

She'd find him regardless.

All too soon, he noticed a distant shadow passing through the sky. Suddenly, the shadow descended, moving so quickly that it was an indistinct blur. Sylpeiros flinched, a massive red dragon entering his vision. The world trembled as the dragon crashed down like a crimson meteor, dirt and rock spewing upwards in a geyser, leaving miniature craters in the soil where its feet had impacted the ground.

Ambling forward, the dragon fixed its gaze on Sylpeiros, letting out a series of irregular, guttural growls that he recognized as their version of laughing while in that form. Gradually, the dragon began to shrink, its reptilian exterior giving way to skin and a head of long flowing hair that was the same color as her scales. Within seconds, the dragon was gone, and a Dragonkin woman stood in its place.

"Good tidings, Sylpeiros," Queen Ragnavi said, granting him a sharp-toothed smile. "What brings you to these inauspicious parts?"

Every last nerve in Sylpeiros' body was screaming at him to flee. Danger Sense had activated in full, more terrified than ever before, even more than when he'd looked up one day to see Cataclysm rays descending from the sky. With each passing moment, it yelled at the top of its lungs again and again, warning that Ragnavi would attack in the very next instant. Not could – would.

And yet she merely stood there, her tail swishing with merriment, like a cat who'd spotted an unsuspecting mouse.

"I'm here to do my duties as Seneschal," he answered, steeling his resolve. "I heard that Valoria Village had run afoul of a roaming pack of Corrupted monsters. As long as I am here, no civilians will fall prey to them."

There were several messages layered within his words. 'Duties as Seneschal' was an obvious one – he'd traveled to the village to prevent its destruction by her hand. Until now, Ragnavi had chosen the closest settlements to Dragonkin territory, not bothering to vary her targets. Valoria Village was predicted to be next, and she'd graciously fulfilled Sylpeiros' expectations.

Second, 'roaming pack of Corrupted monsters' indicated that he was aware of her attempt at deception, and knew what had truly destroyed the other villages. She'd likely assumed as much already, but it was an important point to make clear.

And third, 'no civilians will fall prey' meant that there would be no compromise. It was a statement and a gamble all in one, for if Ragnavi killed him, then Elven territory would be left to flounder without its Leader, and she'd go on to raze the village regardless. The sensible course of action would have been to look away, mourn their loss, and plan his vengeance.

Yet after the events that transpired in Dhalerune City...for some reason, Sylpeiros was no longer able to stomach the notion of abandoning Valoria Village. These people deserved better. Ragnavi couldn't have any of them.

He would not allow it.

"How noble of you," Ragnavi said, as if complimenting a young child for going to bed on time. She stepped to the side, peering behind his shoulder. "If you don't mind, however, could you stay in this spot? Just for an hour or two. It won't take me long to massacre everyone in the village."

Sylpeiros' blood froze in his veins. "How candid of you," he said, in a tight voice.

"Oh, come now," Ragnavi chided. "Let us dispense with the falsities. We both know why I am here. I intend to kill your people to bring myself one step closer to Level 95. You cannot stop me, and as tempting as it would be to consume your EXP, I also want you alive to fight the Blight." She raised a clawed hand, gesturing broadly. "Therefore, your only logical recourse is to stand aside."

"This is unnecessary," Sylpeiros hissed. "Powerful enemies are appearing all across Elatra. Kill them, and your Level will rise much faster than with this abject wastefulness of resources." It galled him to speak of his people in that manner, but he knew Ragnavi well enough to recognize that she wouldn't respond to pleas of morality or empathy.

The Dragon Queen peered down at her claws, inspecting them with clinical interest. "And risk further Corruption?" She turned her hand over, examining the other side. "I think not."

"You will face them in battle one day. It is inevitable."

"Yes." She scraped a bit of dried blood off her claws. "When I am Level 99, and at the apex of my potential."

"That's-"

"Do you know what Corruption feels like, Sylpeiros?" Ragnavi's eyes flashed with an indecipherable emotion. "The pain, the constant, incessant pain, every moment of every day?" She laughed. "Why, it'd be enough to drive anyone mad."

A hot wind swept through the clearing. "When I increased from Level 93 to 94, I immediately put my newfound stat points into Vitality. Going from 140 to 145 was, in the grand scheme of things, a negligible gain. Barely sufficient to offset the pain I feel from my Corruption by a fraction of what it is."

Her hand tensed. "And that fraction of respite was well worth the people I've slaughtered," she said, her voice filling with manic passion. "So then, Sylpeiros, Seneschal, Leader of the Elves, the Spear of Thunder, the cockroach under my wings...be sensible and stand aside."

An intense pressure slammed onto Sylpeiros' shoulders, as if leaden weights had dropped on him from on high. The surrounding air began to heat up more and more by the second. Danger Sense cried out for succor, begging him to run for the hills and never look back.

Sylpeiros took a step forward. "Leave," he ordered, "or the world turns against you."

Ragnavi raised an eyebrow, seeming mildly entertained by his audacity. "Why so?" she asked. "What makes this nothing village filled with nothing people different from the others?"

"The difference is that this time, I am prepared." He looked directly into her eyes, holding strong. "If I die today, or the citizens of Valoria Village succumb to 'monster attacks', my Saboteurs across Elatra are set to reveal the truth to figures of authority in each and every nation. While they may have been willing to overlook your...indiscretions when they were targeted towards civilians, the assassination of a Leader – during a crisis that spans all of Elatra – shall not go unpunished by the other races. Including the Dragonkin."

Ragnavi was still. "You're bluffing."

"An operation of this scale is well within my means," Sylpeiros responded. He was exaggerating to a certain degree, but there were measures in place to spread the word in case of his demise. He'd set his plan in motion before traveling to Dhalerune City, and finalized it upon returning to Elven territory. "End your madness here, Ragnavi. You can't fight the whole world."

The Dragon Queen paused. She tilted her head, contemplating. Eventually, she spoke, her tone calm and inquisitive.

"...Can't I?"

In that instant, Sylpeiros knew he would be dead within the next five seconds. He opened his mouth to say something, anything–

Only for his head to split open. At least, that's what it felt like. His mind was under assault, the pain coming from everywhere and everything. Contrary to what Ragnavi had claimed, Sylpeiros did know the awful sensation of being infected with Corruption – and this was worse. So, so much worse. He collapsed to the ground, clawing at his skull, as some indelible part of him was ripped out.

Distantly, he noticed that Ragnavi was in the same state. "You..." she gasped, glaring at him with hate-filled eyes. The mighty Dragon Queen spasmed on the ground, tears streaming down her face. "What...did you..."

Sylpeiros didn't have the wherewithal to deny her accusation; he was too busy being reduced to an insensate mess. All he could comprehend was that something had been taken from him. Its absence hurt and throbbed and ached, like his heart was missing from his chest.

Except this wasn't a physical ache. His mind...his thoughts...they were now incomplete.

Ragnavi alternated between growling and howling as she transformed back into her dragon form. With one final cry, she leapt into the air and flew away on shaky wings, as if retreating from the premises would end her torment. For a brief moment, Sylpeiros envied the absurd amounts of Endurance, Strength, and Vitality it must've required to be able to fly in her condition.

Then everything went black, and he didn't have the chance to be envious of much at all.

--

"Wake up!" Meyneth frantically shouted, crouched over Vul'to's prone form. "No, no, not again! Please wake up!"

Breathing heavily, her eyes swept across the hallway, where every member of Riardin's Rangers had collapsed into a heap. Seconds ago, without warning, they'd screamed, clutched their heads, and fallen unconscious.

And they weren't waking up.

I don't, I don't know what to do. Her thoughts raced, more like instinctual emotions than anything resembling rationality. Do I leave and get help or stay with them where are the HP Potions Rob has them go get Rob in surgery and unconscious no Potions get Soul Surgeon he can help no if disrupt surgery Rob maybe dies I-

"HEALER!" she shouted, at the top of the lungs. "WHERE ARE THE HEALERS?! SOMEONE PLEASE WAKE UP!"

--

Hauz held Diplomacy's soul safely in his hands. Just seconds ago, he'd finished successfully removing it from Rob, deftly severing their connection. And with absolutely zero complications! All in all, the operation had been a total, resounding success, one he could be proud of for decades to come.

Unfortunately, his sense of accomplishment was slightly hampered by the sight of his assistants collapsing to the floor, undergoing violent seizures, and abruptly losing consciousness.

Slowly, Hauz glanced at Diplomacy's soul, then at Rob, then at his assistants. He stood there, blinking. Huh. Imagine that.

Silence.

...Well, they'll live, he determined, turning towards the Clay of Life. For now, I have a job to finish.

Chapter 35

Rob awoke feeling completely and utterly refreshed.

He was pretty sure that wasn't how people were supposed to feel after a major surgery, but god damn was it nice to get some actual rest for a change. I might have to seriously consider hiring a personal sleep mage, he thought. Although then things would get awkward when Keira and I spend the night together. Maybe they could cast their spells from a distance like Malika did during the Dhalerune invasion? Would that make it less weird? Probably not. Aaaaand I'm procrastinating.

With a heavy heart, he sat up in his bed and forced his eyes open. As much as he wanted to sleep for another hour or twenty, the world waited for no man. After confirming that he was in a patient's room within the Soul Surgeon's hospice, Rob brought up his Status Screen and checked himself over.

HP: 1550 / 1550

Stamina: 328 / 360

MP: 550 / 550

Status Effects: Leveling High (Moderate), Melancholia (Advanced), Anxious

Same as before. The surgery – at a cursory glance – didn't seem to have done any lasting damage. He'd need to check with this Soul Surgeon to be sure, but so far, so good.

That was the easy part. What came next would decide...everything. Breathing deep, Rob summoned his courage and opened his Skill List, rapidly scrolling down.

He froze, unblinking, at what he saw.

Name: Diplomacy (LV //)

Prerequisite: -------------------

Description: ERROR: NULL

It...worked? he asked himself. That description means Diplomacy isn't attached to my soul anymore, right? Hesitantly, he attempted to reach out and activate the Skill, only to fumble aimlessly as if he was grasping at air. Within the space that Diplomacy had once resided, he found nothing. Just hollow emptiness, where before, there'd been warmth and a will.

In a twisted sort of way, it was likely for the best that Diplomacy had spent the last week deactivated. It'd given Rob the opportunity to acclimate to being alone in his own head. He didn't know how he would've handled going cold turkey, because even now, Diplomacy's absence ached more the longer he focused on it. It wasn't anywhere near as debilitating as, for example, Corruption sickness, but the sense of loss was distinct, like a phantom limb inside his brain.

Rob broke into a smile at the thought. This, honestly speaking, was the best outcome they could have realistically hoped for. Diplomacy wasn't in his head anymore, Rob hadn't died, and as far as system trauma went, a mental phantom limb wasn't too bad, really. He just needed to find out if Diplomacy was successfully transferred to the Clay of Life. If so, then it was looking like the operation had actually freaking worked.

His heartbeat quickening, Rob opened the Party Screen. First order of business: let Riardin's Rangers know he was awake and okay. Second order of business: ask what happened with Diplomacy. Third order...of...

...

...Why was everyone except Meyneth listed as Unconscious?

Message Started Between Party Members: Rob, Meyneth

Rob: Hello?

Meyneth: Rob! You're awa-

Rob: Why are our Party members Unconscious? Not 'Asleep'. Unconscious.

Rob: Tell me straight.

Meyneth: ...Ah. You saw.

Meyneth: Don't fear. They will awaken soon.

Rob: You didn't answer my question.

Meyneth: Please hold one moment. I'll be there shortly.

Fifteen seconds later, Meyneth was opening the door to his room, prompting Rob to cut off the barrage of questions he'd been about to unleash. She looked like – to put it mildly – total shit. Dark circles sat under her eyes, she walked with a visible slouch, and when she spoke, it was as if each individual word was a herculean effort all its own.

"They will awaken," Meyneth repeated, closing the door behind her. "And they will live. You must understand these facts before I continue."

"You're starting to freak me out, Meyneth. Please stop with the buildup and just spit it out."

She shook her head. "You must understand, as otherwise, you will feel guilty for events outside of your control."

Rob tensed. "...Guilty?"

Meyneth took a seat, flopping into her chair like a puppet with its strings cut. "Your operation had far-reaching consequences," she stated. "When the Soul Surgeon plucked Diplomacy from your soul, everyone else was affected in a similar fashion. They no longer possess the Skill in any capacity."

He mouthed 'everyone else' in silent shock. "When you say everyone, do you mean-"

"All of Elatra. The only people who were spared were those rare few who lacked Diplomacy to begin with." The corners of her lips twitched, as if a smile was trying and failing to grow. "In that regard, my deficiencies proved useful, for once. 99.99% of the populace were not so fortunate, becoming stricken with terrible pain and swiftly losing consciousness. Most are still in the process of awakening."

Rob sank back into his bed, vacantly staring up at the bleached-white ceiling. That...fuck, that kinda makes sense. It was one of those things he hadn't thought of, yet in retrospect, seemed blindingly obvious. While he'd always viewed his Diplomacy as his Diplomacy, considering it could speak to him and was attached to his soul, they'd never confirmed that other peoples' Diplomacy didn't draw from the very same source.

Apparently, they had. Rob was just the only person who'd broken the system enough to be able to chat with a Skill. His Diplomacy had been everyone's Diplomacy.

And they'd ripped it out of the entire fucking world.

"Are there any lingering side effects among the people who've awakened?" he asked, sitting back up in a flash. "Physical or mental? Did anyone die?"

Meyneth hesitated. "No direct deaths have occurred."

"Which means there were some indirect deaths," Rob contemplated. "Stuff like people falling prone in front of hungry monsters, I'm guessing?"

"Rob-"

"It's fine," he interrupted. "Can't feel guilty right now, even if I wanted to. Keep explaining – I need to know what's going to happen to our friends."

Meyneth didn't seem satisfied with his response, but at the same time, was too tired to contest it. "If all goes well, there should be no adverse long-term effects – for our Party, at any rate. I dare say that we have become unusually accustomed to unforeseen disasters. Diplomacy being torn from their minds will simply be yet another storm to weather."

She grimaced. "For the common folk? Well, they've already named it The Sundering. Take that as you will."

Rob groaned as he imagined 'The Sundering' from the perspective of an average Elatran. One second, you're living life, happy as an Elatran can reasonably be, then bam! Incredible pain. Loss of consciousness. Loss of a Skill. In Earth terms, it would be like if everyone in the world was knocked out and woke up missing a finger. That was the kind of event that imprinted on a society's psyche, leaving an indelible scar that never truly faded.

We just gave millions of people trauma. Simultaneously. He chuckled. New record, I guess. Can someone else besides me PLEASE discover the Therapist Class?!

"Rob?" Meyneth asked, sounding concerned. "What are your thoughts?"

"That Dwarven territory is going to throw a shitfit," he answered, rising to his feet. "Everyone is, but them especially. They lost their Leader and got Sundered within the same week. I don't envy the Dwarves we left behind to clean up Grant's mess."

He stretched, weary joints popping. "But that's their problem. For now, I have six sleeping beauties to check on." Rob stepped towards the door, then froze, his head jerking towards Meyneth. "Wait, Jesus, I didn't even get to ask about Diplomacy. How are they?"

Meyneth told him.

--

Rob stood next to Meyneth and the Soul Surgeon as they observed the miracle of life in action. Inside the Surgeon's large, glass, mad scientist-esque test tube, was Diplomacy. Their soul had been implanted within the Clay of Life – and true to the Fiends' word, a new body was being formed. From what Rob could tell, the process was almost finished, Diplomacy having transformed from a blob to a person in the mere twelve hours since the operation.

It was an occasion to be celebrated. While Rob had admittedly grown to enjoy having a hyper-intelligent friend in his head who always supported him, Diplomacy deserved their own life. Piggybacking off of someone else's existence was no way to live. With the Fiends' help, they'd turned one of their ultimate pipe dreams into a reality, making the impossible, possible.

Rob would find the time to celebrate when he wasn't busy being so confused.

"What..." He scratched his head. "What are they?"

Diplomacy's new form appeared to be roughly five feet, seven inches tall. They possessed a slender physique, complete with androgynous facial features. Their body was covered by gleaming, porcelain skin, similar to a carapace, yet not as rigid. Long, straight, indigo-colored hair flowed down to the tips of their shoulders. Four appendages were attached to their torso; two relatively normal arms, and two jointed limbs that ended in razor-sharp blades.

In short, they were unlike any creature Rob had seen in either world.

"You said Diplomacy would probably wind up as a Human," he continued, when he didn't get a reply.

"I did," the Soul Surgeon muttered. "It seems that 'probably' was the key word to focus on."

"You also said, if not a Human, then a different race of Elatra."

The Soul Surgeon went silent. Exhaling, Rob cast Identify again, more out of desperation than expectation.

Name: REDACTED

Description: REDACTED

Great.

"I know you have questions," the Soul Surgeon said, with a sigh. "Unfortunately, I have no answers. Perhaps Diplomacy can enlighten us once he or she gains full control of their new body."

"He or she?" Rob parroted, unable to stop himself from glancing at Diplomacy's hastily-attached smock.

"There were no traditional characteristics of sexual dimorphism that I could notice."

Rob shrugged. "Somehow, I'm less surprised about that than the purple anime hair. Please don't ask me what anime is."

The three of them stared at Diplomacy's form in silence, watching as it grew millimeter by millimeter. Abruptly, Meyneth turned around and began to walk away. "One of us should be with our Party members when they awaken," she said, "and Diplomacy would prefer that Rob be the first sight they witness with eyes belonging wholly to them." She waved a clawed hand over her shoulder. "Give them my regards."

Meyneth rushed out the door before Rob could say anything. He was left standing there with the Soul Surgeon, watching intently as Diplomacy was born, a whirlwind of muddled theories spinning in his head.

--

Vul'to awoke feeling completely and utterly miserable.

With a plaintive groan, he clutched his forehead, wishing that he could fall back asleep to escape the incessant throbbing in his skull. This is unfair, he thought, through a haze of agony. We swore off heavy drinking after the last incident. I assumed that I would never again have to suffer the torment of a post-drunkenness morning.

His head twinged as he attempted to recall what he was doing yesterday. We returned to Fiend territory, Rob's soul surgery was expedited, then...

With a thrill of panic, Vul'to realized that he didn't know if the surgery had been successful or not. There was a wide gap in his recollection. Did we host a celebration so debauched that I can't even remember what happened? It was the only explanation he could think of, but it still seemed mistaken. His very thoughts seemed mistaken.

Something indefinable was...missing.

Time passed as Vul'to laid there, stewing in anguish coupled with a pervasive sense of loss. Eventually, the door to his room opened, sounding as loud to his sensitive ears as a Thunder Rod shot.

"Ah," Meyneth whispered, upon seeing him. "Good day, Vul'to." Her voice trembled by a hair as she spoke. "You are well."

"And you possess a rather lax interpretation of what constitutes wellness." Vul'to winced, both from the pain of speaking and at his own rudeness. "My apologies. I must be feeling out of sorts."

Meyneth didn't respond. Instead, she gently closed the door behind her and approached his bedside. Vul'to was immediately struck by how exhausted she appeared, but before he could ask what was wrong, Meyneth spoke first. "There is something I must tell you."

Her story left Vul'to speechless. After corroborating it by checking his Skill List, he merely sat there in quiet disbelief, the enormity of it all gradually settling into his mind.

"You are in no pain?" he asked, once he became able to form words. When Meyneth nodded her head, Vul'to breathed a sigh of relief. "That...is good. A ray of light in a dark cloud."

For reasons Vul'to couldn't understand, Meyneth's posture shrunk. "I will leave you to your rest," she said, quickly turning away. "Our friends should be waking soon as well."

"Please stay," he blurted out. Meyneth's shoulders hunched further, and Vul'to panicked, continuing to say the first thing that came to mind. "You would benefit from a healthy respite."

"Our friends-"

"Meyneth," Vul'to stated, with a bit of forcefulness. "My head is tearing itself asunder, a Skill was excised from my core, and you still appear to be in a worse state than I." He pushed a smile onto his face. "Tell me what's on your mind. It's been too long since we last had a heart-to-heart."

She froze, caught between her tendency to avoid addressing her emotions, and her desire to fulfill the request of an ailing friend. "Seeing you collapse was difficult," Meyneth eventually said, in a clipped tone. "That is all."

"Thank you for the concern." He let out a weak chuckle, putting on airs of bravado. "Do not worry, however. It will take far more than this to kill me."

Vul'to only noticed the flaws in his words after they'd already left his mouth. As Meyneth winced and averted her gaze, he realized exactly why she'd been so distraught by seeing him collapse, the event it specifically reminded her of, and why pretending that he was invincible was perhaps not the best tact to employ. I miss my Level 2 Diplomacy, he lamented. Then again, I'd likely have bungled this with or without its assistance.

Regardless, he couldn't turn back now. Vul'to banished his lingering doubts and pressed on. "Meyneth." When she hesitantly glanced at him, he locked eyes with her. "Krazan's ambush was not your fault. My current body is not your fault. Nothing that transpired is your fault."

Her eyes widened, but Vul'to kept his gaze fixed straight. Dancing around the issue had resulted in little progress thus far. They'd yet to fully reconcile, and Vul'to was tired of watching her wallow in self-inflicted hardship.

"I beg to differ," Meyneth replied, with a hollow tone. "You sacrificed your body and your identity as an Elf to protect me. Whose fault is it, then, if not mine?"

"Krazan's, for one," Vul'to answered. "Blame the lunatic Soul Eater before yourself. Besides; I am a Guardian. It is a role I chose with pride. Protecting my fellow Party members is what I-"

"Are you attracted to me?"

Vul'to thoughts ceased to exist for a few seconds. By the time he regained his composure, a blush had risen to his cheeks, and he'd lost his chance to deny her assertion. "That," he sputtered. "That is unrelated. Um. What gave me away?" Was I that obvious?

"You were fairly obvious." As Vul'to prayed for a second Sundering to occur and rescue him from this conversation, Meyneth continued speaking, seemingly unaware of the turmoil she'd caused. "It is not as unrelated as you think. I believe that your attraction to me has adversely impacted your self-preservation instincts. It would be different if throwing yourself in harm's way was the product of optimal strategic planning; that much would have been tolerable."

Her expression grew harder than stone. "But if your attraction influenced that decision, then I am even more of a heartless parasite than I originally assumed."

...We are advancing past the original topic, Vul'to noted, still rallying his thoughts. Remain calm. Address one subject at a time. "First," he started, "I can assure you that I would have acted the same if Krazan attacked any of our other Party members. My commitment is not so easily swayed one way or another by simple attraction."

He paused. "As for you being a heartless parasite, I am honestly somewhat lost regarding how to proceed, because you are neither of those things. You might as well have said you were a rainbow-colored gorebeast. How does one begin to argue against such a blatant falsehood?"

Meyneth averted her eyes once more. "I realized it on the way back to Fiend territory," she said, in a low murmur. "Or perhaps I'd always known, and just ignored it. When Faelynn discussed rescuing the Fiends who'd foolishly run off on their own, I was the only person who seemed confused about why she would bother."

"Are you attempting to imply that you don't care for people?" Incredulity leaked into Vul'to's tone. "Meyneth, you have accompanied Riardin's Rangers on countless missions that were enacted solely for the purpose of helping others."

"Our Party offers me comfort," she said. "And companionship. And an opportunity to grow stronger.

I've personally benefited from being a member of Riardin's Rangers since the day we met. That is the real driving force behind my actions – whereas you, or Rob, or Zamira, or Faelynn have all risked your lives simply because of your inherent righteousness. Keira is the closest one besides me to a Dragonkin in our Party, and even at her worst, she has lines that she is unwilling to cross."

Meyneth clenched her fists. "And then there's me. Socially maladjusted and lacking the Dragonkin racial traits. Anyone else in my position could have contributed the same amount to our Party, if not more, but I was fortunate enough to be uplifted thanks to Rob's fucking pity. He plucked me from wretched solitude in Human territory, and I repaid this kindness by...existing, I suppose. For whatever that's worth."

She grimaced. "Were you aware that I threatened the Soul Surgeon to make him operate on you? Told him that I would kill scores of Fiends until he acquiesced."

"I was aware," Vul'to answered, quietly.

Her shoulders tightened. "See? I am not like the rest of you, Vul'to. My parents and Dragonkin territory have made me...cold. I find it difficult to trust and care for people. Any heroics I may have committed are incidental to the benefits I've gained. And if the Party destabilized, I would likely be the first to leave. I don't deserve your affection, and I certainly don't deserve for you to trade your life for mine."

Vul'to quickly held up a hand. "Please afford me several minutes to think of a reply," he asked, in a strained voice. "Losing Diplomacy has made it more challenging to find the right words."

Which, while technically true, was a gross exaggeration. He would've needed several minutes to untangle this web with or without his meager Diplomacy. But Meyneth didn't have a frame of reference for how important the Skill actually was, so she just nodded and sat down, a Dragonkin-shaped ball of shivering anxiety.

Once he'd used up as much time as he dared, Vul'to opened his mouth, hoping that he knew what he was doing. "There are many things I could say about how you perceive yourself," he began. "Mostly, however, you appear to have fallen into the trap of holding yourself to a higher standard than everyone around you. Our Party's accomplishments are undoubtedly worthy of praise, but we are hardly a group of saints ripped from the storybooks. Do you think that Rob is not sometimes motivated by spite, or Zamira by a dream she knows is unrealistic, or Faelynn by wishing to lessen her insecurities?"

He grinned. "Or me, by wishing to live vicariously through your experiences? It is part of why I've been so adamant about helping you achieve vengeance against your mother and father. When you sink your claws into their chests, it will grant me the satisfaction I was denied when The Cataclysm rained down upon my parents' heads. Does that make me a heartless parasite?"

"No," Meyneth immediately stated. "Of course not. Your support, both logistical and emotional, has meant the world to me."

"Then what's the harm in having some ulterior motives? Plenty of people claim that they want to do good, yet lack the motivation to pick up a sword and start swinging when the time comes to make a difference. I'd say that saving lives for your own personal benefit is better than mere..." Vul'to paused. "What did Rob call it before? Thoughts and prayers?"

He sighed. "But if you are going to view our Party as an unattainable standard, then allow me to take advantage of that. To be blunt, we think very highly of you, Meyneth. Your heart is far bigger than you know. I stepped in front of Krazan not because I was attracted to you, but because you were – and are – a person well worth saving, and I wouldn't hesitate to do it again. If you can't trust yourself, then trust our perception of you."

Meyneth sniffed and rubbed her eyes. "That is cheating," she croaked.

Then I've done a good job. Vul'to waited patiently for her to compose herself. Once she'd dried her tears and cleared her throat, Meyneth sat up straight and exhaled. "You have my gratitude," she said. "I...will take your words into advisement."

"Please do."

Meyneth hesitated. "This will sound cruel after everything you just said," she muttered, "but I don't want to lead your feelings astray. I cannot reciprocate your attraction, Vul'to. In truth, I'm not in the proper state of mind to form a romantic relationship with anyone." She tapped her forehead. "There's much in here that needs to be sorted out first."

"What a coincidence," Vul'to laughed, "for I am the same. Don't worry – friendship is all that I'm interested in at the moment."

"But...you are attracted to me."

"Is there a rule stating you can't have aesthetically pleasing friends?"

Meyneth pursed her lips. "I've witnessed this type of conversation play out from afar many times in Dragonkin territory. The end result was usually much more explosive than this."

Vul'to laid back down in his bed. "That sounds like entertaining gossip," he said, smiling. "I won't be leaving this room for at least a few hours, so by all means, regale me with tales of drama and heartbreak."

As Meyneth began her story, her expression becoming increasingly animated as she described the romantic entanglements of various Dragonkin, Vul'to finally allowed himself to relax. Meyneth seemed to be at ease, meaning that some of his rambling had gotten through to her. How much had gotten through remained to be seen, but it was progress, and that was what mattered.

Thankfully, she'd neglected to ask him about the stark reality of what living as a Fiend entailed. Convincing her to have faith in herself would've been significantly harder if she knew that Vul'to still wasn't remotely comfortable in his own skin. It was the main reason why he was currently uninterested in romance. While he would have accepted Meyneth's rejection and affirmed their friendship regardless of his circumstances, the honest truth was that Vul'to the Elf would've felt somewhat disappointed.

Vul'to the Fiend didn't want to touch anything with this fucking body, let alone a potential lover. Nothing about it felt the way it should. Too tall, too bulky, too strong. Pitch black eyes staring back in the mirror. Claws tingling at the edge of his fingers. Hateful stares from the Dwarves. Ancient memories hounding at his thoughts. All of it was wrong, and the fact that he could pilot Krazan's body effortlessly, feeling as if he'd been living in it his entire life, only worsened the disconnect. To Vul'to, this vessel of flesh was a convenient vehicle that housed his soul, and nothing more. Meyneth would never have forgiven herself if she knew that he was struggling to this degree.

Which was unfortunate, as he didn't regret a single thing. In the past, Vul'to used to have just one companion; Tarric, his sole lifeline in an uncaring world. They'd helped make the years bearable for each other. Then the Village was invaded, and Tarric died, exiting the stage without even the chance to say goodbye. It would have been all too easy for Vul'to to be left adrift.

Instead, he'd found a community. A family. People who had earned his love and respect. And if given the option between keeping things as they were, or regaining his old body – at the cost of standing aside as Krazan charged at one of his friends...

He'd make the same decision every time.

You weren't the only one who was saved by Riardin's Rangers, Vul'to thought, laughing as Meyneth happily told him about Dragonkin melodrama.

--

"While we have a moment," Rob said, addressing his Soul Surgeon. "There's a couple things I wanted to say to you."

The Surgeon raised an eyebrow. "That sounds rather ominous."

Rob grinned. "The first thing was: thank you. Sincerely. You gave my friend a new lease on life in the most literal possible way. I owe you, like, fifty favors."

"Extol my prowess to whomever would listen," the Surgeon proudly replied. "That will be payment enough."

"Got it. One ego boost, coming right up." Rob lowered his tone. "Another thing. I know my surgery ended up being a little...hectic, but did you get a chance to look at Leveling High while I was under the knife?"

The Soul Surgeon glanced surreptitiously at the door, as if they were about to discuss a taboo conspiracy. "I examined your condition after placing Diplomacy inside the Clay of Life and attending to my assistants," he said. "Initially, it was difficult to discern which of your grafted soul appendages corresponded to Leveling High, but one of them stood out to me."

"Did it have a soul?"

The Surgeon blinked. "Not quite, although you're on the right path. How did you know?"

Because the damn thing won't shut up sometimes. "Just a hunch," Rob answered, motioning for the Surgeon to continue.

"Leveling High possesses no soul," the Fiend explained. "That much is certain. However, it felt as if it could have. Either by gaining one in the future, or having already lost one in the past. Imagine a physical body, outwardly normal in appearance, yet lacking bones, muscles, or blood. Incomplete, and with the potential to be filled."

Rob let out a note of disgust. The idea of Leveling High getting its own soul was repulsive. "Yeah, screw that. Can it be removed?"

The Soul Surgeon's expression hardened. "I wouldn't recommend that we try. It was feasible to remove Diplomacy only because they desired to be removed. Their soul instinctively pushed away from yours, seeking autonomy on a conscious and subconscious level."

He shook his head. "From what I surmised, Leveling High does not desire a new body – it desires yours. Its roots have dug deep, ingrained into the very fiber of your being. Separating the two of you would-"

"I can see where this is going," Rob interrupted. "What are the odds that I survive a surgery to remove it?"

The Surgeon looked him directly in the eyes. "Approximately ten percent."

Rob tilted his head, suppressing the static flaring up in his mind. "Okay. Deal."

"...As a Combat Class user, I understand that mathematics may not be your strong suit. Allow me to educate you on the nature of probability."

"Ten percent is one-tenth," Rob flatly stated. "I know math. I know the odds. I also don't care. We'll leave it as a last resort, but if my condition gets worse? Then we operate. Death is preferable to what Leveling High would turn me into."

He edged closer to the Soul Surgeon, his eyes narrowing. "You've seen late-stage Humans. Tell me I'm wrong."

Rob received an answer in the form of a loud, shrill crack.

Both he and the Surgeon snapped their attention towards Diplomacy. The former Skill's glass tube had been pierced from inside by a single, bladed appendage. Slowly, then progressively faster, Diplomacy carved a hole to freedom, resulting in the front of their tube falling forward and shattering onto the ground.

Diplomacy followed suit, their legs toppling with inexperience. Rob cast Rampage to dash across the room, catching Diplomacy in a broad embrace. They were surprisingly light. Diplomacy's non-bladed arms returned the embrace, leaning into Rob for support.

"There we go," Diplomacy said, in a singsong tone. "I finally gave you a hug." Their voice was, in a word, mesmerizing. As if all the best vocalists in history had been rolled together into one pitch perfect timbre. Rob was so stunned by it that he almost missed what was said next.

"I believe that introductions are in order." Diplomacy let go of Rob and stepped back, their legs shaking but holding firm. A mischievous smile spread over their face. "Hello, Rob. My name is Valaire, and it's nice to meet you."

Chapter 36

Rob wasn't perfect with names, but even if a thousand years passed, he would never forget the name Valaire. Not after he'd nearly fried his brain learning it. Valaire had initially come up several months ago, back when his Party journeyed into the ocean depths of Merfolk territory. As they fled the Leviathan, Riardin's Rangers discovered a pocket of frozen reality; empty air which contained technology that didn't exist anywhere else in Elatra.

Including an audio recording of Valaire's final testament, chronicling the end of the world that Elatra used to be. Everything was described in horrifying detail – except for Valaire's name, which was obscured by a bizarre form of divine censorship, the name sounding like unintelligible nonsense to whomever heard it. As if their existence itself had been expunged. Valaire's dying plea, their wish to be remembered, was doomed to forever go unfulfilled.

Naturally, it had pissed Rob right the hell off. After listening to Valaire's testament, he immediately brute forced a solution by overlaying Recall on the restricted name until Almighty Resistance kicked in. A bit of brain damage was a small price to pay for fulfilling the last request of someone who the gods had fucked over so badly. It was meant to be a simple act of defiance; something that just felt right, even if learning Valaire's name didn't matter in the grand scheme of things.

Until now, anyway.

"So you do remember," Diplomacy – Valaire – teased, in that pitch perfect voice. "I figured you would, but after poor Azarath..."

It took Rob a second to find the capacity to speak. "Who's Azarath?"

"One of the Grand Overseers."

"Oh," Rob stated, automatically deleting the name from his mind. He breathed deep, then exhaled, knowing that he was about to be sent spiraling down a rabbit hole of implications. "More importantly...uh...damn, where do I even start?" He floundered, still attempting to get his train of thought back on track, before settling on a relatively easy question. "How long have you known your name?"

"Barely longer than you." Diplomacy gestured behind themselves to the overly large glass tube they'd slumbered in while their body formed. "I was dreaming," they began. "Or at least, I thought I was dreaming, until I realized that I was actually reliving. Not everything all at once, but snippets are coming back as time goes on. Ivory towers, ships of gold, molten rock, blinding light..."

They trailed off, finishing with a whisper. "And my name."

Flashes of memory sprang into Rob's head, accompanied by something the High Soulseer mentioned a few months ago. "As Diplomacy's soul is a passenger attached to yours," the aged Fiend explained, "memories, personality traits, mannerisms, abilities, and even dreams will be shared."

In the past, Diplomacy had sporadically dreamt of experiences from Earth, like eating pizza, despite having no reference for what pizza tasted like. Conversely, Rob had sometimes dreamt of things like ivory towers and ships of gold, although those occurrences were infrequent enough that he'd just chalked them up to his subconscious being weird as hell.

If Diplomacy was dreaming the same, however, then those images were too distinct to be a coincidence. The two of them had been sharing memories – including memories that Diplomacy couldn't even remember at that time. And if Diplomacy truly was Valaire, then that meant those dreams were probably suppressed memories from Valaire's past life.

Meaning those images were from the original Elatra, Rob thought, his mind racing.. Before it was destroyed. And instead of dying, Valaire became Diplomacy, who is a freaking *Skill*, meaning a normal person was-

"You've regained memories that were once lost to you?" the Soul Surgeon exclaimed, breaking their stunned silence. "That must have corresponded with your hippocampus forming inside your new body! When the flesh was ready, the soul followed suit, latent memories rushing to fill a void. Remarkable. Simply remarkable."

The Surgeon stepped forward, his body was quivering with excitement, like he was a dog watching his owner reach inside the treat box. "Please explain everything you can recall about the process. Spare no expense in your telling." His eyes widened. "Ah, but before that, let me grab some parchment! I would be a failure of a Surgeon if I neglected to catalog this development in the greatest of detail!"

Diplomacy tilted their head as the Soul Surgeon scrambled to locate his writing implements. For the first time, Rob noticed that Diplomacy's eyes were a brilliant indigo hue, practically glowing – identical to their hair. "You've grown since I last saw you, Hauz," the former Skill remarked, in a curious tone.

"Wrong!" The Soul Surgeon grinned, holding up pen and parchment as if they were sacred treasures. "You have shrunk! Rob is several inches taller, and you are accustomed to viewing the world from his perspective."

"True enough." Diplomacy let out a good-natured sigh. "It will take me some time to feel comfortable in my body again. Like trying to ride a bicycle after millennia of idleness." They coughed, grimacing. "Ugh. Breathing is more troublesome than I remember. I keep forgetting that Rob isn't in charge of that anymore."

The Soul Surgeon nodded as he furiously scribbled notes onto his parchment. "Would you say that the inconvenience of being responsible for your bodily functions is worth the benefits of possessing a physical form?"

"Worth?" Diplomacy smiled. "My dear doctor, this form is priceless. I can feel the air dancing on my skin, the blood pumping in my heart, and know that all of it belongs to me. Experiencing the world in a secondhand manner can't possibly compare."

"And what of-"

Diplomacy held up a hand. "I will be more than happy to answer your questions soon," they assured. "Truthfully, I find this process to be fascinating as well. Satisfying your curiosity will serve to satisfy my own. However, at the moment, there are matters of importance that I must discuss with Rob."

The Soul Surgeon pouted slightly. "Must we wait? Your impressions will be more accurate if they are documented immediately after your body has taken shape. Time has a way of distorting memories."

"A fact that I am well aware of," Diplomacy replied, with a hint of mirth. "Worry not – my flesh-and-blood form possesses an eidetic memory. You have my word that the march of scientific progress will remain unimpeded."

Sighing heavily, the Soul Surgeon pocketed his writing implements. "I'll hold you to that," he grumbled. "Keep those feelings fresh in your mind, understand? Especially any thoughts regarding existentialism or despair. Don't let Rob's company raise your spirits before I've had the chance to note the mental ramifications of a subject birthing from the Clay of Life."

Once the Soul Surgeon left, Diplomacy's posture changed, shifting in subtle ways. To his surprise, Rob realized that this was how Diplomacy had been standing before they started speaking to the Soul Surgeon. They'd surreptitiously altered their body language in order to manipulate him more effectively. And if Rob hadn't noticed, he doubted that the Soul Surgeon had, either.

Even the fact that Rob managed to catch them this time felt intentional. As if Diplomacy was laying their cards out on the table for his benefit. It was an intentional reminder that, while Diplomacy was no longer a world-spanning Skill, they'd been given their namesake for a reason.

"Our Soul Surgeon was looking forward to this as much as we were," Rob commented. "He risked his life to ensure that the Clay was finished on schedule. I'm pretty sure we're the most exciting things to happen to him in eons. He's stubborn, uncompromising – and you convinced him to leave in, like, five sentences."

Diplomacy froze. "Do I frighten you?" They asked, in a quiet voice, sounding markedly vulnerable.

"Are you kidding?" Rob grinned. "That was awesome. Teach me how to do that." His grin slowly soured. "Plus, I'd be a hypocrite if I called someone scary just because they were competent. People are starting to look at me differently, too, and all I did was raise my Level a teensy bit."

"Yes. That's all you did, I'm sure."

Rob averted his eyes, becoming enamored with a supremely interesting crack in the ceiling. Diplomacy laughed, their voice twinkling like wind chimes. "I missed you, Rob."

"Not more than I missed you." He sat on the operating table, motioning for Diplomacy to join. "So, just to get this out of the way – which name should I use?"

"Diplomacy, if you would," they answered, taking a seat next to him. "Valaire is technically accurate, but I prefer Diplomacy, as...well, for now I'll simply say that I prefer it."

They glanced down at their body, eyes roaming over their glossy, pseudo-carapace skin, and two bladed armlike appendages. "To save you the trouble, my species possesses no gender." They paused. "Possessed? Possesses. Present tense, not past tense. Another thing that is technically correct."

Rob breathed an internal sigh of relief. He hadn't been sure how he was supposed to bring that up. "Diplomacy it is," he nodded. "Why'd you say your name was Valaire when you woke up, though?"

Diplomacy raised their eyebrows. "I thought it would be funny to see the look of shock and bewilderment on your face." They smirked. "I was correct."

"You've picked up too many bad habits from me."

Diplomacy winced. "If anything," they mumbled, "the opposite is true." Before Rob could ask what they meant, Diplomacy changed the subject. "You mentioned that Dr. Hauz risked his life to complete the Clay of Life. Can you elaborate on that? I assumed that my being here would have indicated that the Blight of Dhalerune was successfully dealt with, leaving you free to return to Fiend territory and undergo your surgery without issue."

Both of them knew that they were putting off discussing what Diplomacy being Valaire implied, and both of them were fine with that. "Do you remember anything from after I deactivated you?" Rob asked.

"No." Diplomacy shuddered. "I was functionally dead, Rob. Yet another reason why this body is a godsend."

Rob scratched the back of his neck. "Yeeeeeah...sooooooo..." He cleared his throat. "Some stuff happened."

Diplomacy's gaze sharpened. "Define 'stuff'."

He told them about the descent into Dhalerune Mines, the possessed Dwarf, the Blight, Leveling High increasing to Moderate, Grant's betrayal, the invasion of Dhalerune, Grant's suicide, Titan's Fist, and the Sundering.

"Rob." Diplomacy pinched the bridge of their nose. "I was only gone for nine days."

"When it rains, it pours." Rob offered them two thumbs up. "Elder Duran made inroads with the Merfolk, though! That's something. And the Seneschal maybe doesn't hate us anymore."

"Both of which are impressive acts of diplomacy," the former Skill acknowledged. "It's almost enough to offset alienating an entire nation." They let out a groan of disgust. "For the record, I'm not blaming you for what transpired in Dwarven territory. Just...wow."

Diplomacy sank into deep contemplation. "I'll need to address that powder keg sooner or later," they mumbled. "Sooner, preferably. Hmm."

Rob sat back for a few minutes, letting Diplomacy process everything that had happened. Eventually, they perked up, nodding intently. "Done," Diplomacy stated, with full confidence. "I have devised a plan of action. Consider Dwarven territory dealt with. I'll require access to the Grand Overseers' resources, one-on-one time spent conversing with a Dwarf, the Advanced Ring of Disguise that Vul'to rejected-"

"Before that," Rob cut in, laying a hand on Diplomacy's shoulder. "Let's get you some clothes that fit. Smocks aren't exactly the height of fashion these days." He hesitated. "And...we need to discuss what you being Valaire actually means."

Diplomacy grimaced. "Connected the dots, have you?"

"Give me some credit," Rob laughed. "I connected them the moment you told me your original name."

Valaire was a person. Valaire was also Diplomacy. Diplomacy was a Skill. Therefore, Valaire, a seemingly normal person from the original Elatra, had been transformed into a Skill and integrated into the system. In a sense, they'd ascended to a higher plane of existence, although Rob doubted that it was brought about by their will.

And if one person created one Skill, then...

"How many Skills are people?" Rob murmured, as if whispering to an unmarked grave. "You? Some of them? All of them?"

"I don't know," Diplomacy admitted. "Nor do I know what happened to me after my supposed death at the end of my world. The most I can tell you is that, based on the scattered memories I've gleaned so far, I was always this proficient at manipulating people. Even before...you know."

Bereft of hard evidence, Rob started theorycrafting. If other Skills were like Diplomacy, being the concentrated versions of exceptionally competent people, then something like Swordsmanship could easily fit the bill. The gods would've simply needed to kidnap the best Swordmaster in the land and stuff them into system hell. Rob's Swordsmanship – everyone's Swordsmanship – might be nothing more than hand-me-down copies of the very same expert. In essence, an Elatran's Levels of Swordsmanship would correspond with how much of that original expert's capabilities they were allowed to access.

Not all people with Swordsmanship possessed identical fighting styles, but that didn't disprove Rob's theory. He'd noticed long ago that his personal expertise with the blade was separate from what his Skills granted him. Just as Diplomacy's advice could be bungled by someone with low social aptitude, Swordsmanship couldn't turn a newbie into a master on its own. It was supplemental, rather than a full replacement.

Like the guiding hand of a teacher showing you the ropes.

Skills such as Lifesurge or Not A Scratch were a bit more abstract to envision. If they were people, then what kind? Rob had never met someone who could rapidly self-heal or nullify damage without the assistance of pre-existing Skills. Then again, the original Elatra probably contained races and people that Rob couldn't even begin to imagine. For all he knew, tanking nukes was no big deal for whatever unknown species had lived next door to Valaire.

It was also possible that being 'inducted' into the system enhanced a person's latent abilities. There didn't seem to be a limit to how high some Skills could Level up, after all. Unless Valaire's world was a land of demigods to rival the actual gods, then they'd been mortals with mortal constraints. Becoming bound by the system could have raised them to new heights, which were then passed on to whichever Elatrans learned the corresponding Skills.

In fact, that theory might help explain where Skills that didn't seem to derive from mental aptitude or physical prowess came from. Lifesteal, for example, may have once been a mage who excelled at siphoning HP from others. Rob didn't need to expend MP to use Lifesteal, so he wasn't casting that hypothetical mage's spells, but the system could've retooled Lifesteal from a spell to a Passive Skill.

Retooling the mage's soul in the process.

...If he was being honest, there was another possibility Rob hadn't wanted to consider. The gods were no stranger to grafting parts of souls onto other souls. For a Skill like Not A Scratch, it wasn't impossible that they'd merely collected ten especially hardy souls, removed the relevant pieces, and...stitched them together into one.

What kind of eternal, unceasing torment would that sort of existence bring?

"Set us free."

The memory crashed into Rob's thoughts like a bolt of lightning. He jumped off the operating table, his breathing growing ragged, white-hot adrenaline surging through his veins. Diplomacy was speaking to him, but he tuned them out, focusing on every other time he'd heard those three words.

Back then, there'd been...screaming. Pleas for release. White light. Indistinct forms he couldn't recognize. A plane of existence that was not Elatra, yet not the gods' domain either.

And lastly, caged beings of immense power. Who'd strengthened Purge Corruption when asked.

Strengthened a Skill.

"It's them." Rob whirled towards Diplomacy, his hands shaking like falling leaves. "It's all true. The Skills are people."

He swallowed the lump forming in his throat. "And they want to be set free."

--

Kismet closed his scrying portal. Rob's face winked out of existence, vanishing just as the horror began to mount in his expression. There was no need to observe the rest; Kismet knew how it would proceed from then on.

He is forever lost to us. Which had likely been the case beforehand, but this revelation was – to borrow an anachronism from Earth – the final nail in the coffin. He'd learned too much. Rob, with his overinflated sense of justice, would never stop until the Skills were released, and their captors punished. Any chance they'd had of negotiating with him was gone.

No matter, Kismet concluded. In the end, little has changed. This outcome had been inevitable ever since Rob came up with the absurd notion of giving a Skill its own body. There were more pressing affairs to address – such as the recent debacle in Dwarven territory.

He turned towards Fames, who'd been impatiently waiting for Kismet to finish scrying Rob. "Really, Kismet?" the insufferable fool said, with an air of exasperation. "Is your mortal pet truly that interesting?"

"Unlike others," Kismet replied, "I pay close attention to the consequences that our actions engender in the lower realms. As you seem to be turning a blind eye to your failings, allow me to list them in no uncertain terms."

He flipped his coin. "Titan's Fist is destroyed," Kismet intoned. "Your Dwarven puppet is dead. The Fiends and Dwarves are allying with one another. And worst of all, evidence of our direct interference was left behind in the form of their Leader's testimony."

The coin landed with a tink. Tails. "Your gambit, in its entirety, has completely and utterly failed."

Fames stared back with an imperious expression, refusing to break his gaze. If the simpleton was aware that he'd miscalculated, then he certainly wasn't expressing it. Squeezing so much as an iota of remorse out of him seemed to be a distant dream.

The others in attendance were of no help either. From off to the side, Vivacity and Iram watched as the trial progressed, each of them serving as an 'impartial' observer. Vivacity was bursting with barely-restrained glee, while Iram was regarding Fames with wary suspicion. Both appeared more interested in witnessing drama unfold than maintaining objective standards of appraisal.

Then there was Kismet, who – as the most levelheaded member of their group – had been chosen to judge Fames' recent actions. He would decide if any punishment was necessary. As Fames had thus far presented his case with the aplomb of a mortal dancing in a field of mines, that prospect was becoming increasingly likely.

"I've done no wrong," Fames stated, as if it was a plain fact. "Failure is not a sin. Otherwise, we would have judged you quite harshly for your missteps with the Original of Earth, Kismet. I seem to recall that particular venture ending in disaster."

Yes, as my efforts were largely sabotaged by the impetuousness of my cohorts, Kismet mused. Not that I hold a grudge. That would be unbecoming of me.

"Failure is not a sin," he admitted. "Smart ideas can yield poor results, and plans with insufficient reasoning can be excused if the intent behind them is genuine. What we take issue with is not the intention or results of your designs; rather, the means you used to implement them."

"My Influence expenditure was low," Fames defended. "Lower on average than your diversion with the Original, or Malid's petulant ranting."

Kismet narrowed his gaze. "Don't play coy. You know very well that you followed the letter of our agreement, not the spirit." A cascade of power flared around him. "There are rules, Fames. Ones that we have adhered to since time immemorial. When Influencing the mortal realms, any pieces that were placed at the Beginning are to be handled with a subtle touch. We've been more lax with that rule as of late, but this?"

He conjured an image of Titan's Fist colliding with the ground and exploding into an inferno of destruction and decay. "This goes too far."

"On the contrary," Fames stated, a feral smile spreading across his face. "It did not go far enough."

Vivacity clapped, delighted to see that her entertainment had spawned a plot twist. Iram stood silent, attempting to look stoic and inscrutable. Kismet merely sighed, banishing the image of Titan's Fist. "Explain."

"I shouldn't need to. The #*@$&@#()*$ are encroaching."

Vivacity ceased her clapping, Iram went from stoic to rigid, and Kismet's posture stiffened by a hair. Fames' smile morphed into a sneer as he noticed the effect that his words had dealt. "We can't delay the endgame any longer," he continued. "While the mortals have performed an admirable job of fending off #*@$&@#()*$, they won't last forever. One day, in the near future, entropy will reign supreme over Elatra."

Fames conjured his own image of multiple Titan's Fists striking city after city. "This was my way of hastening our agenda. If it had worked, there'd have been so much death, so much death, screaming and wailing and burning flesh..."

He let out a disappointed huff. "Most importantly, Titan's Fist would have been a startlingly efficient tool. Hundreds of thousands dead at minimum. That is what we need right now; to clear the board and collect its souls before the #*@$&@#()*$ encroaches too far."

"Yet you neglected to inform us in advance," Iram muttered.

"I saw an opportunity and took it. Kismet's obstinance would have bogged down my preparations."

Flip. Tink. Tails. "What you view as obstinance," Kismet replied, eyeing his coin, "is what I consider to be rudimentary discretion."

Fames shook his head. "In times past, I might have agreed with you, but the board has changed as of late. We no longer possess the luxury of discretion. Aside from the rampant hedonism of #*@$&@#()*$, the pieces themselves are starting to evolve beyond our expectations."

Kismet hesitated. That, in truth, was a fair point. One of the cardinal rules they'd implemented at the Beginning was that Elatra's system could not be substantially changed. The vast majority of Classes and Skills were predetermined, with just a small degree of improvisation allowed to account for edge cases. Additionally, once a mortal was born and integrated into the system, their soul was henceforward protected from direct alterations by the higher planes. These rules ensured that everyone was on an equal playing field, and all of Kismet's brethren had agreed to lock themselves out of the system to safeguard its integrity.

Which is why they'd been so shocked when some rare few Elatrans, independent of any external assistance, began to Awaken their Classes. It shouldn't have been possible. The system was a closed box, designed with immutable restrictions in mind. Something could not arise from nothing.

Except, apparently, when it did.

Awakened Classes threw the system's careful balancing entirely out of focus. With them, anything was possible. As just one example, Archmages would become so attuned with mana that many of them had discovered that the Humans and Fiends were artificial creations. And that was only the Awakened Classes; Rob's Sub-Class, Crystal Bearer, was an even greater anomaly than what were already unacceptable deviations.

Briefly, Kismet contemplated which evolution was more worrisome: Rob's Crystal Bearer, which granted him limited access to the system and Skills akin to miracles, or the Dragon Queen's Sun Aspect, which bestowed raw power unlike anything Elatra had ever known. While the two of them weren't close to threatening the denizens of the higher planes, Kismet couldn't help but wonder what would happen if either of those aberrations reached Level 99.

What awaited at the end of self-sustaining growth?

"Your concerns regarding the ongoing state of Elatra are valid," Kismet eventually proclaimed. "As such, your punishment has been deferred." Vivacity let out a disappointed 'awww', earning her a malicious stare from Fames. Ignoring them both, Kismet pressed on.

"From now on, you will discuss your plans before implementing them. This is non-negotiable. Additionally, we shall need to convene soon to discuss how we should proceed moving forward. Notify Malid and Odium of this once you depart from my domain."

Fames nodded, seeming mollified. He and Vivacity left shortly after. Iram attempted to follow them, but the portal he opened was slammed shut in an instant. Confused, he turned to look at Kismet, freezing when he spotted the ambient energy crackling like a localized thunderstorm.

"Iram," Kismet began, in a dangerously composed tone, his aura spreading. "You've been anxious as of late."

The coward flinched. "There is much to be anxious about."

"I suppose so." Kismet raised his hands, conjuring another floating image. If Iram was a creature of blood, it would have drained from his face when he saw what Kismet had produced. "Would your apprehension have anything to do with this?"

???

Prerequisites: Reach Level 99, ???

"It is a curious thing," Kismet continued, lifting Iram up with a pulse of energy. "I've witnessed Rob peruse his Character Sheet in the past, yet it was only recently that I was able to perceive this Skill." Iram struggled in vain as Kismet pulled him closer. "At first, I assumed that it was the work of Crystal Bearer. Just one more vexing anomaly to consider."

With a dispassionate expression, he constricted Iram's form and tightened. "But then I recalled that you were responsible for integrating Rob's soul into the system."

Iram's face fell, and Kismet knew that no further convincing would be necessary. He flipped his coin, asking his next question before it landed.

"Exactly what Skill did you give him?"

Chapter 37

One Day Later

"I must say," Diplomacy remarked, addressing Riardin's Rangers. "It's quite the novel experience to attend one of our strategy meetings in person. We can finally greet each other face-to-face." Their mouth widened into a broad smile. "I hope that, in due time, all of us can become good friends."

Rob winced internally as Diplomacy's greeting was met with a muted chorus of mumbled agreements from the rest of the Party. None of them seemed to know what to say. Zamira, Vul'to, and Faelynn were awkwardly averting their eyes, while in contrast, Orn'tol and Malika were openly staring at Diplomacy like an exotic zoo animal. Only Keira and Meyneth appeared composed, and even their gazes held an undercurrent of threat assessment.

On some level, Rob understood their reactions. His other Party members had been aware that Diplomacy was a living being with sapience, but there was a difference between the abstract concept of a person and seeing them in the flesh. It was probably dawning on them for the first time that Diplomacy really was more than just a helpful disembodied voice in Rob's head.

Combine that with the Sundering ripping out their personal access to Diplomacy, and Diplomacy's true form belonging to none of the races they were familiar with, and it meant that Riardin's Rangers weren't in the best state of mind to handle new developments.

Which was a problem, as Rob still hadn't told them about the whole Valaire thing yet.

Message Started Between Party Members: Rob, Diplomacy

Rob: Sorry for the lukewarm reception. You need any help?

Diplomacy: No, but thank you.

Diplomacy: This is within the expected parameters.

Coming from anyone else, it would've sounded ominous, but Rob trusted Diplomacy not to screw with his friends' minds. The former Skill looked at each of Riardin's Rangers in turn, examining their expressions. "I've got an idea of the questions you want to ask," Diplomacy began, "so don't restrain yourselves for my sake. I won't be offended, no matter how insensitive you might assume you're being."

Hesitantly, Orn'tol raised his hand. "Um. What are you?" He winced. "Sorry. Just, well, I activated Identify, and all it said was 'Redacted'. I've never heard that word before."

"Redacted means censored," Rob explained. "The system is hiding information about Diplomacy." Or, more accurately, Diplomacy wasn't supposed to exist in the first place. Valaire had been expunged from their original world, with their name itself sounding unintelligible to the average listener. Now the system was attempting to reconcile Valaire essentially resurrecting from the dead –  and it wasn't doing a super great job.

"All the relevant information is on my Character Sheet, though!" Diplomacy cheerfully added. "Alas, this body is hot off the presses, so I'm only Level 1. Anyone want to guess what my Class is?"

"Thrasher!" Malika exclaimed. Everyone turned to stare at her, and after a few seconds, her cheeks flooded with red. "I thought it would be too obvious if they were a Diplomat," she muttered.

Diplomacy sank into thought. "Honestly? While I am a Diplomat, changing Classes is a highly enticing prospect. It's not as if Diplomat offers me any boons that I don't already have just by being me. Let's see...out of the available Combat Classes...I think that Warrior would best suit my needs." They nodded. "That's a fine idea, Malika."

The young Archmage smiled. Keira glanced towards Malika, then back to Diplomacy, suspicion passing over her face. "You agreed to that very quickly," she stated. "People usually take far longer to choose their Class. It's an important decision that decides the path you will walk in life."

She spoke with much more confidence than Orn'tol or Malika. Keira had rarely used her personal Diplomacy before the Sundering, preferring to Intimidate when necessary, so she seemed to be handling the transition a bit better than most Elatrans.

"To be fair," Zamira said, speaking slowly and meticulously. "There is less of an investment now that Rob can Alter Classes. If Diplomacy dislikes being a Warrior, then they can choose an alternative without needing to restart their Class Levels from the beginning."

"Even so," Keira grumbled. "Why would you want to be a Warrior? In my experience, few people do, and society will deride you for your choice."

Diplomacy smirked. "I am not some Village Elf dead set on becoming a Ranger, Keira. The allure of striking things with a large object is universal. Several of you broke free of the shackles of what was expected of you, so why can't I?"

Keira, Zamira, and Vul'to paused, thinking carefully. Now it was Meyneth's turn to glance at them, her eyes narrowing. "This is unnatural," she abruptly declared.

Diplomacy paused. "What-"

"The others are too polite so say it," she continued, "or are worried about how to converse without their Diplomacy assisting them. Thus, it falls on me to give credence to the concern that is gnawing in the backs of all our minds."

Meyneth stared at Diplomacy with piercing, golden eyes. "This is unnatural," she repeated. "Your charisma is not of this world. I've never met a person who seems so organically constructed to charm others. Everything from your appearance, to your voice, to the words you speak are tailored to ingratiate yourself amongst our group."

The rest of the Party gaped at her in shock. Diplomacy simply nodded, taking a seat in front of Meyneth. "I won't deny anything you've just said," they replied. "Out of curiosity, though, would you please elaborate on what you meant?"

Meyneth held up her hand, raising fingers one-by-one as she listed off her points. "To start, your appearance is both perfectly androgynous and aesthetically appealing. No one will think of you as unsightly, and many people who are attracted to either males or females will derive at least some manner of appeal from your physical form. This affords you an inherent advantage in social situations, because – as Rob, Keira, and Zamira have proved – people often lower their inhibitions and transform into simpering buffoons around those whom they find attractive."

Rob placed his face into his hands. Heat Resistance is a waste of a Skill, he bemoaned. It didn't protect me from that burn at all.

"Your voice is perhaps an even greater factor," Meyneth continued, moving past the mental anguish she'd inflicted like a car zooming away after a hit-and-run. "It is, to be blunt, entrancingly beautiful, and your way of speaking possesses a rhythmic cadence. While people can be selective regarding who they view as physically attractive, they are more unified over what constitutes a pleasing voice. Yours will appeal to virtually everyone."

Diplomacy chuckled. "I would make a joke about your apparent attraction to me," they said, "but that doesn't seem to be the case here. I've rarely heard someone compliment a person to this degree while simultaneously sounding as if they were describing the weather."

"That brings me to my third point." Meyneth crossed her arms. "Your words themselves are efficiently chosen. As a result of the Sundering and your unfamiliar form, most of Riardin's Rangers entered this room feeling cautious. In the short time you've been speaking, you have eased our tension with humor, exploited Malika's immature nature by complimenting her idea, utilized Keira's obsession with her status as a Warrior to forge a connection with her, and cited 'breaking free of shackles' to a group which considers freedom to be a hard-fought prize."

"I'm not immature," Malika muttered, squirming with embarrassment. Meanwhile, Keira groaned, sending Meyneth an unimpressed glare.

"Twice? Really?" The Savage Warrior sighed. "Can't you choose someone else as an example next time?"

"I merely chose the clearest instances of Diplomacy's manipulation to prove my point."

"That doesn't make it any less of an insult."

Message Continued Between Party Members: Rob, Diplomacy

Rob: You sure you got this?

Diplomacy: Would you believe me if I said this was going better than anticipated?

Just then, Diplomacy held up a hand, interrupting Keira and Meyneth's bickering. "If I can make a guess as to the argument you were building to," they said, "you were about to say that I am too dangerous when given physical form and not locked inside Rob's head. And that the only reason your Party wasn't more suspicious of me from the get-go was due to him vouching for me. And that, if I was somehow a Trojan Horse sent by the gods, then I have the potential to tear apart Riardin's Rangers from within."

Diplomacy tapped their chin. "After that, you would've proposed isolating me for an extended period of time. A week, first, then longer if you were able to convince your fellows that sleeper agents are adept at playing the long game." They smiled. "How close am I?"

Meyneth hesitated. "Hmm. When I hear all of that presented by another person, it makes me sound as if I'm being entirely unreasonable towards you."

"That's because of my entrancing voice, remember?" Diplomacy's smile saddened, becoming almost wistful. "For what it's worth, I would be equally suspicious in your position. I don't begrudge you for wanting to keep your friends safe." They shook their head. "However, you've mixed up your assumptions. My form was not crafted by the gods to appeal to your sensibilities. In truth, I've always been this way."

Their eyes took on a faraway look. "It's part of why I was chosen, I suppose."

Riardin's Rangers went quiet for a few moments. "You never answered my question," Orn'tol said. "What are you?"

Diplomacy sighed. "I was building up to that, as it...won't be an easy story to tell." They gestured to Rob. "He'll need to assist with some parts."

Keira looked over, studying him. "...Shit. I know that look on Rob's face."

Rob furrowed his brow at her. "What look?"

"It's the face you get when you're about to turn someone's worldview on its head, and are trying to think of ways to soften the blow."

Faelynn let out a nervous laugh, stopping when she realized that no one else was interpreting Keira's statement as a joke. "Why is that a look you've seen often enough to recognize?"

"You're about to find out," Diplomacy replied, putting on a joyless grin. "I think that should serve as sufficient warning to brace yourselves." The former Skill waited several seconds, as if preparing themselves, before taking the plunge.

"Do any of you remember the name Valaire?"

--

As the rest of his Party learned about Valaire, Diplomacy's memories, and the true nature of Skills, Rob quickly became aware of another one of his blind spots as an Elatran expat. To him, the revelation of the Skills' origins hit hard solely because of the terrible fate it implied. He was rightfully horrified that people were being subjected to enslavement and torture by the gods.

For his friends, it went even deeper than that.

"I'm going to be sick," Keira murmured, shivering as she held herself. "I...fuck..." Her gaze snapped towards Rob. "You can't tell anyone of this," she hissed. "Anyone. Swear to me."

"Promise," he said, holding up his hands in a placating manner. "I wasn't planning to, anyway."

Keira nodded, then slumped into her chair, going silent. The rest of the Party said nothing, expressions of terrified revulsion displayed plainly on their faces, as if they'd witnessed a grisly murder take place right in front of their eyes. Finally, Vul'to spoke up, his voice weak and tenuous.

"I am tainted." He gingerly touched his fingers to his arms, then his chest. "Just wanted to protect people." Tears were forming in the corners of his eyes. "How can I possibly use my Skills from here on out? I should...I should deactivate everything. That's the only way to make it right."

All at once, Rob understood. While he possessed a certain measure of affection for longtime favorites like Lifesurge and Not A Scratch, he'd always considered Skills to be nothing more than tools to keep himself alive. Otherworldly tools, ripped straight from fantastical games on Earth, but tools nonetheless. When Rob had learned that his abilities originated from captured souls, he'd been horrified merely in the sense that he was viewing his tools in a new fucked-up light.

Native Elatrans, on the other hand, were born and raised with Skills. It was an intrinsic part of who they were. The types and Levels of the Skills a person had was what determined their place in the world. In Earth terms, Skills were the trained physique of an athlete, or the dexterous hand of a painter, or the sharp mind of an engineer.

Rob and Diplomacy had told Riardin's Rangers that the aspects that gave their lives meaning were powered by the tormented souls of dead people.

Message Continued Between Party Members: Rob, Diplomacy

Rob: Please fix this.

"Do not deactivate your Skills," Diplomacy said. "As a gesture, it will hold no meaning, only serving to guarantee your demise once the Blight comes calling."

"Then what else can I do?" Vul'to whispered, shaking his head vigorously. "I've been robbing souls of their talents, profiting off of their-"

"The Skills possess no ill will towards the people of Elatra," Diplomacy stated, with emphasis. "I remember little about the time I spent before Rob initially awakened me, but that much, I know. You are not at fault."

Keira barked out a mirthless laugh. "Does it matter whose fault it is? Vul'to was right. We're tainted all the same." She clenched her fists, bones creaking. Without warning, Keira whirled around and punched a hole in the wall, sending a marble cloud of dust flowing back through the air.

"Why must everything be so GODSDAMNED DIFFICULT?" She punched the wall again, causing the room to tremble. "FIRST MY HOME IS TAKEN FROM ME, THEN THE HORIZON, AND NOW MY SKILLS?" Punch. Tremble. "WHAT'S NEXT? WHAT OTHER SCANT FEW PLEASURES OF LIFE WILL BE DEFILED? MY SWORD? MY LOVE?"

Keira slammed both fists onto the wall, nearly toppling it inwards. "God damnit," she breathed, in a defeated tone. "What should I do to fix this?"

"You already are."

Riardin's Rangers turned to look at Diplomacy, who was eyeing Keira with an intense stare. "Using Skills won't worsen their plight. If you want to fix this, or make things right, then continue on your course, and set them free."

"But how?"

Diplomacy folded their hands together. "If you wish to free a slave-"

"Then kill their jailers," Zamira finished, her voice low and dripping with malice.

"Yes."

Dead silence.

"That's impossible," Meyneth said, at the same time that Rob said "I'm all for it." The two of them shared a glance, Rob shrugging at Meyneth's befuddled expression.

"It's probably impossible to kill them," he admitted. "But here's my counterpoint: fuck 'em. If it's impossible, let's just find a way to make it possible."

"I agree," Keira immediately said, her eyes alight with fury. "They deserve to die. Elatra would benefit from their absence."

Faelynn made a comical sputtering sound. "I am aware that the gods have sinned in many ways," she said, "but their culpability is not the issue here. How do you kill that which is immortal? And won't they punish us if we oppose them?"

"Oh, they've been trying," Rob said. He looked up, raising two middle fingers to the ceiling. "And I'm still kicking, assholes!"

From then on, the conversation rapidly descended into a flurry of raw emotion and suppositions. No one wanted the gods to live, yet no one could come up with an idea that didn't sound half-baked at best, suicidal at worst. To Rob's chagrin, he couldn't contribute much outside of proving that the gods weren't able to smite them at will – which boiled down to shouting obscenities at the ceiling, then gloating as nothing happened.

Eventually, their clamor was sliced in half by a loud, shrill whistle. "There we go," Diplomacy said, removing their fingers from their mouth. "Got your attention."

"You can whistle?" Orn'tol asked.

"That seems evident."

"...Can you teach me how?"

Diplomacy grinned. "Of course. For now, however, I recommend that we disperse and think about everything that we've discussed today. Don't think too hard, mind you – misery hides in the darkest corners of our minds. Your Party has suffered through many ordeals lately, so rest your wearied hearts and relax. You've certainly earned a peaceful respite."

They paused. "One more thing," Diplomacy began, in a solemn tone that was fit for a funeral. "I...am unsure of how much this will help. But as one who used to be a Skill, my assurances are the closest thing to absolution that you can receive. So please listen to me when I say that you are not to blame, and that the Skills would appreciate what you're doing for them."

Diplomacy bowed their head. "I appreciate what you've done for me. This second life I've been given is due in large part to your efforts. You have the deepest gratitude I can offer."

Their words had a calming effect on the rest of the Party. Everyone except Rob was still freaked the fuck out, but at least they weren't crying or punching holes in the wall anymore. One-by-one, they filed out of the room, Keira giving Diplomacy an approving nod as she left.

As the last person shut the door behind them, Rob watched as Diplomacy's posture shifted, their lips curling upwards into a gratified smile.

Message Continued Between Party Members: Rob, Diplomacy

Diplomacy: Told you they'd like me.

--

Later that day, after Riardin's Rangers had gone their separate ways to decompress, Rob made a visit.

He stood in front of the entrance to the Deserters' training grounds, hesitating. Faint sounds of battle echoed from within, notifying him that the people he was looking for were inside. A few steps around the corner, and he'd be with them. All he had to do was walk forward.

Ten seconds of inactivity later, Rob smacked himself on the forehead. This is ridiculous, he thought, groaning internally. I freaking nuked myself a week ago. One of these days I'll stop worrying myself to death over potentially awkward social situations. People grow out of this phase, right? Talking to them shouldn't even end up being a big deal.

In a roundabout way, the fact that it wasn't a big deal made things harder. Rob couldn't mentally psych himself up to fight a tough battle or negotiate with Elatran bigwigs. He was just going to have a friendly chat; nothing more, nothing less. If he screwed it up, the only consequences he'd incur would be to strain his relationship with two old acquaintances.

It was way too normal for his liking. Reminded him of the parts of college he didn't miss. And in this instance, there was no Jason or Diplomacy to smooth things over if Rob put his foot in his mouth.

Screw it. Putting on his big boy pants, Rob casually strode into the training grounds. Inside, Taleya and Tiarsus were sparring, the former with her dual Ranger swords and the latter with his Magic Swordsman blade.

It'd been weeks since Rob had last seen them, and the realization caused a spike of guilt to pierce through his gut. Taleya used to be one of his core Party members, while Tiarsus accompanied Riardin's Rangers on the mission to cleanse Nevermore City's Locus of Power. Since then, they'd just sort of...been lost amongst the shuffle. Neither of them were ever close friends with Rob or anything, but it still left a bad taste in his mouth.

They didn't notice him until he'd crossed half the field, both of them freezing in place as if they'd spotted a ghost. Smiling, Rob gave them a friendly wave. "Hey guys," he said, in a voice that was definitely not stilted. "How's it going?" Totally nailed that.

In response to his greeting, Taleya's eyebrows shot up to the top of her head. She sheathed her blades and stared at him, a frown settling onto her face. "The glorious savior of Fiend territory returns," she said. "Have you deigned to grace us with your presence today?"

Rob blinked. Her words, which seemed resentful and passive-aggressive, were completely at odds with her tone, which was casual. Actually casual, not Rob's inept attempt at it. Several moments passed, comprehension gradually spreading over Taleya's features.

"Was what I said just then uncalled for?" she asked. "That's a genuine question. Everything sounded normal in my head..." She trailed off, her frown deepening. "Damnation. This is so much more complicated than it was before."

"Diplomacy woes?" Rob hazarded.

Taleya let out a sigh, running her hand down her face. "You might find this surprising," she muttered, "but my Diplomacy was at Level 6. I leaned on it for many of my conversations. Living without it will require a period of adjustment."

Rob was impressed that he managed to keep a poker face upon hearing that. Taleya had basically always acted irritable, even when she was in a good mood. "Don't worry about it," he assured. "Not going to hold anything you say against you." Especially since her woes were partially his fault to begin with.

"Your thoughtfulness...is...welcome," Taleya replied, choosing each word carefully. "So. What brings you here, Rob? Is there a problem?"

"No. Just wanted to visit." He glanced at Tiarsus. "You okay, man? You've been quiet."

Tiarsus winced. "Nervous to speak," he said. Rob waited for him to continue, but Tiarsus clammed shut, as if afraid of what could come out of his mouth if he lost control.

In retrospect, Rob thought, losing Diplomacy may be a bigger problem for the Elatrans than I thought. He'd assumed that since Earth people were fine without magic guidance in their head, and that since the majority of Elatrans didn't have a particularly high Level in Diplomacy, that they'd be mostly fine as well. Aside from the trauma of the Sundering itself, anyway.

He'd neglected to account for Diplomacy being a crutch. Elatrans had never learned how to communicate without at least a bit of help from social Skills. It was like they'd been riding with training wheels for centuries, only for that wheel to be yanked off in the middle of a busy street. And considering how long Elatrans lived, their adjustment period might take decades.

Still worth it, he affirmed. Even with the pain that the Sundering had inflicted upon millions of people, and even with the isolated deaths caused by people falling unconscious in dangerous situations...Diplomacy was alive now. Truly, completely alive. Rob knew it was incredibly selfish for him to be happy with this outcome, but that's how he felt, and he wasn't going to beat himself up over a disaster that couldn't have been predicted. Especially if the alternative was leaving Diplomacy to rot.

Leaving Taleya and Tiarsus high and dry, however...that was kind of a dick move.

"Your thoughts are written on your face," Taleya said, snapping Rob out of his rumination. "This is about you abandoning us in favor of that new Fiend, isn't it?"

Rob grimaced. "I wouldn't say 'abandoned'."

"Yes, yes," Taleya remarked, dismissively waving her hand. "I'm sure you feel terrible about it." It was still jarring to hear those harsh words combined with her nonchalant tone. "If we're being truthful, however, that's what happened. I doubt that you're here to invite us back into Riardin's Rangers – you're here to assuage your guilt."

"I did miss you guys," Rob said, quietly.

"...You did?" Taleya asked, sounding genuinely baffled. "Why?"

Now it was Rob's turn to raise his eyebrows. "Why not?"

"Because my personality is akin to that of coarse sandpaper."

Rob smirked. "Actually, your snark was always kind of funny. Reminded me of a dickhead I knew from Earth, bless his soul. Plus, the two of you fought and bled with us. That's good enough for me."

Taleya and Tiarsus exchanged glances. "Um," Tiarsus whispered. "You do remember that I tried to kidnap you when we first met? Under the Seneschal's orders, no less."

"The Seneschal is our ally now." Rob took a moment to enjoy the shocked looks on their faces. "Congrats, you just got a sneak peek at next week's news cycle. We met Seneschal Sylpeiros in Dhalerune City. Things went pretty well, by our standards."

"When I last left Reviton City, Seneschal Sylpeiros despised you," Tiarsus stated.

Rob shrugged. "He did threaten my life once or twice, but, eh, whatever. My life gets threatened for breakfast."

Taleya burst out laughing. "What a perfect segue into what I wanted to address," she said. "Rob, you needn't concern yourself with abandoning us. Perhaps we might have felt betrayed under different circumstances, but to speak candidly, Tiarsus and I already discussed this topic. Neither of us want to rejoin your Party."

Rob paused. He cast Identify on Taleya, confirming that her Level was 39, the same as it'd been months ago. Fiend territory had a lower-than-average frequency of monster and dungeon spawns, so there wouldn't be many opportunities for her to get stronger in the future. "Really?" he asked.

"I won't deny that sharing Fast Learner was a phenomenal feeling," she admitted. "Slaying a strong monster and watching my Level increase? Then slaying a second monster and watching it increase again? I've only ever felt that satisfied after a round of fantastic sex."

"Too much information, Taleya."

"Apologies," she replied, in a blatantly insincere tone. "Regardless, once the thrill of unchecked growth wore off, I came to realize how close to death I'd come on numerous occasions. Rob, whether you fully comprehend this or not, you speak of your life being threatened as if it were a matter of course." Taleya's posture went rigid. "The frightening part is that you're correct. It's simply the life you live. And everyone in your Party will walk that same path."

She lifted her hand and stared at it, the light in her eyes dimming for a brief moment. "It was exhausting," she mumbled. "Gods, that Dungeon Crawl with the Dreamthieves alone...I can't go back to that. Not for all the Levels in the world."

Rob was left stunned, his mouth wide open. He looked at Tiarsus, who offered him a weak smile. "Agreed," the Magic Swordsman whispered. "What I experienced in Nevermore City was enough for me."

"Oh." Rob shuffled in place, unable to pin down how he should feel about that. "Thanks for the honesty, I guess."

"No thanks necessary," Taleya said. "You granted us an opportunity, and we both made use of each others' talents. It would have been entirely reasonable for you to throw us aside once our usefulness was expended."

"You more or less said that I did," he remarked, with a hint of bitterness.

She shook her head. "That's the lack of Diplomacy rearing its head. In actuality, seeing you again has been a pleasant surprise. It's gratifying that a Level 67 Combat Class user considers us noteworthy enough to visit."

Rob sighed. "Please don't start with that. I don't want any bootlickers in my life."

"You've signed hundreds of autographs," Tiarsus pointed out, sounding slightly more confident.

"There's a difference between fans and bootlickers," Rob explained, as if it were obvious. "Fans are people who admire you from a distance. You don't spend longer than a few minutes with them at a time, so it's okay. Kinda fun in small doses. Bootlickers are people in your life who act like your friends, but just exist to say 'yes, of course, you're the greatest' while never offering you their real opinions." His mouth twisted with disgust. "Those aren't friends – those are parasites."

Taleya narrowed her eyes at him. "So you truly do want me to speak my mind?"

"Yes!" Rob threw his hands up in the air. "I'm not going to get upset at a little snark."

"Then allow me to state that your hair looks like a disheveled raccoon's nest. When was your last visit to an Aesthetician?"

"Fuck you, I've been busy!"

The two of them kept bantering for a solid half-hour, Tiarsus interjecting every now and then. Rob found himself grinning more often than not, relaxing as Taleya and Tiarsus grew increasingly comfortable with his openness. I wish Parties could go above eight people, he imagined. I know both of them said they were done, but the option would be nice. We could've beaten up a harmless baby Dungeon, just for old time's sake.

Overall though, things were probably better this way. Faelynn was realistically going to stay as their eighth Party member for the indefinite future. Riardin's Rangers liked her, fought well with her, and already thought of her as a friend. It helped that her presence in the Party served to mollify the Grand Overseers' paranoia, as they knew that their race's liaison was treated well and given equal billing. Vevrandi would likely have fulfilled a similar role for...the Dwarves...if...

...

Vevrandi.

Someday, Rob acknowledged, I'm going to need to confront the fact that I killed her.

...

Not today, though.

"You've gone silent," Taleya said, concern entering her tone. "Is something amiss?"

Yes. "No," Rob denied. "I-"

Damage Processing Complete!

He froze. "I'll be right back," Rob blurted out. "Got an important Message from the Party." Before Taleya or Tiarsus could say anything, he hurried out of the training grounds, system messages cascading down his vision.

12,957,213 Damage Has Recently Been Nullified by 'Not A Scratch'!

Hidden Prerequisite Unlocked!

'Not A Scratch' Has Morphed Into 'Unyielding (RARE)'!

Hidden Prerequisite Unlocked!

'Unyielding (RARE)' Has Morphed Into 'Dauntless Reprisal (LEGENDARY)'!

Rob ducked into a secluded area, trying to make sense of the disjointed emotions whirling in his mind. Two days ago, a Skill morphing into its upgraded version would have been cause for celebration. Now? He couldn't stop thinking about what it meant for the Skill itself – or rather, the person who was the Skill. Did upgrading hurt? Was it unpleasant? Unnatural? There was no way to know without asking the Skills directly, which had only ever been possible during Locus Attunements or Titan's Fist tearing a hole in reality.

It's fine, he eventually told himself. This is a good thing. Having stronger Skills means that I'm closer to saving them. With no small amount of trepidation, Rob opened his Skill sheet and read Dauntless Reprisal's revised description.

Name: Dauntless Reprisal (LV 16) (LEGENDARY)

Prerequisite: Vitality 150, take damage from enemies at least 180 different times, nullify over one million damage in the span of one week.

Description: Outright ignore the damage of a single attack from a single enemy. Physics still apply. If the user chooses, they can also heal HP based on the total nullified damage. Additionally, if the user chooses, they can reflect an equivalent amount of force back at whoever or whatever dealt the attack. Thank you for recognizing that we are here.

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

His eyes lingered on the Description's last sentence. Rob read it five more times before he finally closed his Skill List. He drew in a wavering breath, his throat feeling tight.

"I promise," he said, to whoever was listening. "I'm coming for you. Just wait a bit longer."

He'd sworn the same oath when the Skills upgraded Purge Corruption, but back then it was nebulous, directed at beings he didn't remotely understand. Now, though, it felt more personal. Unintentionally or otherwise, they'd made him care.

And Rob would walk through hell for those he cared about.

--

Changes

Upgrade: Not A Scratch → Dauntless Reprisal

Character Sheet and Skills At The End of Chapter 37

Author's Note: Reading this segment is OPTIONAL. It isn't at all required to understand the story – it's simply for those LitRPG fans who enjoy sinking their teeth into stats and skills. For those uninterested in the LitRPG elements, or those who simply don't feel like going over Rob's progress right now, feel free to skip this and move on to Chapter 38.

In the interest of not getting penalized by Amazon for having too many pages of descriptions that many people will skip, the detailed descriptions for some Skills unlikely to be relevant in the near future – such as Foraging and Mathematics – won't be included.

--

Character Sheet

Name: Rob

Level: 67

Race: Human

Class: BERSERKER (LV 64)

Sub-Class: Crystal Bearer (LV 6)

HP: 1550 / 1550

Stamina: 310 / 360

MP: 550 / 550

Status Effects: Leveling High (Moderate), Melancholia (Advanced), Determined (Advanced)

Strength: 60

Vitality: 155

Endurance: 36

Dexterity: 75

Perception: 40

Mind: 29

Magic: 55

Unspent Points: 10

Class Skills:

Berserker Rank 1 – Lifesteal+

Berserker Rank 2 – Battle Fever+

Berserker Rank 3 – Blood for Blood+

Berserker Rank 4 – Rampage+

Berserker Rank 5 – Enmity+

Berserker Rank 6 – Flames of Vengeance+

Crystal Bearer Rank 1 – Spatial Storage

Crystal Bearer Rank 2 – Class Alteration

Crystal Bearer Rank 3 – Waymark

Crystal Bearer Rank 4 – Awaken Class

Crystal Bearer Rank 5 – Message

Crystal Bearer Rank 6 – Bind Item

Crystal Bearer Rank ??? – Attunement

Crystal Bearer Rank ??? – Purge Corruption

Bound Items:

Half-Broken Dwarven Shortsword

EXP Share (Amulet of Allocation)

Ruined Ranger Trainee’s Garb

Crate of Firebombs

Distorted Dwarven Sheet Metal

Active Skills:

Strength – Bulk Up (LV 9), Power Slash (LV 8)

Vitality – Do Not Go Gently (LV 5) (RARE), Lifesurge (LV 18), Dauntless Reprisal (LV 16) (LEGENDARY), Imbue Vitality (LV 2)

Endurance – Second Wind (LV 2)

Dexterity – Stealth (LV 3), Step of the Wind (LV 12)

Perception – N/A

Mind – Identify (LV 2), Recall (LV 1), Quick Thinking (LV 4), Auto-Translate (Elvish Writing), Auto-Translate (Elvish Speech), Auto-Translate (Fiendish Speech)

Magic – N/A

Passive Skills:

Human Racial Bonus – Fast Learner

Strength – Climbing (LV 2), Brawling (LV 4), Grappling (LV 4)

Vitality – Regeneration (LV 23), Tough Skin (LV 7), Poison Resistance (LV 8), Disease Resistance (LV 3), Platelet Party (LV 17), Vitamin D(efense) (LV 10), Regrow Self (LV 1), Reflective Skin (LV 1), Heat Resistance (LV 10), Push Through (LV 5), Brain Damage Resistance (LV 2), Radiation Flush (LV 1) (RARE)

Endurance – Deep Breathing (LV 2)

Dexterity – Swordsmanship (LV 8), Fleet of Foot (LV 5), Dagger Proficiency (LV 6)

Perception – Foraging (LV 4), Hunting (LV 5), Heightened Senses (LV 3), Analyze Weakness (LV 2)

Mind – Speed Reading (LV 3), Arachnophobia (LV 3) (RARE), Mathematics (LV 4), Leadership (LV 8), Headsman (LV 4) (RARE), Deception (LV 5), Sense Mana (LV 1), Mind Resistance (LV 4), Throwing Proficiency (LV 5),  Pyromania (LV 2) (RARE), Almighty Resistance (LV 2) ($^$#), Intimidation (LV 1), Bone Breaker (LV 1) (RARE), Diplomacy (LV 19), Seduction (LV 2) (DEACTIVATED), Melancholy Resistance (LV 5) (RARE) (DEACTIVATED), ???

Magic – N/A

–

Class Skills

Berserker Rank 1 Ability: Lifesteal (Passive)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 3

Description: Heal yourself for 50% of any damage dealt to a living creature. Normal plants like trees and grass don’t count. No loopholes.

Berserker Rank 2 Ability: Battle Fever (Passive)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 7

Description: For every 30 seconds spent in battle, increase all of your stats by 1. Bonus caps at +15 for each stat. The effect ends after a minute of not being in a combat scenario.

Berserker Rank 3 Ability: Blood for Blood (Passive)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 10

Description: Your damage dealt increases by 1% for each 1% of your missing Max HP. Bonus caps at 99%.

Berserker Rank 4 Ability: Rampage (Active)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 13

Description: Quickly rocket straight forward. Your next attack has highly increased damage. If the user chooses, a moderately-sized explosion centered around them will appear at the end of their dash. The user will not be damaged by this explosion. Costs 50 MP.

Berserker Rank 5 Ability: Enmity (Active)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 25

Description: Draw the attention of a single enemy. For the next 30 seconds, they will become temporarily enraged and focus their attacks on you. If the user chooses, an afflicted enemy will take continuous major psychic damage until the Skill's effect ends. This effect can be nullified or partially resisted by a high Mind stat. Your damage against an enemy that does not nullify Enmity increases by 25%. Costs 50 MP to use. Five minute cooldown.

Berserker Rank 6 Ability: Flames of Vengeance (Active)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 40. Additionally, at least one person must sacrifice their life for the sole purpose of saving yours, and in a situation that was preventable were it not for your hubris.

Description: Surrounds your body in nonelemental ‘fire’ that deals intense, searing damage to all other living beings in close proximity. If the user chooses, wounds inflicted by this Skill cannot be healed by natural or magical means for one week. Consumes health equal to 1% of max HP for every second that the Skill is active. Can be toggled at will. No cooldown.

Crystal Bearer Tier 1 Ability: Spatial Storage

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 1

Description: Can put inanimate items in touch range into a dimensional storage. Items in storage can be produced at will. Limit of 50 pounds or 125 cubic feet of storage per person. Maximum of 50 people using storage allowed. Maximum of 100 total items in storage allowed.

Crystal Bearer Tier 1 Ability: Class Alteration

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 1

Description: Allows you to change the Class of yourself or others if given permission. In addition, you can transfer the gained Class Levels of one Class into another. Each function can be used once per day.

Crystal Bearer Tier 1 Ability: Waymark

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 1

Description: Grants you the ability to put two invisible, undetectable Marks on surfaces. When standing next to one Mark, if the Skill is activated, the user and every member of his Party will be teleported to the other Mark. Limit two Marks per 24 hours, and one teleport per 24 hours.

Crystal Bearer Tier 2 Ability: Awaken Class

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 4

Description: Changes a person's Class to its Awakened form, providing upgrades to its Class Skills, as well as additional stat points to allocate as the beneficent wishes. These upgrades will be strictly beneficial in the vast majority of scenarios, excepting rare edge cases. The Awakening must be agreed upon by both this Skill's user and its effect's recipient. Once a person has Awakened their Class, that Class becomes tied to their soul, and they will be restricted from changing or Altering that Class from then on. This Skill can be used once per day, for a total of eight times per year.  Cannot be used on Crystal Bearer.

Crystal Bearer Tier 2 Ability: Message

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 4

Description: Allows you to send system Messages to members of your Party. The content of each Message is formed by mental dictation. Message recipients can reply using the same method. Recipients can ignore Messages and block further incoming messages as they wish. All Messages in a person's log will be inaccessible once they leave the original sender's Party. Those Messages will be restored once they rejoin a Party made by the original sender.

Crystal Bearer Tier 2 Ability: Bind Item

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 4

Description: Grants you the ability to Bind inanimate objects to your soul. The methodology of what constitutes an 'object' is the same as Spatial Storage. Bound Items can be hidden or summoned at the user's discretion. There is no range limit to how far away an item can be summoned from. They can also be re-formed by the user with no penalty, even when destroyed. Items can be re-formed once every three seconds. Duplicates of the same Bound Item cannot exist. Limit of 20 pounds and 216 cubic feet per item. Limit of five Bound Items per person. Once an item has been Bound, it cannot be un-Bound for one year.

Crystal Bearer Tier 3 Ability: Attunement (MAX)

Prerequisite: Attune to a Locus of Power

Description: Grants you the ability to Attune to Loci of Power. Each Attunement will advance this Skill to greater heights. Attune to a sufficient number of Loci, and you may be able to (*#(!)@)#$&#)!

1 Attunement: Take 50% less damage when Attuning to a Locus of Power.

2 Attunements: Take an additional 50% less damage when Attuning to a Locus of Power, totaling 100%. Can sense nearby Corruption.

3 Attunements: Corruption sense refined. Can sense Loci of Power from twice as far away.

4 Attunements: Barren Locus of Power constructed within the user. Can sense Loci of Power from twice as far away.

5 Attunements: Purge Corruption learned. Can sense Loci of Power from eight times as far away.

6 Attunements: Purge Corruption energy stores tripled. Can sense Loci of Power from twice as far away.

7 Attunements: Purge Corruption energy stores tripled. Can sense Loci of Power from twice as far away.

8 Attunements: Purge Corruption energy stores tripled. Can sense Loci of Power from twice as far away.

9 Attunements: Purge Corruption energy stores tripled. Grants the user the ability to restore a Corrupted Locus of Power. Can be used once per week. Requires at least 75% of your maximum Purge Corruption energy stores to succeed.

Crystal Bearer Tier 3 Ability: Purge Corruption (LV 5) (MAX)

Prerequisite: Attune to twelve nine Loci of Power.

Description: Grants you the ability to remove a significant amount of Corruption from yourself or others. Drains after being used. Fully recharges over the course of 24 hours.

Active Skills

Name: Bulk Up (LV 9)

Prerequisite: Strength 60, devote a significant portion of time to training your muscles.

Description: Increases Strength by +13 for 30 seconds.

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

Name: Power Slash (LV 8)

Prerequisite: Strength 60, hit thirty worthwhile enemies with a full-strength attack while wielding a shortsword or longsword.

Description: Damage of next melee sword attack is increased by 40%.

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

Name: Do Not Go Gently (LV 5) (RARE)

Prerequisites: Vitality 150, go through three near-death experiences, and exhibit the unyielding will to survive.

Description: When HP falls below 25%, double Vitality and double the effectiveness of all defense and Vitality-based skills, with the exception of Lifesurge.

Duration: 2 Minutes

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

Name: Lifesurge (LV 18)

Prerequisite: Vitality 150, fall below 5% of your Max HP at least once.

Description: Rapidly restores 75% of your Max HP.

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

Name: Dauntless Reprisal (LV 16) (LEGENDARY)

Prerequisite: Vitality 150, take damage from enemies at least 180 different times, nullify over one million damage in the span of one week.

Description: Outright ignore the damage of a single attack from a single enemy. Physics still apply. If the user chooses, they can also heal HP based on the total nullified damage. Additionally, if the user chooses, they can reflect an equivalent amount of force back at whoever or whatever dealt the attack. Thank you for recognizing our existence.

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

Name: Imbue Vitality (LV 2)

Prerequisite: Vitality 150

Description: The best defense is a good offense. Sacrifice 10% of your max HP to empower your next weapon strike, fist strike, or offensive spell, causing its damage to be quadrupled.

Cooldown: 30 Seconds

Name: Step of the Wind (LV 12)

Prerequisite: Dexterity 75, devote a significant amount of time to running and moving quickly.

Description: Increases Dexterity by +16 for 30 seconds.

Cooldown: 5 Minutes

Name: Identify (LV 2)

Prerequisites: Mind 15, spend at least one year of your life specifically seeking out new knowledge.

Description: Imparts knowledge of the scanned object to the user.

Cooldown: N/A

Name: Recall (LV 1)

Prerequisites: Mind 15

Description: Activate to permanently remember any written or spoken words read/heard by the user within the last five minutes. Words committed to memory through Recall can be forgotten at-will at any time. Max 200 words stored.

Cooldown: 1 Hour

Name: Quick Thinking (LV 4)

Prerequisite: Mind 40

Description: Slightly improves your speed of thought. Drains 3 Stamina per second while active. Mentally taxing when used for too long.

Name: Auto-Translate (Elvish Writing)

Prerequisite: 30 Mind, read at least 30 worthwhile books, spend some time learning the Elvish language.

Description: Automatically translates any Elvish writing you read into English.

Name: Auto-Translate (Elvish Speech)

Prerequisite: 30 Mind, listen to at least several hundred hours of conversation in Elvish, and spend a moderate amount of time trying to understand it.

Description: Automatically translates any Elvish speech you hear into English.

Name: Auto-Translate (Fiendish Speech)

Prerequisite: 30 Mind, listen to at least several hundred hours of conversation in Fiendish, and spend a moderate amount of time trying to understand it.

Description: Automatically translates any Fiendish speech you hear into English.

Passive Skills

Name: Grappling (LV 4)

Prerequisite: Strength 30, grapple at least four worthwhile enemies.

Description: Hold on tight! Slightly increases your grip strength and your ability to put people in holds.

Name: Regeneration (LV 23)

Prerequisite: Vitality 155

Description: Heals 230% of Max HP every hour, equal to 100% of Max HP every 26 minutes, or 3.83% of Max HP every minute.

Name: Tough Skin (LV 7)

Prerequisite: Vitality 120, take grievous physical damage at least seven times.

Description: Reduces physical damage incurred by 40%.

Name: Poison Resistance (LV 8)

Prerequisite: Vitality 60, endure prolonged poison damage on numerous occasions.

Description: Gain resistance to the damage caused by foreign, damaging substances in your body.

Name: Platelet Party (LV 17)

Prerequisite: Vitality 115, receive Bleeding (Moderate) on at least 60 different occasions.

Description: Your external and internal bleeding will fix itself significantly faster. The sources of the bleeding (such as a cut or a wound) will heal at the same rate as before.

Name: Vitamin D(efense) (LV 10)

Prerequisite: Vitality 85, break bones on at least thirty-five different occasions.

Description: Your bones are much more durable and will heal slightly faster.

Name: Regrow Self (LV 1)

Prerequisite: Vitality 150, lose at least ten appendages, and survive decapitation.

Description: Some things in life cost an arm and a leg, but at least you can get a refund – which is good, because you've certainly paid that price on many occasions. Regrow any lost limbs or organs over a period of 10 minutes. If decapitated, regrow your entire torso over a period of 30 minutes, assuming you live that long. While decapitated, your rate of blood loss and brain failure will be significantly reduced.

Name: Reflective Skin (LV 1)

Prerequisite: Vitality 20, take grievous magical damage at least once.

Description: Reduces magical damage incurred by 10%.

Name: Heat Resistance (LV 10)

Prerequisite: Vitality 130, take massive heat or fire damage from a nonmagical source at least fifteen times.

Description: Looks like today’s gonna be another scorcher! Reduces heat or fire-related damage by 50%, whether from magical or nonmagical means.

Name: Push Through (LV 5)

Prerequisite: Vitality 50, receive at least 24 moderate injuries, experience large amounts of pain in a short period of time.

Description: Reduces the pain felt by your body by 50%.

Name: Brain Damage Resistance (LV 2)

Prerequisite: Vitality 90, receive significant blunt force trauma directly to the surface of your brain matter at least twice.

Description: If you've gained this Skill, the Prerequisite has likely left you dead or on death's door, meaning that you're unlikely to ever read this description. What a shame. For those of you who've somehow survived their impromptu lobotomy, rejoice, as this Skill reduces damage directly done to your brain – from all sources – by 60%.

Name: Radiation Flush (LV 1) (RARE)

Prerequisite: Vitality 100, Radiation Resistance Level 5, Regeneration Level 10

Description: Significantly reduces the buildup rate of harmful radiation in your body when exposed. Additionally, a portion of the harmful radiation within your body will be cleansed over time, starting at 1% and incrementing by an additional 1% every 5 minutes until your radiation is at a baseline human standard.

Name: Deep Breathing (LV 2)

Prerequisite: Endurance 20, breathe heavily numerous times in a one-week period.

Description: Air is life. Every deep breath or two normal breaths you take restores 1.5 Stamina.

Name: Swordsmanship (LV 8)

Prerequisite: Dexterity 40, spend at least two weeks wielding a sword, and defeat at least three worthwhile opponents while using a sword.

Description: Become more proficient with sharp-edged, bladed weapons with the shape and weight of a sword.

Name: Fleet of Foot (LV 5)

Prerequisite: 35 Endurance, 35 Dexterity, spend a moderate amount of time running for an extended period.

Description: Adds 10 functional Dexterity to your running speed when running for longer than 30 seconds.

Name: Heightened Senses (LV 3)

Prerequisite: Perception 30

Description: Your senses of sight, sound, smell, taste, touch, and balance are all slightly improved.

Name: Analyze Weakness (LV 2)

Prerequisite: Perception 40, Identify 2

Description: When Identifying an enemy, has a moderate chance of revealing a minor weakness.

Name: Arachnophobia (LV 3) (RARE)

Prerequisite: Kill at least 50 worthwhile insects, bugs, and arachnids, and experience a moment of intense loathing towards spiders.

Description: You hate all creepy crawlies, but you hate spiders the most. Deal 50% extra damage to things that skitter and an additional 300% extra damage against spiders.

Name: Leadership (LV 8)

Prerequisite: Mind 60, exhibit strong leadership in at least eight tense situations.

Description: Slightly strengthens your ability to exhibit strong leadership and inspire people.

Name: Headsman (LV 4) (RARE)

Prerequisite: Kill nine major enemies with head strikes or decapitations in a relatively short period of time.

Description: You’re a walking, talking, guillotine. Gain 25% damage when attacking an enemy’s head or neck area.

Name: Sense Mana (LV 1)

Prerequisite: Mind 30, Magic 20, spent a moderate amount of time trying to sense mana through study and concentration.

Description: Gain the ability to sense ambient mana, one of the fundamental building blocks of the world. Is a general prerequisite for being able to cast spells.

Name: Mind Resistance (LV 4)

Prerequisite: Mind 30, suffer under the effects of strong magic related to illusions, hypnosis, mind attacks, brainwashing, or mind control for an extended period of time.

Description: Your mind is a temple – just make sure you install a good security system. Increases resistance to magic effects related to illusions, hypnosis, mind attacks, brainwashing, or mind control. Resistance scales with your Mind stat.

Name: Throwing Proficiency (LV 5)

Prerequisite: Defeat or heavily injure at least nine worthwhile opponents using throwing implements. Improvised implements count.

Description: Been practicing your fastball? Apparently, the answer is yes. Slightly increases your aim when throwing shit at shit. Damage incurred by hitting an enemy with a thrown weapon or object is increased by 25%.

Name: Pyromania (LV 2) (RARE)

Prerequisite: Deal extreme amounts of damage to enemies and/or terrain using fire without casting spells. Express a deep-seated and borderline unhealthy interest in fire.

Description: Acquiring this Skill automatically puts you on a special FBI watch list. Deal 30% extra damage when using fire that isn’t cast from spells. This fire also burns 30% hotter and spreads 30% faster.

Name: Almighty Resistance (LV 2) ($^$#)

Prerequisite: //

Description: \\

Name: Intimidation (LV 1)

Prerequisite: 20 Mind, browbeat someone using verbal or visual means into performing an action that they don’t want to do.

Description: Sometimes, it’s good to speak softly and carry a big stick. Other times, it’s better to promise violence and aim a bazooka at whoever dares to cross you. Become more proficient in the art of aggressive negotiation.

Name: Bone Breaker (LV 1) (RARE)

Prerequisite: Break over five hundred enemy bones within a short period.

Description: Damage dealt to enemies' bone structure is doubled. The kind of Skill generally reserved for battle-crazed sadists, but you just so happened to wander into a skeleton factory, so enjoy the freebie.

Name: Diplomacy (LV //)

Prerequisite: -------------------

Description: ERROR: NULL

Name: Melancholy Resistance (LV5) (RARE) (DEACTIVATED)

Prerequisite: Experience a deep-seated, soul-crushing sadness. Five times.

Description: Allows you to get back on your feet more quickly.

???

Prerequisites: Reach Level 99, ???

Chapter 38

Another Day Later

Duran let his eyelids fall and huddled into his chair, the torpor of sleep beginning to take hold. It was almost decadently comfortable, like being nestled on soft clouds. To the Overseers' credit, they'd provided him with the finest finery in the land, each item fit for a Leader.

He held no illusions that they'd done so for any reason other than to ingratiate themselves, but he wasn't so prideful as to reject free gifts that were appropriately given.

Unfortunately, there was one nagging detail attempting to spoil his leisure. While it felt wonderful to ease his wearied bones, Duran couldn't help but feel a mite disappointed at how often he needed to rest as of late. Part of that was due to age, but his body had been significantly heartier then this a mere nine months ago. In actuality, the bulk of his health's degradation stemmed from the weeks where he'd been severely infected with Corruption, a hairsbreadth away from death.

If only he'd recognized the Blighted Lands in the distance for what they were. If only he'd moved faster. If only...

With a sigh, Duran dispelled his wayward thoughts. Nothing for it. My health won't get any better from here on out, and bemoaning reality won't change its course. There are still things I can accomplish to assist our cause – that is what I should concentrate my efforts on.

Placated by that notion, he allowed himself to drift off into tranquil slumber.

Some time later, Duran awoke with a start, his Heightened Senses catching a subtle noise at the end of the room. Alessia stood there with a chagrined expression, halfway outside of his doorway. "Apologies," she said. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"No harm done," Duran answered, with a genial smile. "I was intending to get up soon, anyhow. To what purpose do I owe this pleasure?"

He didn't miss the glint of concern in her eyes. "I simply came to check on you. How are you faring?"

"As well as I can be. And you?"

The corners of her lips twitched upward. "As well as I can be."

Duran chuckled. "Of course." Few people would have rebounded so swiftly from an encounter with the Blight, and from subsequent torture by a deranged Leader, but Alessia was the bravest soul he knew. "What of Riardin's Rangers?"

"They are utilizing this rare period of calm to recuperate." Alessia's features softened. "It's well-deserved, I'd say."

That it is, Duran agreed, wholeheartedly. Rest well, young ones. Whatever form your repose is taking, I hope that you are enjoying it to the fullest.

--

"...and that's when it's revealed that Frederick hadn't been sleeping with Margaret," Rob explained. "It was actually her secret twin sister Stacey the whole time. She'd come back from faking her death to ruin Margaret's life out of revenge for being cut from the family inheritance."

From next to him on their bed, Keira stared at him with a blank expression. "I will likely regret asking this," she said, "but what happened afterwards?"

"Well, the incident obviously causes friction between Frederick and Margaret. Over the course of Season 4, they start to reconcile, and Stacey can't handle it. So she hires an assassin to-"

"One moment," Keira interrupted. "Why would Margaret reconcile with Frederick? He was unfaithful to her."

Rob shook his head. "Only because Stacey is Margaret's identical twin, and he couldn't tell the difference. Plus, there was that time that Margaret got drunk and made out with Domingo, so it kind of evens out."

Keira opened, then closed her mouth. "And you enjoy this show?"

"Tons of people do!" Rob beamed. "I mean, Season 1 through 4 are admittedly pretty bad. Borderline unwatchable. But once you get past the first fifty episodes and reach Season 5, that's when stuff starts to get really good. Everything is tied together, and the show makes sure to reward longtime fans for paying attention. People went nuts when it turned out that Frederick's peanut allergy introduced in Season 1 Episode 2 ended up being a vital plot point."

"Fifty episodes?" Keira parroted, with mild awe. "How long is an 'episode'?"

"About an hour."

Her blank stare returned. "...At least the later parts were acceptable."

Rob raised his hand and wiggled it in an 'eeeeh' motion. "Season 5 was great, and the first half of Season 6 was as well, but then it goes totally off the rails when they introduce the other secret hidden family. All the screen time goes to them, and things get even weirder than usual. Someone on the writing staff must have had a little too much sway. I'm excited for Season 7, though – now that it's been confirmed that Margaret is a supersoldier clone created by the government, we might finally find out who the shadowy figure that killed Domingo in Season 3 was."

Keira frowned, sinking into deep contemplation. "I'm absolutely certain that I would detest this show with every fiber of my being," she said. "So why do I feel so compelled to experience it?"

Rob grinned. "Welcome to the world of trash TV. Jason always gave me shit for loving it, but he has no place to talk. I've seen his Netflix history."

As Keira looked at him with poorly-hidden amusement, Rob felt some of the tension wrapped around his chest beginning to loosen. I needed this, he thought, letting himself fully savor the moment. Just me, the woman I love, and us bonding over silly things that don't matter.

The sex hadn't hurt either. Rob glanced at their clothes strewn about the room, wondering how they'd ever survived a two week drought.

"It's a shame that I don't have as many colorful stories to share as you do," Keira lamented. "Compared to Earth, my world seems to be sorely lacking in tales of melodrama to entertain ourselves with."

"Things will change once we clear out the Blight and kick the gods to the curb," Rob said. "A society that needs to focus its efforts on surviving has less time to produce entertainment media. Don't worry, you'll get your melodrama soon."

Keira tapped her chin. "You know, after we've accomplished all our goals, you should write a story. A novel penned by Roy the Savior would sell out within the week in Fiend territory."

Rob laughed. "Probably, but I've never been much of an artistic type. They'd be buying crap."

She shrugged. "Then copy one of the popular stories from Earth. To people here, it will be as if it was brand new."

"I'm not going to plagiarize. I have standards."

"Fair enough. I merely thought it would be a quick way to line our coffers. We can't subsist off of the Fiends' military budget forever."

Rob hesitated, once again confronted with the strange reality that he was flat broke. "Realistically speaking, the Grand Overseers will grant us some land and a monthly stipend for our services."

"But wouldn't that feel wrong?" Keira said. "I have no desire to live in indolence for the rest of my days. The guilt would gnaw at me, and more importantly, I'd be driven insane with boredom in less than a year."

Rob wasn't sure if he agreed with that. Living in indolence seemed like a pretty sweet gig to him. Then again, there'd barely been any time to relax since coming to Elatra, so he was biased towards anything that might let him sleep peacefully at night. The future would be different; Keira was probably right that he'd get bored after years of lounging.

"Let's say that we find ways to make some money," he replied. "What's next? We buy houses for ourselves?"

"Houses, clothes, amenities, extra swords," Keira rattled off. "I institute my boxing tournaments, you pursue whatever passions your heart desires, and we see where life takes us from there."

Rob smiled and moved closer to her. "That sounds nice."

Keira smiled back and snuggled into his chest, letting out a contented sigh. "It truly does."

They stayed like that for a time, serenaded by blissful silence, taking solace in each other's warmth. Occasionally, an idea would pop into one of their heads, and they'd chat about it until the conversation was exhausted, before returning to their quiet rest.

Rob made sure to commit it all to memory. He didn't get moments like these often, so every one of them was a treasure.

Eventually, however, he noticed that Keira was getting increasingly distracted. There were no obvious tells; her posture was relaxed, and her face was peaceful. But he could just sense that something was bugging her. "What's wrong?" he asked, reluctantly breaking their silence.

Keira blinked. "What? Oh, nothing's wrong."

He stared at her until she gave in. "I don't want to ruin our time together," she said, sounding frustrated. "We're happy right now."

"Keira, it's not a chore for me to help my beautiful girlfriend feel better." He offered her a comforting smile. "That's just what couples do for each other."

She smirked, preening a bit at 'beautiful girlfriend'. "Well...if you insist." Her smirk dimmed. "It's regarding my Skills."

Rob sat up straight, adopting a serious demeanor to match the tone of the conversation. "I know I keep repeating myself when I say this, but what's happened with the Skills isn't your fault."

Keira nodded. "It isn't. I am not to blame for the gods' transgressions. And while I will admit to still feeling tainted, that notion shall fade with time. At the very least, Diplomacy's assurances as a former Skill served to allay some of my fears."

She glanced at her hand, gently forming it into a fist. "My concerns are more selfish in nature. Learning that my Skills are not actually my Skills...it hurt. Meyneth was correct in that I take pride in my Class and abilities – perhaps too much, truthfully. It makes it far more difficult to reconcile my desire to prevail over strong foes with the knowledge that none of my fighting prowess is earned. Everything I can do was gifted to me by those who came before."

"It is earned," Rob stated. "You risked your life to get to where you are now."

A bitter grin crept across her face. "The sentiment is appreciated," Keira said, "but I know you don't believe it. Aside from Fast Learner boosting my growth beyond a normal Elatran, you've mentioned on multiple occasions about how unfair it is that Elatrans receive greater benefits for their efforts than people of Earth do."

Yes, and I was hoping you wouldn't remember that. "That line of thinking went out the window when we started fighting Blights and Leaders," Rob countered. "Other people in your position would have failed, even if they were given the same advantages. I guarantee it. You succeeded because you're Keira the Beautiful Badass, not because everything was handed to you on a silver platter."

He was only half lying. Elatra's system was still bullshit, but Rob couldn't imagine a different Warrior succeeding in Keira's place. Hell, Riardin's Rangers as a whole likely would have been worm food long ago if they'd switched out any of their core Party members for someone else. They always seemed to be on the same wavelength when fighting, and that team cohesion counted for a lot.

"I...suppose I did chase a fleeing Blight down its tunnel with Ragnarok," Keira tentatively remarked. "The audacity must count for something."

"Most people wouldn't have even tried a stunt like that, let alone pulled it off." Rob reached out and grasped her hand with his own. "You use your Skills like a genuine pro. There's nothing wrong with taking pride in that."

She gripped his hand tight. "I'll do my best to believe you." Her expression softened. "Thank you. That does help to hear."

Rob was in the middle of basking in his 'cheered up my girlfriend' afterglow when Keira suddenly threw him a curveball. "Your turn," she said, looking him directly in the eyes.

"What?"

"It's your turn to speak your mind." She raised an eyebrow. "Don't bother denying it – something is troubling you as well. You seem on edge."

I'm pretty sure that's just my default state by now, Rob mused. He was actually feeling pretty okay, but it wouldn't be fair for him to convince Keira to open up and then refuse to reciprocate. Healthy relationships were built and sustained on mutual communication.

If nothing else, watching trash TV had taught him that. It was an excellent primer on what not to do.

Rob brought up a mental list of the many issues plaguing his mind and picked one at random. "Honestly? I'm worried about Titan's Fist," he muttered, thunking his head against the wall behind their bed.

Keira froze. "...You said it was destroyed."

"It was, it was," Rob assured. "Not the old Titan's Fist – the new ones they're going to make in the future."

Her eyes widened. "After all the anguish that Grant's delusions forced upon them, you think the Dwarves would be foolish enough to construct more of those abominable weapons?"

"In the next year? Probably not." He squeezed her hand. "But what about in a decade? Or a century? Elatrans live for 300-plus years. Eventually, another nation is going to invade Dwarfland for god knows what reason, and the Dwarven scientists are going to recall that they know how to make something that can end wars in an instant."

Rob tensed. "And what if that knowledge spreads? Even if the Dwarves don't understand the nuances of how Titan's Fist works, they have a step-by-step process of how to assemble it. Step-by-step processes can be reproduced. All it takes is one Dwarven scientist getting kidnapped by an enemy nation for Titan's Fist to proliferate throughout Elatra."

"We'll convince the Dwarves to bury their secrets," Keira said. "Diplomacy will assist with that, and Riardin's Rangers will watch over the Dwarves to ensure that they don't falter."

"Their scientists will outlive me." He shrugged. "Just a fact of biology."

"The rest of us will continue our duty once you pass." Her tone darkened. "You have my word that Titan's Fist will never again endanger the people of Elatra."

Rob breathed deep, then exhaled. "Thanks. Still wish the Dwarves hadn't fucking learned how to make nukes in the first place, but the next best thing is trusting you guys to prevent them from being used."

"I hope that eases your worries somewhat." Keira paused, an internal debate evident on her expression. After a few seconds, she nodded, having reached a resolution.

"On the subject of...the future," she said, hesitantly. "When this is all over, would you like to live within the same residence as me?" She fidgeted, speaking hurriedly. "If that's alright. Don't want to put pressure on you. Not my intention. Ignore me if you want."

Rob embraced Keira, resting his chin on her head. "I like that idea," he said, grinning from ear-to-ear. "We can have one house in Elatra, and one on Earth. It'll be a breeze to make money back home – we just need to sign up for a random sport and break every record in the books."

All of Keira's tension flowed out of her in an instant. "What kind of house would you be interested in?" she asked, her voice as bright as the sun.

"I'd like a roof, and some walls. Should ideally be bigger than a cardboard box. No moldy smell allowed either." He nodded. "Yeah, that's doable."

"...Where did you reside before you came to Elatra?"

"College dorms."

--

"What are you reading?"

Orn'tol froze as Malika peered over his shoulder at the tome held in his hands. He'd been so engrossed that he hadn't noticed her arrival. "A story," he answered, quickly shutting it tight. "Weren't you busy observing mana?"

Malika's eyes shimmered with Sense Mana for a brief moment. "No point," she said, shaking her head. "Nothing has changed. The mana has been stable ever since we restored Nevermore City and stopped the Black Wind."

Orn'tol wondered what it must look like to view the world from her perspective. He could Sense Mana in minor ways, but it amounted to little more than sparks of color whenever someone cast a spell. According to Malika, her Sense Mana was so pervasive that it had become an integral part of how she experienced life, no less important than sight or sound.

"That is good news, correct?" he queried. "We want the world's flow of mana to be stable and unchanging."

She pursed her lips in a half-frown. "Mostly?" Malika paused, her eyes shimmering once more. "Normally that would be true, but the problem is that the mana has stabilized into a somewhat unhealthy state. Wisps of corruption have been circulating from the Deadlands for months now. While it's not getting worse, it's not getting better, either."

"Then there's still time to fix it," Orn'tol stated, resolutely. "Once matters here have quieted down, we'll finally be able to implement Rob's Deadlands World Tour plan. The mana should return to normal after we've restored all the Corrupted Loci of Power. It will be a tall order to accomplish, but I have faith in our abilities."

He froze as Malika proceeded to unleash a devastating psychological attack: giggling at him with mirthful eyes. "Were you attempting to come across as heroic?" she asked.

"So what if I was?" he answered, hating how childishly surly his tone sounded. "Our Party is plenty heroic."

Malika's gaze drifted towards the novel in his hands, reading the title emblazoned on its cover before he could hide it. "Legends Of The Holy Order," she muttered, her grin widening. "Is that an adventure story? Were you imitating it?"

"No!"

She giggled again, sending another shock of embarrassment running through Orn'tol's face. How could she disbelieve him so readily? That wasn't fair. Siblings were supposed to trust each other.

The fact that she was right was of no consequence.

"What's wrong with reading an adventure story?" Orn'tol fired back. "Everyone likes them."

Malika hesitated. "You haven't," she said, in a small voice. "Not for some time."

Orn'tol closed his mouth. I...can't refute that. Tales of heroism and valor had lost their luster after The Cataclysm. Something about witnessing the characters grow, prosper, and achieve their goals just felt so hollow. As if the pages themselves were mocking him.

"I'd hoped that reading it would help," he confessed. "My thoughts have been so jumbled lately."

Malika looked away, her posture slumping. "I'm sorry," she said, ashamed. "Didn't mean to bring up bad memories. You shouldn't have to talk about anything you don't want to."

Orn'tol wrapped Malika in a one-armed hug. "What's this?" he said, with mock astonishment. "Where has my sister gone, and who is this sensible, mature doppleganger that's replaced her?"

She lightly smacked him in his side. "I was trying to be nice!"

"And I'll mark the day on my calendar to remember the occasion."

As Malika grumbled at him, Orn'tol smiled, the dark cloud hanging over his mind dissipating. "You know," he began, in a serious – but not cold – tone. "I thought that we might be similar to the characters in Legends Of The Holy Order. That's why I was drawn to it."

Her eyebrows rose to the top of her head. "Truly?"

"Truly." Orn'tol flipped the tome around, pointing at the summary inscribed on its back cover. "Look at what it says here. 'After being forced to kill his friend-turned-foe in a brutal clash of ideologies, Kyren of the Holy Order must face his greatest challenge yet – himself.' This was the first story I could find where the hero seemed to be doubting himself. Wasn't interested in the other books I perused, but as soon as I read these lines..."

He trailed off for a few seconds. "We've saved people," Orn'tol said. "Lots of people. Knowing that is what made things bearable. And it was simple, because our enemies were always Dungeons, or monsters, or the Blight. I didn't have any misgivings about what we were doing."

"Until Dhalerune City," Malika whispered.

He nodded. "We saved people there, but we killed a lot of people, too. And I...don't know how to feel about that."

Back when Orn'tol was training to be a Ranger of The Village, Riardin had taught him to expect that he would one day take a life. While some Combat Class users were fortunate enough to spend their days only fighting monsters and expunging Dungeons, as a rule, roughly one-third of them would end up killing another person during conflicts between nations – a ratio which rose astronomically eight years ago. Orn'tol never deluded himself into thinking that his hands would remain unbloodied forever.

Even so, he was grateful that he'd elected to stay as a Ranger when other members of the Party changed their Classes. Wielding a bow meant that he could fight from afar. It permitted a certain degree of separation from the lives he'd stolen. Orn'tol hadn't needed to see the Dwarves' faces up close, watching the awareness fade from their eyes, their bodies collapsing like rotting wood.

What he'd been able to witness at a distance still churned his stomach whenever he remembered it.

"Do you regret invading Dhalerune City?" Malika asked, seeming almost fearful of what his answer may be.

"I don't. It was necessary. None of us should feel guilty over what happened."

"Then why are your thoughts so jumbled?" Malika wrung her hands nervously. "You shouldn't have any guilt or doubt or anything. And you shouldn't need to seek out a book to make sense of things. It's not fair."

Orn'tol got the impression that she was speaking about herself as much as him. "It isn't fair," he agreed. "But many things aren't. I'm sorry that I don't have a better answer than that."

Both of them fell silent. Eventually, Malika glanced at Legends Of The Holy Order, poking its cover with a timid finger. "...Did it help?"

"Somewhat." Orn'tol let out a wry chuckle. "The hero wasn't quite what I'd hoped. Our experiences were too dissimilar. I didn't find any epiphanies contained within these pages."

He smiled. "It was a fun story, though. I liked it. That was encouraging in its own way."

A part of him felt guilty at wasting time with frivolities, reading simply to entertain himself while he should be striving to become stronger. Thankfully, that part was smaller than it had been in the past, a mere whisper in the back of his mind rather than the shout it used to be. Despite his guilt, and despite his jumbled thoughts, Orn'tol knew there was nothing wrong with having fun for the sake of it.

Rob had helped remind him of that.

Malika glanced at Legends Of The Holy Order, a contemplative look on her face. "When you were perusing the Fiends' tomes," she began, "did you spot anything that I might like?"

Orn'tol nodded. "Silly romances, yes?"

She crossed her arms. "They are not silly." A hesitant grin crept up her cheeks. "Lead the way."

He matched her grin with one of his own. "I'd be happy to."

Chapter 39

Yet Another Day Later

Am I being courted?

Whoever claimed that lightning never struck the same place twice was a bold-faced liar, because Zamira had been thinking the exact same thought for hours, and it struck her like lightning every time. At the moment, she was inside an Acrastor City theater house, watching the Fiends' performance from atop the highest, most luxurious seats available.

The play was being run by a skeleton crew comprised of the few Fiends that had already been able to make their way home. This necessitated some...compromises, with much of the cast relegated to unmoving wooden cutouts that were to be brought to life by the audience's imagination.

In truth, while the Fiends were doing an admirable job considering their limitations, the play had no business being put on at all. Zamira knew full well that the only reason it'd been revived so quickly was because two members of Roy's Party expressed an interest in seeing it. She wanted to give the Fiends her undivided attention so that their efforts wouldn't go to waste, but it was extremely difficult to do so when a Faelynn-shaped distraction was sitting beside her.

Am I being courted?!

Everything had started innocently enough. Two days ago, shortly after recovering from the Sundering, Zamira visited the Grand Overseers and offered her services towards retrieving the evacuated Fiend refugees who had yet to return home. The wilderness of Fiend territory wasn't quite as dangerous as other territories, but it was still the wilderness, home to monsters, and the guiding hand of a strong Combat Class user would have assuredly done well to save lives.

To her shock, they'd sternly denied her request, stating that there was no way of knowing if the Sundering would cause unpredictable side effects that arose days later. The Grand Overseers told her to stay within Fiend territory so they could grant her medical aid in case something happened.

A member of Riardin's Rangers, they'd informed, was too valuable to risk without good reason.

"Fucking Overseers," Zamira had ranted, to the first person who would listen. "I simply wished to help. After the debacle in Dhalerune City, carrying out an act of unambiguous valor would have done much to ease my soul. But of course, I am not Zamira the Bladesoul, stalwart hero. I am an *asset*. Apparently, my Levels matter more than my intent or desires."

That first person to listen – Faelynn, as it turned out – had done so without complaint. If she was conflicted over Zamira repeatedly insulting her direct superiors, then she hid it well. When Zamira finally expended the last of her ire, she profusely thanked Faelynn for being a true friend, a compliment that the Fiend seemed almost shy to receive.

Afterwards, they kept talking, enjoying each other's company. At one point, Zamira mentioned that she was looking forward to seeing a local theater performance; a plan that had unfortunately been derailed by the arrival of the Dwarves, and then later made impossible by the evacuation of Fiend territory.

She'd expected Faelynn to nod, commiserate, and move on. Instead, the Fiend declared that she would contact the playwrights and see if their next showing could come back early. "You need something to take your mind off of things," she'd said, in a concerned tone. "Hopefully, this will suffice."

It was a heartwarming gesture, so what else could Zamira have done but accept? To do otherwise would be to spit in the face of her friend's generosity.

She hadn't thought that Faelynn would succeed.

Now the two of them were together. By themselves. At the play. The play prematurely revived solely for Zamira's sake. Sitting side-by-side. Making fond memories.

And Zamira couldn't fucking figure out if she was being courted.

This is beyond an act of mere friendship, she reasoned, as one of the Fiends' vocal performances reached a booming crescendo. At least...I assume so. I had few friends before Riardin's Rangers, so my experience in outings such as these is woefully limited. Would my other Party members have done the same for me?

Zamira envisioned Keira intimidating the performers into compliance, or Rob bribing them with autographs, or Vul'to asking extremely politely until their guilt took hold. I suppose they would have also gone this far, she acknowledged. Still, it wasn't strictly necessary that we attend the play as a pair. Faelynn didn't even consider inviting others alongside me.

And if she was being honest, Zamira hadn't considered it, either.

...Do I WANT to be courted? The question stuck in her mind, no real answer presenting itself. Before today, Zamira hadn't imagined Faelynn as a potential partner in that capacity. Not that there was anything wrong with Faelynn; she was kind, caring, attractive...and those arms...

Zamira suppressed the urge to hang her head in her hands. How incorrigible must I be? She let out a sigh, masking it as appreciation for the Fiends' acting talent. Forgive me, Faelynn. You just wanted to be a good friend and raise my spirits, and here I am, overcomplicating everything. Well, unless you really did intend for me to interpret things in a romantic light. If that's the case, then disregard my apology. Which I never verbalized to begin with. So...yeah.

"This is turning out better than I anticipated," Faelynn gleefully whispered, leaning closer. "Truth be told, I wasn't sure how well they were going to manage without their full cast, but you can barely tell that anything is different."

Somehow, Zamira found it within herself to act normally; a performance that would have rightly earned her a spot on the stage if anyone knew of it. "That is a difficult claim to make when we have not seen the play as it should be," she replied. "However, I will admit to being impressed at what they've accomplished, even with the imaginative liberties I need to take as a result."

She looked down at two star actors conversing with each other, baring their souls in a heart-wrenching display of love and loss. Every now and then, they'd whirl around to yell at the one who'd wronged them – a wooden cylinder helpfully labeled 'Lord Baltaz (Villain)'. It was a very one-sided affair, as Lord Baltaz was incapable of defending himself, leaving him completely at the two lovers' nonexistent mercy.

"We should see this play again when it reopens in full," Zamira remarked. "Perhaps Lord Baltaz has some pointed arguments to make in this scene. Perhaps he will force us to re-evaluate how we think of the protagonists, brutally laying out their flaws for all to see." She chuckled under her breath. "Or perhaps he will curse their names and make ineffectual boasts before summarily being vanquished. That, too, would be entertaining."

"A wonderful idea," Faelynn said, smiling brightly. "I'll let you know when the play resumes with a full cast."

Zamira froze, only now realizing what she'd done. Wait a moment. Did I just court HER? No, no, we're simply friends enjoying a play. Nothing more. Faelynn seems happy, but she's probably happy just by virtue of being able to spend additional time with her friends. I don't think she has many outside of our Party. Thus, me inviting her to another outing won't cause any confusion. Unless she misinterprets. Do I WANT her to misinterpret? WHY AM I LIKE THIS?!

With great effort, Zamira marshaled her wayward thoughts and calmed the rising panic in her heart. She refused to go through this same nonsense again. Spending months agonizing over one failed romantic interest was plenty enough for her. This would be much easier for everyone involved if she confronted her emotions in a practical, intelligent manner.

First: she should put aside whether Faelynn was courting her or not. Zamira knew that she was as proficient at discerning romantic interest as a fish was at walking on land. Faelynn's intentions were, at the moment, inconsequential. They wouldn't be a factor until Zamira discerned how she herself felt.

Which begged the question – how did she feel? Zamira glanced down at the stage performance, finding herself empathizing with its temperamental characters to a shameful degree. Emotions were...complex. To start with, Zamira was aware that she hadn't fully reconciled her feelings for Keira.  She thought she'd done an admirable job at moving on, and it no longer stung to see Keira and Rob in public together, but some lingering flames of attraction yet remained.

It wouldn't be fair to start a relationship with someone if they might unintentionally become a replacement.

There were, of course, other reasons to hesitate. Zamira was still reeling from losing her Diplomacy –  not to mention what she'd learned of the Skills' true nature. Ideally, she'd be given a month to clear her head before the notion of pursuing romantic endeavors was considered at all. But knowing her Party's luck, they'd be solving another catastrophe within the week, so she shouldn't bother waiting for a period of respite that may never come. Keira and Rob's strategy of saying 'fuck it' and entering a relationship regardless of their uncertain future had worked out well for them so far.

A more valid concern was Zamira's aversion to being touched. While the original members of Riardin's Rangers knew of it by now, she wasn't sure if Faelynn understood its severity just yet. As regrettable as Zamira's circumstances were, she couldn't blame anyone who would be reluctant to begin a relationship with no guarantee of sex. It was something she should bring up with Faelynn soon, before either of them became overly invested in each other.

And finally, the most important question of all: setting aside every other factor, could Zamira genuinely see herself in a romantic relationship with Faelynn? Zamira didn't feel that strongly now, but in the future...

It's possible, she affirmed. The physical attraction is certainly there, at least. If I continue to spend time with her, emotional attachment might follow.

The thought brought her an odd sense of peace. With Keira, Zamira had been wholly aware of her feelings and locked them away, avoiding confronting herself for months on end. That situation was tantamount to self-inflicted torture. With Faelynn, Zamira could take things at her own pace, allowing her feelings to flourish or wither in a natural fashion. If she never came to desire more from Faelynn, then that would be that. And if she did end up desiring more, then she wouldn't hesitate to address how she felt.

It was honestly that simple.

Even now, Meyneth's advice rings true. Zamira smiled, reclining back into her seat. Is this what it's like to be in control of your own faculties? I much prefer it to wasting away in a doubt-filled mire. Maybe I should ask Meyneth for assistance once again if my resolve starts to waver.

Zamira paused.

...No. A shudder crept up her spine. She was of great help last time, but...just...no. Therein lies the path to madness.

--

Sylpeiros sat on the most comfortable tree stump he could find, waiting for dusk to turn into night.

Every now and then, he would glimpse at the sky, half-expecting to see red wings barreling towards him. She has fled, he reminded himself. And she won't be back for a long while. Ragnavi prizes her life too highly to invade foreign lands when she can be incapacitated at any moment by another Severing.

He finished his thought, confirmed its logic, and then checked the sky once more.

Hours crawled by as Sylpeiros waited. It gave him ample time to determine what – and how much – he was going to say. He still hadn't decided when a shadow-clad figure emerged from the darkness, approaching him with quiet steps that were lighter than air. "You're late," Sylpeiros uttered, in a gruff tone.

Kenzotul remained silent. The veteran saboteur swept his eyes across the clearing, first left, then right. "No guards," he eventually stated.

"There won't ever be any guards," Sylpeiros said, sighing. "Did you really think that I would betray you at this juncture? You're far too effective of an asset to throw away meaninglessly."

Silence, again.

"Don't concern yourself with choosing words carefully," Sylpeiros continued. "In the past few days, I've had trusted attendants scream at me, call me a fatherless bastard, and throw a rotten pear at my head." He put on a dry grin. "Strategy meetings have never been so...enlightening. I knew that most of my subordinates disliked me, but witnessing them without Diplomacy to dull their tongues is another thing entirely. Whatever you have to say can't possibly compare, so feel free to speak your mind."

"Very well," Kenzotul said, and nothing else.

Sylpeiros frowned. That was a god-gifted chance to mock my unpopularity. Where's the grating, insubordinate sarcasm? Is he still displeased over how our previous conversation ended?

When they'd last met, Sylpeiros had picked at some of Kenzotul's deepest wounds, pointing out how the Human would despise Kenzotul if he knew the full breadth of the saboteur's actions during the Scouring. It wasn't a moment that Sylpeiros was particularly proud of, but months had passed in the interim since then. He'd assumed that Kenzotul would have forgotten it by now.

Or rather, he'd hoped that Kenzotul would have forgotten.

"If you're finished, then I will present my report," the saboteur said, in the guise of a stoic professional. Grimacing internally, Sylpeiros nodded, motioning for him to proceed.

"Harpy territory is in the same state as any other," Kenzotul began. "Currently, they are being assailed by a rising number of monster attacks. The monsters are mutated, aggressive, highly volatile, and seem to be converging on locations where Loci of Power likely reside. It is similar to the siege that befell Reviton City, although to a lesser degree. Whereas Reviton required your personal assistance in order to endure, it is my belief that the Harpies will be able to repel the new monster swarms with their typical defensive preparations."

Sylpeiros waited for Kenzotul to continue, before realizing that he wasn't going to. "Is that all?"

"Were you anticipating worse?"

"...Yes," Sylpeiros replied, after a moment's hesitation. "I contacted the Harpy King's adjutants via Message Crystal the other day. They were suspiciously apprehensive, refused to let me speak with King Elnaril, and ended communications in a fit of panic."

Kenzotul tilted his head by an inch. "Strange. While the Harpy civilians are understandably concerned about the Blight, I saw nothing in Harpy territory that would indicate unrest towards their King. They seem to have faith in his capabilities."

"So Elnaril's problem is a well-kept secret," Sylpeiros muttered. He gnashed his teeth together and snarled. "Wonderful. Just what I wished for. More mysteries to uncover before people will fucking cooperate."

Kenzotul stared at him with an indecipherable expression. "It may not be my position to say this," he began, "but I would advise that you rest at the earliest opportunity. Elven territory's Leader cannot fall prey to mistakes made of exhaustion."

Sylpeiros barked out a harsh laugh. "As if I can sleep." He glanced up at the sky; still empty. "Queen Ragnavi visited Elven territory several days ago."

"I have heard of her atrocities," Kenzotul said, a note of hatred entering his voice.

"To clarify, she visited while I was in the area." Sylpeiros' fingers twitched. "And I confronted her."

Kenzotul winced. "...Ah."

"Indeed." The twitching became shaking. "Ragnavi's Corruption sickness is eroding the last remnants of her sanity. She's grown increasingly unhinged and untethered from society since we previously met. Until now, her participation in civilization has been like a parent entertaining their unruly children's make-believe, smirking as she picks and chooses the laws she elects to follow. However, despite her capricious nature, Ragnavi did participate."

Shaking. Trembling. The false reprieve of an empty sky. "That time is rapidly coming to an end. I don't know how long we have until she stops caring entirely."

Sylpeiros slumped down, his head bowed, like the weight of the world was crushing him. "I used to think that we could kill her," he mumbled. "Fanciful dreams of all the Leaders ambushing her in tandem would run through my mind. Now a Corruption sickness has rendered Ragnavi weaker than she's ever been, yet the prospect of killing her seems like an even more distant dream than before. While she's roaming about Elatra, flying thrice as fast as I can run, scorching innocents with dragonfire, we've been squabbling. With the Blight, and with ourselves."

He clenched his fists. "Especially ourselves. Gods, will Ragnavi be enraged when she learns that Grant's EXP was stolen from her."

Kenzotul's stoicism was shattered by his eyes widening to the size of dishplates. "You don't mean-"

"The Stonewarden is dead," Sylpeiros flatly stated. "News won't have reached Harpy territory yet, but it's all anyone can talk about in Elven territory. That and the Severing, at any rate."

"Severing?" For the first time that night, Kenzotul seemed completely lost. "What else have I missed in my absence?"

"Was Harpy territory not afflicted by...ah. The Harpies named it differently. What did they call the catastrophe of Diplomacy vanishing from our souls?"

"The Erasure."

Sylpeiros scoffed. "As always, Elven territory's naming sense reigns superior." He perked up. "But yes, Stonewarden Grant of the Dwarves is dead. He fell in combat against the Blight, a righteous hero to the very end."

A hollow grin crept across his face. "Which is a lie that I've fed my people. The truth is that we were forced to kill Grant when he tried to murder thousands upon thousands of Fiends – after the Fiends extended a legitimate offer of peace. Scores of vital Combat Class users perished in the process, and the remaining Dwarves have agreed to a tenuous alliance driven by intimidation and fear."

His grin faded. "Personally, I don't expect it to last longer than a month or two. If Ragnavi is to die, then she must die soon, while a semblance of unity has still been preserved."

Kenzotul gaped at him in quiet horror. "Why are you telling me all of this?" he eventually managed to ask.

Because if I don't speak with someone, Sylpeiros thought, I'll lose my mind. "These details might aid with your intelligence gathering," is what he said. "Nuances that you weren't able to understand before can now be seen from a different perspective."

Kenzotul breathed deep, his skin paling to a ghostly white. "Then I suppose you have my thanks," he said, although it sounded strained. "Is that everything?"

Sylpeiros hesitated. "Yes," he lied.

With a nod, Kenzotul turned around and began making his way out of the clearing. As Sylpeiros watched him leave, the Seneschal's chest constricted, gripped by unfamiliar sensations. Inside him, there was guilt, shame, and embarrassment, all mixed into an unsettling concoction that left him paralyzed with indecision.

At the last possible moment, he spoke up. "I met the Human."

Kenzotul froze, his body stiff as stone. Slowly, he turned around, as if dragged by some external force. "...You what?"

"He visited Dwarven territory on behalf of the Fiends. Took part in raids against the Blight and Stonewarden Grant." Sylpeiros paused. "Survived both events, too. The Human acquitted himself...reasonably well." Another pause. "His Leveling High is at Moderate. Could be worse."

No response. Sighing, Sylpeiros stood up and locked eyes with Kenzotul. He was only going to say this once, so the man had damn well better be listening.

"Rob remembers you, and wishes you well."

The look of total shock on Kenzotul's face far exceeded anything seen before. Three long seconds passed until, all of a sudden, Sylpeiros felt overcome by an urgent desire to make himself scarce. Raising his hand in parting, the Seneschal walked away and left Kenzotul with his thoughts, neither of them speaking another word.

Chapter 40

"They're really making us wait," Rob said, staring at the door to the Grand Overseers' conference hall. "Aren't important people supposed to be able to force meetings whenever they want? What's the point of risking my life to get stronger if I can't annoy the Overseers?

"To be fair, they are coordinating a reversal of Fiend territory's nation-wide evacuation," Diplomacy pointed out. "I imagine that they're extremely busy. In situations such as these, quickly responding to issues as they arise can mean the difference between life and death."

Rob let out an exaggerated sigh. "That's true. I guess I should cut them some slack. They made good on their promise to find you a new body, after all." He paused, contemplating. "I'll give them a Don't Get Annoyed By Rob free pass for, like, a week."

Diplomacy raised a single, judgemental eyebrow. "The miracle of my rebirth is only worth one week's grace period?"

"You drive a hard bargain. Two weeks, then."

The former Skill chuckled. "Your magnanimity is an inspiration to us all."

Both of them trailed off into a comfortable silence. More comfortable than Rob would have expected while conversing with Diplomacy's flesh-and-blood body, actually. The closest Earth analogy he could think of was meeting an online friend in-person for the first time; there was always that initial bit of awkwardness, no matter how good of a friend they were.

Rob didn't feel that way around Diplomacy. The Skill was already painfully familiar with his faults, so why bother trying to put on airs? He could just be himself, and nothing would change.

A few minutes went by. Eventually, boredom set in. "How's the Ring of Disguise working out for you?" Rob asked, to kill time.

Diplomacy held up their hand, wiggling five Fiendish fingers. "Quite well," they said, smiling at Rob with fanged teeth and pitch-black eyes. "The tests I've run so far have been a resounding success. From what I can tell, the Ring's illusion is virtually undetectable. It should serve our purposes nicely."

Nodding, Rob cast Identity to give himself a refresher of the Ring's capabilities.

Name: Advanced Ring of Disguise

Description: An Enchanted ring that, when worn, casts an illusion that changes the wearer's appearance to whatever race they desire. This illusion can last up to twelve hours, and will fool sight and smell, but not touch. Once the Ring has been depleted of energy, it must recharge, either by being manually filled with mana or by absorbing ambient mana over a twelve-hour period.

"Urian outdid himself with that one," Rob said. "You should be able to pass as a Fiend as long as you avoid bumping into people."

"I'll need to learn common Fiend mannerisms," Diplomacy added. "Otherwise, sharp-eyed observers will discern that something is amiss. But yes, overall, this is highly preferable to the alternative."

While Vul'to had rejected the Ring, wanting to grow accustomed to his new body, Diplomacy didn't have that option. Their very existence would incite a public outcry if they were discovered. What type of public outcry, Rob wasn't sure, but no one felt like dealing with the inevitable headaches it would bring. Elatra wasn't emotionally equipped to handle the emergence of a new race who just so happened to appear right after the Sundering – and came up as REDACTED when using Identity.

Thankfully, the Ring of Disguise solved that last problem as well. To complete the illusion, it allowed its user to change their Identify screen to portray whatever Name they chose. The user couldn't manually alter their Description, though; the Ring automatically took care of that, and it was...not so subtle.

Name: Belriath

Description: An ordinary Fiend of no particular merit or noteworthiness.

"I'd keep a low profile," Rob advised. "It's supposed to be bad manners to use Identify on random people, but everyone does it anyway."

"Elatrans view the system as an impartial moderator. If my Description states that I am unremarkable, they will believe it. In order to assist with this, the name I picked is the most common unisex name in Fiend territory."

"Still think you should've gone with Macy or Big D."

Diplomacy fixed him with an unamused stare. "If that's the expression you use when annoying people, then it's no wonder that I had so much trouble negotiating on your behalf."

"No idea what you're talking about," Rob said, keeping his shit-eating grin plastered onto his face.

Just then, a knock came from inside the conference hall. A disheveled Fiend messenger opened the door and motioned Rob and 'Belriath' forward. "The Grand Overseers will meet with you now," she said, speaking hurriedly.

They followed her inside, where two Overseers were sitting at the conference table. Both had dark circles under their eyes, and one of them was leaning back in his chair, seeming on the verge of stepping into dreamland's seductive embrace. "We've no time to waste," the other, semi-conscious Overseer mumbled, shooing their messenger out of the room. "What do you need?"

Damnit, Rob grumbled. Now I'm actually feeling a little bad for them. Unfortunately, this wasn't a talk he could afford to delay any longer. With the Blight spreading and the Dragon Queen instigating a one-woman Scouring, Elatra was currently on a shrinking timetable. There might not be many chances in the future for Rob to see his requests fulfilled.

"You helped give Diplomacy a body," Rob began. He gestured to the disguised former Skill, drawing looks of poorly-concealed interest from the Overseers. "Well, the Soul Surgeon did all the work, but you helped set it up, and that means something. Thank you. Sincerely."

He sighed. "With that said, I don't think it's unfair of me to ask for more favors. Especially after Titan's Fist. And...I want to go home."

The Overseers snapped to attention, immediately alert. "Your original world?" the first one said, her voice tinged with apprehension.

Rob nodded. "Don't get me wrong – I promise that I'll stay with you guys long enough to ensure Fiendland's safety. I'm not heading back before the Blight and Dragon Queen are ten feet under. And in the best-case scenario, we'll find ways to set up two-way travel so I can visit here."

He hardened his gaze, holding firm. "With that said, I want to go home. I want to hug the people I left behind. I want to eat burgers and watch trash TV. I want to enjoy my days without wondering if I'll be alive by the next sunrise. Elatra isn't my world, and it never will be. Earth is."

And it might need him very soon.

"Don't be...discouraged," a voice echoed, within his mind. "We've kept Jason company." Rob suppressed a shiver at his remembrance of the Blight-possessed Dwarf. He wanted to believe that it had just been fucking with him, but the namedrop was impossible to ignore. The Blight knew about Earth. It knew about Jason.

Thinking logically, Earth wouldn't succumb to a Blight invasion without a fight. Its global military vastly outweighed anything that Elatra could bring to bear. But even if Earth was safe – which was a big 'if' – Jason wasn't. He didn't have Levels or Skills to protect him. In essence, he was Level 1, and the Blight could tear through Levels 30s like wet tissue paper. It wouldn't take much effort for the Blight to assassinate one normal human just to hurt Rob.

He was about to continue his spiel when the second Grand Overseer interrupted him. "Will you swear to safeguard Fiend territory until the dangers threatening it have passed?"

"I swear on my life." He'd help them regardless of whether they were able to fulfill his request. Rob refused to use innocent peoples' lives as bargaining chips.

"Then we shall do our utmost as well," the Overseer said. "While I cannot guarantee that interdimensional travel is possible, it may be feasible to use teleportation magic as a developmental base to create new fields of spellcasting. We will charge our most skilled mages with the task, and inform you if any advancements are made."

Rob breathed an internal sigh of relief. He'd been anticipating more pushback, but all things considered, it was probably hard for them to argue with the guy who-

"What are you hiding?"

Three sets of eyes turned to look at Diplomacy. The Skill had adopted a small half-smile, staring at the Grand Overseers like a lion at a pair of plump gazelles. "Answer the question," they said, perfectly calm. "What are you hiding?"

"We did not lie," Overseer #2 said, bristling.

"And we both know that isn't the same thing as revealing all truths."

For a moment, the Overseer appeared as if he was going to argue back. Then something inside him relented, and he slumped down, the fight going out of him. "Must you always do this?" he sighed. "It was already difficult enough to manage our negotiations when you were directing Rob's words from within his head."

"If it's any consolation, your poker face was excellent, Azarath." Diplomacy's smile deepened by a fraction. "Unfortunately, I'm me."

The Overseers fell silent. "We were not lying," Overseer #1 affirmed, after a short period. "We would have tasked our mages with creating interdimensional travel, just as requested. However..."

She grimaced. "It might be less of an obtainable goal than you're hoping for. Elder Alessia made a similar petition of us several months ago, and the mages have yet to report any progress."

Rob's eyes widened. "Back up – Elder Alessia requested dimension magic from you too?"

"She didn't mention Earth as a specific target," the Overseer clarified, "but that is correct."

The hell? This is the first I'm hearing of it. Rob exchanged glances with Diplomacy, confirming that they were thinking the same thing. Why was Alessia interested in crossing worlds, and why would she hide that interest from Riardin's Rangers?

"Honesty is a wonderful policy," Diplomacy stated, addressing the Overseers. "Don't your hearts and minds feel so light, now?"

"...I suppose so."

Diplomacy spread their arms as wide as their smile. "Then you'll feel even lighter after you divulge the other secret you're hiding from us."

Rob wished he had a bucket of popcorn to enjoy the show with. I may have promised not to annoy the Grand Overseers, he noted, but Diplomacy sure didn't. The two Fiends both looked like they were sucking on lemons, glaring at Diplomacy with naked irritation.

"So be it," Overseer #2 muttered. "The truth of the matter is that Nelrith volunteered to see Elder Alessia's request done. As the rest of us were occupied with other concerns, we saw no issue with her taking charge."

Diplomacy let out a speculative 'hmm'. "You haven't heard any updates from Nelrith or the mages she supposedly contacted?"

The Overseer's face fell. "No. We haven't."

"And you don't think that's at all suspicious?"

"...There aren't supposed to be any secrets among us," he replied, quietly. "We are united in one purpose."

Diplomacy offered him a conciliatory smile. "Everyone has secrets. It isn't a problem, most of the time, and I'd even say that it's an essential part of life. A person's mind is their sanctuary – the sole thing in the world that wholly belongs to them."

"That's an empty reassurance," the Overseer groused, "when coming from the person who intrudes upon those sanctuaries at their leisure." Diplomacy actually flinched at that, although it was so minuscule that Rob was certain no one else had noticed.

"Keep the sour grapes to a minimum," he stated, crossing his arms. "I won't blame you for trusting your allies, but personally speaking, I'm 100% done with this cloak-and-dagger bullshit. Call Nelzin over so we can get some answers."

"Her name is Nelrith."

Rob almost responded with 'That's what I said', before remembering his promise. "Right. Call Nelrith over, then. In the meantime, Diplomacy and I will go see what Alessia's explanation for all of this is."

I hope she makes it a good one.

--

"You have my apologies."

The words were out of Elder Alessia's mouth the moment Rob mentioned her request for interdimensional travel. "Huh," he remarked, eyebrows raised. "That was fast."

"And necessary." She sighed, rubbing her temples. "I should've informed you of my plans long ago, but it simply...never seemed like the right time. You and your friends have undergone an enormous amount of stress, and I was reluctant to add more to that heap of worries."

Rob scratched the back of his neck, unsure of what to say. This honestly wasn't going how he'd expected it to. He glanced at Diplomacy, but their face was expressionless, signifying that they were leaving this one up to him.

"I can't accept your apology until you tell me all the details," he eventually said. "If it turns out that you've been holding out on me-"

Alessia shook her head. "Not in the slightest. I would never bar your way home if it presented itself." Her eyes narrowed. "In fact, I've quite a few questions for the Grand Overseers myself. They – or rather, their messengers – have done nothing but give me status updates stating that no progress has been made."

So that one Overseer is sending false reports to keep everyone else in the dark? As he contemplated what that might mean, Elder Alessia stood up from her seat, walking towards the other end of the room. She stopped at a window, staring up as radiant sunlight beamed down from the sky. "Rob," she began, sounding hesitant. "What do you consider to be the single greatest threat to Elatra as a whole?"

"The gods," he immediately answered.

Alessia froze, slowly turning around. "Truly?"

"Yup. The Dragon Queen is a time bomb waiting to go off, but with the right ambush we can probably take her down. And the Blight lost some of its threat power once I learned Purge Corruption."

He frowned. "The gods, though? They're the origin of most of Elatra's problems, and they continue to fuck things up to this day. Worst of all, while I really, reeeeally want to kill the fuckers, I have no idea where to start. If they're straight-up immortal, then that's just a minor bit of a hurdle to overcome."

Alessia powerwalked back to her seat, her eyes glinting with fervor. "Agreed. Nevertheless, I believe that you're viewing this from the wrong perspective. Our primary obstacle is not how to kill the gods, but how to reach them. Mortals have no way to enter realm of divinity – there's hardly a doorway we can step through."

Her lips split into a savage grin. "Not unless we make one."

Rob let out a low whistle. "And you needed to hide this idea from me...why? I'm totally on board with using dimensional travel to assassinate the big guys upstairs." They'd basically done that on a lesser scale already, using Waymark to invade Dwarven territory and kill their Leader. Sure, the gods were more than a few rungs higher up on Elatra's totem pole, but the same concept still applied.

"Do you fully comprehend what that entails?" Remorse began to creep into Alessia's voice. "Killing the gods would likely require something beyond raw power. If any of us have that potential, it would be you, after learning a new Crystal Bearer Skill."

"I'm in."

She blinked. "Take a moment to consider the risks-"

"Alessia." Rob looked her straight in the eyes. "I've been fantasizing about killing the gods for months. I'm in."

Her face fell. "You know, when I initially envisioned this plan, I hoped you would accept. Now that you have, I can't help but feel as if I'm driving you to an early end."

"Don't worry so much. I can make my own decisions."

"...If you're certain," she said, in an infuriatingly compassionate tone. "But do try to treasure your life more, Rob. You only get one."

What is it with everyone? he fumed. First Orn'tol, then Taleya, now Alessia? I've told them a hundred times that I want to *go home*. Can't exactly do that if I'm dead. I've struggled day in and day out to survive up until this point – there's a reason I put most of my stats into Vitality. So why does everyone keep thinking I'm rushing to my death?

{Would you be able to tell if you were?}

FUCK OFF. "Sounds like we have a plan," Rob said, his voice strained. "Get the Fiends to develop dimension magic, pivot that to breaking into the gods' realm, Level up a bunch, and pray that Crystal Bearer ranks up again and gives me something spicy."

"Step 1 seems to be in limbo," Diplomacy added, cutting in. "If Nelrith swept Alessia's request under the rug, then she obviously doesn't want it to succeed. I significantly doubt that the teleportation mages were ever informed in the first place."

Lightning crackled on the tips of Alessia's fingers. "Then it appears we have much to discuss with her."

--

"You must speak with the High Soulseer."

Grand Overseer Nelrith had a panicked look on her face. To be fair, most people in her position would have. Getting ambushed by the head of an allied faction, a Level 67 Combat Class user, and the living embodiment of a Skill was probably not on her bucket list of fun things to do.

Rob still hadn't expected her to pass the buck that quickly, nor had he expected who she was passing it to. The High Soulseer was a respected figure in Fiend territory, having by far the highest Level of Soul Sight in the world. He was also privy to a great deal of hidden knowledge, being one of the handful of Fiends who was aware of their race's monster ancestry.

"What's the High Soulseer got to do with this?" Rob asked, aiming a piercing gaze at the Overseer. "And why'd you try to suppress the development of interdimensional travel?"

"The High Soulseer knows all," she hastily replied. "He is the one who asked me to conceal Elder Alessia's petition. If you desire answers, then you must speak with him."

This almost feels nostalgic, Rob thought, laughing to himself. Reminds me of waiting on a customer service call as it gets punted around their different internal departments. No, said the Grand Overseers, go talk to Alessia and Nelrith. No, said Nelrith, go talk to the High Soulseer. If the High Soulseer refers us back to the Grand Overseers, I'm gonna lose my shit.

"Bring him here," Diplomacy ordered, their entrancing voice containing a sharp edge of malice. "Now."

The Grand Overseer, a de facto co-Leader of her nation, more influential and powerful than most Fiends could ever dream of being, fled with her tail between her legs.

"You must instruct me on how to do that," Alessia commented.

"Get in line," He waited until the Overseer was gone before addressing Diplomacy. "You let her off easy. Did she really not know anything?"

"Oh, I'm 85% positive that she did. However, the Grand Overseers are overworked, overtaxed, and busy rescuing the sum populace of their nation. I won't subject her to an interrogation when the High Soulseer will know everything she does and more."

They huffed. "Conversely, the High Soulseer is a depressed geriatric who sits on his ass all day while his comrades work to save lives, so I don't mind taking up his time."

"Harsh."

--

The High Soulseer wasn't super thrilled to see them. At least, that's what Rob gleaned from the small twitches in the aged Fiend's otherwise unflappable demeanor. His attendants were at his side; two Fiends sporting the deadened eyes of Melancholy Resistance, their faces like blank canvases that would never be filled. "You have returned," the Soulseer said, staring at Rob through his blindfold.

"Sup." Rob waved. "It's been a while. You still enjoying your retirement?"

"To the extent that someone with as many regrets as I can." He looked towards Diplomacy, giving them a sagely nod. "And you must be the fledgling soul who was attached to Rob, now inhabiting a body they can call their own. Congratulations are in order."

Diplomacy smirked. "You're very welcome. Clever opening move, by the way. You picked the perfect topic to try and butter me up with."

"I was speaking from the heart. No soul deserves to be shackled as yours was." His jaw tightened. "And regardless of my wishes, I suspect that the three of you have no intention of leaving until your curiosity has been satiated. Must you be so determined to dredge up my darkest shames and lay them bare?"

"This is important," Rob stated, with emphasis. "For me and Elatra as a whole."

For the span of an increasingly uncomfortable thirty seconds, the High Soulseer said nothing. Finally, mercifully, he pointed at Elder Alessia. "So be it, but she must leave. What we are about to discuss relates to secrets that no one should know."

"If you're referring to the fact that Fiends are fundamentally identical to monsters," Alessia remarked, in a blasé tone, "then I am already well aware."

The Soulseer let out an enraged growl, claws extending, as his head snapped towards Rob. "You swore not to expose our lineage to anyone. Anyone!"

"Calm yourself," Elder Alessia said, in that same unconcerned voice. "Rob held your secrets close to his chest. I learned of this matter when Stonewarden Grant revealed it to Riardin's Rangers, myself, Seneschal Sylpeiros, and a room of fifty-or-so Dwarves."

In an instant, the High Soulseer's face went deathly pale – by Fiend standards, anyway. "Titan preserve," he whispered, sounding as if he and everyone he knew had been sentenced to death. His claws slowly retracted into trembling hands. "Then all of Dwarven territory and Elven territory will soon know the truth."

"Perhaps not," Alessia noted. "The Seneschal seems far more preoccupied with preserving the alliance between Elven territory and Fiend territory. If he is planning to reveal your secrets, then it will be long after the Blight and Dragon Queen are dead."

She idly tapped her fingers. "As for the Dwarves, many of the Combat Class users and Thunder Rod welders who heard Grant's words have perished at the hands of Riardin's Rangers. Those left remaining also witnessed their beloved Leader commit suicide to remove himself as a threat, which casts doubt on his prior claims. I'm sure that errant rumors will spread, but nothing that can be substantiated past the type of propaganda that nations engage in on a routine basis."

Rob could practically hear the High Soulseer's blood pressure dropping. "That...is manageable," the Fiend eventually muttered. "Not ideal in the slightest, but highly preferable to our masquerade collapsing in its entirety. I owe you a debt of gratitude for slaying the Stonewarden and his Dwarves."

Oh boy, Rob thought. I can't remember the last time someone made me feel like garbage with a compliment. Almost forgot what that was like. "I'm collecting on that debt now," he said, a bit stronger than intended. "Tell us why you stonewalled interdimensional magic. No more evading the question."

The Soulseer hesitated, then nodded. "I merely ask that you restrain your ire until my explanation is finished."

"That's kind of a foreboding start, but sure."

"Very well." He gathered his courage for one second longer. "To begin with, we have known how to utilize dimension magic for years."

You could've heard a pin drop. Rob leaned forward, laced his fingers together, and adopted a sickly-sweet smile. "Please," he encouraged. "Go on."

"It was developed part and parcel with teleportation magic," the High Soulseer continued. "The two concepts are closely related, mostly differing in scope, execution, and travel distance. Teleportation magic shapes the veil of reality to transport people across Elatra, while Interdimensional travel not only shapes the veil of reality, but the barrier between worlds itself. It requires mana several orders of magnitude higher than teleportation magic, and has a far greater chance of catastrophic failure."

He paused, letting Rob process everything before moving on. "To clarify, it is currently impossible to send a full person through an interdimensional portal. Scant few mages can perform dimension magic, and all of them have sworn to secrecy. Not even the Grand Overseers are aware – among them, Nelrith is the only one who bears this burden."

I'm starting to lose track of who knows what at this point. "Okay." Rob clenched his fists, then released them. "Okay. Christ." He gathered his thoughts, focusing on one piece of phrasing that stuck out to him. "You said it isn't possible to send a full person?"

"Theoretically, we can conjure a one-way interdimensional portal the size of one's hand. Doing so would require more mana than our dimension mages are capable of, however, even if they unite into a Mage Circle."

"Mages can stockpile mana over time," Rob argued. "I've seen them do it to prepare for big teleportation spells. You could also, oh, I don't know, teach more mages."

The High Soulseer grimaced. "...That is correct."

Rob put on the best poker face he could. He didn't think the Soulseer or anyone else in the room knew what that admission implied. They likely figured that a small doorway meant no travel - but if the mages were capable of creating an interdimensional doorway the size of his hand, then they were dangerously close to having a way for Rob to go home. It just needed to be a little bigger; specifically, the size of his head. Then he could simply decapitate himself, angle his head so that it fell through the portal, and then use Lifesurge combined with Regrow Self and Regeneration to heal up.

All he had to do was condemn everyone he knew to grisly, torturous deaths. Without Purge Corruption, Elatra would fall.

"So you can make a tiny portal," Rob hissed, shoving aside his thoughts. "For the record, even if I can't use it to get back home, I'm still pissed. A portal the size of my hand is enough to send a letter. My friends and family probably think I'm dead – do you have any idea what it would mean to them if they learned otherwise? What it would mean to me if I could speak with them again? Why in the goddamn hell would you hide this from us?!"

The High Soulseer stiffened, forcing out his next words with great effort. "Because when we last dabbled in dimension magic, it resulted in the Cataclysm and the Blight being unleashed upon our world."

Chapter 41

Yup, Rob mused. I definitely prefer it when I'm the one turning people's lives upside-down.

Silence, thick and heavy, blanketed the room. Rob – along with Diplomacy and Elder Alessia – stared at the High Soulseer in abject shock, all of them lost for words. The reality of the moment pressed upon them, making itself known, suffocating the tenets of reason and common sense.

"...Um," Rob eventually managed to say. "You...caused the Cataclysm?"

"In a circuitous fashion," the Soulseer answered, sounding incredibly tired. "It was not our intention, not even an outcome we remotely considered as a possibility – and yet, it happened all the same."

"How?" Elder Alessia choked out. She appeared on the verge of mania, only held back by her mind undergoing an emergency reboot. Diplomacy said nothing, simply observing the Soulseer with calculating eyes.

Rob, on the other hand, was still trying to bridge the gap between where the conversation had been and where it was now. I just wanted to send a letter to Jason and my parents, he thought, a nervous chuckle dying in his throat.

"To fully explain what transpired," the High Soulseer started, "I must begin eight years ago, when the great war against Human territory was drawing to its close. At that time, the Scouring was driving Humanity to the brink of ruin. Any hope they'd possessed of reversing the tides of war had been stifled by the Dragon Queen's Awakening. In their desperation, and bereft of any real alternatives, they turned to the one race that had refrained from indulging in wanton bloodshed."

"Fiends," Alessia whispered, her voice wavering.

A memory sprung from the corner of Rob's mind. At one point in Stonewarden Grant's ravings, he'd made a claim that got lost amongst the shuffle of betrayals and nuclear warfare threats. "Project Socius was the Humans' final resort," the Stonewarden had explained. "One born out of pure desperation. They intended to contact the Fiends and request assistance in some manner. As far as I am aware, they succeeded."

Grant's expression hardened. "Weeks later, the Cataclysm tore Elatra asunder."

"Communicating with the Humans was nigh-impossible," the High Soulseer continued. "Initially, we couldn't even discern what they were attempting to accomplish. It was the first time in centuries that they'd approached Fiend territory with weapons sheathed. Once it became apparent that they truly desired an accord, we tried and failed to learn each other's languages, before inevitably resorting to basic pantomime."

He scowled. "That too was largely ineffective. I suspect there is a fundamental flaw in Fiendish biology which impedes all types of communication with other races. It was only through repeated trial and error that we barely managed to ascertain the Humans' objective. Put simply; they desired assistance. Anything and everything that Fiend territory could give."

The Soulseer's voice slurred, as if his mind was in another place. "What were we thinking, I wonder?" he mumbled. "Rejecting the Humans would have been prudent. We owed them less than nothing."

His shoulders slumped. "I suppose...in the end, it was pity. The tragedy they were suffering was something that we'd feared for ourselves since our race's inception. Watching the rest of Elatra band together to extinguish Humanity struck a nerve."

Elder Alessia looked sick to her stomach. When it became apparent that no one had anything to say, the High Soulseer moved on. "Naturally, we were unwilling to commit our armed forces," he said. "Pity only goes so far. In truth, the sole advantage we had to offer was knowledge of our recent developments in teleportation magic. And while they could have theoretically utilized it to gain an edge early in the war, by now, they'd lost too much ground for it to matter."

He tilted his head slightly. "I believe the turning point originated from a passing comment. One frustrated mage mentioned that they wished the Humans would 'just leave'. Then, we imagined: why couldn't they just leave?"

"You gave them dimension magic," Rob blurted out, his head spinning. "Does that mean the Humans didn't actually die?"

"No. They did."

"But-"

"My story is not yet finished," The High Soulseer stated. "I wish it were, but as you will soon learn, no good deed goes unpunished."

He exhaled, letting out the weight of the past in a long breath. "As mentioned, we developed interdimensional travel alongside teleportation magic. While the latter immediately proved to be valuable, we were honestly unsure of what to do with the former. Dimension magic is outrageously mana-intensive. Even the worlds closest to our own would require an exorbitant amount of mana and effort to send a single person to – who would then be stranded, with no way to return. It was utterly worthless."

"Unless you never desired to return," Alessia interjected. Her voice was marginally stronger than before, but it was still weak, her composure hanging by a thread. "Elatra was lost to the Humans, so their only recourse was to flee."

The High Soulseer grunted in affirmation. "Communicating that notion was a trial in and of itself. Once they'd finally grasped the concept, our mages gave them visual demonstrations of how to perform dimension magic. Comprehending spells is much easier than comprehending languages. The rest was left to the Humans; they would locate a nearby world and transport as many of their kind as possible, salvaging remnants to live on in new lands."

Rob felt a cold chill settle over him. "What went wrong?" he asked, keeping his tone non-accusatory.

"I haven't the faintest idea." The Soulseer reached behind his head and tightened his blindfold. "The Humans we met seemed like reasonable creatures. It was evident that they wanted their brethren to survive. Yet, when it came time for them to cast dimension magic, they twisted its usage in ways we'd never envisioned. Instead of shaping the barrier between worlds, the Humans siphoned it, taking its mana for their own."

He lowered his head. "That combined with using Soul Burn on their entire race was enough to fuel the Cataclysm."

For half a minute, no one spoke a word.

"How many Fiends are aware of this?" Diplomacy asked, curious. "Or did you silence them the way you silenced those who discovered your race's heritage?"

"The Cataclysm silenced most of them for me," the Soulseer darkly muttered. "Our meetings with the Humans were clandestine in nature, privy to no more than thirty people on each side. After rays of destructive light tore Fiend territory asunder, ten remained. Myself, Overseer Nelrith, six mages, and..."

He gestured to his assistants, the two of them completely emotionless, like dolls made of flesh-and-blood. "This is why they embraced the sweet nothingness of Melancholy Resistance. The guilt was too much to bear." His forehead twitched. "On many days, I am tempted to join them."

It wasn't...your fault. The condolence sounded weak even inside Rob's head. Regardless of fault, the Soulseer's actions had directly led to the deaths of millions. If he'd just convinced his associates to walk away, then Elatra would've been spared untold amounts of misery. That wasn't a burden that logic factored into.

"It wasn't your fault," Diplomacy suddenly said, leaning forward, their voice full of fervor. "You couldn't-"

"Stop." The High Soulseer clenched trembling fists. "Not one more word." Eventually, the Soulseer raised his head, seemingly resigned to his self-imposed fate.

"This story of mine has no ending," he proclaimed. "It is, as of now, being written by you and yours. Humanity's betrayal was merely the beginning of a brand new chapter of hardship. When the Humans siphoned mana from the barrier between worlds, they weakened it permanently – and where walls crack, rats slip through. It's no coincidence that the Blight's first appearance in thousands of years occurred shortly after the Cataclysm."

Before another astonished silence could set in, Rob clapped his hands once, surprising everyone. "Alright!" he exclaimed. "Finally, some good news."

"...Auto-Translate must have misinterpreted that statement."

"No, see, I can work with this." Rob took a deep breath to calm himself. "Still wrapping my head around...pretty much everything you said, but yeah. Let's break things down. First, the Humans cast Soul Burn on themselves. Second, they sapped mana away from the barrier between worlds. We don't know why. Third, Cataclysm. Fourth, the Blight creeps into Elatra through the weakened barrier."

A tenuous grin spread across his face. "That means that if we fix the barrier, the Blight won't be able to get in anymore."

"I've researched that option extensively," the High Soulseer immediately replied. "To restore the barrier between worlds, it would require an amount of mana equivalent to what was taken. Unless another race submits to sacrificing their lives with Soul Burn, it cannot be done." He paused. "Two races in total, actually. Human territory was more populous. Perhaps the gods could accomplish such a task, but it is beyond mortal means."

Rob's enthusiasm deflated. While he wasn't sure of what the exact relationship between the gods and the Blight was, if the divine dickheads were willing to restore the barrier, then they would've done so a long time ago. "You sure there's nothing we can do to stop the Blight from getting in?"

{It won't help. They're already here.}

He froze. For once, the static hadn't sounded crazed or manipulative. It was calm, merely stating a fact.

That just creeped Rob out even more.

"If anything," the High Soulseer continued, "this issue is liable to worsen as time passes. Since the Cataclysm, I've examined the barrier every day, in fear of what I might find. Nine days ago, my fears were confirmed: it had weakened yet again. Only slightly, but if the trend persists, then I am unsure of what will transpire."

Nine days, Rob thought. Hmm. Nine days ago was...oh.

When Titan's Fist tore a hole in reality.

"So I've got some good news and some bad news," Rob said, nonchalantly. "Which do you want to hear first?"

The High Soulseer stayed silent, and despite his blindfold, managed to project the appearance of an unamused glare.

"Good news it is!" Rob declared. "So what happened nine days ago was a one-off occurrence. We should be in the clear for now." He grimaced. "The bad news is that it can easily happen again in the future. Dwarfland fucked up."

The Soulseer's face bloomed with horror as Rob explained the gritty details of Titan's Fist. When Rob was finished, the Fiend slammed his fist on the table, leaving a deep crack in its surface. "I've never heard of such an abhorrent creation," he ranted, exhibiting more passion than ever before. "It is far, far worse than what the Humans did. Siphoning the barrier between worlds may have let the Blight in, but breaking the barrier could result in a chain reaction that destabilizes reality, annihilating all of Elatra in a rippling wildfire of entropy."

"I dislike each and every facet of this conversation," Elder Alessia muttered.

"As you should." The High Soulseer snapped his head towards Rob. "How many Dwarves remain that can construct this loathsome abomination?"

"Their scientist team," Rob answered. "Minus the one extremist who got crispy-fried when launching it. So around ten – ooooh hell no." He held up his arms, crossed over his chest, in an 'X' formation. "I know that assassinating people who know too much is kind of your thing, but that's not how my Party operates."

The Soulseer furrowed his brows. "It would be the most expedient solution."

Rob shrugged. "Sorry. Try checking back in after my Leveling High goes up a rank. I might agree with you by then."

Everyone else in the room winced. Even the two assistants display a brief flicker of emotion.

"...Bad joke?"

"In Human territory, it would have branded you as a pariah for years," Alessia remarked. She sat up straight, regaining some measure of composure. "I must ask, Soulseer – how safe is conventional dimension magic when utilized normally? By that, I mean excluding Titan's Fist or intentionally weakening the barrier between worlds."

"We would never have gifted it to the Humans if we believed it could cause harm." The Soulseer crumpled inwards, his passion dissipating like wisps of smoke from a dying fire. "Ordinary dimension travel shapes the barrier, allows travelers to pass, then unshapes the barrier, leaving everything as it was before. Like water sifting through a membrane. Had the Humans used it to escape to a new world, then at least some of their race would have survived, and the Blight would have remained an ancient legend."

His lips twisted into a rictus of hatred. "We gave them an escape. We gave them salvation. And they repaid our kindness with ruination. Countless people are dead simply because the Humans let vengeance take hold of their hearts."

Actually, Rob pondered, I don't think that adds up. He recalled another memory – this one of a vision he'd witnessed during his third Locus Attunement. It had shown two Humans in positions of authority discussing what they could do to avert their impending extinction.

"Only one option remains," the Human woman stated, in a tone that brooked no argument. "You know this as well as I do, Reynold. It's high time we implemented Project Socius."

Reynold sank into thought. "Can we?" he muttered. "Will it work? Do we *want* it to work? It goes against all that we know."

She offered him a sour grin. "All that we know has already been turned on its head. Madness reigns, cities burn, and molten ash falls from the sky. In the face of imminent annihilation, what's one more scrap of insanity added to the pile?"

"Are we to commit sacrilege, then? Immerse ourselves in sin?"

"For our people," the woman stated, resolute. "So that they may yet live."

Reynold hesitated. Slowly, like pushing a rusted lever, his head nodded. "...For our people."

None of that sounded like they were planning to commit global murder-suicide. Rob almost said as much, but after glancing at the looks on Alessia's and the Soulseer's faces, he decided to keep his mouth shut. Their emotions were riding high; anything he said to the contrary was going to come across as making excuses for his 'fellow Humans'.

Maybe he'd bring up the topic later, but for now, it didn't really matter. The reason behind the Cataclysm was less important than the mechanisms that made it possible. "Hear me out on this," he began, in a careful tone. "What if we used the dimension barrier weakening to our advantage?"

The High Soulseer glared at him like he'd suggested sacrificing a puppy. From beside Rob, Diplomacy snickered. "There were better ways to lead into that," they advised.

I'd like to see you do better, Rob grumbled internally. He made sure to keep it internal, because that would have been a very stupid challenge to make versus the person literally named Diplomacy. "All I'm saying is that we shouldn't get caught up in the sunk cost fallacy," he argued. "The barrier has weakened, and it can't be un-weakened, so when life gives you lemons, something, something."

Diplomacy raised an eyebrow. "I'm putting you on the schedule for Negotiating 101. Daily one-hour lessons, taught by me."

"That's for the best." Rob turned towards the High Soulseer. "You said that normal dimension magic is harmless but difficult, right? Have you tested it since the barrier got weaker?"

The High Soulseer shook his head. "We who survived the Cataclysm swore an oath to restrict dimension magic's proliferation. The knowledge is forbidden, and anyone who so much as hints of its existence shall be sentenced to a quiet death."

All of a sudden, Overseer What's-Her-Name's unbridled panic when they'd cornered her earlier made a lot more sense. "Here's what I'm imagining," Rob said, after jotting down a mental note to apologize to her later. "If it's easier for the Blight to cross between dimensions, then it should be easier for us, too. Interdimensional travel is probably less mana-intensive nowadays than it used to be. I could be wrong, but hey, there's no harm in doing our due diligence."

"And I would rather die than revisit my greatest mistake." The Overseer's voice took on a sharp edge. "Why are you so fixated on this subject? I understand your desire to return home, but the Blight is still jeopardizing Elatra. There is no reason for me to break my vows in order to grant you the opportunity to leave us helpless."

"It's cute that you think you have leverage."

Rob, Alessia, and the Soulseer all turned to look at Diplomacy. The former Skill opened their mouth in faux shock, as if the attention was unexpected. "Hmm? Oh, don't mind me," they remarked. "I merely saw a kitten who thought it was a lion, and the sight was just so amusing."

"Stop bandying words," the Soulseer snapped. "State your intentions clearly."

Diplomacy gave him a serene smile. "Then allow me to paint a picture for you. Imagine, if you would, a bright, sunny afternoon in Acrastor City. The air is crisp with possibility. Families are out for a walk, children laughing gleefully with their parents. Zamult-drawn carriages forge a lazy path through bustling crowds. Shopkeeps are selling wares, performers are making merry – you couldn't have asked for a more perfect day."

Their smile broadened. "Then, out of the shadows, a figure appears. Before anyone notices its presence, it rushes into the center of the busy streets, quick as lightning. An explosion erupts from the end of its dash, sending bodies and torn limbs flying. Screams erupt just as loudly, the crowds regressing into a stampede, small children trampled underfoot. A zamult-drawn carriage topples over, shattering into pieces as the Figure hacks apart its occupants with a wicked longsword."

The Skill's vocal cadence was captivating, submersing the room into a communal fever dream. "Three nearby Combat Class users move to intercept," they said. "Two are cut down in seconds, yet the third lands a thrust directly to the Figure's heart – which promptly goes ignored. Fiend after Fiend is slain, civilians and soldiers alike, rivers of blood left in the Figure's wake. Its wounds increment slowly, each sliver bought and paid for with a Combat Class user's life. Eventually, just when it seems that it might succumb, the Figure's wounds heals in a flash of demoralizing mana, its rampage beginning anew."

Diplomacy looked at each person in turn, keeping them trapped in the moment. "Time passes. The slaughter continues unabated. A veritable army arrives as reinforcements – and finally, the Figure disappears as if it were never there, leaving scattered survivors to pick up the pieces. Those who were lucky enough to make it through struggle with horrible guilt, although others tell them to forgive themselves. An attack from the Figure, after all, is no more preventable than a natural disaster. The best they can do is hope it doesn't come for them next. Some call it the Fiends' Penance, others call it the Avenging Beast, and some even dare to call it by its original, forsworn name: Rob."

Dead silence.

"Diplomacy, what the fuck?!" Rob yelled.

"Ah, my apologies. I forgot your apprehension towards killing civilians." They raised a single clawed finger. "Let me paint a different picture, then. The Fiends have entered into a vicious war. One day, on the opposing side of a battlefield, they spy a figure that strikes terror into their-"

"THAT'S NOT BETTER!" Rob forced himself to relax, his hands shaking. "Why would you...why say any of that?!"

"Because I fail to understand why the High Soulseer isn't begging on his hands and knees for your assistance." Diplomacy glanced at the Fiend as if he was a pile of refuse. "Something like researching interdimensional travel so you can send a letter home is the bare minimum of what he should offer. Does this sack of wrinkles have any remote concept of how grateful he should be for your backing, every second of every day?"

Diplomacy sneered. "Even putting aside Purge Corruption, you've given the Fiends an unstoppable ally, Rob. You aren't strictly invincible, but with your durability combined with Waymark, the number of things that can realistically kill you can be counted on one hand. Any war of attrition would be won by whichever race has you on their side."

Rob resisted the urge to punch Diplomacy in the face. "I have never, not once, in my life, used those things as blackmail." His voice rose with every word, teetering on the edge of fury. "I don't want to kill people. I don't want to be a war hero or a natural disaster. It's enough for people to say they're grateful and let me go chill in a corner with my friends! Hell, even if they weren't grateful, I'd still help anyway, because watching people die ruins my FUCKING sleep!"

"I know." Diplomacy jerked their thumb towards the High Soulseer. "But did he know, truly, until ten seconds ago?"

Rob looked at the Soulseer's expression, a mixture of horrified contemplation, and realized what the situation truly was. Good cop, bad cop, he thought. Diplomacy presents the worst-case scenario of me betraying the Fiends. I act outraged, because I was. High Soulseer gets to see my genuine emotions...

He clenched his teeth. Yeah, no. Not a fan.

"Your colorful descriptions of the deaths of my people were unnecessary," the High Soulseer eventually said, sounding more than a little irate. "Nonetheless, I...owe an apology to Rob. Some part of me may always find it difficult to trust Humans, but that is no excuse. You've been a true ally from the very start, and I should not have dismissed your request out of hand."

Diplomacy's self-satisfied smirk was the last straw.

Message Started Between Party Members: Rob, Diplomacy

Rob: Don't do that again.

Diplomacy: We would've been here for an hour, otherwise. His issues are deeply rooted in-

Rob: Don't. Do. That. Again.

Rob: I still have nightmares about all the people I killed in Dhalerune.

Rob: I'll probably have them for the rest of my life.

Rob: And you're smart enough to remember that. So next time you feel like propping me up as some unstoppable killing machine in order to make a point, just...

Rob: Don't.

Diplomacy froze. Rob turned away from them, not wanting to see whatever expression would end up on their face. "We don't have to go crazy with dimension magic right away," he assured the High Soulseer. "Baby steps, first. Just testing to see how mana-intensive it is, and how big of a portal we can make." He put on a strained grin. "If it helps, I'm a dogshit mage, so I wouldn't be able to copy it no matter how hard I tried."

The Soulseer paused, then looked to Elder Alessia. "Aren't you wary of reviving the magic that brought devastation to Elatra?"

"We need it," she stated, with unflinching resolve. "If there's a risk, it's worth it."

"You'd be entrusting your ambition to monsters," the Fiend reminded. "Rob told me before that, despite my race's ancestry, he still views us as people. What of you? Does it not make you wary of cooperating with us?"

At that, Alessia merely laughed. "If you'd asked me a year ago, I might have answered differently," she admitted. "Then your people gave mine safe haven after true monsters destroyed our home. Whatever sort of creature you believe yourself to be, I can assure you that Fiends are no more or less aggravating than any Elf I've met."

She pointed to Rob. "His Party heard the Stonewarden's proclamation as well, and they welcomed their Fiend companion with open arms. Last I saw, she was as confident in herself as ever. I cannot attest to how accepting the average person would be, but among us, you shall receive no scorn."

"...Remarkable." It was one word, yet it carried the weight of a hundred. Slowly, the High Soulseer nodded, some life sparking back into his countenance. "The dimension mages swore their own vows. I won't force them to comply with your request; to do so would be an insult to the burden we bear."

His resolve strengthened like tempered steel. "However, I will explain the situation and persuade them as best I can. This, I promise you."

That's basically a done deal. Rob did a victory dance inside his head as he thanked the Soulseer with a calm, gracious manner. This was one scenario where Elatra being such a hierarchical society worked in their favor. Vows or no vows, if someone as respected as the High Soulseer asked the mages to start researching interdimensional travel again, then they'd relent.

The fact that he actually seems motivated now won't hurt, either. Rob distinctly remembered what the High Soulseer had been like when they first met. Back then, the aged Fiend was like a shambling corpse animated via regrets and inertia. Now, after having his ancestral origins accepted by multiple people, and being given a chance to use his greatest failure for positive means, the Soulseer appeared optimistic. Mildly optimistic, sure, but that was still an enormous improvement from before.

He'd be helping them kill the gods in no time.

It wouldn't take much of a push, really. The High Soulseer already considered his race's existence to be a cruel joke. Rob doubted that it'd be tough to convince him that the Fiend god Argath was an asshole. From there, Riardin's Rangers would drop hints about how many of Elatra's problems stemmed wholly from the gods' malevolence, gradually converting the Soulseer to their holy church of deicide. Once he was fully on board, he'd convince his dimension mages to aim their sights a little higher, and then...

The stage would be set.

Rob's mouth split into a feral smile. I can't fucking wait.

Chapter 42

"That kinda tingles," Rob said, as waves of mana washed over him. "Like a low-grade anesthetic on my whole body. You sure this doesn't have any side effects?"

Immediately, the six dimension mages working on him flinched and stepped back, ending their scrying spells. "A-absolutely not," the head mage stuttered, as his cohorts looked away. "We would never dream of hurting you."

Rob held up his hands. "No worries," he soothed. "Was just making small talk. Feel free to keep going."

The dimension mages exchanged uncertain glances. Slowly, their boss stepped forth, as if treading into the den of a starving gorebeast. Mana flowed outward again as he resumed his scrying spell, the others following suit shortly after.

Rob put on his best PR-friendly smile, revising how he would need to conduct himself around the mages. He hadn't expected them to be so freaking skittish – although it made sense once he considered all the mental baggage they were carrying. Rob was a Human, and the last time the dimension mages collaborated with Humans, shit ended up going very far south.

Adding to that, he was Level 67 and flanked by three of Riardin's Rangers – Keira, Malika, and Orn'tol – each of whom could kill the dimension mages all on their own if necessary. As the final cherry on top, the mages were still adjusting to their loss of Diplomacy, making them paranoid about misspeaking. From their perspective, this was a high-pressure, high-stakes situation, where the wrong move might offend a group of powerful Combat Class users and bring disproportionate retribution upon their heads.

Ironically, the mages' blatant apprehension was way more offensive than anything they could have said otherwise. Loosen up, guys, Rob thought, as the Fiends eyed him warily. It's me! Roy! Saved Fiend territory? Has a play written about his exploits? Heck, I probably Purged the mages' Corruption firsthand during the epidemic.

He paused. Granted, I was around 20 Levels lower back then, and my Leveling High was Mild, *and* I didn't know their dark dirty secrets, but come on. Cut me some slack.

This would typically be the part where he asked Diplomacy for advice, but Rob was still a bit pissed about their stunt with the High Soulseer. He was giving them space until they apologized, or at least acknowledged that they'd screwed up. Rob was a little surprised that they hadn't already, although knowing Diplomacy, they were likely devising an overly-elaborate response when a simple 'my bad' would've done the trick.

"What are you doing?" Malika randomly blurted out, staring at the dimension mages with visible interest. The mages flinched, sending pleading stares at their head honcho, who once again took up the mantle of appeasing the dreaded Combat Class users.

"Currently, we are analyzing his mana," the Fiend explained. "Teleportation magic and dimension magic both require an intimate knowledge of their target location in order to succeed. A similar process was utilized several months ago in preparation for transporting your Party back to Elven territory. As you lived in those lands for decades, your mana was attuned to that area, and we were able to teleport you to the opposite end of Elatra despite having never visited there ourselves."

He turned his gaze towards Rob. "Identifying a target location with dimension magic is exponentially more challenging. Whereas the difficulty of teleportation magic can be measured in distance, dimension magic is…"

The Fiend trailed off, his face contorting into an expression that reminded Rob of when his professors were stuck teaching an especially thickheaded class. "I genuinely cannot think of an analogy that would make sense to someone with low magical acumen. Worlds are separated by distance, and time, and space, and mana, and aspects that we don't have words for yet."

"No, I understand." Malika waved her finger through the air, producing an effect that – to Rob – looked like nothing more than sparkly colors. "Is it similar to that?"

The dimension mages' eyes were drawn to her mana like moths to a flame. "Yes!" the head mage exclaimed, with childlike exuberance. "How did you grasp the concept so swiftly?!"

"I've watched the flow of mana for years." Her pupils briefly shimmered. "Sometimes it seems to go to a place very far away, and sometimes mana appears from out of nowhere at all. Didn't realize what was happening until I learned that other worlds exist."

Unabashed excitement spread across Malika's face. "It's one of the most fascinating things ever. I can raise my hand and know that my space is overlapping with their world's space, but also not, because there's distance to consider and...actually, let me explain it this way."

She produced another batch of sparkly colors that gripped the dimension mages in rapt attention. Rob suppressed a grumble, feeling more left out than he was willing to admit. The mages barely spoke two words to us before this, he thought. What am I, chopped liver?

After a few seconds, he decided to view it as a good thing. The dimension mages were his ticket home, so if Malika was getting them to open up by talking shop, then they could nerd out all they wanted.

"It's the strangest thing," the head mage said, once Malika finished her demonstration. "When we cooperated with the Humans of old, it was much easier to analyze their mana of origin. Part of that can be attributed to Rob not hailing from Elatra, but even so. It's almost as if his world doesn't have any mana whatsoever."

"That's right."

The dimension mages snapped their heads towards Rob. "I beg your pardon?" the head mage said, in a tone of pure disbelief. "No, wait, my apologies, what I meant to say was-"

"Earth doesn't have mana," Rob tiredly clarified. "At least, I don't think it does. Never saw anyone throwing fireballs who wasn't a Vegas street performer."

"That's impossible. Mana is an essential building block of life. Without mana, bodies cannot sustain themselves, and souls would lack a thinking consciousness."

Rob shrugged. "Maybe we have mana, but we can't sense it? Either way, Earth seems to get by just fine." Probably shouldn't tell them that people having souls or not is a debated topic on Earth.

The mages, at a loss for words, conferred with each other for a few minutes. After they dispersed, the head mage turned to Rob and cautiously shook his head. "My apologies. Assuming that you are correct, then I am unsure if interdimensional travel to Earth is possible. We aren't so proficient that we can locate a world without strong mana signatures to guide our path."

Malika cackled loudly, a smug grin emblazoned on her face. "That's where I come in," she crowed. "Link into a Mage Circle with me. The overwhelming might of an Archmage shall ascend your spellcasting to heights untold. I'll share a portion of your expertise, you'll share a portion of my Sense Magic, and together, we'll create miracles."

Orn'tol hummed to himself. "Is it truly a miracle if you already know how to achieve your goal?" he remarked.

"Shut up! I'm trying to be awe-inspiring!"

The dimension mages, whispering like scandalized nobles from the Victorian era, quickly huddled into another group tête-à-tête. Malika waited for their answer on bated breath, while Rob privately lamented the cruelty of an unjust world.

Message Started Between Party Members: Rob, Keira

Rob: for the record, this is total BS

Rob: malika was talkng like a mad scientist and the mages barely blinked

Rob: but they freak out if i breath the wrong way

Keira: Malika is younger than you, lower-leveled than you, and a like-minded individual to the mages.

Keira: This is honestly an entirely expected outcome.

Rob: i knoooow

Rob: guess i just got used to people not being fidgety over the 'big bad human' anymore

Rob: at this rate i'll jumpscare them by saying hello

Keira: Oh, so you'll finally be leveling up Intimidation again?

Keira: I'm so proud of you, Rob. Was afraid this day would never come.

Rob: -_-

"Have you ever been part of a Mage Circle?" the head mage eventually asked Malika. "In rare cases, spellcasters can lose their faculties when joining one, becoming temporarily obsessed with their newfound power."

Malika grinned wider. "Elder Duran and I led a Mage Circle when we excised the Corruption within Esternard City."

A third group huddle; much faster, this time. "That is proof enough," the head mage said, failing to downplay how impressed he was. Malika skipped over to them with an air of superiority, joining hands as she and the dimension mages linked seven mana signatures into one.

Rob instinctively jerked back as their auras lit up like a Christmas tree. The mages' bodies were frozen stiff, only their eyes moving, rapidly looking every which way. They appeared dumbfounded at the sensory range that Malika's sky-high Sense Mana had granted them. The young Archmage herself was living it up, basking in the glow of her own magnificence.

Finally, the head mage composed himself, turning to face Rob. "I still can't ascertain the mana of your origin," he mumbled, his pupils shining with radiant energy. "But there is a...thread. A trail. A marker. All of those things, leading...somewhere else."

He nodded. "Yes. This will do nicely. Tracing the thread won't be easy, and it may take quite some time, but far be it from me to shy away from a challenge." The head mage raised his hands, eyes glimmering with zeal, as waves of vibrant mana flowed forth.

--

Faelynn heard a knock on the door.

Without thinking, she stood up to let in whoever was outside – only to freeze when she remembered what happened to Vul'to when he and Meyneth did the same. No one in the Party had alerted her of their coming with a Message, so her visitor couldn't have been a member of Riardin's Rangers. "What's the password?" she called out.

"Password," a crystal-clear timbre replied. Faelynn allowed herself to relax; even if her visitor hadn't answered correctly, only one person in existence possessed a voice like that. She opened the door to her personal quarters, giving Diplomacy a welcoming smile as the former Skill stepped inside.

"It's good to see you," Diplomacy said, taking a seat across from her. "Glad I remembered the code. Did Rob ever tell anyone why he picked 'password' for our password?"

Faelynn shook her head. "No. It was just one of his Rob things. He started giggling when he suggested it, so no one bothered recommending an alternative."

While it was usually possible to glean the meaning of Rob's Earth anachronisms through context, some of them were so opaque that he might as well have been speaking in a different language. Oddly enough, he actually seemed to find it more amusing when people didn't understand – to the chagrin of everyone around him.

The confusion that Rob's habit provoked was mildly grating at times, but Faelynn considered it a worthy tradeoff for getting him to smile. He was doing that less often these days, generally oscillating between forced cheer and quiet, haunted stares into the distance. If making bewildering jokes was his way of coping, letting Rob hold onto the world he'd left behind, then who was Faelynn to tell him otherwise?

"Thanks for indulging him," Diplomacy said, bowing slightly. "I can state with certainty that he appreciates it. And if you could indulge me as well..."

They pulled the Ring of Disguise off their finger. Its illusion dispelled into fading motes of mana, revealing Diplomacy's true form. Gleaming, porcelain skin similar to a carapace, long indigo hair, brilliant indigo eyes, and two bladed limbs attached right above their arms.

"Much better," Diplomacy said, stretching as if they'd recently awoken from a cozy slumber. "The Ring of Disguise doesn't change me in a physical sense, but I still feel the most comfortable when I can be me."

Faelynn nodded, doing her best to hide how uneasy Diplomacy's real body made her. While there was nothing intrinsically unsettling about them – in fact, their form was quite pleasant to look at – they were just, well...different. She was used to the established races of Elatra. Fiends, Dragonkin Humans, etc. There weren't supposed to be more.

It wasn't a fair sentiment in the slightest, and Faelynn tried her hardest to suppress it. Is this how the other races feel when they first meet Fiends? she wondered. After all, it took the Deserters several months to grow accustomed to interacting with us. She hoped it wouldn't take her that long to grow accustomed to Diplomacy; they deserved to be accepted readily and openly.

"Don't worry," the former Skill suddenly interjected, breaking Faelynn out of her thoughts. "I know that my presence is jarring. You won't offend me by requiring an adjustment period."

They sounded sincere, which only served to tighten the cord of guilt circling around Faelynn's chest. "I must still apologize," she said, in a contrite tone. "Fiends have suffered under prejudice since our inception, and here I am, doing the same to you."

"The fact that you recognize it and are attempting to improve is what matters." Diplomacy folded their hands together, adopting a friendly demeanor. "Now then. In the interest of time, let's move on to the reason why I've come here today. I'd like to propose an exchange, Faelynn."

"I'm afraid I don't have much to offer," she sighed. "My savings are modest." Faelynn paused, blinking, as if she'd just realized something. "I suppose I could've asked the Grand Overseers for a pay increase, but, um. I forgot."

"All of you desperately need a financial advisor," Diplomacy muttered. "We'll save that topic for a later date. I'm not proposing an exchange in the material sense – rather, a mutual lessening of mental burdens. We both have issues weighing on our minds, and I think it would be good for us to work through them together."

Faelynn's eyebrows rose by a few inches. "Not that I'm opposed, but why me? You've known Rob and the other members of Riardin's Rangers longer."

"Because I believe that you are best-suited for the task." Diplomacy graced her with a genial smile. "Give yourself some credit, Faelynn. You can accomplish things that no one else in our Party can."

A wave of gratitude passed through her like a calming breeze. It wasn't enough to snuff out the embers of doubt smoldering within her, however, embers which only grew as Faelynn contemplated exactly what Diplomacy had said. "I'm not particularly adept at helping ease people's worries," she began, speaking carefully. "That isn't me deriding myself; it's just a statement of fact. There isn't anything I can contribute over people you've been acquainted with longer, unless..."

Her eyes narrowed. "Me being the newest member of Riardin's Rangers is a benefit, not a detriment. You want someone with less emotional attachment. And less sway within the Party, maybe? Because...you don't want the others to learn of what you intend to discuss."

Diplomacy peered at Faelynn with muted surprise. It felt vaguely insulting, like they hadn't expected her to figure out so much. "I wouldn't phrase it in that manner."

"Naturally." She grimaced. "It's fine. The basis of your proposal is flawed, regardless. I don't have any issues weighing on my mind."

An uncomfortable silence permeated the room. Diplomacy averted their eyes, hesitating before speaking further. "You've hid it well from Riardin's Rangers," they said, "but I know that learning of the Fiends' ancestry has been more difficult than you let on."

Faelynn's retort caught in her throat. "How..." She lowered her gaze. "Never mind. Stupid question." She held up her hand to forestall Diplomacy's reply, taking a moment to compose herself.

"I won't pretend that it's been easy." Faelynn extended her claws to their full length. She examined them, truly examined them, not just as a normal facet of her biology, but as weapons designed for pilfering souls. "There was a period after the Stonewarden's revelation where I'd hoped that he was wrong, or lying, or anything other than what I feared. If Rob and Malika had denied his assertions, I would have believed them – and to be blunt, I wish they had. Sometimes the truth isn't worth knowing."

She retracted her claws and closed her eyes. "We are monsters. Creatures put on this world to inflict misery. I've spent my entire life resenting the rest of Elatra for ostracizing our people, and then...this. We've resisted our origins, mostly, but it's hard not to think that the other races were justified in how they treated us."

Faelynn opened her eyes again. "Yet for some reason, Riardin's Rangers didn't care. They had every right to harbor suspicion towards me – I wouldn't have blamed them for it. Instead, nothing has changed. I am the same person to them now as I was before."

Memories of their camaraderie, freely given, ignited a comforting warmth within her. "Damnit," she mumbled. "How can I hate myself if they won't give me the opportunity? Doing so would spit in the face of their trust. If they're going to put faith in me, then I have no choice but to put faith in myself as well."

Diplomacy stared at her, unblinking, wearing an expression that Faelynn couldn't decipher. "You are far stronger than me," they plainly stated. "And that presents a problem. My exchange proposal holds no value if you're already doing an admirable job at sorting out your thoughts."

"Why does there need to be an exchange at all?" she asked. "You can just talk to me normally. Allies are meant to support one another."

"That's not how relationships between people work." Diplomacy's gaze grew cold. "An alliance is simply an agreement of mutual benefit. Both people are attached to opposite ends of the same rope, trudging towards a shared goal, pulling the other along if they begin to falter. In an ideal scenario, their strengths are complemented perfectly, neither person feeling taken advantage of. Few scenarios are ideal, though. One person usually outpaces the other, needing to pull more as their ally lags behind. And while a certain degree of disparity can be tolerated – depending on the frontrunner's generosity – everyone has their limit. Pull too much and too often, and the rope starts to fray."

Faelynn sat there, mouth open, words failing her. After a few seconds, Diplomacy leaned closer and rested their chin on their hands. "Do you like people, Faelynn?"

"Um, what?"

"Do you like people?" they repeated. "In general, I mean."

"I don't think I understand the question," she said, in a perplexed tone. "No two people are identical. That's part of what gives life variety. I've met people who brighten my day, as well as people who I never want to see again." Fucking Helkath. "Delivering a judgement on everyone at once is impossible."

For a split second, Diplomacy frowned, before their expression reverted to unaffected detachment. "That's what I assumed you'd say." They began rhythmically tapping the ends of their fingers together. "Personally, I don't like people, nor do I dislike them. When I was young, they were puzzles to be solved, like clocks with interlocking gears and mechanisms yet unknown. I studied them for a time, analyzing how their disparate parts functioned as a whole. This emotion leads to that reaction, that habit implies this thought..."

A faint undercurrent of pride entered Diplomacy's voice. "Once I solved their puzzles, people became something akin to tools. Or puppets, perhaps, but that analogy is a tad too dramatic for my taste, and not wholly accurate besides. Puppets are for entertainment, while tools can be used to your benefit. They should be acquired, maintained, and discarded as necessary."

Their lips broadened into the fakest smile Faelynn had ever seen. "I hope that puts my viewpoint into perspective. How much do you truly like – for example – your favorite cooking knife? Does your affection for it soar when it slices dinner in one go? Do you curse its lineage when it dulls to uselessness? Of course not. It's just a knife. And it's in that same vein that I neither like nor dislike people."

Faelynn stared at them in shock. "All of that is horrible."

"Agreed." Any vestiges of pride fled Diplomacy's tone. "There's a reason why I've chosen to be called Diplomacy rather than Valaire. I want to change who I am, but the more my memories return, the more that I'm unable to ignore who I was in my past life. Valaire..."

They winced. "Charitably speaking, they weren't a good person. Valaire left a series of crushed spirits and broken dreams in their wake. Worst of all, they enjoyed it. Being in control is the most addictive drug in the world; it was the sole thing Valaire's distorted heart was capable of loving. They took everything they could, gave nothing back – and when that world's end came, they ran.

A bitter chuckle escaped their throat. "The problem, of course, is that I'm still Valaire. I can try to compartmentalize my past life all I want, but old habits die hard. Empathy doesn't come naturally to me. During situations that I could resolve using a subtle touch, I have a tendency to utilize a sledgehammer instead, simply because it's more entertaining that way. People's sensibilities are an afterthought as long as my goal is achieved."

"You care for Rob," Faelynn pointed out, with a hint of desperation. Please don't tell me I'm wrong.

"I do," they replied, causing Faelynn to breathe an internal sigh of relief. "However, you must understand that my bond with Rob came about due to extreme extenuating circumstances. Traditionally, I find it difficult to connect with people, as they're...well, people. People are mercurial, flighty things. For them, yesterday's love is tomorrow's hatred, and 'unbreakable' trust crumples when the right price is met. Connecting with unreliable creatures such as those would merely expose me to the same weaknesses that allowed me to control them in the first place."

A fond grin spread across Diplomacy's face, pushing aside their dispassionate antipathy. "Then came Rob. That wonderfully naive fool. Offered me a chance when, by all rights, he should have deactivated me and called it a day. What kind of person befriends a mysterious voice living in his skull?"

Their eyes twinkled with amazement. "It helped that, due to my soul's proximity with his consciousness, I could physically feel his trust and care for me. Was a bit of a cheat code, really. He's the only one in the world who I'm 100% confident is on my side."

Diplomacy trailed off, their grin fading. "I want to be better," they muttered. "But I don't think it'll happen until I learn to like people, and that's a tall order. It took dying and being forced to share someone's head for me to connect with a single person. How in the hell am I supposed to repeat that process?"

"Honestly?" Faelynn said. "It sounds like your fear of being hurt is preventing you from taking steps forward."

"...That is correct," Diplomacy stated, each word spoken with the effort of pulling a tooth. "My greatest defense against enemies who wished to see me destroyed was to show no weakness, ever. Those times have passed, but the scars linger. Opening up to people is a daunting concept."

Faelynn nodded. "It is for many, I think, myself included. While I'm not an expert on the subject, the strategy I've seen others use to effectiveness is to just keep trying. Put your trust in someone, and if they betray that trust, throw them out the door and find someone better. Then simply continue onwards until you've made lasting connections."

"That sounds exhausting," Diplomacy grunted, with a sense of nebulous disgust.

"Loneliness is worse. I can attest to that firsthand." She stretched a hand towards them, her smile beaming. "How about this? It'll be easier for you to start by connecting to the people that Rob already has a connection with. Friends beget friends."

Diplomacy gaped at Faelynn's outstretched hand as if she'd sprouted wings and flown into the sun. "You're offering...to be friends...with me? After everything I just said?"

"You haven't judged me for being a monster, so I don't see why not."

"That isn't an equivalent comparison. You aren't responsible for your ancestry. I became Valaire of my own volition."

Faelynn smirked. "What was it you said? 'A certain degree of disparity can be tolerated?' This is plenty tolerable." She'd forgiven Meyneth for threatening to kill hundreds of Fiends in order to make the Soul Surgeon operate on Vul'to. Compared to that, Diplomacy's conniving nature was nothing to fuss over.

"You're just as naive as Rob," the former Skill said, with a sigh. "Which I guess isn't something I can complain about. Thank you for your undeserved trust; I'll do my utmost to ensure that it is repaid in full."

They paused. "That does mean I'll be starting on the backfoot, though," Diplomacy grumbled. "I'm not accustomed to being at a disadvantage."

"You...seem to be misconstruing the purpose of a friendship."

Diplomacy shook their head. "I can't take your beneficence for granted. If I do, I'll start to abuse it. Additionally, this conversation was your first in-depth impression of who I am, and I revealed far more than originally intended."

"I don't mind," Faelynn assured. "Everyone has sides of themselves that they're hesitant to show."

"Yes, but first impressions are important. If they go poorly, then your only recourse is to make your second one so grand that it wipes away the first." Diplomacy sank into deep thought. After a few moments, they nodded, having reached a conclusion.

"Would it help if I resolved the unrest in Dwarven territory?"

Chapter 43

For the love of god, just say something.

Rob twiddled his fingers as the seconds crawled by. In front of him, Diplomacy was psyching themselves up to speak, and had been for the last two arduous minutes. He was tempted to check his imaginary wristwatch to indicate that they should speed things along, but that joke was probably better kept inside his head. Making light of someone's attempt to apologize, no matter how drawn-out, was a quick way to lose friends.

Diplomacy had asked to have a private talk right after Rob's meeting with the dimension mages ended. So far, the mages were on the right track – thanks to joining a Mage Circle with Malika – but it would take them a while longer for them to locate Earth. Could be days, could be weeks.

Either outcome was fine. As long as there was actual, tangible progress, Rob didn't mind waiting. It was a million times more bearable than hoping for an ambiguous miracle to present itself.

Finally, Diplomacy took a deep breath and raised their head. "I'm sorry," they professed. "It was wrong of me to portray you as..." They hesitated, not wanting to say what came next. "To portray you as a crazed murderer merely so I could win an argument with the High Soulseer. There was no justifiable reason for me to remind you of your trauma or paint you in a poor light. I promise that it won't happen again."

Rob grinned and gave them a thumbs up. "Apology accepted. I know you didn't mean anything bad by it."

Diplomacy sagged with relief. "Thank you." They chuckled, seemingly at themself. "You must be wondering why it took the living embodiment of eloquence so long to produce such a basic, bog-standard apology."

Only a little bit. "Simple is fine," Rob said, speaking truthfully. "I don't need an eight-hundred word essay to forgive a minor misstep. It isn't like you ran over my dog."

Diplomacy's eyes sparked with clinical curiosity. "Not that I intend to flatten anyone you hold dear," they began, "but would you accept an eight-hundred word essay as an apology in that instance?"

"Depends," Rob muttered. "Does it have an annotated bibliography? Because my teachers made sure to tell me those are the most important fucking things in the world."

"I'm sensing some pent-up resentment."

"All I'm saying is that if Elatra deducted EXP whenever I forgot to cite my sources, then maybe it wouldn't be worth saving."

It wasn't even a joke that made sense, yet Diplomacy laughed anyway, the anxiety fading from their expression. "I missed this," they sighed. "I know it's been less than a day since we spoke, but I spent that whole time obsessing over the proper way to apologize. Didn't want to make it too effective."

Rob's eyebrows raised slightly. "You're gonna need to run that logic by me."

"There were at least six different ways I could've turned our quarrel on you," Diplomacy stated, like it was obvious. "Yes, I was in the wrong, but that doesn't matter. The right apology can make the aggrieved party feel as if they were the villain all along."

"That's pretty messed up," Rob commented, without judgement. "So you have to manually tamp down the charm so you don't manipulate people?"

"Sometimes." Diplomacy paused. "More than sometimes." They paused again. "Also, it would be remiss for me not to point out that I had to try especially hard in this instance."

Rob narrowed his eyes. "Did you just call me easy to manipulate?"

"Insofar as it pertains to apologies?" Diplomacy spread their arms, giving Rob a 'what can I say?' gesture. "You have a habitual tendency to accept them, even from people who've literally tried to kill you. It goes hand in hand with your penchant for trusting too readily."

"Trusting people has paid off great," Rob countered, pointing a finger at Diplomacy. "I've got a laundry list of allies who could have been enemies, but aren't. The Deserters, the Fiends-"

"Stonewarden Grant?" Diplomacy interrupted.

Rob winced, his finger wilting. "No one bats a thousand."

"I know," Diplomacy assured. "I'm not telling you to change who you are – only to recognize that it is a detriment in certain scenarios. Don't allow snake oil salesmen to take advantage of your kindness."

"Can't you just suss them out for me?"

"If I'm around. I won't always be."

An exasperated sigh built up in Rob's chest. "I know you're right, but I'm still going to whine about it," he said, smirking. "If it helps, I promise to kill the Dragon Queen no matter what, even if she throws herself on her hands and knees and starts blubbering like a forsaken child."

"That's all I ask," Diplomacy warmly replied. "Now, then. Feel free to call the rest of Riardin's Rangers over – I've said everything on my mind."

Rob sent out a group Message. Shortly after, his friends filed into the room one-by-one, sparing quick glances for him and Diplomacy. Thankfully, they were polite enough not to ask what the two of them had needed to hash out alone.

Once everyone finished taking their seats, Malika loudly cleared her throat, adopting an imperious tone of voice. "We are gathered here today-"

Orn'tol mashed his hands onto her mouth. "We're here because Diplomacy requested an urgent meeting," he stated, talking over Malika's muffled squawks of indignation. "Something to do with a brewing crisis in Dwarven territory."

With a grunt of exertion, Malika pushed Orn'tol away with all the force her single-digit Strength could muster. "Why?!"

"Teasing you is my birthright."

Keira smiled fondly at them as they bickered. "Sometimes I wish I'd grown up with siblings," she remarked. "A younger brother or sister would have made my years in The Village more lively."

"No!" Malika growled. "You don't want siblings! They aren't good for anything!"

"I concur," Meyneth whispered to herself.

From the corner of his eye, Rob spotted Diplomacy preparing to whistle. He covered his ears just in time; the others weren't so lucky. Impressive lungs, Rob thought, as a shrill pierce cut through the room.

"Shitting fuck-hell," Keira hissed, her Elven ears twitching irritably. "Can't you find a less intrusive way of drawing our attention?"

Diplomacy hesitated. For some reason, they exchanged a glance with Faelynn, and then slowly nodded. "Sorry. The circumstances aren't so immediately dire that I needed to do that." They sat up straight. "It will be dire soon, though, if we don't act swiftly. Dwarven territory is primed and ready for an upheaval."

Riardin's Rangers listened closely, transitioning effortlessly from a group of friends messing around to a veteran Party in the midst of a war council. "What's wrong with Dwarfland?" Rob asked. "We haven't heard any bad news from the people we left in charge."

"And you won't – until it is far too late to change things. They'll delay informing you to the very last second, because during your prior excursion...well, a bunch of Dwarves died." Diplomacy grimaced. "In that sense, the mark you imprinted on their psyches was perhaps too intimidating. The Dwarves will attempt to solve the unrest in their homeland by themselves, only contacting Fiend territory after the situation has spiraled entirely out of control."

"How can you be certain that an upheaval is imminent?" Zamira queried. "You weren't conscious for most of what transpired in Dhalerune City. The people we appointed could be managing Dwarven affairs without issue."

Diplomacy shook their head. "Unfortunately, the answer to that is written all over your faces. I'm sure you did the best with what Dwarven territory had to offer, but considering that many Dwarves accustomed to leadership positions were killed or imprisoned, your pickings must have been slim. Furthermore, there's a difference between authority figures who seize power via their own will, and authority figures who are installed by foreign invaders. The Dwarves aren't going to respect the stand-ins you chose a fraction as much as Stonewarden Grant."

"While true," Zamira conceded, "the Dwarven populace was told that Grant died valiantly, succumbing to the Blight in honorable defense of Dhalerune City. They shouldn't know of our role in his demise or the governmental restructuring we enforced afterwards."

"The truth is a funny thing," Diplomacy observed. "It has a bad habit of spreading when you least want it to. It has an even worse habit of being twisted by its adherents, disparate parts cherry-picked to suit their mood. What seems more likely to a distressed Dwarven native: that their esteemed Leader suddenly perished in combat despite surviving the war and the Cataclysm, or that outsiders betrayed his trust like the filthy interlopers they are?"

I hate that that makes sense, Rob thought. The Dwarven public probably would've blamed us even if Grant actually DID go down fighting against the Blight. Unlike Fiendland, they haven't been hit hard by a Corruption epidemic, so the Blight's resurgence is more of an abstract threat. On the other hand, traitorous foreigners assassinating leaders is a tale as old as time.

Faelynn's posture went ramrod straight. "Do you think they'll push for war with Fiend territory?" she asked, dreading the answer.

"Eventually." Diplomacy offered her a comforting smile. "Don't worry – we won't let it get to that point. While our timetable has been accelerated by the Sundering fraying at everyone's nerves, a nation doesn't progress to open rebellion that quickly. I estimate that we have one week at minimum before matters in Dwarven territory come to a head. Theoretically, they could hold out for up to two months, but let's err on the side of caution."

Some of the tension in Faelynn's tightly-coiled muscles released. "One week is...feasible," she said, with a sigh of relief. "Rob, you still have a Waymark point in Dwarven territory, correct?"

Rob nodded. "Figured we would need to check up on them sooner or later." His face contorted as if he'd bit into a rotten apple. "Was really hoping it would be 'later', though. I think I'd honestly prefer to visit the Seneschal over Dwarven territory if I was given the choice, and that is not a ringing endorsement of either of them."

"Then we should contact the Grand Overseers," Faelynn stated, sounding more confident by the second. "Manipulating politics is their area of expertise. They'll know how to proceed from here. Considering our time limit, every bit of assistance we can muster is valuable."

"That's an option," Diplomacy remarked. "Although personally, I think it would be easier if I just gave a public speech and solved the issue tomorrow."

Everyone stared. "A speech?" Rob parroted. "As in, one speech?"

"Only an amateur would need two." They grinned. "I'm exaggerating, somewhat. No society is a monolith. I can't move the hearts and minds of every single person with just words alone. However, I can douse the fires of rebellion before they burst into an uncontrollable conflagration. Afterwards, yes, the Grand Overseers can then coordinate with the Dwarven..."

Diplomacy trailed off. "What did you call the officials you installed?"

Riardin's Rangers exchanged glances. "The Dwarves hadn't decided on a proper title by the time we left," Rob admitted. "They were very candid that no one was strong enough to be a Leader with a capital L, but that's about it. Just call them the Dwarven Overseers for now."

"How organized," Diplomacy muttered. "In that case, both nations' Overseers can coordinate after I pave the way for them. Or rather, once 'Belrian' does."

Wordlessly, they pulled out the Enchanted Ring of Disguise and slipped it on. Motes of mana coalesced around their body, forming into a Dwarf that appeared like any other.

Name: Belrian

Level: 31

Description: An ordinary Dwarf of no particular merit or noteworthiness.

"Don't hesitate to put your faith in me," Diplomacy said, looking at each member of Riardin's Rangers turn. "Even before I became Diplomacy, I'd witnessed the rise and fall of several nations, and studied the lifespan of countless more. Despite what you might fear, conflict can be avoided – if you understand the patterns it takes. Those who do not learn from history may be doomed to repeat it, but I've learned more about the inner workings of civilization than anyone else in the world. On the honor of my namesake, I swear to you that the unrest in Dwarven territory shall be quelled, with peace returning to its mountain halls once more."

For a brief instant, seven members of Riardin's Rangers stare at Diplomacy with awestruck gazes. To them, it was if the way forward had been made clear by a guiding light, all doubts removed from their hearts.

Then the eighth member couldn't resist opening his mouth. "You stole that from Earth," Rob snickered.

Diplomacy froze. "Stole what?"

"The whole 'those who don't learn from history' line. That's a well-known Earth saying." Rob smirked. "Were you trying to impress everyone by sounding wise and enlightened?"

"I am wise," Diplomacy grumbled. "The enlightenment is a work-in-progress."

The other members of Riardin's Rangers rapidly went from awestruck to amused. Rob preferred it that way – he didn't want them to view Diplomacy as some sort of pseudo-deity. While there was a grain of truth in that line of thinking, it would merely serve to drive a wedge between Diplomacy and the rest of his Party.

"I'll put my faith in you," Faelynn affirmed. "However, it would still be prudent to notify the Grand Overseers of your plan before we leave."

"You and Vul'to can take care of that independently," Diplomacy said. "I was actually going to suggest that the both of you stay behind. We were very, very lucky that the existence of two Fiends in Dhalerune City wasn't discovered by the general populace last time around. If they find you now...it'd be like piledriving a crate of lit Firebombs."

Vul'to furrowed his brow. "I see the logic in your suggestion, but doing so would split the Party. We can't leave Rob unguarded – who knows what trouble he'll get himself into."

"Hey," Rob interjected, crossing his arms over his chest. "I can be responsible."

For a moment, everyone else stared at him, and then promptly looked away.

"Dwarven territory is in a state of flux," Vul'to continued. "We need to be there to support Rob if our sojourn descends into unbridled anarchy."

"I...think it should be alright," Keira tentatively added. "By Diplomacy's estimate, Dwarven territory won't degenerate that far for at least a week. As long as we wait twenty-four hours after using Waymark, we'll be able to escape, regardless of whether Rob stumbles ass-first into another crisis."

"I'm right here, guys."

A weak voice cut through their banter, so quiet that Rob could barely hear it. Slowly, Orn'tol raised his hand, the young Ranger flinching as all eyes turned towards him. "If it's alright with everyone," he mumbled, "then I would prefer not to return to Dhalerune City." His hand instinctively reached for Malika's, who was nodding in agreement, her gaze lowered towards the floor.

"Sounds good," Rob said, putting on a cheerful grin that hid the aching he felt when looking at the siblings' expressions. "In fact, if Vul'to and Faelynn are staying behind, it'd be a big help if you could keep an eye on them."

He leaned forward and cupped his hand around the side of his mouth. "You know how it is with those two," Rob stage whispered, jerking his thumb at the Fiends. "Always running around, starting shit, then blaming it on me. Me! The perfect picture of innocence."

Small, fragile smiles spread across Orn'tol and Malika's faces. Rob kept his own smile exactly as cheerful as before, resisting any changes in emotion. If his face showed how relieved he was at their mood improving, then they might realize how worried he was for them. If they realized how worried he was for them, then they might start to feel guilty over 'causing problems'. And if they felt like they were causing problems, then they might try to force themselves to return to the place where they'd needed to kill for the first time.

Rob wasn't able to shelter them from the horrors of Elatra nearly as often as he wished, but at the very least, he could do this much.

After a few more minutes of discussion, Riardin's Rangers finalized their plan of action. Vul'to, Faelynn, Malika, and Orn'tol would remain in Fiendland to notify the Elders and Overseers. Rob, Keira, Zamira, Meyneth, and Diplomacy would Waymark to Dwarfland. Once they arrived, Zamira would kindly instruct the Dwarves to announce a public speech to be given approximately twenty-four hours from now.

Technically, anyone could have done that last part, but Zamira was the only member of their traveling group who the Dwarves weren't scared shitless of, so she got the job by default. While this was going on, Diplomacy would chat with random allied Dwarves to get more of a feel for their common tics and mannerisms. The former Skill was adamant that a day would be sufficient to bring themselves up to speed. Finally, once the Dwarves had finished their preparations, 'Belrian' would head out and dazzle the city with his impassioned rhetoric.

And after all that was over and done with, they'd teleport home as soon as they could. This mess was costing them peak relaxation time.

"Take care," Rob said, saluting the four who were staying behind. "We'll be back in a day and a half, max." Everyone exchanged a round of goodbyes, although with much less insistence then whenever they'd needed to split the Party before. This wasn't a dilemma that warranted tearful, heartfelt partings. Even if things went as bad as they possibly could, Riardin's Rangers wouldn't be in any real danger – not after they'd downsized Dhalerune's military forces during their past visit.

On some level, Rob was actually happy for the occasion. Compared to assassinating Grant, or eating a nuke to the face, or undergoing risky soul surgery, dealing with Dwarfland's mid-life crisis was a goddamn field trip by comparison.

'Waymark.'  A shower of blue motes engulfed them. One cross-country magic yeeting later, and Rob was back in the storage vault that Riardin's Rangers previously used as a hideout in Dhalerune City. It was empty, which was to be expected. While the Dwarves had probably figured out that Waymark sent Rob's Party to specific locations, he'd never told them the specifics, and he wasn't planning to anytime soon.

As luck would have it, the second they stepped outside the vault, they encountered a Dwarf. Level 24, so not too high up on the pecking order. When he saw Riardin's Rangers, he shrieked and fell to the floor, babbling excuses like he was pleading his case to a grand jury. "I'm sorry! It isn't my fault! We've been doing the best we can!"

Rob sighed internally as he felt a sharp, instantaneous upswell of pity. Diplomacy was right, he noted, watching Zamira step forward to placate the poor soul. I really do have a weakness for apologies.

--

That's quite the turnout.

From atop their raised podium, Diplomacy swept their eyes over the congregation of Dwarves situated below. Tens of thousands were in attendance, forming a mass that stretched out from street to street. They were just a fraction of everyone who'd be listening in, as nearby Message Crystals had been set up to broadcast live to other cities within Dwarven territory. The words spoken today would resonate across the nation in its entirety.

Suspense built with every passing moment. From below, hushed murmurs filled the air with electrified anticipation. A myriad collection of faces stared up at Diplomacy: the young, the old, the fearful, the angry, all wanting answers for the uncertain future that had been thrust upon them.

The sight was a bit of a reality check. Sometimes, when addressing issues that shaped society from the top down, it was easy to forget the ramifications that one's actions could have on the common person. Diplomacy hadn't gotten the chance to see many Dwarven civilians before being deactivated, and from what the former Skill knew, Riardin's Rangers hadn't either, having spent the duration of their visit inside Dhalerune Mines and Stonewarden Grant's fortress. This was the first time they'd witnessed the general public in its full, pitiable glory.

Diplomacy couldn't blame the Dwarves for feeling anxious. Elatran Utility Class users led a vulnerable existence, like rabbits cozying up to wolves in the hope that the wolves would protect them from monsters. Always with the implicit understanding that, on any given day, their protectors might devour them.

While Combat Class users rarely acted out to that extent, it did happen. The Dragon Queen was testament to that. It was why Utility Class users latched onto dependable Leaders so tightly; not just as a bulwark against external threats, but as an assurance of internal stability. Losing one was akin to a nation's support pillar crumbling to dust.

And there was no guarantee that it would be replaced before it all came crashing down.

Sadly, Diplomacy had no intention of telling the populace that everything would be smooth sailing from here on out. Even if the Dwarves somehow believed such a bold-faced lie, their relief would be temporary, reverting back to unrest once the next crisis inevitably presented itself. Rather than honeyed words, what they truly needed was context. Something to let them regain their footing.

It was a difficult line to walk. If Diplomacy gave the Dwarves too little information, they'd complain. If Diplomacy gave them too much, they'd riot. To complicate matters, the difference between too little and too much varied from person to person. Pleasing everyone at once was impossible; instead, Diplomacy should aim to maximize fulfillment as a whole over a wide spectrum of people.

And for that, Diplomacy would have to cheat.

They paused briefly, then brought up their Character Sheet. Reading it was unsettling, reminding them of the few lies they'd told Riardin's Rangers since awakening.

Character Sheet

Name: Valaire

Level: 1~

Race: Numian

Class: Aspect of Mediation (LV //)

I haven't even told them my race's name yet, Diplomacy mused. Steering conversations away from that line of questioning had been tricky. Before Diplomacy became known as a Numian, they wanted Rob's friends to know them as a person. Rob wouldn't care – all the Elatran races were new to him anyway – but his Party members would. Subconsciously or otherwise.

As for their Class, well...apologies to Malika, but she hadn't been completely off-base by suggesting something other than Diplomat. She'd still never have guessed what Diplomacy's actual Class was, though. Aspect of Mediation and its accompanying Skills were unlike anything Elatra was familiar with.

Diplomacy eyed their Skill List with no small amount of reluctance. Their Skills weren't truly Skills, being closer to inherited capabilities from Diplomacy's time spent as a part of the system. It'd granted them abilities far, far beyond the constraints of normalcy. Like tantalizing slivers of omniscience, just begging to be used.

They were, of course, a trap. There was a reason Diplomacy had left them deactivated. Mortal brains weren't equipped to handle the kind of information density that Skills administered on a daily basis. Diplomacy was quite fond of their new body, and they didn't want to render it unusable a mere week after gaining it.

Although that might be preferable to the alternative. If Diplomacy's body somehow endured, and they left their Skills activated, they'd become a creature that was fundamentally disconnected from mortal perception. More than a person, less than a god, and belonging nowhere.

It's just for one speech, Diplomacy thought, gathering their resolve. I can last that long. They allowed themselves a split second of hesitation, mindful of the innumerable gazes closely scrutinizing them. Here goes nothing.

Skill Activated: Mass Parallel Processing!

Skill Activated: Predictive Modeling!

Skill Activated: Instinctual Sensorium!

Skill Activated: Third Avaline Protocol!

Diplomacy's consciousness expanded. In an instant, they became able to view each individual face in the crowd simultaneously, splitting attention without actually splitting their attention. Every minuscule facial expression was analyzed and fed into the greater collective of data. The air itself began to thrum with information, faint smells now corresponding with emotions, and tiny murmurs becoming booming declarations of intent. A crowd of thousands had been transformed into a single organism, their unpredictability shaved down to the banality of cause-and-effect stimuli.

In that moment, Diplomacy felt like they could do anything.

Then a burning sensation started blooming in the center of their head, and they remembered the time limit they were on. It...hurt, a lot, and was intensifying by the second. Diplomacy brushed aside their concerns and moved on; if nothing else, they were in Rob's Party, which meant they were benefiting from Brain Damage Resistance. They'd be fiiiine.

"I am Belrian," Diplomacy began, speaking into an Enchanted Item used to project their voice. "I could introduce myself further, but there would be no point. My story is not what you came here to learn. Simply know that I bore witness to everything that transpired, and shall relay it to the best of my abilities."

Diplomacy had chosen a male appearance for the speech. Their voice was a deep baritone, and their demeanor projected an aura of ingrained confidence. It was all very much intentional – 'Belrian' had been designed from the ground-up to emulate Stonewarden Grant without dipping into the realm of uncanny valley. The Dwarves, mourning their fallen Leader, would then be inclined to subconsciously invest themselves in the first available surrogate.

It worked like a charm. The crowd held their breaths, listening in rapt attention as Diplomacy continued. "Stonewarden Grant didn't wish for you to know the full truth," Diplomacy said, modulating each syllable to lace their words with an air of gravitas. "It was his final kindness to you all. Even now, I struggle with whether or not to reveal what became of him."

Belrian closed his eyes and lowered his head by 2.37 inches. "Yet it is because of his kindness that I stand before you. The Stonewarden never wanted his people to suffer in uncertainty as you are now. If he were still with us, he would have rescinded his order."

A note of unfiltered longing entered his tone. "I can only believe that, and press onward."

There were two facets to consider when giving a speech that was broadcast across Dwarven territory: the local audience, and the remote audience. The local audience were the Dwarves in Dhalerune City. Their perception would be shaped by Diplomacy's voice, verbiage, appearance, and mannerisms. The remote audience consisted of the Dwarves listening from other cities via Message Crystal. As Message Crystals could not transmit images, those people would be influenced solely by Diplomacy's voice and verbiage.

These differences would likely result in significantly varied interpretations of Diplomacy's speech among the two audiences. The local audience, influenced by Belrian's superficial resemblance to Stonewarden Grant, would be more susceptible to emotional impulses. Diplomacy estimated that 5% of them were already enraptured with nostalgia – unless he stabbed someone live on stage, they'd listen to whatever he had to say. Conversely, the remote audience would put a greater emphasis on the content of Belrian's speech, dissecting his word choice and gleaning mountains from whatever pebbles of emotion his inflection carried.

Increase vocal gravitas by one step, Diplomacy thought, their countless minds racing. Heightened impact for remote audience. Only by one step; too much will sound unnatural for local audience.

"Some of what you've heard is true," Belrian admitted. "The Blight has indeed returned. Its pestilence is spreading across Elatra, and as of recent, it went so far as to infiltrate Dhalerune Mines."

Diplomacy waited 2.11 seconds for their words to sink in. 3.74 seconds before the crowd would have panicked, Belrian spoke again. "You needn't worry – the Blight of Dhalerune has been vanquished. Its presence in Dwarven territory is no more, for now." He drew in a short breath. "It is what preceded our battle with the Blight that may shock you."

The 'for now' was important. It confirmed that the Blight was a persistent threat, not just a one-off disaster. While this wouldn't placate the crowd whatsoever, it would make mobilizing Dwarven territory easier in the long run.

"I'll say it straight," Belrian stated. "Some of you have heard rumors that a Human is alive in Fiend territory. This is true; I met him myself. It is also true that Stonewarden Grant contacted him for assistance, wishing to make use of his unique Blight-destroying Skill. Lastly, it is true that the Human brought Fiend allies along with him, who provided aid when it came time to hunt the Blight."

Sweep gaze across crowd. Focus on those who are currently dissatisfied. Give impression that I'm making eye contact by looking in their general direction. One glance, and dozens will believe I locked eyes with them, specifically. Low-effort, high-yield strategy for emotionally connecting with local audience.

"You must be wondering so many things," Belrian said, in a somber voice. "Why is a Human alive? How did we communicate with the Fiends? And most of all, why did the Stonewarden hide this from us?"

Classic misdirection. Bring up several questions on people's minds, only answer the last one, and then move on. They'll usually forget about the unanswered ones. "Stonewarden Grant wanted to ensure that our unexpected allies were trustworthy before misleading you with false hope," Belrian explained. "No one desired peace more than him, but considering our past history with Humans and Fiends...he needed to be certain."

Belrian increased his voice by half an octave. "As luck would have it, they were true to their word. The Human and the Fiends were pivotal when it came time to slay the Blight. Had that been the end of it, then I have no doubt that the Stonewarden would've announced the beginning of a historic alliance soon after returning to Dhalerune City."

Predictive modeling in progress. Extrapolate reactions of the remote audience based on the local audience. Account for variance due to differing formats. Conclusion: inject slightly more emotion into vocal timbre. Verbiage usage stays as-is.

"We underestimated the Blight." Belrian's fists clenched, trembling with rage. "When it injured Stonewarden Grant during their battle, he was...infected, somehow. The wounds healed, but he wasn't the same man afterwards. Upon returning to Dhalerune, he shut himself inside his office, and then..."

Exhibit measured amounts of weakness. Enough to gain their sympathy, but not so much that they lose respect. "He tried to kill our allies," Belrian croaked, his voice awash with grief. "The Stonewarden pushed for a new war with Fiend territory, aiming to drown Elatra in rivers of blood."

The crowd's muttering had gone dead silent by now. This was the make-or-break point; how they responded to what Diplomacy said next would determine the course of their nation.

"If only we'd seen the signs before it was too late," Belrian said, in a hushed tone. "The Blight's infection is insidious, poisoning the minds of even the most strong-willed Dwarves. There may have been nothing we could've done, but..."

He breathed deep, then exhaled. "Stonewarden Grant resisted until the very end. With willpower I can scarcely fathom, he fought against the Blight's encroachment into his mind, summoning the battered remnants of his sanity. Once he became aware of what he was being turned into, he didn't hesitate to remove the greatest existing threat to Dwarven territory...by taking his own life."

Sprinkle seeds of truth to grow a new history. "The Stonewarden's last words were: 'Do better than I did'." Belrian let out a fond, morose chuckle. "Consumed by the Blight, wracked with pain, and still he worried first about being a good Leader to his people."

Grant's dying words weren't ideal; Diplomacy would have invented more appropriate ones if possible. However, there'd been multiple witnesses to the Stonewarden's death, so it was best to simply re-purpose what was already there. If any of those witnesses tried to claim that Belrian was lying, they'd be unable to respond when people invariably asked to learn what Grant's 'real' dying words were.

"Stonewarden Grant deserved so much more. He led us through the worst years in living memory." Belrian bared his teeth. "And the Blight stole him from us. It was a grave injustice – one that we cannot worsen by desecrating the peace he gave himself to preserve."

Burning in my head is intensifying. Let's bring this home. "The Blight has yet to be defeated. It still thrives in other regions of Elatra. Stonewarden Grant knew that it would one day return to Dwarven territory, and that when it did, we would need all the support we could muster. To that end, the bonds he forged with our Human and Fiend allies persist even after his death. The combined might of our nations will form a bulwark to shield us from the coming storm."

Belrian raised a fist and pressed it to his heart. "That is the way we have chosen to honor his memory: preserving every Dwarven life that we can. There can be no higher calling." He lowered his fist and nodded once, his voice swelling with conviction. "The Stonewarden's sacrifice shall not be in vain."

Without another word, Diplomacy turned around and walked away from the crowd, disappearing into Grant's fortress. There was no uproar of applause or approval, which was to be expected. Belrian's speech had been designed to function as a sobering eulogy, not a pep rally. No one would feel inclined to applaud after having a bucket of cold water poured on their head.

While it probably wasn't what they'd wanted, it was definitely what they'd needed. Closure was a better balm for the soul than misaimed aggression could ever be.

Final status report. Diplomacy deactivated their Skills one at a time, easing back into a normal state of consciousness. Estimated 76% influence rate. Those influenced follow a standard distribution of low, medium, high impact. Remaining 24% are dissatisfied, but only a small portion are dissatisfied to the point of extremism. Well within acceptable parameters. Additionally, the Dwarven populace is now aware of the Blight's resurgence, and has been primed to accept Rob and Fiend territory as potential allies.

Not bad for fifteen minutes of work.

Diplomacy deactivated their last Skill, the burning sensation in their skull lessening to an insistent ache. After triple-checking to make sure they were completely out of sight of any civilian Dwarves, they allowed their legs to give out, sinking into an exhausted puddle on the floor. Dimly, they were aware of Riardin's Rangers drawing closer.

"Damnit, the hell did you do that caused your HP to drop?" Rob asked. He knelt down, a concerned look on his face. "Are you okay?"

He doesn't ask 'how did it go', Diplomacy mused. He asks 'are you okay'. A sigh of contentment escaped their throat. "All is well. If you don't mind, I think I'll sleep for a time."

"Wait, like, right h-"

Diplomacy heard nothing else, drifting off to a well-earned respite.

Chapter 44

The peaceful expression on Diplomacy's sleeping face only highlighted how annoyed Rob was.

Riardin's Rangers had rushed the former Skill to a medical ward the moment Diplomacy fell unconscious. The Dwarven physicians immediately conducted an in-depth medical examination, informing Rob beforehand to mentally prepare himself for the worst. He'd spent a solid hour pacing back and forth, waiting on tenterhooks for a prognosis...

Just to be told that Diplomacy was experiencing the equivalent of a bad hangover. There would have been something to worry about if they hadn't benefited from Brain Damage Resistance and Regeneration, but the EXP Share was apparently determined to hold its title as Rob's MVP Bound Item.

"I can't believe this dumbass," Rob griped, as a particularly loud snore assaulted his ears. "What kind of Diplomat has Skills that harm themselves? And why'd they keep it hidden from the rest of the Party?"

"Oh yes," Keira began, in the most condescending deadpan Rob had ever heard. "How dare Diplomacy do such a thing. Harming themselves to achieve a goal, without first consulting their allies? Shocking. Absolutely shocking."

It took Rob far too long to understand what she was getting at. "It's different when I do it," he defended.

"How so?"

"I've got way more HP than anyone here. The risks I take aren't even really risks most of the time."

"Most aren't risks," Meyneth repeated. "Detonating Titan's Fist from point-blank range falls outside of that category."

Rob suddenly became very interested in his nonexistent shoelaces. "You guys aren't going to let that one go anytime soon, are you?"

"No," his Party members said, in unison.

Can't argue with that.

Several hours passed as Riardin's Rangers waited for Diplomacy to awaken. The speech had been organized sooner than expected, so Waymark wasn't quite ready yet, and everyone wanted a status report before they returned home regardless. Eventually, Nerasi – their primary Dwarven contact – stepped into the room. "Greetings," she said, all business right from the start. "I come bearing good tidings."

The Party exchanged surprised glances. "Belrian's speech actually worked?" Rob asked.

Nerasi narrowed her eyes at him. "You were the ones who commanded us to organize it."

"Yeah, but things don't usually go this smoothly."

She gave him a look of mild exasperation. "Then let your paranoia rest easy. Belrian's oration managed to convince a majority of Dwarves that Grant died an honorable death for the sake of his people. While they remain skeptical of allying with Fiend territory, they've also accepted that Grant approved of our alliance and would've desired its continuation had he survived."

"How many are still in opposition?" Keira asked.

"Roughly one-fourth," Nerasi answered. "To be honest, that number is much lower than I anticipated. Before your Party arrived, the discontent within Dwarven territory was rapidly bubbling to the surface, ready to explode at a moment's notice. Our efforts to subdue it were proving woefully ineffective."

"Then you should've contacted us earlier," Keira criticized, saying what was on everyone else's minds. "The future of Dwarven territory affects Fiend territory as well."

Nerasi grimaced. "We were in the process of doing so – although admittedly, we misjudged how shaken the civilians were by Grant's demise. By the time our messengers reached Fiend territory, matters may have escalated beyond a point of no return."

"We'll need to take a spare Message Crystal back with us," Rob said. "Something like this can't happen again."

"Message Crystals are in exceptionally short supply. Creating a new one is an undertaking that requires decades of arduous work from multiple Artificers laboring in tandem."

"Give us one anyway," Rob ordered, in a tone that left no room for arguing. "Establishing communications between Fiend territory and Dwarven territory is more important than maintaining communications between Dhalerune and Random Dwarven City B. If push comes to shove, you can route messages from City B to City C, and then from City C to Dhalerune. People might wonder why a Message Crystal disappeared, but just tell them the Hamburglar stole it or something."

Nerasi paused. "That is fair. I'll instruct a group of tight-lipped subordinates to retrieve the Message Crystal and bring it here." She laced her fingers together, relaxing slightly. "All things considered, you've been reasonable with your demands. It wouldn't have been strange for your Party to establish a tyranny over Dwarven territory upon slaying its Leader."

"We seek to unite Elatra under the banner of peace," Zamira declared, her voice filled with passion. "If there is one glimmer of optimism to be derived from the Blight's resurgence, it is that the threat it embodies has afforded all nations an unprecedented opportunity to join hands as one. And I see no reason why that accord shouldn't endure long after the Blight has been expunged from our lands."

"I'll hold you to that," Nerasi said. "Exhibit that attitude around my people, and even the most warmongering citizens will be mollified for a time."

Rob drummed his fingers on his thigh. "Is there any way to enact more permanent change? I don't want to trot Belrian out for a speech whenever the Dwarves start getting feisty."

"No," Nerasi flatly stated. "Enmity is a weed that burrows deep. It cannot be rooted out by words, no matter how articulate. Perhaps if our alliance lasts for hundreds of years, and a new generation is raised on your ideals, then there may be a possibility of affecting long-lasting change."

"You are willingly cooperating with Fiend territory," Meyneth pointed out. "And that is despite knowing the full extent of our actions."

For a split second, Nerasi's expression twisted in something unrecognizably vicious. Then, just as quickly, it snapped back to her mask of tranquil professionalism. "What makes you think I don't hate you for killing over a hundred of my comrades?" she commented, without a hint of inflection. "I am merely broad-minded enough to set aside my personal feelings and strive towards the completion of a common goal."

The room went quiet. Abruptly, Keira stood up, her fingers twitching. "Going to go clear my head," she muttered, heading straight for the exit.

"You want company?" Rob offered.

"Thank you, but no. I'll...I'll return soon." She dashed outside in the blink of an eye, leaving three confused and worried friends behind.

--

Vul'to heard a knock on the door.

Odd, he thought, sitting up in his bed. No one in the Party had alerted him of their coming with a Message, and half of Riardin's Rangers was still in Dwarven territory. "What's the password?" he called out.

Silence.

In a burst of motion, Vul'to equipped his sword and shield. He eyed the closed door as if it was a coiled viper waiting to strike, focusing his Soul Sight on the beautiful orb of mana that laid beyond. It was, relatively speaking, unremarkable. All souls were brilliant spectacles of art, but compared to the glory of high-leveled Combat Class users, souls belonging to low-leveled Utility Class users lacked a certain indefinable spark.

...I wish it were indefinable, Vul'to admitted. Having higher Levels didn't enrich the strength or clarity of a soul; his body simply craved the souls of high-leveled people more than low-leveled people. It was a...matter of taste. Mercifully, his cravings were very infrequent, although they arose just regularly enough to remind him of what he now was.

Shoving those thoughts aside, Vul'to examined the unexpected visitor standing vigil outside. From what he could surmise, they were low-leveled, but that wasn't a guarantee of anything. Krazan the Soul Eater had been Level 19. And while the mysterious visitor's soul didn't appear to have the telltale degradation of a Soul Eater, that affliction could be obscured by donning a Sinner's Shroud. Vul'to was wearing one himself.

Eventually, he decided to throw caution to the wind and greet his guest. It would've been more prudent to shout for help, but if there were truly that many people out there who wanted to kill him or eat his soul, then he'd merely have to accept that he was the unluckiest person in the world.

The door opened to reveal a fairly young Fiend man in his 40s or 50s. One usage of Identify indicated that he was Level 14, named Reznor, and an adept Woodworker. "Can I help you?" Vul'to asked, not dropping his guard for an instant.

Reznor stared at Vul'to with his mouth hanging open, as if he hadn't expected to get this far and had no idea what to do next. After a few seconds, he let out an aggrieved sigh, running his hand down his face. "Damnit," the Fiend mumbled. "This was a waste of time."

"How can you be sure?" Vul'to offered him a welcoming smile. "If something is troubling you, don't hesitate to ask. Perhaps I can be of more assistance than you realize."

"The fact that you're saying that means you can't."

Vul'to didn't bother to hide his confusion. Reznor looked away, abashed, seeming on the verge of turning around and leaving. "You must understand," he began. "I thought I'd find...you just aren't what I expected."

A cold pit formed into the center of Vul'to's stomach. "And what did you imagine you'd find?" he asked, knowing what the answer would be.

"The Soul Eater who killed my friend."

Flashes of memory surged forth. A decadent soul and a pleading face, screaming Help, Reznor, Please Come Help. The cold pit in Vul'to's stomach churned with nausea, and it was only with great effort that he managed to respond without choking on his own bile. "I am not a Soul Eater," Vul'to implored.

"Obviously," Reznor scoffed. "You don't possess the hollow eyes of a monster. Otherwise, we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we? I'd already be dead or worse." He grimaced. "But you do possess the body of a Soul Eater, if I'm not mistaken."

Slowly, Vul'to sat down, his legs feeling like cooked noodles. "How did you..."

Reznor met Vul'to's despondent tone with a casual shrug. "People talk," he said, as if that explained fucking everything. When the Fiend noticed Vul'to's distress, he continued, speaking hurriedly.

"There was a servant or someone who saw your Dragonkin companion carrying two mangled bodies – one of which happened to be Roy's tall Elf friend. Chest ripped open, eyes glassy, the works. The other body belonged to a damned Soul Eater, with a ripe soul held in hand. Then you vanished, and an extremely high-leveled Fiend with the same name took your place in Roy's Party. Don't need to be a Mathematician to put two and two together and figure that something is amiss."

"I see," Vul'to said, trying to ignore the pervasive sense of his life crumbling around him. He'd done his best to avoid appearing in public among the Fiends, spending days hiding in shameful secrecy, and apparently, it had all been for naught. I should've taken that Enchanted Disguise Ring. "Is this a widespread theory?"

"It probably will be if more people see you," Reznor conceded. "Right now it's just me and a couple of other lunatics. Honestly, I doubt I would have believed it if I wasn't so desperate to track down Soul Eaters. Fresh leads on them don't surface often."

Vul'to sagged with relief. All hope was not yet lost. "What can I do to ensure your silence?" he asked, leaning forward.

Reznor stared at him with a blank expression. "Um. Aren't you just going to kill me?"

For several seconds, neither of them spoke a word. Vul'to's composure hang on briefly before snapping like a dry twig. "I'm growing rather tired of being at a loss for what to say." He stood up, claws reflexively extending by an inch. "First you ambush me with accusations, then you seem disappointed that I wasn't a Soul Eater, and then you stand there and accept death as if it was a matter of course?"

The Fiend awkwardly coughed into his hand. "I suppose when you phrase it that way, it all sounds somewhat foolish."

"That's because it is." Vul'to groaned loudly. "Really – I can't begin to fathom what you were wishing for when you knocked on my door."

Reznor glanced away. "An ending," he whispered.

...Oh. Vul'to sat back down. "An ending to what?" he asked, providing the necessary prompt for Reznor to continue.

"Everything that started two decades ago." A joyless grin spread across the Fiend's face. "It isn't a complicated story. I heard my friend's screams when the Soul Eater took him. He called my name. But I was scared, so I ran. That's...all."

"If you had stayed, you would have perished as well."

Reznor's grin turned brittle, seeming close to breaking. "Maybe. Who knows. Nevertheless, since then, I've hunted down rumors of Soul Eaters. Anything I could find. Found almost nothing until recently, when a farfetched theory spouted by a drunkard ten pints deep brought me here. That, and the exorbitant amount of money it took to bribe the guards."

He shrugged again. "The way I saw it, there were two outcomes. If you were the Soul Eater in body and spirit, then I could take my revenge. And likely die in the process, but, well. At least I'd go down fighting like I should have from the start. If you weren't the Soul Eater, then it was just never meant to be. You'd kill me to shut my mouth, and that would be that. A disappointing ending, yet an ending nonetheless."

"You shouldn't treat your life so lightly," Vul'to said, with concern. "There's-"

"I know!" Reznor spat. "I knew it the second you opened that door and realized where my obsession had brought me. Azar wouldn't have wanted me to squander my life away like this." He let out a frustrated growl. "I'm such a complete and utter idiot."

Vul'to waited patiently for the man to recover his poise. Gradually, Reznor calmed himself, embarrassment creeping into his features. "Apologies. None of this went the way I anticipated."

"That is an accurate summary of the last nine months of my life," Vul'to remarked, in a wry tone.

"World's gone mad for everyone," Reznor chuckled. "You truly aren't going to kill me?"

"Absolutely not."

The Fiend hesitated. "Then do you mind indulging my curiosity? I'll keep your secrets either way, Roy's Party members are heroes of the highest order, but as long as I'm here..."

Vul'to raised an eyebrow. "You're quite the bold person, aren't you?"

"It's the cause and solution of most of my problems."

I suppose it's better than bribing him with money I don't have, Vul'to mused. And truth be told, the idea of 'confessing' to someone outside of Riardin's Rangers sounded somewhat...liberating, in a way. "Very well. What would you like to know?"

Reznor blinked, wearing that same surprised expression. "Are you an undead?" he blurted out. "Did a Necromancer spearhead your revival?"

"No, and no." Vul'to tapped his chest. "My soul resides in the body of the Soul Eater who killed me, but Necromancy was not utilized."

"Then how?"

"It isn't my secret to say." Hauz the Soul Surgeon had taken a great risk by implanting one soul into another person's body. If the populace knew, he'd likely be ostracized for performing an act of taboo depravity. Vul'to would never betray his confidence.

Thankfully, Reznor nodded in acknowledgment. "I understand. Is there any chance you'll be able to regain your Elven form?"

Vul'to winced. "One day, I hope so." He'd discussed this possibility with Hauz before. Using Vul'to's original body was out of the question, as once a corpse reached 0 HP, it became a faulty container which invariably rejected souls. That was an immutable rule of the system that not even the most experienced Soul Surgeons could subvert.

The Clay of Life represented a more promising alternative. While it was originally designed solely for Diplomacy's unique situation, it could theoretically regrow a body for any lost soul. The issue was that Diplomacy's success was the one and only example they had to extrapolate from, and if the Clay of Life rejected Vul'to's soul for whatever reason, Hauz was unsure if he could safely put Vul'to soul back into Krazan's body a second time.

The first operation had already been a close affair.

For now, Hauz was in the midst of developing another Clay of Life, and was content to leave the final decision up to Vul'to. Whether or not the risk of death was worth an opportunity to be whole again was a debate he'd be having with himself for months.

"I'll pray to Argath for your success," Reznor said, inclining his head. "That's...actually all the questions I had, so before I go, I'd like to say something."

The Fiend straightened his posture. "This might sound crass considering my impetus for coming here," he began, speaking slowly, each word was chosen with care. "But I am deeply sorry for what happened to you. I wasn't exaggerating when I mentioned that Roy's Party members are heroes of the highest order. You didn't deserve this fate. And..."

He clenched his fists, releasing them a moment later. "If that body must still exist in this world, then at least you're the one in control of it. If it's you, then...I'm not worried."

Vul'to was left speechless. In the past, he'd often devised his own self-rationalizations about why being stuck in a Soul Eater's body was tolerable. For instance, as a Fiend, he was physically stronger; he may not have survived the Blight of Dhalerune otherwise. And his Soul Guardian Skills were proving particularly useful at combating the Blight and its Corruption.

But those were logical arguments. Reznor's trust wasn't based in system advantages. It was pure faith, given without reservation or doubt.

Somehow, that warmed Vul'to's heart far more than any standard of objectivity.

"Thank you," he said, putting every ounce of gratitude he had into his words. "That means...so much to me."

"It's the bare minimum of what I can do after everything you've done for us," Reznor muttered, almost shyly. "Now, if it's alright with you, I'm going to leave before I wind up making an ass of myself. I'll send Argath those prayers the moment I get home."

As he turned to leave, Vul'to held up a hand to stop him. "One last thing." I should just let the man be, he thought, but I can't resist asking.

"Is it customary for all would-be assassins to knock first?"

--

"These are...pleasant accommodations," Keira said, glancing around the depressingly sparse room. While spacious, it was bereft of adornment or color, only housing nine beds and a single table for its occupants to eat on.

In response, Gharvis laughed. "No need to bandy words for our benefit," he said, with a lighthearted tone. "We are prisoners, and this is a prison. Food is served on schedule every day, so we can hardly complain."

His mirth wasn't shared by any of his cohorts. The other eight Dwarven researchers were sitting at the opposite end of the room, brooding like morose children, gazing at Keira with fearful eyes. They made for a pitiable lot – although considering their part in developing Titan's Fist, Keira's wellspring of pity had just about run dry.

"That's an admirable outlook to have," she told him, nodding approvingly. "You're much more forthcoming than when we last spoke."

Gharvis' smile dimmed. "I've...had time to think." The Dwarf hesitated, speaking again when Keira motioned for him to go on. "Regardless of our intentions, we created a weapon that nearly slaughtered untold numbers of people. It is only by the grace of good fortune it didn't, and even then, scores of brave men and women died in vain for an ignoble cause."

His voice was heavy with guilt. "If we'd just stopped to question what the Stonewarden was asking instead of bullying forward, our minds intoxicated by the allure of progress, then this entire tragedy could've been avoided."

"We are not to blame," one of the more disgruntled researchers interjected. "And you don't speak for all of us."

"Is that so?" Gharvis leveled an unimpressed glare at them. "Who was it, then, that you all voted as our representative to greet the Level 60 Combat Class users with unknown temperaments?"

The other researchers, having been sufficiently shamed, averted their gazes. Not for the first time, Keira found herself relieved that she possessed a high Level of Intimidation. Petty politics seemed exhausting to contend with, and she was more than happy to circumvent those headaches by scaring the shit out of people.

Satisfied, Gharvis turned towards Keira. "When our confinement ends, we will have the chance to make things right and put our combined knowledge towards better means. For now, however, this penance is warranted." He exhaled. "But enough of that. What brought you to knock on our door today?"

Keira grit her teeth, adrenaline coursing through her veins. "Fiend mages investigated the aftereffects of Titan's Fist," she said, forcing the words out. "According to them, it has the potential to – in their words – annihilate Elatra by destabilizing reality."

The researchers froze, their blood running cold. "What?" Gharvis croaked.

"Titan's Fist put a crack in the framework of reality. Irreversibly. Next time, it may be worse."

Disbelief raced across their faces. It was understandable – who wanted to accept that, in an unluckier future, they might have killed everyone they knew and loved? Keira spent a full twenty minutes explaining to them exactly what the High Soulseer had told Rob and Elder Alessia, beating the notion into their heads. Her friends periodically sent her concerned Messages that went ignored. Finally, the researchers acquiesced, or at least made a decent show of pretending to.

"So now you know," Keira finished. Her heart beat faster. "What do you have to say to that?" Convince me. Please.

Gharvis shivered as if someone had walked over his grave. "Never again," he spat. "Titan's Fist will stay locked within our thoughts until the end of our days." Behind him, the other researchers quickly nodded, their obstinance dead and buried.

Keira studied their expressions. "I believe you," she eventually said. That was the genuine truth. She truly, honestly did.

It just didn't change anything.

Her quickening pulse began to slow as a calm surety settled over her. Carefully, making sure not to startle anyone, Keira turned around and quietly locked the door. "Enmity burrows deep," she muttered to herself.

"What was that?"

Keira pivoted towards the Dwarves. They shrunk back, whatever they saw in her face causing them to instinctively retreat. "Who will you be in fifty years?" she asked, leisurely stalking towards them.

"I..." Gharvis audibly gulped, his prior confidence nowhere to be found. "I don't know what you mean."

"People aren't reliable or constant." One step forward. Two steps. "I believe you when you say you'll forswear Titan's Fist, but that's only in the present. What if a war breaks out, or you fall prey to temptations of vengeance, like the Dwarf who launched Titan's Fist already did?"

Three steps. Four. "Your future selves can't be trusted. Even if your convictions hold true, it just takes one of you being kidnapped and tortured for your secrets to spread."

Five. Six. "And once the secrets of creating Titan's Fist spread...that's it. Too many people are incapable of foresight, especially when tantalizing power is right at their fingertips. Your knowledge is a sickness that will rot the minds of whoever is infected, placing them – and everyone else – on the path to destruction. Titan's Fist will be used. Millions will die."

Seven steps. Like an executioner preparing their axe, Keira drew her greatsword. "What are nine lives in comparison to that?" she stated, without malice or remorse.

The Dwarves were at a loss for what to say, having backed up to the far wall at the opposite end of the room. Maybe in a few seconds, they'd rally their composure and plead for their lives, but by then everything would be over. For a moment, Keira scrutinized them, wondering if a surge of compassion would rise up to stay her wrath.

Nothing came.

Oh, well. She lifted her greatsword.

Just then, the locked door burst off its hinges, sailing through the air. Keira was still in the middle of swinging when a blur dashed inside, its blade humming with a green aura.

"Deflect."

Keira jumped back as her greatsword was turned aside by a longsword one-tenth its weight. In front of the Dwarves, Zamira stood ready and unwavering. As her grip tightened on her sword, the Bladesoul stared directly forward, fixing the Savage Warrior with a resolute gaze.

"Let's talk, Keira."

Chapter 45

Keira clicked her tongue in irritation. "I don't think talking would benefit me very much," she said, analyzing Zamira's stance for openings. "I'd rather you stepped aside and let me finish my business."

"That would be a disservice to you." Zamira replied, shaking her head. "Please. Think about what you're doing. If you stop now, this can still be dismissed as an errant flight of fancy."

It was worth a try. Keira activated Quick Thinking and assessed her options, examining the battlefield from every angle as if she were an outsider looking in.

Terrain: A spacious, square room approximately thirty feet in diameter. Nine beds and one table as potential tripping hazards. No objects for the Dwarves to take cover behind. Zamira is the sole obstacle.

Time Limit: However long it takes Rob and Meyneth to respond to Zamira's alert Message. Can range from seconds to minutes.

Enemies: Nine Dwarven researchers and one Zamira. The researchers could serve as a mild distraction if they attacked as a group, but among them, only Gharvis is in possession of anything resembling a spine.

Zamira poses a much bigger problem, as she has the upper-hand in a battle where neither opponent is looking to kill the other. Keira's prodigious Strength is irrelevant when she can't utilize it to the fullest. In contrast, Zamira has higher Dexterity and the option of disabling Keira with Mercy's Whisper. A person brought to 0 HP with Mercy's Whisper will merely fall unconscious, allowing Zamira to strike without reservation.

This isn't the type of battle I'm fond of, Keira thought to herself, once she'd finished appraising the situation. Its only saving grace is that I don't have to win, to win. While she couldn't out-duel Zamira in a nonlethal setting, Zamira wasn't her target; the Dwarven researchers were.

And she didn't need to hold back against them.

Both Keira and Zamira activated Step of the Wind and Bulk Up simultaneously. With twin auras swirling around them, the two swordswomen...stood there and did nothing. Keira suppressed a grimace at her bluff being called; she'd hoped that Zamira would panic and rise to the bait.

It felt bizarre to just stand still, buffs gradually fading, but there wasn't any reason for either of them to take initiative. If Zamira attacked first, she'd trigger Danger Sense and let Keira predict her movements. If Keira attacked first, she'd be entering Zamira's defensive position. For all intents and purposes, they were at a stalemate.

Which presented a problem, as a stalemate favored Zamira. She only needed to hold out until the rest of their Party arrived.

"Do you understand what this could do to our alliance?" Zamira abruptly asked. "The Dwarves are just now beginning to believe that we have their best intentions in mind. Executing prisoners who are at your mercy will erode what feeble trust they possess."

"You assume that they'll find out," Keira said, with a nonchalant shrug. She knew that Zamira was attempting to distract her, yet felt compelled to reply all the same. "What would the civilians know or care of secretive low-Level researchers? The high-ranking Dwarves may take umbrage with my actions, but the blame can be laid at my feet, and my feet alone. I'll likely be barred from Dwarven territory henceforth – no great loss. Diplomacy can smooth over any remnants of discord left remaining afterwards."

"That's a massive gamble. Why would you go so far?"

Keira raised a judgemental eyebrow in response. Even for a question clearly meant to stall for time, the answer was so obvious that Zamira bothering to ask it felt like a joke. "You were as horrified by the full extent of Titan's Fist's destructive capabilities as I was," she flatly stated. "Don't make me waste my breath explaining why we should do anything in our power to prevent that loathsome weapon from resurfacing."

Zamira flinched, her posture stiffening by a hair. Not enough for Keira to take advantage of, sadly, but at least it was a chink in the Bladesoul's proverbial armor. "There are other ways to sort this out," she pleaded. "The researchers can-"

"Every alternative you can envision is one that I've already considered and discarded." Keira gave her a contrite smirk. "I've been planning this since the moment I learned we were returning to Dhalerune City."

Despite Zamira's claim that Dwarven territory would respond poorly to the researchers' deaths, it was actually better to get this over with now rather than later. Periods of uncertainty were an excellent opportunity to commit acts that, during more civilized times, would be deemed as unconscionable. The Dwarves would respond far worse if she assassinated some of their people, say, a year from now. In that sense, it was fortunate that she'd returned to Dhalerune so quickly.

Well, fortunate for Keira. Not so much for the researchers.

"You...you didn't discuss this with the rest of our Party members," Zamira said, starting to run out of points to argue. "Even the ones who might have agreed with you will feel betrayed."

"They'll forgive me. I can handle a month of distrustful gazes."

"...Does our friendship mean so little, that you would abuse it as such?"

Keira shook her head. "No. It's because I care deeply for all of you that I came here alone. I'm the only one who should stain their hands today."

It was her role. Orn'tol and Malika were young and had somehow managed to hold onto a semblance of innocence. Zamira and Vul'to were the virtuous types, with hearts bigger than their good sense. Faelynn, being a Fiend, couldn't set foot in Dwarven territory for a long time. Rob was holding back Leveling High and one speck of guilt away from crumbling under the weight of it all.

None of them were suited for this task – except perhaps Meyneth. Out of everyone in Riardin's Rangers, she was the nearest to Keira in temperament and morals. She didn't shy away from violence or hold undue sympathy for her enemies. The difference between the two of them was that Meyneth didn't want to be that way. She was trying to distance herself from the baneful values that her upbringing had instilled in her.

Keira, however, enjoyed tasks such as these. Maybe it stemmed from how the people of The Village looked down on her for so long, but she couldn't deny how intrinsically satisfied she felt when imposing her will on others. Intimidating people was fun. Defeating foes in combat was fun. Being a Warrior that people tread lightly around was fun. While it would've been lonely if she didn't have Riardin's Rangers to view her as a normal person, as things were now, she was indulging in the best of both worlds. She could be Keira, the friend, the companion, and then be Keira, the Savage Warrior, breaker of bones and maimer of limbs.

That didn't mean she held no misgivings whatsoever. The Dwarven researchers weren't an immediate threat. She was condemning them for crimes they hadn't yet committed. But the way Keira saw it, some people just needed killing, whether they fully deserved their fate or not. She's spared no quarter for the dozens of Dwarven soldiers she cut down, so the researchers shouldn't be afforded preferential treatment.

Her allies would balk, but going a step further than the rest of Riardin's Rangers was a duty that no one else in the Party could fulfill. They had reputations to uphold, after all. She didn't mind taking their sins unto herself.

A part of her was even starting to look forward to it.

"You aren't a wanton murderer," Zamira implored, knuckles whitening as her longsword grip tightened. "Keira. Listen to my words. This. Isn't. You."

Her plea was heartfelt, filled with the desperate affection of someone witnessing a dear friend about to jump off a cliff. Zamira only used that tone of voice when she was barely keeping her emotions in check. Under different circumstances, it may have given Keira pause.

Right now, she simply noticed that it caused Zamira's focus to waver for a split second.

Pincer of Steel. Without warning, Keira launched her greatsword straight over Zamira's shoulder. Terrified shrieks rang out as nine Dwarves leaped for safety, the mighty blade slamming into the far wall like a javelin, missing its targets by inches. As they scattered, Keira concentrated and activated Pincer of Steel's secondary effect, teleporting to her greatsword in a flash of mana.

In the span of a single second, she'd changed positions from one end of the room to the other, placing herself directly into the center of a mass of wailing prey. It was a shame that she hadn't clipped at least one Dwarf on the initial throw, but that was fine. Her next maneuver would cut their numbers in half. Pulling her greatsword out of the wall, Keira pivoted on her feet and began to spin. Circle of Dea-

A white aura flashed across her vision. Danger Sense warned Keira of an incoming attack, but the act of pulling her greatsword out of the wall slowed her reaction time by a fraction, which was all the opening that Zamira's exceptional Dexterity needed. Mercy's Whisper sliced into Keira's eyes, her fucking eyes, its ghostlike blade passing through her head and out the other end.

The effect was instantaneous and crippling. Although Keira knew she hadn't suffered any physical injuries, it truly felt as if a sword had carved her skull open like an overripe fruit. She almost collapsed on the spot from the shock, managing to stay upright by sheer force of will. A quick glance at her Status Screen indicated that she'd lost 391 out of 660 HP, bringing her down to 269. Less than half remaining after one slash.

Oh, and she couldn't see a damn thing, which didn't help matters.

Danger Sense screamed in her ear. Keira ducked to the side, avoiding a Mercy's Whisper strike to the neck, and swung the flat side of her greatsword towards what she assumed was Zamira's general direction. The sound of two light footsteps informed Keira that Zamira had dodged, while many more scrambling footsteps informed her that the researchers were making a break for the exit.

Snarling loudly, she charged forward, aiming for the closest blurred figure in her vision. At the last second, Keira twisted her swing around to block a second strike of Mercy's Whisper, continuing her run forward in order to cut off the Dwarves' escape route. She reached the doorway and whirled around, her vision gradually returning as she took stock of the situation.

What she saw nearly made her burst out laughing. The researchers were at the opposite end of the room, guarded by Zamira, who was taking a defensive stance. It was the exact same position they'd all started in – except now, Keira was injured. Another glancing blow from Mercy's Whisper, and she'd be an unconscious Elven lump on the ground.

"This is hardly a fair fight," she said, grinning, as her adrenaline soared. "You can hit me, yet I can't hit you. Goes against the basic tenets of combat."

"I'd say having to protect nine vulnerable targets is plenty stressful on my end," Zamira countered. She tried returning the grin, but it was weak, and broke apart just as quickly as it came. "Be thankful that no blood has been spilled. This can still be resolved amiably."

Keira stared at her in bemused disbelief. "Amiably, you say? They think otherwise."

She pointed at the researchers. For a brief instant, Zamira almost seemed like she was about to turn around and look, before catching herself with an air of embarrassment. Keira really did burst out laughing this time, struggling to keep her posture straight as waves of mirth rolled throughout her body. "Awwww. So close."

"I'm glad one of us is amused," Zamira said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Now please lay down your sword and stop this nonsense. It's evident that your heart isn't in this."

Keira's smile flipped into a frown. "And just what do you mean by that?"

"Your movements are off. A determined Keira wouldn't have missed her Pincer of Steel throw on low-Level targets, and she would've made sure to cut down two or three Dwarves even while busy retreating to a defensible position."

"Have you considered the possibility that you're a stronger opponent than you give yourself credit for? The days of you being a Ranger wary of becoming a Swordmaster are long since past."

Zamira fixed her with a piercing gaze. "I know my worth. At best, I expected to salvage the lives of four Dwarves if you came at me full bore, regardless of your disadvantages." Behind her, the researchers paled, a fact that went unnoticed by Zamira. "And that's disregarding how long it took you to carry out your initial attack. You were gone for roughly twenty minutes before I grew worried enough to investigate. If you'd planned to assassinate the Dwarves from the start, then why hesitate?"

Because...hmm. Keira couldn't help but pause. Why had she waited for so long? It wasn't as if anything the researchers could have said would've changed her mind. Their deaths were supposed to be a foregone conclusion; she was simply here to see everything through and take the blame. And yet, she'd wasted precious time conversing with them.

Had her convictions been faltering more than she realized?

"I won't deny that Titan's Fist is a threat that shakes me to my core," Zamira continued. "But at the moment, it's been dealt with. Your recklessness today is unnecessary. Don't force me to take drastic measures."

Despite herself, Keira leaned forward. "Such as?" she asked, curious.

"I could...hold myself hostage."

Keira snorted. "You've attended one too many plays, Zamira," she remarked. "Tell me. Why are you going so far to protect the Dwarves?"

"It isn't about them," Zamira hissed, prompting Keira to recoil. "Each action that a person takes colors their soul. Piece by piece, we are made into different people by the choices we make every day. If you continue treading down this path, then eventually, you'll transform into a person you can't even recognize. Someone who the Keira I know would despise."

She drew in a deep, shuddering breath. "Do you remember when you killed for the first time?" Zamira asked. "After slaying the Seneschal's advance guards, you expressed concern to me over how little guilt you felt at their deaths. I promised you then and there that I would prevent you from turning into the monster you so feared. I promised, and you were grateful for that promise."

"That was half a year ago," Keira said, quietly. "Practically a lifetime. I'm not worried anymore."

"Then I've been failing you up until now." Zamira's gaze sharpened. "It won't happen again."

Belatedly, Keira noted that she hadn't made another attempt to attack – and she couldn't come up with a good excuse as to why. There was no merit in trying to talk things out with Zamira; both of them were too steadfast to back down, and it wasn't as if Keira had anything to lose if she charged forth. At worst, Mercy's Whisper would render her unconsciousness. Conversely, delaying their next exchange of blades would merely hasten Rob and Meyneth's arrival.

Her window of opportunity was closing fast.

Just then, she heard footsteps and panicked shouts approaching in the distance behind her. Two voices, each one familiar. There it is. Still enough time left for one last desperate assault, I suppose. Keira raised her greatsword, stepped forward, and...

Was stopped short by Zamira. Not her blade, but her eyes. They were too pure by half, like orbs of dazzling naivety, proclaiming: "I believe in you. I believe you're better than this."

A fully-grown Blight would've been easier to overcome than that.

After a moment of resignation, Keira chuckled, lowering her sword. I wonder, she thought, as the voices grew louder. When did I lose? Was it when Zamira spoke of her promise? The moment she burst through the door? Or was this scheme of mine doomed from the start by my own lack of resolve?

In truth, the answer didn't really matter to her. All Keira felt as Rob and Meyneth burst onto the scene, their jaws dropping by the second, was a subdued sense of relief.

--

"You know," Rob began, injecting strained humor into his tone. "This isn't how I imagined our first big couple's fight would go down."

From inside her prison cell, Keira smiled apologetically. "If it helps, I prefer this to arguing over petty stares of jealousy, or the baffling insanity people embroil themselves in your Earth TV shows."

"I don't." His humor drained in an instant. "I think I'd actually have preferred that you made out with my evil twin clone instead of going behind my back to kill people."

Keira winced, looking away. A pang of guilt lanced through Rob's gut. He knew that she'd probably been getting chewed out by everyone else who talked to her, as Zamira, Meyneth, and Diplomacy had all spoken with her one-on-one already.

The prison cell also lent a grim atmosphere to their circumstances, although if he was being honest, her confinement was more performative than practical. It made the Dwarves feel better if Riardin's Rangers were willing to 'punish' one of their own – even though she could easily break out if she wanted to and would be Waymarking home with them in like five minutes.

Rob almost relented, as seeing the woman he loved in distress over something he'd said was a uniquely terrible feeling, but he held strong. This wasn't an issue they could brush aside. "I won't bother with a guilt trip about the sanctity of life or whatever," he continued. "It would pretty fucking hypocritical coming from me, and I knew you were capable of this sort of thing anyway. It was part of the Keira package deal that I figured I'd signed up for when I fell in love with you."

He pinched his brow. "I'm way more pissed about you just not talking to us. We're a team, and you made a monumental decision without consulting anyone on it." Keira's cheek twitched, which was enough for Rob to discern what she was thinking. "And yes," he groaned, "I know I did the same thing when I teleported to Titan's Fist. You may have noticed me getting a lot of shit for doing that? Well, now it's your turn."

Keira's mouth curved into a wry grin, its mockery directed inward. "Perhaps we can simply agree to stop reminding each other of our missteps?"

"I wish," Rob muttered. "I think it's important that we call out our Party members when they screw up, though. Who else is going to keep us honest if we don't? It isn't like Riardin's Rangers have a higher power to answer to anymore."

He sighed. "I guess that's part of why I'm upset. When I went behind the Party's back and blew up Titan's Fist, it was specifically to save people. The only things getting hurt were me and a giant metal death bomb. Your intentions might've been to save people as well, but it involved breaking a peace treaty and assassinating prisoners, all with the assumption that we wouldn't allow any major consequences to fall on you. I'll never be happy with abusing our influence like that."

Although he would if he needed to. Regardless of who it upset.

"Your Warrior violated a peace treaty," Nerasi had flatly stated not long ago, glaring at Rob with eyes of cold fury. "This cannot be ignored."

"I understand that she screwed up," Rob said, in a conciliatory tone, "but Belrian *just* finished fixing things with the locals. If word gets out that-"

"An internal sentencing, then," Nerasi interrupted. "Her fate will be privately decided by myself and the innocents that she attempted to assassinate."

Rob's PR-friendly expression flew off his face. "Innocent? Seriously? Maybe they should try not building nukes if they didn't want to suffer a bit of extrajudicial punishment here and there."

Nerasi's entire body tensed. "And just what is that supposed to mean?"

"That if Keira's 'sentencing' is anything except community service or a written apology, I'm not accepting it. She's an integral member of our Party. We need her to defeat the Blight and the Dragon Queen."

"Don't patronize me," the Dwarf snapped. "Your Warrior may be a capable fighter, but Party members can be replaced. The only truly irreplaceable person in your group is you, owing to Purge Corruption."

Rob shrugged. "Agree to disagree. If the Blight returns to Dwarven territory, I'm not sure we'd be able to win without Keira fighting by our side. She can't do that if she's stuck in a prison or worse." He examined his fingernails. "We probably wouldn't even try to fight the Blight in that scenario. Too much risk."

"...Are you blackmailing Dwarven territory right now?"

"If this was blackmail, I'd be asking for something in return." Rob offered her a joyless smile. "I'm merely informing you of where I stand. My Party members are off-limits."

Nerasi's eyes widened as she seemed to finally understand his mindset. The shortlist of people that Rob cared about, really cared about, was more precious to him than all the money in both worlds combined. He wasn't going to let anything happen to them.

Ever.

"If it helps you justify things," Rob continued, "consider it a reward for services rendered. There has to be some exchange rate to consider, right? Like, for every nation my Party rescues from certain destruction, we get ten free get-out-of-jail free cards."

"I could tell my people anyway," Nerasi whispered, appearing almost surprised at her own words.

Rob rested his hand on the hilt of his longsword. "You could try."

Nerasi averted her eyes. A few seconds later, she looked back, before saying two sentences that were still gnawing at him even now.

"You'll make a fine Leader for Fiend territory." Nerasi mirrored his joyless smile with one of her own. "A Leader molded in the Dragon Queen's image."

"I'm sorry," Keira finally said, snapping Rob out of his reminiscence. "In all sincerity, I still believe that my reasoning was correct. Elatra would be a safer place if the Dwarven researchers were dead. Yet I must also recognize that my behavior has repercussions that extend beyond myself. I should have discussed matters with the Party before doing anything that could put us at risk. As you said, we are a team, and today I endangered the sanctity of not just our goals, but our bonds, as well."

She hung her head. "For that, I am truly sorry."

It's okay, Rob resisted from saying, fighting down his kneejerk boyfriend instinct to comfort her. It would defeat the purpose of her apology if he undercut it with empty reassurances.

"If I can ask," Keira said next, hesitantly. "Have my actions caused any complications with our Dwarven alliance?"

"The civilians didn't find out, which is all that matters," Rob replied. "Only the researchers and a couple high-Level Dwarves know about it; the researchers because they were there, and the Dwarves because Nerasi followed me and Meyneth after we got Zamira's Message. Nerasi was...pissed, but she calmed down once we told her that Titan's Fist is apocalypse-tier bullshit."

He paused. "The researchers have agreed to stay quiet. Diplomacy convinced them."

Keira tilted her head. "How so?"

"Funny thing – I asked Diplomacy that same question several hours ago. They told me I didn't want to know. I asked them again. Diplomacy then informed me they were going to 'traumatize the researchers so badly that they won't even be able to think about building so much as a goddamn toaster without wanting to vomit'."

Rob put on a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Next time, I think I'll listen to Diplomacy when they tell me I don't want to know something."

The conversation petered out from there. Keira was well-aware that she'd screwed up, and Rob didn't want to belabor the point any longer. "So, yeah. Apology accepted. Still love you, just, please communicate before flying solo like that again."

Keira nodded. "I will. Thank you for being understanding."

Rob grasped her hands through the cell bars. "We're in this together," he said. "I'm sure you'll be there to smack me upside the head when it's my turn in the hot seat."

For the first time since they'd begun speaking, they shared a genuine smile. After a few seconds, Keira let go of Rob's hands, seeming to brace herself. "How long must I stay imprisoned to appease the Dwarves?"

Rob's warm smile morphed into a shit-eating grin. "I'm glad you asked! For some reason, Nerasi doesn't want you around anymore – and coincidentally, the easiest way to fulfill her demand is to Waymark you back to Fiendland."

Keira laughed. "By all means. You're growing quite proficient at teleporting people out of prisons in Dwarven territory."

"It is kind of weird that it keeps happening." He stretched his arms, joints creaking. "At least there's nothing else on the docket right now. We'll be able to relax when we get home."

--

Rob went on high alert the moment Waymark finished depositing his Party into Acrastor City. Not because he was in any immediate danger. There weren't any enemies nearby. No, this was much, much worse.

One of the Grand Overseers was waiting for him. Expectantly.

"You!" Rob shouted. He aimed an accusatory stare at the Overseer, his face twisting into a rictus of exasperation. "I know that look. There's news." He grimaced. "Is the world ending?"

"Well, no-"

"Then screw that, we need a freaking break. Whatever crisis is brewing can wait until tomorrow."

"But-"

Rob was already running. "Sorry! I can't hear you over the sound of all the fucks I don't give!"

--

Overseer Nelrith pursed her lips as she watched Rob flee the room like he was escaping from a rampaging Blightspawn. His Party members exchanged glances, shrugged, and followed suit. She was tempted to call out to them, but ended up deciding against it.

The Merfolk King's urgent request for aid could wait one day.

Chapter 46

"We require your immediate assistance."

Five simple words that promised blood, carnage, and death.

Rob couldn't even be annoyed that the Merfolk were pleading for help. He'd quite literally asked for this. Back when Riardin's Rangers 'invaded' Merfolk territory and repelled the Corrupted Leviathan, Rob – who'd probably been riding a slight adrenaline high – had turned towards the Merfolk and made a bold statement of intent.

"Consider that a proof of concept," he'd declared. "If you've got people who need Corruption removed, or if the Leviathan decides to darken your doorstep again, then you know who to call. Just saunter on over to Fiendland and ask for Rob."

In his defense, it felt cool at the time. Getting to shock and awe people was one of the few perks of being repeatedly used as Elatra's chew toy. He'd meant every word, too – all incarnations of the Blight needed to die, and he could Purge their unsightly existence better than anyone.

It was just a shame that eldritch abominations never allowed for a healthy work-life balance. Two Blight attacks in the same month? Rude and – dare he say – uncalled for.He'd make sure to lodge his complaints straight up the Corrupted Leviathan's ass.

"For the record," Rob began, addressing his Party. "I'm going, but you guys shouldn't force yourselves to join me." He didn't want them getting burnt out like Taleya and Tiarsus. "It's been rough lately, so feel free to sit this one out if you want to."

Riardin's Rangers, Diplomacy, the Elders, and the Grand Overseers all stared at him with varying degrees of exasperation. "I would like you to take a moment to consider your words," Meyneth said, "and then apply them to yourself. Your mental stamina is no more inexhaustible than ours."

"I have to go," Rob sighed, as if he'd been assigned extra chores around the house. "I'm the one with Purge Corruption, so my participation is mandatory. Plus, we can't fight underwater without the Perfected Ring of Waterdwelling's effect, and that only gets shared among the Party if I wear it, so..."

He shrugged. "No rest for the weary. Just something I'll have to get used to."

Between Teleportation Crystals, Waymark, and the Fiends' teleportation magic, long-distance travel had never been faster. Once news spread about Purge Corruption, Rob was fully aware that everyone and their mother would be begging for him to pay them a visit. His zone of responsibility was rapidly expanding from the Deserters, to Fiend territory, to basically the entire world.

Give it a few weeks and I'll be globetrotting from nation to nation, he mused, dispensing justice and sending abominations back from whence they came. His eye twitched. Maybe the other territories will get my freaking name right. I've signed ten times more 'Roy' autographs than 'Rob'.

Elder Duran sent him a sympathetic look. "You're certain of this?" he asked. "I can convince the Merfolk that you are currently indisposed. My rapport with them has strengthened to the point where they would not take offense."

Rob paused, taking a second to psyche himself up. It was surprisingly easy. The moment he visualized using Purge Corruption on the Corrupted Leviathan, its stolen body coming apart at the seams, a thrill of excitement shot straight up his spine. Static mixed with desire, both in agreement. "I'm up for one more round," he said, his mouth widening into a feral grin.

Slowly, Duran nodded. "Then heed Rob's words," he said, turning to face the rest of Riardin's Rangers. "His presence might be required, but yours are not. There are others who can act as temporary replacements while you prepare for the trials that lay ahead. Look deep within yourselves and reflect on-"

"We are a team," Vul'to interrupted, more forcefully than usual. "And we will fight as one." The rest of Riardin's Rangers sounded off, their voices overlapping as they scrambled to confirm their attendance at the latest and greatest Blight-slaying jamboree.

Rob's grin softened. Considering the insanity of the last month, he'd honestly expected a couple of them to stay back. If anything, though, they seemed eager. He could understand why; invading Dhalerune City directly after they'd rescued it had left a bad taste in everyone's mouths, like biting into a freshly-baked cookie to find rotten maggots nestled within. There was no joy in tearing through Dwarves led astray by Stonewarden Grant, even if it was necessary.

This, however, was much more their style. Riardin's Rangers had made their bread and butter from killing monsters, expunging Dungeons, and felling monstrosities. To that end, the Corrupted Leviathan would serve as an excellent palette cleanser.

"Hold a moment," one of the Grand Overseers stated. "While I agree that Merfolk territory must be aided as soon as possible, there are matters of importance to discuss first."

"Like what?" Malika asked, genuinely curious. "Blights are simple. The Leviathan told me so. It won't listen to anything we have to say, because it enjoys hurting things too much. Unless you're offering battle strategies, what is there to talk about?"

"...Your enthusiasm, for one," the Overseer muttered. "Elder Alessia informed us of the Blight of Dhalerune Mines. She described it as an otherworldly terror, malevolent entropy given shape – and from what we heard, defeating it nearly cost your lives. None of you should be so keen to face something of that nature again."

Keira crossed her arms, unimpressed. "Speak plainly. Do you want us to assist the Merfolk, or not?"

"I want you to assist the Merfolk and survive. If you wish for me to speak plainly, then I shall: your Party has grown arrogant if the notion of battling a Blight excites you. And inevitably, sooner or later, arrogance leads to a fall."

Rob blinked, hesitating. Were they being arrogant? They probably were, now that he thought about it. A normal person's reaction to encountering the Blight would've been to curl up into a ball and hide for a few years.

Even Combat Class users weren't immune to the craziness that Riardin's Rangers tended to get themselves into, as showcased by Taleya and Tiarsus expressing absolutely zero desire to accompany Rob on his misadventures anymore. The fact that his Party members wanted to jump right back into the fray meant they were either battle junkies, had willpower forged from solid steel, or both.

He was okay with that. Riardin's Rangers wouldn't have lasted this long if they were normal. Still, Mr. Overseer #1 had a point – they shouldn't get careless.

"Don't worry," Rob assured, in a voice devoid of levity. "No one's dying. I'll make sure of that."

Not now, not ever. No one in his Party would die. No one. No one. No {one}. {No one.} {No-}

"Be that as it may," Elder Alessia said, snapping Rob out of his reverie. "It would be wise to plan for all eventualities. To begin with, how formidable of an opponent do you expect the Corrupted Leviathan to be? Is it comparable in strength to the Blight of Dhalerune?"

"That is difficult to say," Zamira explained. "The Blight of Dhalerune succeeded in absorbing a Locus of Power, while the Leviathan is a living creature that an unformed Blight was fortunate enough to possess, similar to how the animals within Ixatan Forest were infected. In most cases, the fully-formed Blight would be a stronger foe, but a Leviathan is no mere animal. They are to us, as we are to ants crawling on the ground."

She grimaced. "I shudder to imagine what would transpire if the Corrupted Leviathan succeeds in absorbing a Locus of Power. Would it grow stronger still, or would it split its body in twain like the Blight of Dhalerune, leaving half to possess the Leviathan and half to absorb the Locus and birth a new Blight? Regardless of the outcome, I doubt that Merfolk territory survives intact."

The room went quiet as they contemplated how lucky they were that Leviathans couldn't walk on land. Yet. For all they knew, the Blight would find a way.

"How did it infect the Leviathan so swiftly, anyway?" Keira murmured. "Ixatan Forest was conquered over a long period, the change being so gradual that we didn't recognize something was amiss until it was too late. Overtaking a creature as large and powerful as a Leviathan should've been an arduous task, but it happened in a matter of seconds."

"That's because the Leviathans aren't animals."

Everyone turned to look at Malika. Her face lit up like a Christmas tree as she realized that this was her chance to show off. "On the surface, the Leviathans appear to be standard living creatures," she began. "Well, not standard in the traditional sense. They're bigger and more terrifying than anything else. You understand what I mean, though – based on their mana signatures, one would assume that Leviathans are animals of flesh and blood."

She put on a smug grin. "Except that's wrong. Leviathans, from the top of their teeth to the end of their tail, are comprised entirely of mana. That's why the Blight was able to infect it so fast. It's...uh..."

Her mouth snapped shut in a panic. Rob's eyes gradually widened as he followed her line of logic. In general, Corruption couldn't infect flesh-and-blood animals – or people – nearly as quickly as what happened with the Leviathan. Physical bodies worked as a buffer, making it harder to reach the delicious, gooey soul at the center. However, if the Leviathans consisted of mana, then they were essentially monsters, and monsters were highly susceptible to the Blight's influence.

Rob wasn't especially surprised. Leviathans originated from the void at the end of the world. It actually made more sense to him that they were monsters spawned from a formless abyss than if they were animals who just kinda...lived there. The problem was that 'creatures of mana disguised as creatures of flesh-and-blood' reminded him very heavily of the Fiends, and several of the Grand Overseers in attendance didn't know about their race's origin.

His eyes flitted back and forth as he glanced around the room, noting that everyone else in on the conspiracy had come to the same conclusion. The trio of blissfully ignorant Overseers simply stood there in confusion, wondering why Malika suddenly stopped talking. Rob almost laughed at the de facto nation co-Leaders not knowing their race's deepest, darkest secret, while a bunch of outsiders had stumbled upon it more or less by accident. He was tempted to tell them, just so that everything was out in the open, but the High Soulseer would be ridiculously upset with him if he did.

And besides – his promise to avoid annoying the Overseers was still in effect. Sending them spiraling into an existential crisis probably fell under that umbrella.

"A-anyway, that's why," Malika said, hurriedly sputtering to a finish. "Not sure if the Corrupted Leviathan is weaker than a grown Blight. Less energy stores to draw on, but the host body is abnormal."

"It's at least strong enough to form Blightspawn," Faelynn offered, smoothly changing the subject. "According to Elder Duran's Merfolk contacts, they've been under siege ever since Rob initially repelled the Leviathan two months ago. Although, compared to the Leviathan itself storming Merfolk territory, fighting back waves of Blightspawn is a blessing."

"...Inefficient," Diplomacy muttered. Their eyes widened as their statement drew the room's attention. "Pay me no mind," they said, putting on a startled expression that fooled everyone except Rob and Faelynn. "Was talking to myself."

Message Started Between Party Members: Rob, Diplomacy

Rob: dude

Rob: just spit it out

Rob: y be all sneaky about it

Diplomacy: Ah...sorry.

Diplomacy: Force of habit.

"I'm uncertain how much it matters in the grand scheme of things," Diplomacy continued, "but it's interesting to note that the Blight's behavioral patterns are erratic at best. And not just the Corrupted Leviathan – every Blight we encounter adheres to its own unique inclinations. The Blights of Elven territory assailed The Village and Reviton City by infecting monsters and animals, gradually building their troops before invading established settlements. The Blights of Human territory focused on absorbing the Loci of Power within Esternard City and near Broadwater City, far away from prying eyes."

Diplomacy held up one finger after another, rattling off the assorted Blights like items on a shopping list. "The Blight of Fiend territory burst onto the scene with reckless abandon, infecting Nevermore City's Locus before going out in a blaze of 'glory'. The Blight of Dwarven territory infected the Mines next to Stonewarden Grant's city, then lured him into a trap that would have killed him without our assistance. The Corrupted Leviathan seems content to harry Merfolk territory from afar, despite having the strength to inflict major damage if it so chose."

"Seneschal Sylpeiros informed me of a Blight invasion within Dragonkin territory," Elder Alessia added. "Details are sparse, but evidently it attempted to gorge itself on a Locus of Power within Mount Tylrud. Before it could, the Dragon Queen scorched the nascent Blight to ashes."

"Then let's add 'messed with Ragnavi' to its inauspicious resume." Diplomacy tapped their chin. "While we were already well-aware that the Blights are selfish creatures of excess, when looking at their actions as a whole, it indicates how shockingly little they communicate anything resembling a cohesive strategy. Especially when you take into account that they appear to be a hivemind, which would theoretically allow for nigh-perfect coordination. If I were the Blight, I would have consolidated my forces from the beginning, overrunning individual territories one by one as I devoured isolated Loci of Power."

Their lips twisted with mild disgust. "Instead, they've haphazardly attacked disparate regions at differing times. Most of them don't even choose undefended targets! They could've ravaged Elatra long ago if they didn't keep gunning for Loci of Power in the middle of populated cities. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for their foolishness, but professionally speaking, it's embarrassing to witness."

A cutting laugh ripped out of Rob's chest. "Professional?" He shook his head, uncaring of the worried gazes sent his way. "What in the world does professionalism have to do with anything? That's ascribing reasonable standards to unreasonable beings. You might know that the Blights are creatures of excess, but I don't think you really understand it."

Not the way I do. Rob was much more familiar with the Blight's idiosyncrasies than he wished. He'd gotten up-close and personal on several occasions, mere inches away from their grotesque forms. And while their bodies were hideous, revolting things that decayed life by virtue of existing, the truly worst part of them was the way they reveled in each moment. As if inflicting pain and misery filled them with an immeasurable glee.

Even when their bodies lacked mouths, he could tell that they were smiling.

"To them, we are entertainment," Rob stated, his hollow eyes alight with embers of fury. "Piñatas to be popped. Never forget that. They don't want to conquer Elatra, and honestly, I don't think they specifically want to destroy Elatra either. Causing suffering is just what happens to give the Blight meaning. If it turned out that performing community service got their jollies off, then we'd have Blights picking up trash and walking little old ladies across the street. But it doesn't, so they don't."

Rob's hand twitched for the sword at his side. "And that's fine. If they want to play the part of predators, then I don't mind being the prey. You know what happens to a hunter who corners their mark and doesn't go right in for the kill?"

A beatific smile settled onto his face. "They get their fucking throat torn out."

--

Things progressed rapidly from there. Riardin's Rangers made their preparations, and the Fiends notified the Merfolk that their request for aid had been accepted. Within a day, Rob and co. – utilizing the Ring of Waterdwelling – had arrived at Elder Duran's typical meetup spot with his Merfolk contacts. It was located close to the Fiend/Merfolk border, just far out enough into the sea that he could escape home in case of a betrayal.

That was the idea, at least. In reality, Elder Duran's body had never fully recovered from his Corruption sickness, and without Rob around to share the Ring's effects to a Party, he'd needed to go alone to every meeting. There was no chance that Duran would've been able to escape if the Merfolk decided to stab him in the back for some godforsaken reason.

He knew all this, and met with them anyway. Multiple times.

And they say I'm the crazy one, Rob thought, as he examined the twenty Merfolk floating warily in front of him. Granted, I doubt they typically sent this many to greet one Elder.

He raised his eyebrows. And they *definitely* didn't send their Leader.

At the head of the Merfolk coterie was King Morcant Cyraeneus himself. He'd come bearing his rejuvenating crown and heat-seeking trident, clearly prepared to throw down if negotiations turned ugly. Unlike his subordinates, however, he didn't seem afraid of Rob, which was fair. You didn't get to be the Leader of a nation by cowering in fear of any decent challenge that presented itself.

Yet as Rob stared back at the Merfolk King, he realized, with a hint of wonderment, that he wasn't afraid either.

Sure, he'd likely get his ass kicked if they fought. Awakened Class Skills and a growing bag of tricks could only do so much against a Level 72 Leader, with centuries of combat experience, on his home turf. But it wasn't a guaranteed loss. Rob could envision paths to victory. That was a far cry from two months ago, when it took his entire Party – and getting his brains bashed in – to eke out a win.

"Hey there," Rob greeted, with a cheerful wave. "My name is Rob. It's nice to meet you. The last time we met doesn't count."

The Merfolk King nodded, the tension in his muscles loosening. "I'm inclined to agree," he replied. "The circumstances of our prior introduction were...unfortunate."

"Yeeeeeeah." Rob scratched the back of his head. "Sorry about-"

Diplomacy hadn't accompanied them on this mission due to Party size limits, but Rob was suddenly struck by an image of them stating: "Don't you *dare* remind him of when you charred his body with the Flames of Vengeance."

"...Sorry about the delay," he finished. "We got here as fast as we could."

"No apologies are necessary – your Party arrived much quicker than anticipated. It is by Odium's grace that you were near Merfolk territory when receiving our missive."

Actually, we teleported, but you don't need to know that. "Blight-killing is our favorite pastime," Rob said. "We wouldn't miss it for the world."

A hush fell over the Merfolk. Eventually, the King spoke up, his voice tinged with equal parts hope and awe. "So it's true? The Elder Elf wasn't spreading falsehoods when he claimed that you'd slain Blights?"

Technically, it was just the one from Dhalerune – Riardin deserved the credit for stopping The Village's Blight – but they'd be doubling that number very soon. "Purge Corruption is like kryptonite to a Blight," Rob said, expelling a bit of glowing Purge energy from his fingertips. "By that, I mean it goddamn obliterates their HP. I can also remove Corruption from people who've been infected with it, and restore Corrupted Loci of Power."

"In essence, your Skill provides a solution to all of our woes." The Merfolk King hesitated, thinking deeply. "I wish to believe you, but it sounds too good to be true. Like a fantasy peddled by charlatans to grieving families. We shall require you to validate your abilities by curing my bedridden soldiers of their Corruption sickness."

"Can do." Now comes the tricky part. "Before we continue, though, I'd like to discuss what our side stands to gain from this."

The King froze. "Gain?"

"I'm not running a charity," Rob said, shrugging. "My Party is offering a premium service, here. And you stand to lose a lot more than us if we walk away."

Twenty angry Merfolk glares washed over Rob. He ignored them, keeping his eyes on the prize – in this case, a King's ransom. Morcant Cyraeneus grimaced, then let out a long sigh. "Fine. State your demands."

...Wow. Rob whistled internally. They caved in record time. Must be more desperate than we thought. "It's simple," he began. "We want Merfolk territory to enter into an indefinite alliance with Fiend territory. It'll last until the Elatra is Blight-free, and then, well, forever."

Among the things King Cyraeneus must have been expecting, by the look on his face, that clearly wasn't one of them. "What purpose would this serve for Fiend territory?"

Rob rolled his eyes. "How about less dead people? Stopping the Blight's spread across Elatra will be a lot easier if we work together. And after that, why bother returning to the old ways? Inter-nation wars are going out of fashion." He smirked. "Oh, and we've already established alliances with Dwarven territory and Elven territory. Better get in now so you can stay ahead of the curve."

This was the deciding moment. Rob prepped Waymark, ready to skedaddle if the King rejected their request. As much as he didn't want to leave the Merfolk civilians high and dry, there was no fucking way he was risking his Party by allying with another shortsighted Leader. They'd learned their lesson from the Stonewarden.

Of course, there was also the possibility of the King forming an alliance with the full intent of betraying them after they'd dealt with the Leviathan. That would still get their foot in the door with the locals, though, especially once Riardin's Rangers proved their worth. At that point, it didn't really matter if the King betrayed them or not. If he didn't, then awesome. If he did, they'd just assassinate him and do a repeat of their takeover of Dwarven territory.

Inter-nation wars may have been going out of fashion, but regicide was in.

Just say yes, Rob thought, as the King contemplated his choices. Just say yes. Why are you hesitating. There's no downsides! Everyone wins! So help me god if-

"Very well," the Merfolk King said, nodding. "We have an accord. My people need your assistance, and..."

A flash of despair passed through his expression. "I, too, am tired of death."

Fiiiiinally. "Then it's a pleasure to be working with you," Rob said, grinning from ear to ear. "So! Let's talk shop. Where's the Leviathan located? Are there any assault plans drawn up yet?"

The Merfolk King paused for a brief moment. "You seem to be mistaken. We are not intending to attack the Leviathan in an offensive maneuver. Rather, it would be more expedient to fortify our positions and wait for it to strike. Defensive battles generally result in fewer casualties."

"That'd be true if we knew the Leviathan was coming, but hasn't it just been sitting back and crapping out Blightspawn?"

"Until recently, yes." King Cyraeneus glanced to the side, as if searching for something in the distance. "That changed several days ago. It is why we contacted you. The Leviathan charged within striking distance of our forces – only to stare us dead in the eyes and leave."

His face darkened. "The beast is taunting us. I know not how the minds of Blights function, but I can recognize a declaration of war when I see one."

Rob frowned. That's...weird. Was it trying to bait the Merfolk into a trap like the Dhalerune Blight did to the Dwarves? While that wasn't a bad strategy, especially by Blight standards, it'd had months to put that into practice – and didn't. Why change things up now? Waiting this long just ended up giving time for Riardin's Rangers and the Merfolk to...

To...

As if his neck was made of stone, Rob slowly turned to stare out into the empty sea. He saw nothing except boundless ocean stretched out before him. Beautiful. Pristine.

A tempting illusion, hiding terrors beyond comprehension.

It intentionally waited until the Fiends and Merfolk established communications, he thought, mind racing. Then it showed itself. Because if it did...

Rob's eye twitched. Then I would show too.

For the sake of his newly-christened alliance with the Merfolk, he suppressed the manic laughter threatening to burst forth from within. So that's how it is. You found out what happened in Dhalerune Mines, and now you want a shot at the big bad Heartkiller. Or was it revenge for sending you running away like a little bitch last time?

White-hot anticipation pumped through his veins. Rob cast a predatorial gaze out towards the sea, mouth watering as he sensed malicious intent emanating from its depths. He knew it was his imagination, and did not care.

I'll just have to ask you in person.

--

Changes

10 unspent stat points used in preparation

Dexterity 75 → 85

Step of the Wind 12 → 14

Chapter 47

"Allow me to put things into perspective," Rob began. "How many of you have fought a monster above Level 20?"

He swept his gaze across the crowd of more than 100 Merfolk stretched out before him. Combat Class users of all shapes and sizes were in attendance, now the inaugural students of the first ever Intro to Blight Slaying course, taught exclusively by Professor Rob. With measured confidence, he clasped his hands behind his back, doing his best to portray himself as a worldly veteran.

The effect was almost spoiled by Keira twitching with concealed laughter, but none of the Merfolk seemed to notice. They were too busy staring at Rob like he was a mystical creature that had fallen from the sky.

To be fair, that wasn't far off from the truth.

Let's see, Rob thought. I'm a Human, Level 67, breathing underwater, with an entourage of Elves and Fiends, and invited by the King himself...yeah, if I was a Merfolk, I'd be shitting bricks too. It was unfortunate that he couldn't marinate in the crowd's shock for a little while longer, but they had a schedule to keep. The Blight could arrive to crash their party at any moment. Rob snapped his fingers in front of the Merfolks' faces, causing them to jerk back as if he'd shouted.

"How many of you have fought a monster above Level 20?" Rob repeated, putting more emphasis onto his words. "There'll be time for gawking later. For now, just answer my questions." All 100+ Merfolk hastily raised their hands. No one present was lower than Level 30, so that was to be expected.

"That's better. How about monsters above Level 30?" Half of the raised hands dropped in an instant. When accounting for the people who were too ashamed to admit weakness, Rob estimated that approximately one-third of the total Merfolk had fought a monster above Level 30. "Okay then. What about Level 40 or higher?"

Gradually, the hands fell, until only three remained. One Level 42 Merfolk, one Level 30 Merfolk, and King Morcant Cyraeneus himself. Rob arched an eyebrow at the Level 30 outlier, who sullenly lowered his hand when everyone turned to stare at him with accusing eyes.

I figured as much. While Rob regularly fought enemies over 20 Levels above him, that was definitely not the norm. Most sane people – who didn't also have crushing obligations tying them down – typically ran away when faced with near-certain death. Challenging higher-Leveled enemies might have granted a commensurate EXP boost, but without Fast Learner, the risk really wasn't worth the reward. Heck, it honestly wasn't worth the risk even with Fast Learner. The life of a Combat Class user was already dangerous enough without playing on hard mode.

Sometimes, however, the world didn't give anyone a choice in the matter.

They're going to get demolished, Rob concluded, as he surveyed the Merfolk. It wasn't their fault; in fact, he believed that they'd done everything right. Merfolk territory was well-known among the rest of Elatra for participating in fewer wars than the other nations. Their territory's aquatic geography rendered them virtually impervious to invasions, letting them pick and choose which conflicts they elected to join.

Naturally, an advantage of that caliber bred no small amounts of jealousy and contempt towards the Merfolk. They probably would've been bothered by that if their detractors could do anything besides bitch and moan.

As someone who didn't have a native Elatran's blend of resentment and cultural hangups, Rob was inclined to agree with the Merfolk. Why fight in unnecessary wars? Their customs were sensible, not cowardly. The only downside was that it resulted in a weaker standing army – swimming army, in this case – which was evident from the Combat Class users who'd been handpicked by King Cyraeneus to serve as their first line of defense against the Blight. Their Levels generally ranged from 30 to 37, while the Stonewarden's Dwarven elite had ranged from 35 to 43.

Which normally didn't matter – until once-in-a-millennium anomalies like the Blight came along.

"I want you to imagine the absolute strongest monster you've ever fought," Rob said, addressing his students. "Think back to how it pushed you to the brink. Remember the cold sweat on your palms, the torrential beating of your heart, the labored breathing in your chest. Remember that frantic voice in the corner of your mind, alternating between screaming in terror and praying that you'll live to see the next sunrise grace your eyes. Crystallize all those feelings into a single, powerful note of survival, and hold it dear."

His mouth split into a joyless grin. "Then forget about it, because the Blight doesn't care. To it, your struggles for survival are laughable. Literally. It will laugh in your face; I've been on the receiving end of that a couple times. If you're entering this fight with delusions of grandeur, or even a small, well-intentioned hope of 'I'll try to make whatever difference I can', then do me a favor, and go home now."

The Merfolk were gaping at him in scandalized dismay. That's not enough, Rob thought. Too many of them still retained the fires of determination in their eyes. An admirable quality – yet in this instance, as lethal as chugging deadly poison.

They'd resent him for what he was about to do, but this was the greatest gift he had to offer them.

Rob held up his hand with deliberate slowness, pausing for dramatic effect. The Merfolk – except for King Cyraeneus – collectively gasped when his Broken Shortsword appeared in a flash of blue motes. Guess I should add Spatial Storage to the list of things that Wow them, he mused, before jabbing the blade into his stomach and slicing it open.

92 Slashing Damage Received!

This time, even his Party members were gaping at him like he was a lunatic. Rob twirled the Broken Shortsword in his hand, waiting patiently as red seeped out from his wound into the clear ocean waters, no doubt alerting every shark for a hundred miles. "Be honest," he stated, sounding almost dismissive. "How many of you would be left debilitated from a wound like this? Or at least unable to fight at your best?"

"I have soldiered on with dire stab wounds in the past," one very brave, very stupid Merfolk chimed in.

"Neato." Rob stored his Broken Shortsword away and golf clapped. "For reference, I've got 155 Vitality and a Skill that reduces physical damage by 40%. The last Blight I fought still shredded me into tiny giblets. For all my durability, I may as well have been wet paper under a guillotine. What do you think would happen if a creature like that grazed you?"

They fell silent for a few seconds. "Is the Blight equal in strength to a Leviathan?" a different, marginally smarter Merfolk asked. "Perhaps our beast will make for a weaker foe."

It was an infuriatingly reasonable question. Am I going to have to chop off an arm for them to quit stalling and understand what I'm getting at? Rob thought, before responding. "Even assuming that the Blight hasn't juiced up the Leviathan's body with funky weird shit, bumping into the original Leviathan was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life."

He exhaled, rubbing his temples. "You guys used Identify when it showed up recently, right? Like...its Level is three question marks. I have no goddamn idea what that means." Irritation crept into his tone. "Shouldn't you know more about this than me? The Leviathans live in your neighborhood. I'm just a friendly interloper."

King Cyraeneus cleared his throat. "We take pains not to disturb the Great Leviathans," he admitted, with a hint of embarrassment. "On the rare occasion that an unlucky fool blunders into their midst, tradition states that if retreat is impossible, they must allow themselves to be devoured to avoid leading the Leviathans into central Merfolk territory."

"Perfect." Rob gave the Merfolk soldiers a buoyant smile. "Then you already know what to do. When the Leviathan arrives, don't fight it. Simple as that. That's a job for me, my Party, and your King."

The soldiers exchanged glances, muttering to each other in hushed tones. Deep down, they knew he was right, but that didn't stop them from hesitating. If they were that ruled by their self-preservation instincts, then they wouldn't have been Combat Class users in the first place. Rob could spy the indecision plain on their faces – was it really alright, they wondered, to entrust the defense of their homeland to suspicious outsiders?

Only one Merfolk immediately took what Rob said at face value. Surprisingly, King Morcant Cyraeneus offered no objections to Rob's bold plan of the army specifically gathered to fight the Leviathan...not fighting the Leviathan. The King actually seemed more relieved than anything else, not even making a token effort to ensure that Rob didn't countermand his authority.

He already came to the same conclusions we did, Rob realized. Probably long before he contacted us. The King knows that a large-scale military operation targeting the Corrupted Leviathan would wind up as one big meat grinder. Now that we've given him an out, he's willing to risk betting on the pinch hitters so that more than a handful of his people can walk away from this intact.

Begrudgingly, Rob felt an ember of respect for King Cyraeneus begin to kindle inside him. It must've taken a lot of humility to beg assistance from the Party that brutalized him during their last encounter, and his conduct so far indicated that he cared more about protecting his subordinates than accruing glory or salvaging his pride. He seemed, on the surface, to be a good Leader. At least in the limited capacity that Riardin's Rangers had witnessed him.

Rob's ember of respect continued to grow – and he smothered it before it could burn any brighter. Not now, he thought, and maybe not ever. Empathy was just a knife for other factions to twist. The last time he'd started to connect with people outside of the Deserters and Fiends, Dhalerune City happened.

If the Merfolk betrayed Riardin's Rangers, this way, Rob would feel less emotional turmoil when it came time to set things right. He'd help the Merfolk, and he'd stay true to their alliance, but it ended there. They were business partners; nothing more.

...And no names. While that ship had sailed for the Merfolk King, Rob steadfastly refused to learn anyone else's name.

He couldn't take having to kill another Vevrandi.

"Lord Rob?"

"Huh?" Rob flinched, realizing that one of the Merfolk soldiers had been attempting to speak with him. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

"Just that there must be something we can assist with," she said, staring at him with plaintive eyes. "We are prepared to do whatever is necessary to defend the people we hold dear."

Good – they're wavering. Time for the olive branch. "It's very likely that the Leviathan will attack with a horde of weaker Blightspawn," Rob explained. "The waves you've repelled until now have merely been an appetizer for the main course. When we were under siege from the Blight of Broadwater City, it used a similar strategy, spawning hundreds of its brood out-of-sight."

He spread his arms wide. "If you want to contribute by thinning the Blightspawn ranks, then feel free. That would help my Party and King Cyraeneus focus on the Leviathan. The fewer potentially fatal distractions that get in our face, the better."

Rob lowered his arms, injecting steel into his voice. "Just keep in mind that I can't afford to help you if anything happens. Blightspawn chomping at your gills? Deal with it. Leviathan decides you're looking especially tasty? Well why the fuck were you that close to begin with? Rather than wasting my time saving individuals, it's tactically and morally superior for me to concentrate my full efforts on killing the Leviathan as quickly as possible. Your efforts should go into surviving – consider it priority #1."

He clenched his fists, fingernails digging into palms. "I'll give you a miracle. The rest is up to you."

And hopefully that's enough, Rob thought, as the Merfolk slowly nodded. It's as far as I can go. Gotta make sure I stay detached.

{*This* is detached?} The static rumbled with laughter. {Lie to them, lie to yourself, yet you are what you are: a wounded sentimentalist cowering beneath a veneer of pragmatism. One day, you'll drown under the auspices of your own bleeding heart.}

...Maybe. Rob turned away from the crowd, hiding his face. But at least I'd still be me.

--

Once the Merfolk had been sorted out, Riardin's Rangers held a group strategy meeting consisting of just themselves. Over the course of a half-hour, they pored over their previous encounters with the Blights of The Village, Broadwater City, and Dhalerune Mines, using those experiences to model the abilities that the Corrupted Leviathan would likely possess. Their final list boiled down to:

1. Ambient Corruption emanating from the surface of its skin.

2. The ability to shape and contort its body into various forms.

3. A wave of highly-dense Corruption, expelled from the mouth.

4. Incredible hardiness equivalent to a massive HP pool.

5. Phenomenal strength and speed.

6. Limited bypassing of certain Skills, most notably Not A Scratch.

7. Hivemind communication with other Blights.

8. A thoroughly unpleasant personality.

None of these traits were ironclad. Each Blight was a special snowflake in its own way, and this one in particular was controlling a Leviathan instead of having been birthed from a Locus of Power. However, listing out the species' recurring characteristics helped Riardin's Rangers feel more in control of the situation. It gave them something to plan around, and just as importantly, it demystified the Blight, morphing it from an aberration beyond their fathoming into a mere thing to overcome and kill.

That feeling would prooobably vanish the instant the Blight showed up and turned itself inside-out or whatever, but they'd savor their sanity while it lasted.

"The Blights we've fought have all struggled when they couldn't get in close," Rob said, during the meeting. "Elder Alessia and a few mages managed to briefly hold off the Broadwater Blight despite it being significantly stronger than them. Later, the Dragon Queen got the upper-hand on that same Blight because she kept to the skies and barraged it from a distance. In Dhalerune Mines, Seneschal Sylpeiros fared better against his Blight fragment than anyone else, as he's speedy and has powerful lightning magic."

"While I see what you're implying," Zamira cut in, "that knowledge scarcely benefits us. Only two members of Riardin's Rangers – Orn'tol and Malika – are primarily ranged attackers. The rest of our Party's long-distance Skills vary from supplemental to nonexistent."

Rob made a scoffing sound. "Hey, don't knock the patented Broken Shortsword Fastball. It's killed one or two enemies." He paused. "I think."

"All I have to throw are my sword and shield," Vul'to commented, glancing down at his beloved armaments. "And that notion seems ill-advised. Perhaps you could spare some Firebombs?"

"That depends. Can you carry volatile explosives around a high-octane battlefield without them accidentally exploding in your pockets?"

"I rescind my request."

As Rob internally celebrated keeping his precious, precious Firebombs, Meyneth sent him a calculating look that inspired a creeping sense of dread. "Anything is a projectile if you're strong enough," she muttered. "Rob, if I might ask – Purge Corruption requires you to be within touch range to utilize the full extent of its power, correct?"

He suppressed a gulp. "Yes, but that's Step 5 of my master plan. Steps 1 through 4 are just us screwing with the Leviathan." Rob let out a sigh. "Look, I get that ranged attacking isn't our forte. That doesn't mean we play to the Blight's win condition. It can withstand more punishment than our entire Party combined, so it wants us fighting in melee range like usual. It *also* knows that I'm the one person it has to keep at arm's length."

"You wish for us to pelt the Leviathan with long-ranged attacks and run away until it loses its composure?" Vul'to inferred. "Which would allow you to take advantage of its frustration in order to employ Purge Corruption. Additionally, damaging the Leviathan's body will reduce the amount of Purge Corruption energy you need to expend in order to kill it."

"Close." Rob smirked. "Instead of making it frustrated, I want you to pelt the Leviathan with long-ranged attacks and run away until it starts having too much fun. The Blight will *love* chasing you guys around. Like a dog and squirrels. Elatra has dogs, right?"

Vul'to averted his gaze. "We used to," he whispered. "The vast majority perished in the Cataclysm."

"Yeah, see, this is why we need Diplomacy around."

--

Two days passed without incident.

Aside from everyone gradually losing their marbles, anyway. Now that they'd chosen a plan of action and handed out anti-Corruption Amulets, the only thing left to do was wait for the Leviathan to quit being such a lazy bastard and attack them already. Riardin's Rangers weren't strangers to enduring the calm before the storm, but the Merfolk hadn't participated in a large-scale battle in eight years, and the stakes were higher than ever.

Rob almost regretted hyping up the Leviathan so much. It'd render his efforts meaningless if the Merfolk cracked under pressure due to low morale.

I wonder what we'll do if it just never shows up, Rob thought, as he stared out into the deep blue expanse. At his side, Keira was resting her head on his shoulder, snoring gently. There's no rule that a Blight's favorite hobby *has* to be murder. This one could be a mischievous prankster, lounging at the ass-end of the ocean, giggling about how worked up it made us. Then we'll track it down so we can go 'Silly Blight! Tricks are for kids!' and oh god I'm so bored.

Thankfully, there was a solution for that. Slowly, Rob turned his head to the side and poked Keira in the cheek. "Pssst. Sleepyhead. It's your turn to take watch."

Keira opened a single, beleaguered eye. "You won't make me," she grumbled.

"Why not?"

"...Uh...because you love me?"

His mouth broadened into an angelic smile. "I sure do! With all my heart." Rob let Keira preen for several seconds, enjoying her adorable mixture of smug bashfulness, and then promptly poked her again. "I love sleep, too. Up and at 'em."

"Tyrant." Keira yawned, extending her arms and legs into a full-body stretch that garnered Rob's appreciation. "Aren't you supposed to be accustomed to functioning on low amounts of sleep?" she remarked. "From the tales you've told me of Earth schooling, most people were practically nocturnal."

"And we did a lot of stupid shit as a result of sleep deprivation. On Earth, stupid shit gets you hangovers and funny memories. In Elatra, it gets you eaten by a gorebeast."

Keira snickered. "You'll have nothing to fear if you ever meet a gorebeast. At this point, any animal with sufficient awareness to sense your power will run for the hills the moment it sets eyes upon you."

Just then, she pointed behind Rob's shoulder. "Speaking of prying eyes – the Merfolk are staring." He followed her gesture, spotting a group of fifteen-or-so Merfolk that were watching him and Keira with a sort of baffled jealousy. The moment they were discovered, the Merfolk immediately turned away, failing miserably at appearing nonchalant.

At first Rob assumed they were lonely singles envious of his and Keira's beautiful relationship. He then realized that was really dumb, and that there was a much simpler explanation which fit their circumstances.

"They don't understand why we aren't nearly as nervous as them," Rob concluded. An evil grin stretched across his face. "Boy have we got some stories to tell. Should I start with the Dreamthieves that trapped us in mental torture prisons, or when we journeyed into the ruins of a Blighted city overrun by Flesh Amalgamations?"

Keira didn't respond. Rob whirled around, his breath catching when he saw what had given her pause. In the far distance, at the outer edge of his Heightened Senses, there was...a dot.

Growing larger very fast.

"IT'S HERE!" Rob bellowed. As the Merfolk scrambled into panicked formations, comprehending all too late that the calm before the storm was not worse than the storm itself, Rob kept his gaze locked forward. Within ten meager seconds that felt even shorter, the Leviathan went from an indistinct blur to a hulking behemoth, its glowing pinprick eyes like two red searchlights cutting through the ocean dusk.

The beast was just as massive as Rob remembered, at minimum the size of six double-decker buses strapped together. Its body was elongated and scaled, like a snake expanded to ridiculous proportions. Not to be outmatched, its face was the stuff of nightmares; a cross between a reptile and an anglerfish, complete with a cavernous maw rimmed with thousands of teeth and stretching a hundred feet wide.

It was an awful sight, one fit to haunt the dreams of whoever witnessed it for decades to come – but it was the telltale signs of Corruption that elevated the Leviathan's visage from terrifying, to terrifying and hideously gruesome. Sacks engorged with puslike acid dotted the Leviathan's surface, leaking sizzling liquid at regular intervals. Wisps of Corruption continuously smoked off of its exterior, polluting the water like a toxic oil spill. The flesh around its chest area was gone, exposing an enormous rib cage underneath, and as it swam, more flesh and scales flaked off in droves.

Rob had never forgotten what the Corrupted Leviathan looked like. Its appearance was seared into his brain, a core memory that he dearly wished he could repress. Yet despite the abomination looking exactly as he'd remembered, it still activated a primal instinct at the forefront of his mind, shrieking at him to run. Run. RUN.

That instinct only intensified as hundreds more dots sprang into view. Sometimes I hate being right, Rob thought, as the Blightspawn horde caught up with their mama. An army of mini-grotesqueries lined up beside the Leviathan, displaying unforeseen levels of coordination. Apparently, there was a difference between Blightspawn randomly airdropped into a city, and Blightspawn lovingly raised for the sake of an organized invasion.

Riardin's Rangers and the Merfolk drew their weapons, preparing to meet the Leviathan's forces head-on. All of them were taken unawares when the creature got within batting distance of the allied coalition and just...stopped. It floated with languid stillness, glowing red eyes swiveling back and forth, widening slightly once they found their target.

Rob clenched his teeth so hard it felt like they would crack. The Leviathan, surrounded by faithful monstrosities itching to charge, set its gaze directly on him.

And smiled.

He didn't wait for King Cyraeneus to give the order. Rob burst forward, determination brimming in his soul and murder singing in his heart.

Chapter 48

The sea churned with motion, hundreds of figures rushing forward at once. Voices shouted and terrors screeched as the struggle to survive began anew. Rob paid it no mind; he only had eyes for the loathsome colossus heading straight for him, both of them set on a collision course for each other.

Not that it would be much of a collision – more like a bug splattering against a car window. Rob detected a surety of purpose in the way the Leviathan shot towards him, zero movement wasted, its red gaze unwavering. It had learned from its fallen brethren of Dhalerune, recognizing that hesitating even for an instant would just give Rob the opportunity to use Purge Corruption.

In short, it wasn't fucking around. The Leviathan would end him in one savage bite, gnashing his body and brain into a fine paste. All the Vitality in the world wouldn't help him then.

Rob knew this, and continued forward regardless. The rush of adrenaline and static and intention was exhilarating. Unbidden, a toothy smile split across his face, matching the Leviathan's own. The two of them drew closer, closer, the creature opening its bottomless mouth, Rob activating Step of the Wind...

And immediately pulling back. "Sike," he said, as he summoned a crate of Firebombs from his Bound Items and kicked it into the Leviathan's gullet. The beast chomped at the waters where Rob had been a moment before, unintentionally swallowing the crate whole. A muted boom sounded off, like a firecracker in the distance, the Leviathan shivering as if it was coming down with a nasty case of heartburn.

"Wasn't sure if those crates were watertight," Rob cheerfully remarked, as he swam away. "Thanks for testing it for me." The static howled with laughter, proving that if nothing else, it at least had a sense of humor.

The Leviathan was less amused. It turned its baleful gaze on him once more – only to reel back as a barrage of spells, arrows, and Skills slammed into its face. Riardin's Rangers and King Morcant Cyraeneus continued their assault from a healthy distance away, dispersing once the Leviathan started to regain its bearings. They scattered so that the primary ranged attackers were separated, with Malika, Orn'tol, and the King all shooting from different sides.

Their individual attacks didn't amount to much. The Leviathan was massive, and hitting it with a single arrow was like throwing a stick at a concrete wall. But if they needed to kill the beast with death by a thousand cuts, then that was what they'd do. Already, bits of flesh had begun to slough off, tiny fractures spreading across its exposed rib cage.

A deep rumble reverberated through the ocean. It took Rob a moment to comprehend that the Leviathan had just growled. Two red searchlight eyes briefly glanced at him, then swiveled around, electing to sample the appetizers before the main course. Rob was shoved back by a displacement of water as the Leviathan surged forth, its sights set on Malika.

Riardin's Rangers had predicted that would be the case. Out of the three main non-Rob targets, Malika's spells were stronger than Orn'tol's arrows, yet she was more vulnerable than King Cyraeneus. It was why they'd left her in Zamira's care. As the Leviathan charged, Zamira scooped up Malika and retreated in a flash, her Dexterity barely outpacing the beast's unnaturally swift movement.

'Barely' being the operative word. It was such a near thing that Zamira would've been caught if she possessed just a few less points in Dexterity. And considering that her Dexterity was over 100 by now, that didn't bode well for the rest of the Party.

Need to end this quickly. Rob had hoped to wear down the Leviathan for longer, but it was too fast to risk that. Without hesitating, he shot off in pursuit of the Leviathan, making up for their difference in speed by approaching from an angle. Hopefully, Zamira was distracting it enough that – "MWHEFWFUCK."

Rob sputtered to a halt as a convulsing, scaly thing came out of nowhere and careened into his face. Jagged teeth sank into his shoulder, the Blightspawn seizing upon his confusion to tear out a football-sized chunk of meat. Clawed appendages scratched at his chest, scoring thin red lines that just added to his annoyance.

178 Damage Received!

13 Damage Received!

16 Damage Received!

11 Damage Received!

With a grunt of exertion, Rob grabbed the thing in an iron grip and held it at arm's length. He froze, petty rage boiling within him as he examined it from top-to-bottom. The Blightspawn's lower half resembled some sort of many-legged crab, and its upper half resembled...

"A shark." He chuckled. "Of COURSE you're another shark." Rob reached his hands inside the silly fishie's mouth, grasped its lips tight, and pulled. The Blightspawn's head ruptured and split in half, two pieces sent flying in opposite directions, as its motionless body began sinking to the bottom of the sea.

After checking to make sure he wouldn't be rudely interrupted again, Rob resumed his chase. Zamira and Malika were still doing okay, but it was only a matter of time before they made a mistake, and the Leviathan was hot on their tails. While his Party's ranged attackers had kept up their assault in the interim, scoring hits that gouged out lines of decayed flesh, they weren't impactful enough to truly give the creature pause. The Leviathan seemed perfectly content to sacrifice a portion of its giant HP pool in exchange for hunting down its aggressors.

Let's see you shrug this off. Rob gathered Purge Corruption energy in the palm of his hands, beelining straight towards the Leviathan's side. Its eyes were locked forward on Zamira and Malika; there wouldn't be a better opening than this. The setup was perfect.

Too perfect. As excited as he was to fuck up the Blight's day, Rob kept a solid kernel of paranoia in his heart as he approached. It served him well when – with no lead-up whatsoever – the Blight whirled around in a blindingly quick spin that really shouldn't have been possible for something that large. In the blink of an eye, Rob went from preparing to grab the Leviathan's torso, to watching as a building-sized tail whipped towards him. There was no chance of dodging, even if he spammed Rampage.

Clever girl, Rob thought, his mind racing. Too bad that I have friends in high places. Protective energy, granted to him by the Skills themselves, coated his body in a white shimmer. Rob met the Leviathan's tail with an outstretched hand, not bothering to move as he yelled two words at the top of his lungs.

"DAUNTLESS REPRISAL."

He only got the 'Da' out before the Leviathan's tail sent him flying, and it wasn't like he needed to say his Skill names to activate them, but theatrics were an important part of mid-fight morale.

Three things happened at once. First, Rob got a system notification cheerfully informing him that he'd just nullified several thousand HP worth of damage. Second, his few lingering wounds from the Blightspawn ambush healed instantaneously, Dauntless Reprisal converting the damage he would have taken into HP.

And third, the Leviathan crumpled. It was as if an invisible, enormous fist had punched it right in the stomach, bones shattered and flesh pulverized. Rob detected something resembling surprise on the creature's face as it stopped short. Outside of the Dragon Queen, this was likely the most damage anyone had dealt one of the Blights without using Purge Corruption.

Thought you knew everything about me, didn't you? Rob put on a sadistic grin, making sure the Blight saw it. There's more where that came from. Also, please don't figure out that I can only do that once every five minutes.

Rob dashed forward, aiming to capitalize on the Leviathan's dazed state. Unfortunately, its attack had sent him shooting through the water like a home run ball, and he was nowhere close to it anymore. He doubted that he'd reach the Leviathan in time before it recovered.

Thankfully, his allies picked up the slack. King Morcant Cyraeneus, taking care not to directly touch the Leviathan's skin, jabbed his trident into its side. He then proceeded to do an honest-to-god strafing run, dragging his trident and firing water geysers as he swam at a blistering pace.

Not to be outdone, Meyneth used Shadow Walk to teleport to one of the dim shadows that Cyraeneus cast on the Leviathan, then set about tearing into it with Armor Rend. Her claws eviscerated its surface with contemptible ease, like ten sharpened knives through a mound of hot butter.

Rob checked the Party List, wincing as he noticed Meyneth's max HP ticking down. Even with an anti-Corruption amulet protecting her, getting that close to the Leviathan was worse than licking a barrel of radioactive waste. Meyneth didn't seem to care, though, only ending her frenzied assault when the beast began to stir. She swiveled around and pushed off its surface with Leap, bounding away before any meaningful retaliation could take place.

As he swam forward to rejoin the fight, Rob allowed himself a small moment of triumph, admiring his team's handiwork. The Leviathan still wasn't anywhere close to dead, but it had certainly seen better days. Noticeable sections of its anatomy were ruined beyond repair. The ocean was beginning to cloud with wayward pieces of meat, scales, and bone.

It was a huge relief to see, as Rob wasn't actually sure he had sufficient Purge Corruption energy to kill the Leviathan. Measuring his energy stores wasn't an exact science. He'd popped two of the Dhalerune Blight's fragments like piñatas, but it had depleted most of his reserves in the process. That probably meant that he didn't have enough juice to kill a fully-grown Blight at max HP. When he factored in the Leviathan's unique circumstances of being a Blight-possessed monster, things got even more unclear.

With that in mind, he wasn't sure how much Purge Corruption energy he needed, and any damage that Riardin's Rangers inflicted on the Leviathan was extra wiggle room for him to work with. Hell, based on the beating it'd taken so far, maybe Purge Corruption would end up being a bonus rather than a necessity.

Rob's fantasy was disrupted by a rumbling growl that rattled his teeth. The Leviathan twisted its head around, looking hungrily for a target – and settled on the group of Keira, Orn'tol, and Vul'to as the next people on its shit list. It opened its mouth, pestilent darkness concentrating within as it prepared to spew forth a cloud of Corruptive miasma. In response, Vul'to raised his hands and cast Soul Shield, enclosing his group in a protective bubble.

The Leviathan promptly shut its mouth. Vul'to blinked, then released his shield once he seemed sure that no attack was forthcoming. Evidently, the creature was aware that Vul'to's Soul Guardian abilities negated Corruption. As Rob closed in, he examined the Leviathan's face, trying to glean what he could from the expression of a giant mutant sea monstrosity.

...Huh, he thought. I think it's kinda ticked off. Not in the 'I'll kill your whole family' way, but in the 'come on guys, really?' way. It wasn't the reaction Rob anticipated, although he supposed it made sense. After all, the Leviathan had organized this whole event to have a good time, and what did Riardin's Rangers do? Run away, pelt it with projectiles, reflect its damage back at it, prevent it from attacking, and generally act like a bunch of nuisances. At least the Dhalerune Blight had gotten to munch on helpless Dwarves – the Merfolk here were so inconsiderate that they'd avoided the Leviathan entirely.

No, it must have thought. This cannot stand. There would be carnage. {There will be revelry.}

The Leviathan let out a thunderous bellow. Rob flinched and covered his ears as the noise got louder and louder and louder, going from noisy to a resonant note that he felt in the depths of his soul. Even the Merfolk soldiers and Blightspawn horde ceased their fighting, all several hundred of them clutching their heads in agony as the noise assailed them.

Yet it still wasn't as loud as Rob's survival instinct, screaming at him to start moving, right the fuck now. He immediately triple-cast Rampage, using the explosion at the end of each dash to propel himself further, positioning himself far away from Leviathan's open mouth. At the same time, he sent out a Party Message, warning everyone that something was wrong.

It was their pre-planning that saved them. By design, each Party sub-group had at minimum one person who was both fast and strong enough to ferry the other to safety in case of emergency. That meant that when off-white particles started to gather in the Leviathan's maw, rapidly coalescing to a violent, thrashing haze, nobody was in the line of fire.

Nobody who Rob knew by name, anyway.

With a final screech, the noise erupted out of the Blight's mouth, an unidentifiable scraping sound echoing throughout the battlefield. The haze of particles shot forward like a million tiny bullets, every particle moving independently of the others, almost as if they were alive. Anyone caught in its wake was dead before they'd realized what happened, Merfolk and Blightspawn alike turned into colorful pink mists.

The haze traveled the full length of the battlefield in half a second and stopped just as abruptly. Without preamble, the particles collapses inwards, shining red as pressure built inside its vibrating mass. Another half-second passed-

Bo#@(om.

Rob doubled over, his chest burning as if the air had been sucked from his lungs. The particles had detonated, expanding into a sphere of entropy, the void consuming everything in its path. In an instant, it grew a hundred feet tall and wide, the adjacent Merfolk and Blightspawn disappearing as though they'd never existed.

And then it vanished. Water rushed to fill the gap where there was now nothing, dragging more Merfolk and Blightspawn in a sudden current. Cackling aloud, the Leviathan rushed forward past Riardin's Rangers, ignoring them in favor of the sitting ducks who were still shaken by what they'd just seen.

It didn't discriminate between friend and foe, gleefully swallowing anything that moved, like a whale eating bits of krill. Fleshy hooked appendages sprouted from the sides of its torso, and any Merfolk or Blightspawn that managed to get out of the way were skewered for their efforts. The appendages fed whoever it caught to the Leviathan's exposed rib cage, sharpened bones mulching them into paste.

Both sides of the battlefield were fleeing at this point. The Merfolk for obvious reasons, and the Blightspawn as even their limited intelligence recognized that it was time to skedaddle. Only Riardin's Rangers and the Merfolk King were racing towards the beast, because apparently, this was their life now. Once the Leviathan noticed that its new playthings were leaving, it let out a bout of uproarious laughter, turning to face Rob with a piercing red gaze.

The message was clear: fight me head-on, or I do that again.

Rob glanced at the escaping Merfolk. If the Leviathan wanted, it could hunt them down without breaking a sweat. Stay detached, he thought. Stay detached...stay...

...God damnit. A string of expletives flew from Rob's mouth as he headed straight for the Leviathan. Its appearance was even more grotesque now, with flailing hooked appendages added to its repertoire, but if he ran from every monster that freaked him out, he wouldn't have made it past the very first wolf. I just need to grab it for a few seconds. Letting it stab me with one of those appendages might do the trick; that won't kill me right away, and it would give me free access to touch the surface of its body.

Group Message Continued

Vul'to: What are you planning, Rob?

Rob: I was thinking of letting it...

Rob: Never mind. That sounds a lot dumber outside of my head.

Rob: Okay. What if I let it swallow me, and then Purge it from the inside?

Orn'tol: That was your less dangerous idea?

Zamira: There is reason to believe that the inside of a Blight vaporizes any flesh it subsumes.

Zamira: I would also not recommend testing that theory firsthand.

Their train of thought was blown to pieces by Merfolk King Cyraeneus jetting past them. His face was contorted with intense fury, as if the Merfolk who'd died were members of his own family. With a vicious snarl, he reared back and threw his trident, then pushed it faster with concentrated geysers of water. The trident shot forward as if it had been fired from a sniper rifle, piercing the Leviathan in one of its glowing red eyes.

Yeah, Rob thought, as the creature cried out in frustration. That should work pretty well as a distraction. The Enchanted trident pulled itself free, then zipped around the Leviathan's back, stabbing over and over with a seemingly autonomous will. It reminded Rob of whenever a mosquito took a liking to him, and he was well-aware that those instances were the most aggravating things in the world.

He still kept his paranoia goggles on as he approached the Leviathan's freshly-made blind spot. Some of the hooked appendages attempted to skewer him, and he reluctantly avoided them, electing to save that plan as a last resort. Almost there-

One of the engorged acid sacks on the Leviathan's side burst apart. Rob summoned the Dwarven Sheet Metal and backed away, his eyes widening as the acid ate through steel like it was cotton candy. He didn't know if the sack bursting was some sort of defense mechanism, or just serendipity on the Leviathan's part, but either way, it cost him his window of opportunity. The Leviathan hastily withdrew, swerving out of touch range with impossible agility.

Rob prepared for a counterattack, ready to Rampage to safety – and froze as the Leviathan did nothing. It simply glared at him with its one good eye, ignoring the barrage of spells and Skill tearing new wounds on its body. Another sneak attack, it appeared to say? Disappointing.

"I'm starting to get sick of your shit," Rob snapped, his mouth moving faster than his thoughts. "What do you expect me to do? Throw myself onto your teeth? I'm here, and I'm trying to kill you. Isn't this what you wanted?"

The Leviathan tilted its head slightly. Rob winced as eldritch, near-incomprehensible words invaded his mind.

WHERE. HEARTKILLER?

"That's me." Rob shrugged. "Also known as Rob, Roy, Lord Blightkiller, Lord Rob, or That Asshole Over There. Take your pick."

NO. The Blight's eye seemed to pierce through his soul. NOT HEARTKILLER. DIFFERENT.

What's different about...oh. The blood in Rob's veins turned to ice as he realized what the Leviathan desired. It wanted the Rob that the Dhalerune Blight had fought. The Rob who'd willingly run into a Blight blender, laughed about it, then killed a Blight fragment as a decapitated head. The Rob who'd lived up to his Class's namesake, submerged in a berserker rage, fighting without any regard for himself or others.

It wanted the Rob who'd embraced Leveling High.

"Sorry, no can do." He suppressed a glut of static and offered the Leviathan a PR-friendly smile. "That Heartkiller is on sabbatical. May I interest you in our top-selling alternative?"

Purge Corruption energy crackled at his fingertips. "It'll kill you just the same."

Rob cast Rampage seven times in a row, expending most of his remaining MP and putting himself within arm's reach of the Leviathan. With the element of surprise on his side, he managed to barely graze the vile creature's scales before it backed away, sending roughly 5% of his Purge energy lancing into its center.

Unhinged laughter rang out as Rob examined the fruits of his labor. Around the area where he'd touched it, the Leviathan's Corrupted flesh was boiling and popping, falling off in large clumps. He didn't care that he was down to a scant 55 MP, or that the Leviathan was eyeing him with renewed interest.

It was fucking worth it to make that thing hurt.

Twin water geysers slammed into the Leviathan, pushing it back an impressive distance. Rob glanced over his shoulder to find King Cyraeneus and Malika casting identical spells. The King appeared mildly put off by this; partially because Malika had managed to copy and learn his signature move in the middle of a battle, and partially because her variant was actually far stronger. Nothing competed with an Archmage using Mana Burst and Mana Surge to supercharge a single spell.

Unfortunately, that combo left her mana-dry unless she used Mana Sacrifice to exchange HP for MP, which was not going to happen. As such, once her spell ended, their ranged attacks would be reduced to Orn'tol's arrows, Faelynn's Claw Waves, and...Rob chucking the Broken Shortsword. The King's MP was probably running low as well, and while his trident was putting in work, sooner or later it would get caught by a hooked appendage and snapped in half.

Rob dashed forward, resigning himself to another reckless charge – only to watch confusedly as Orn'tol's Temporal Freeze arrow whizzed past him. The arrow struck the Leviathan in its side, freezing it in time for the next couple of seconds.

Why? he almost asked. It was technically a good moment to venture a shot, as the Leviathan was being kept in place by pressurized geysers, but there wasn't much his Party could do to capitalize. Rob would have preferred that Orn'tol saved the Skill for later.

"READY!" a voice shouted. Rob whirled around, his confusion tripling at what he saw. Keira was kind of...posing? He belatedly recognized it as the beginning portion of Ragnarok, the Awakened version of Crush. It was a Skill that required her to vault into the air, gather energy while staying completely still, then vertically drop like an anvil packed with destructive might.

The ability was extremely powerful, and extremely situational. Even mindless beasts tended to understand they should move away when something jumped above their head.

As Rob's brain caught up with what he was witnessing, he realized two things. The first was that they were underwater, where verticality was more of a guideline than a rule. And second, Meyneth and Faelynn were at Keira's side, the Dragonkin holding her by the torso.

"NOW!" Keira yelled. Faelynn braced herself, and Meyneth – still holding Keira – used Leap to push off the Fiend and vault forward. The fun didn't stop there, Meyneth leaning into a full-body throw as she hurled Keira at the Leviathan with all her strength. Without missing a beat, Malika lessened the pressure of her geyser and shifted it to aim behind Keira. The end result was Keira blasting forward like the King's trident had, crossing the distance between their Party and the Leviathan just as it unfroze from its Temporal stasis.

"RAGNAROK!"

The Leviathan dodged a heartbeat too late. Keira's greatsword impacted the creature's tail with the force of a divine sledgehammer, massive chunks of viscera and bone exploding outward. One second the Leviathan had a tail, and then, it didn't. A quarter of its body mass, rendered to nothing.

That fucking ruled, Rob thought, followed by: Oh shit she's alone. Keira retreated the instant Ragnarok's self-immobilizing effect ended, leaving the Leviathan as a flailing mess. She had a head start, but the Leviathan would recover soon, and she wasn't as quick as someone like Zamira. Rob moved to intercept, unsure if he would make in in time to back her up.

With more than a little desperation, he used the last of his MP to cast Enmity, hoping to draw the Leviathan's attention – and was left stunned when the Leviathan froze, jerking its head towards him. Enmity never worked on enemies this strong, usually unable to overcome their high Mind resistance. Apparently, though, the Leviathan was so weakened and so disoriented that it'd failed the vibe check.

Works for me. Rob grinned, activating Enmity's two Awakened Class bonus effects that had gone unused for so long. Debilitating psychic damage enervated the Leviathan's body, pieces of it shriveling like dried raisins. The second effect was more important, increasing Rob's damage versus the Leviathan by 25% for as long as Enmity's effect persisted.

Just what he needed for Purge Corruption to tip the scales.

The Leviathan charged with heedless abandon. Rob finally gave it what it desired, swimming forward to meet its assault head-on. It was a redo of the way their fight had started, except this time, there wouldn't be any last-minute retreats. He dismissed the worried Party Messages pinging inside his mind,  focusing solely on the Leviathan. The Blight. The festering abomination that he was tailor-made to slaughter.

In that moment, Rob felt well and truly alive.

His sworn enemy opened his cavernous maw once more. Rob saw the path to victory laying before him, knowing exactly what to do. When the two of them were a mere fifteen feet apart, he activated the Bracelet of Teleportation, shifting himself straight up and averting the Leviathan's mouth by inches.

Its snout crashed into him like a truck, dealing egregious damage that didn't matter. Rob cast Bulk Up, then activated the Anklet of Moderate Brawn, gripping the Leviathan's scales as he gazed directly into its one glowing red pupil.

"Bye."

The smell of cooked, rotting meat assailed him as Purge Corruption energy flowed into the Leviathan's core. Its body crumbled, mounds of flesh dissipating as bones shattered into a thousand white shards. The Leviathan shook wildly, attempting to fling him off, but Rob wasn't fucking letting go for anything.

Grappling Level Increased! 4 → 5

Grappling Level Increased! 5 → 6

Several hooked appendages whipped forth, chopping Rob's arms off at their elbows. With a grimace, he backed away and cast Lifesurge, restoring his HP to full. Regrettably, he'd been interrupted mid-Purge, so roughly 30% of his energy was still left in the tank – although what he'd expelled was plenty enough to devastate a Blight outright.

Which it had. The Leviathan, to put it lightly, looked like hot garbage. What remained of its body was coming apart at the seams, barely held together by residual ligaments and duct tape. Any normal living creature would've been long dead.

Actually, Rob wondered, why *isn't* it dead? Even before using Purge Corruption, Riardin's Rangers had kicked the crap out of the Leviathan. When adding his 25% Enmity boost to the mix, 2/3 of his Purge Corruption energy stores should have been overkill. The one mitigating factor he could think of was that this particular Blight was possessing a gigantic monster's body. Maybe that helped insulate it from Purge Corruption, at least to a degree.

His eyes widened as the ravaged Leviathan charged again. Either Enmity was still active, or he'd pissed it off worse than he thought. That was fine by him – Purge Corruption would put the beast to rest. Rob rushed forward, exulting in the thrill of his imminent victory.

And for the first time since the fight began, he neglected his paranoia.

The Leviathan opened its mouth. And opened. And opened, its jaw unhinging like a snake – then going even further, the top and bottom halves of its mouth curling around its head. The creature's body spasmed, as if it was having a seizure. Scales, bones, and muscles sagged inward, deflating like a balloon of flesh.

Rob skidded to a halt as an orb of dense, everlasting darkness emerged out of the Leviathan's mouth. Sense Corruption immediately went haywire. The Leviathan's body fell away, discarded as a snake sheds its skin, leaving only the unfiltered Blight essence behind.

WANT. HEARTKILLER.

It was on him in seconds. The orb burst into a writhing cloud of Corruption, twenty feet wide and surging forward. Rob swam away – the Blight was faster. As it enveloped him, he shunted more Purge Corruption outside of his body, flash-frying a large portion of the cloud with a flare of light.

The Blight didn't care. It powered through, sacrificing its essence just for the chance to get close. Rob kept pushing it back, but his energy reserves were starting to run low. Tendrils of Corruption slithered on his left arm, and for brief, terrible instant, he faltered.

And then it was everywhere. Up his mouth, his nose, his eyes, his heart, his brain, his soul. Desecrating all that he was. People were shouting in the distance, their words unintelligible. Geysers of water shot around him, accomplishing nothing. Discordant laughter peeled away his senses one by one.

A frantic horror swelled within as Rob's limbs began to twitch irrespective of his will. The Blight was trying to possess him. It couldn't do it quickly, because he wasn't a monster, but it was trying.

He panicked. Purge Corruption came first, and while that did ease the pressure, he was struggling to activate it. As if random dividing walls had been jammed in the pathways of his brain. Waymark came next; he wanted to be somewhere, anywhere else-

Waymark partially br@#oKeN!

Waymark has been placed on a 20-minute cooldown!

Oh.

Flickers of despair set in. Rob shoved them aside, refusing to give up, fighting against the encroaching filth with everything he could muster. He forced the Blight into a stalemate, fully aware that it was about to break – and likely not in his favor.

{No.}

A third presence rose from the corners of Rob's mind. It added its strength to his, overwhelming the Blight's Corruption with a crashing wave of intent.

{This. Is. MINE.}

The pressure dwindled. Seizing the moment, Rob tapped into his energy stores, expelling every last drop he had. Discordant screams resounded, Corruption searing away under an aurora of Purging light.

SEE YOU...SOON...HEARTKILLER.

And then all was silent.

Rob couldn't tell whether he was alive or not until a tsunami of EXP hit him.

Reached Level 68!

5 Stat Points Gained!

BERSERKER Level Increased! 64 → 65

Endorphins flooded his brain. It was, without question, the single most euphoric sensation of his life.

Reached Level 69!

5 Stat Points Gained!

BERSERKER Level Increased! 65 → 66

Good thing that they'd prepared for this too.

Rob turned around, practically dragging his body, resisting the urge to stop thinking and indulge. Riardin's Rangers had caught up to him, now staring with concerned, awestruck faces.

Reached Level 70!

5 Stat Points Gained!

BERSERKER Level Increased! 66 → 67

There was just one plan his Party had been able to come up with to prevent the worst of Leveling High.

He deactivated Vitamin D(efense) and Tough Skin. "Keira," he croaked.

Reached Level 71!

5 Stat Points Gained!

BERSERKER Level Increased! 67 → 68

"You know what to do."

Her face pale, she swung her greatsword into the side of his head. Rob saw stars.

Reached Level 72!

5 Stat Points Gained!

BERSERKER Level Increased! 68 → 69

Pain and ecstasy mingled.

Still conscious.

"A...gain..."

She swung a second time.

Reached Level 73!

5 Stat Points Gained!

BERSERKER Level Increased! 69 → 70

Leveling H-

There was a flash of translucent light.

His vision went dark.

Chapter 49

Rob awoke, which was always a good sign.

He yawned, digging deeper under warm, inviting blankets. It took him several seconds to remember that he should be panicking. Wasn't his fault; the bed was so decadently plush that it had gaslit him into believing he'd fallen asleep at home.

Wait, Rob thought, as his consciousness crawled back from dreamland. I'm in a bed? His eyes creaked open, revealing a cozy room of Fiendish make. By the architecture, the dry air, and the lack of sharks nibbling on him, Rob expertly deduced that he was no longer in Merfolk territory. We were over a day of travel away from the Fiend borders. Was I really out for that long?

A moment later, he snapped fully awake, realizing that there were more important things to worry about. First order of business: Party screen. Rob breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that everyone was safe and sound. He hadn't expected them to be in danger, but considering the nasty surprise he'd gotten after waking from his soul surgery, it paid to be cautious. The Merfolk King could've betrayed them, the Blight could've magically resurrected...he wasn't ruling out anything anymore.

Next, Rob checked himself. He seemed to be in control of his own thoughts, although he knew that assumption came from a biased source. At the very least, there'd been a heartening lack of static so far. No Leveling High griping at him to go on a murder spree. Just peace and quiet in his mind.

Almost eerily so.

Biting the bullet, Rob brought up his Character Sheet.

Five minutes later, he finished reading it.

Fifteen minutes after that, he finished processing it.

What the fuck, he finally concluded. Rob sent out a Party message informing them that he was awake, that he was fine, and that he'd like to speak with Keira one-on-one before everyone mobbed him.

She burst into his room in less than a minute, beaming as if she'd won the lottery. "Did it work?!"

"Apparently." Rob put on a weak grin. "As far as I can tell, I'm sane. Ish."

Riardin's Rangers had known well in advance that the aftershock of killing the Leviathan would be just as problematic as the creature itself. Rob was extremely likely to land the final blow with Purge Corruption, and that meant he'd receive an absurd influx of Experience, much higher than from the Blight in Dhalerune Mines. That Blight split itself into four separate entities, and Rob only killed two of them, diluting his EXP gain and Leveling High's potency.

Of course, being aware of their problem didn't make it any easier to solve. Elatra's Humans had lived with Leveling High for thousands of years, and it'd plagued them until their dying days, the sharpest minds in the nation failing to unshackle themselves from their curse. According to Elder Duran, the best they'd come up with were psychological coping mechanisms to stymie Leveling High's gradual encroachment over their lifetime. It was a complete mismatch for slaying a single, monstrously powerful enemy.

As Riardin's Rangers had discussed their options, inspiration struck Rob as hard as Keira's greatsword recently struck his skull. Leveling High was – in simplified terms – a sentient drug. It artificially altered his brain chemistry by injecting endorphins and dopamine into his system. And like a drug, it gave him a rush that faded after each high.

So what if he just...wasn't conscious for that rush? It was the most dangerous part of Leveling High. While the long-term side effects were nothing to sneeze at, Rob was far more concerned with losing himself in a burst of sadistic passion. Leveling High couldn't tempt him if he was out cold for the worst of it. By the time he awoke, the rush would have passed.

Enduring a self-induced concussion was child's play in comparison. He dealt with worse on a weekly basis. They'd also considered using Mercy's Whisper to harmlessly knock him out, then elected to go for the skullcracker route. It was faster, and causing a bit of brain damage might help destabilize Leveling High.

To be fair, 'get bonked on the head' seemed like a solution that Humanity would have discovered and propagated if it was actually effective, but their circumstances were different than his. The average Human Combat Class user slowly built up their Levels over a course of decades. Being bludgeoned into unconsciousness after every fight wasn't safe or feasible. Rob, on the other hand, only needed to avoid the brunt of one ridiculous EXP overdose.

As Keira waited for him to keep speaking, Rob tapped his fingers on the bed. He wanted to say that their plan had gone off without a hitch. It's what he'd initially assumed upon waking to find himself sane, and the static silent.

Then he'd looked at his Character Sheet.

"Before we continue," he said, "I'd like you to do me a favor. Use Identify on me, and tell me if anything seems out of the ordinary."

Her eyes shimmered briefly. "No," she answered, shaking her head. "It's as it should be."

"Can you read out exactly what my Status Effects are?"

"Leveling High (Moderate), Melancholia (Advanced), and Contemplative."

"Right." He scratched the back of his head. "Okay, so here's the thing. My Status Effects on my Character Sheet says: Leveling High (Moderate, Contained). Any idea why that is?"

Keira's wordlessly mouthed 'oh'. She sat on Rob's bed, hesitating for a painful moment. "There were...complications," she began. "I do believe that your plan helped, but it wasn't a perfect solution. Leveling High was flickering between Moderate and Advanced on your Status Screen. We didn't know upon which side the coin would fall."

She placed a hand on his arm. "Vul'to acted on instinct. He cast a translucent light on you, the same kind that he employs during Soul Shield. The light entered your body, and once it subsided, Leveling High had resolved as Moderate. When we questioned what he'd done, he claimed that he'd learned a new Soul Guardian Skill at that very instant."

Rob's eyes widened. "Vul'to contained Leveling High?"

"Soul Guardian is an unknown Class," Keira hazarded. "We've yet to explore the full breadth of its capabilities. Presumably, halting the advancement of Leveling High can be considered a form of Guarding your Soul."

Something about that seemed wrong, but Rob was too busy being relieved to care. "That's fantastic, so why are you acting all serious?"

"The effect isn't permanent, and if Leveling High continues to advance, Vul'to will be unable to contain it again." She winced. "Sorry. I didn't want to dash your hopes so quickly."

"Are you kidding?" Rob laughed. "This is perfect. My deadline just got extended. Gives us more time to figure things out."

Curiosity got the better of him, and he focused inward, examining the deepest recesses of his mind. Rob delved into the corners he usually avoided, searching for his now-silent neighbor. Soon enough, he found a caged beast, thrashing against chains of soothing light.

Up close, it wasn't so silent.

{LETMEOUTLETMEOUTLETMEOUTLETMEOUTLETMEOUTLETMEOUTLETMEOUTLETMEOUTLET-}

"Yup, I'm totally okay with this." Have fun in hell, you piece of shit.

Keira smiled warmly at him. "Then we can declare this excursion a total victory for our Party."

He returned the smile, although it was somewhat strained, wavering when she mentioned 'total victory'. "So the Merfolk were chill afterwards?" Rob asked. "Actually, what do you feel like talking about first? Politics, or the metric fuckton of EXP we got?"

"The EXP," she immediately answered, teeth bared in savage glee. "I've reached Level 69."

"Nice."

"Indeed. Upon the Blight's death, I underwent one of the largest Level increases in the history of Elatra, as did the rest of our Party."

Before Rob could offer his congratulations, Keira rested her chin in her palms, glaring at him with amused irritation. "And yet, it barely feels noteworthy. I wonder why that is, Rob? Why do you suppose that my Level jumping from 61 to 69 seems paltry?"

He whistled nonchalantly. "No idea what you're talking about."

"I can see your Level on your Status Screen. Just like everyone else."

Chuckling, Rob shrugged. "Yeah, okay, I maybe kinda went from Level 67 to Level 80." He gave her two thumbs-up. "New personal best!"

"It's a new anyone's best," Keira grumbled. "13 Levels from one damnable enemy. You skipped the 70s entirely, and the worst part is I know you think that's absolutely hilarious."

"Guilty as charged."

Her lips twitched with mirth. "As a side note, don't spend your stat points right away. Having this many to allocate at once is unprecedented, so our Party decided to hold a meeting after you awoke and assist with each others' builds. Let's call it a victory celebration – in lieu of another night of drunken inebriation, which seems ill-advised."

Rob glanced at his Character Sheet, eyeing the 65 unspent stat points waiting to be used. "Hey, I'll take any excuse to hang out. Wouldn't it be the blind leading the blind, though? How many people in Elatra have ever reached our Level?"

"Virtually none," Keira replied. "That might sound like I'm giving our Party the verbal equivalent of a pat on the back, yet it's the truth. Every member of Riardin's Rangers is Level 55 or higher. Our second-lowest member is Level 60. That's...unheard of."

She paused, choosing her words carefully. "All joking aside, you should be prepared for things to change. Again. The difference between Level 80 and Level 60 is leagues higher than between level 60 and Level 40. Not so much in power, but in status. A Level 80 Combat Class user may as well be a demigod walking on the mortal planes. Only the Dragon Queen is higher-leveled than you, now, and she is primarily spoken of in fearful whispers."

Rob averted his eyes, jaw clenched. He forced himself to relax before Keira noticed anything. "I am going to have to sign so many autographs," he said, pushing out a laugh.

"If your fans can muster the courage to approach you, then yes."

Not helping, Keira. "What Class Skill did you get?" he asked, changing the subject with the subtlety of a brick through a glass window. "I'm guessing everyone in our Party crossed that threshold at the same time."

"That's right." Her demeanor immediately brightened. "My Skill is called Abyssal Wave. For a scant 50 MP, it allows me to shoot forward a massive shockwave by striking my greatsword against the ground. It should supplement my deficiencies with ranged combat nicely." She leaned forward. "What about yours?"

"...Well it's definitely a strong Skill," Rob muttered. "It's also...you'll see." He read its description to her.

Berserker Rank 7 Ability: Living Bomb+ (Active)

Prerequisite: Berserker Level 67

Description: After 1000 damage has been sustained within a 1-hour period, the user can expel a very large explosive detonation from the center of their body. This explosion will not harm, touch, or affect the user in any way. The explosion does not adjust based on how much damage the user has sustained. The damage counter is reset to 0 after Living Bomb has been activated. Furthermore, at the user's discretion, they can add a significant radioactive effect to the explosion. Just in case you didn't get enough of nukes yet. Five minute cooldown.

"There is no goddamn way this Skill wasn't tailored to me personally," Rob said, once he'd finished. "It's basically a supercharged Riardin Special that I can turn into a mini-nuke."

"New Skills are sometimes shaped by your life experiences," Keira explained. "Although not usually to this degree." Her voice fell to a hushed whisper. "Did the Skills themselves grant it to you?"

Rob shook his head. "I doubt it. Living Bomb seems more taunting than well-intentioned. Like it's saying, haha, you nuked yourself, here's another way to explode since you seem to love it so much. I've gotten Skill Descriptions like that in the past, and they always felt like they were the gods being dickheads."

"Or perhaps one of the Skills has a sense of humor?"

Memories of endless white and distant screams echoed in Rob's mind. "They struggle to have a sense of self, let alone a sense of humor," he said, quietly.

Neither of them spoke for a few seconds. "To what extent can the gods alter the Skills we learn?" Keira asked, thinking aloud. "If they truly desired to hamper our progress, then they should've merely rendered our abilities worthless."

"The fact that they haven't means that they can't. It's probably part of their limitations." Rob frowned. "Wish we knew exactly where those limitations began and ended, but from what we've seen they're pretty extensive. The first god that spoke to me had to quit because he ran out of Influence. In the same vein, Kismet kept his words short to save time. The Dwarven god also needed to guide the Dwarves towards constructing a nuke, only transporting schematics and offering advice instead of stealing a nuke from Earth outright."

"While I'm hardly complaining," Keira remarked, "it's strange that the gods are so restricted. They are divinity. If anything should be all-powerful, it should be them."

Rob smiled at her. "I'm sure you'll Intimidate the answers out of one when we go to slaughter them."

"You think up the most wonderful date ideas," she said, half-sarcastically.

The two exchanged pleasant small talk for several minutes, only stopping when they realized that they were keeping the rest of their Party waiting. "Quick question," Rob hurriedly said. "How'd things go with the Merfolk while I was snoozing? Do I have to head over there and break some kneecaps?"

"No need for that," Keira replied, in a chipper tone. "The Merfolk are equally grateful and terrified. Oh, how I wish you could've seen the looks on their faces when they cast Identify and saw Level 80." She let out a contented sigh of reminiscence. "I've seared that image into my mind."

Rob grimaced. "Seriously? I can't believe I missed that. Is there any chance I can get an encore if I visit Merfolk territory and say hi?"

Keira reached forward and patted him on the shoulder. "That would likely strain our newly-founded alliance," she consoled.

He perked up, his disappointment forgotten. "So they're 100% on board? No backstabs? We still have alliances with Elven territory, Dwarven territory, and Merfolk territory?"

"As far as I am aware."

Rob pumped his fist. "One more down! That just leaves the Harpies, Gellin, and Dragonkin." He paused. "The Dragonkin...will be hard to win over."

"We'll save them for last," Keira stated. "That way, when we arrive at their borders, it will be with allied armies at our backs. Negotiations are so much simpler when enforced at the point of a sword."

"The Dragon Queen really won't like that."

"Then we'll kill her. Mighty as she is, one Combat Class user cannot stand against our Party combined with the strength of nations."

Rob hesitated, hating that he was hesitating. "We need her to fight the Blight," he murmured, as if pulling teeth. "I can't be everywhere. She's already killed one fully-grown Blight and prevented a different Blight from invading her territory."

Keira shook her head. "Our Party, the Elders, and the Overseers discussed these matters as you were resting. We came to the conclusion that Queen Ragnavi's assistance may not be necessary. Not when our war with the Blight is drawing to its close."

She sat up straight, looking Rob directly in the eyes. "While the Blights are mercurial creatures, when examining their...activities across the whole of Elatra, a pattern emerges. In total, they have attempted to invade each territory no more than once or twice. Additionally, after their invasion attempts were repelled, the Blight refrained from trying its hand at those territories again."

As Keira spoke, her voice rose, gaining in speed and enthusiasm. "There haven't been any new Blight sightings in Elven territory, Human territory, or Fiend territory. Dragonkin territory is a slight unknown, but news would've spread if something was amiss. Merfolk and Dwarven territory were recently cleared. That leaves three territories: Gellin, Harpy, and the Deadlands. Gellin territory is – with apologies to them – small and unimportant. I wouldn't be surprised if the Blight skips them for lack of entertainment. The Harpies are due for a reckoning; however, forewarning them of what is to come should mitigate the damages."

She grabbed Rob's hands, pulling him closer. "Do you understand? This may be wishful thinking on our part, but it's evident that the Blight is losing. After Harpy territory and the Deadlands are expunged of its presence, the vile things will have nowhere left to run. And then..."

Determination shone through on her face. "And then we'll be free of them."

Rob froze, a tempest of conflicting emotions whirling inside. He wanted to believe her. Desperately so. Yet despite it being exactly what he'd been hoping to hear for months, there was a side of him that rebelled against the idea of the Blights ceasing to be. In a twisted way, they'd been his constant companion ever since he came to this world. The first enemy he'd fought was an infected wolf, and things just kept escalating from there. It was difficult for him to imagine an Elatra where Corruption and eldritch abominations weren't lurking behind every corner.

But...she had a point. The Blight was on the backfoot. Even if it was probably keeping some nasty surprises up its sleeve, just waiting to be unleashed, you couldn't look at their repeated failures and call it anything except losing. If this trend continued, eventually, they'd be wiped out. By then, Riardin's Rangers would be strong enough to kill the Dragon Queen with or without help from the other nations. And once the dimension mages advanced their craft to a level where interdimensional travel was possible, the gods would be next on the chopping block.

Rob's grip on Keira's hands tightened as an unfamiliar sensation washed over him. There were admittedly a lot of missing steps between 'kill the Dragon Queen' and 'kill freaking gods', but for the most part, the future he was envisioning seemed plausible. Not just a distant dream born from ranting at the sky. He'd been fighting for so long that it felt like it would last forever – yet here he was, Level 80, allied with more than half the world, and ready to put a pin in his longest-running foe.

He wasn't quite in the homestretch, but he could see it peeking over the horizon.

"I...need some time to think," Rob said, letting go of Keira's hands. "Can you stall the others for five minutes?"

She gave him an understanding nod. "Of course. We reacted in much the same way. Being anxious of the peace you've striven for is common among soldiers. Just remember that we're all in this together." Keira planted an affectionate kiss on his cheek, then turned to leave.

"Can you check my Status Screen again?" Rob blurted out, unable to stop himself. Keira tilted her head in confusion as she agreed to his request.

"Leveling High is still listed as Moderate," she confirmed. "There's nothing indicating that it has been 'Contained', which should preclude any awkward questions from people outside our Party."

He schooled his features, pushing his lips up into a smile. "Thanks. See you in five."

Keira exited the room, leaving Rob by himself. He allowed himself twenty seconds to collect his thoughts before he brought up his Character Sheet and log of system messages, perusing the other reasons he'd asked for privacy. At the tail end of his thirteen consecutive Level-ups was a series of system messages that he hadn't known how to talk about.

Crystal Bearer Rank Increased! 6 → 7

Crystal Bearer Tier 4 Skills Unlocked!

Choose ONE of two different Class Skills! Unchosen Skills will be available to select at later Class Levels!

ERROR: Insufficient Levels of Almighty Resistance to meet one Skill's Prerequisites. The remaining Skill will be automatically selected at this time.

Name: Ageless

Prerequisite: Crystal Bearer Level 7

Description: When activated, halts the aging process. No negative side effects from this Skill will occur. This Skill is not a monkey's paw for the user. This Skill does not protect from death by injury. Can be activated and deactivated at will. Once deactivated, the aging process will resume at the user's standard rate of aging. While this Skill is not a monkey's paw, if used carelessly, you will grow to hate it more than any other.

Logically speaking, Rob knew that he shouldn't have felt wary about Ageless. The Skill was something that billions of people fantasized about having. It conveniently solved the issue of his Party members outliving him. Especially Keira, if their relationship lasted in the long term, which he hoped it would.

Living for thousands of years sounded miserable, but the Skill clearly addressed its own shortcomings by pointing out that it could be deactivated and activated freely. If he staggered Ageless' activation uptime, he'd be able to age at basically the same rate as his friends. He'd also end up outliving Jason that way, so it wasn't ideal, but...at least there were options.

Rob would've been all for it – if it wasn't paired with a certain other change on his Character Sheet. One that apparently hadn't shown up when Keira used Identify on him.

Name: Rob

Level: 80

Race: Human (?)

Class: BERSERKER (LV 78)

Sub-Class: Crystal Bearer (LV 7)

Rob glared once again at his Race indicator, and the disarming little question mark that had appeared next to it.

"...The fuck does that even mean?"

--

Changes (since Chapter 48)

Rob

Level 67 → 80

BERSERKER Level 64 → 78

Crystal Bearer Tier 3 → 4

Crystal Bearer Rank 6 → 7

Learned: Ageless

Learned: Living Bomb

Keira

Level 62 → 69

Zamira

Level 54 → 62

Orn'tol

Level 55 → 63

Vul'to

Level 54 → 62

Malika

Level 51 → 60

Meyneth

Level 55 → 63

Faelynn

Level 47 → 56

Chapter 50

The Soul Surgeon nodded, pulling his hands back from Rob's chest. "Your soul has undergone no changes that I can detect," he confidently declared.

In response, Rob raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Not even a little bit?"

"Why do you sound disappointed? A soul as malformed as yours hardly needs more changes."

Yeah, but I was hoping to get some answers. Over the course of the past day, Rob had kept an eye on his physical and mental state, attempting to discern what changing from a Human to a Human (?) actually meant. He hadn't noticed any differences that couldn't be attributed to paranoia, so getting his soul examined seemed like the next logical step.

For all the help it ended up being. The fact that the most eminent Soul Surgeon in the nation couldn't find anything either was just making Rob's paranoia worse. Things were never that simpl-

"Rob?" The Soul Surgeon leaned forward. "Are you lost in thought again?"

At that, he flinched, adopting a chastened grin. "Give me some credit. Do I look like the kind of guy to daydream in the middle of a conversation?"

"...Is that a rhetorical question?"

Rob laughed, mildly disturbed at how easy it'd become for him to use humor to lie. It was necessary to prevent the Soul Surgeon from finding out about Human (?), though. He wasn't the kind of morally bankrupt doctor who experimented on people or anything, but his curiosity was still downright avaricious. Rob would've been stuck humoring his scientific queries for a week straight.

"In all honesty," Rob continued, "I thought that Leveling High's containment would affect me in some way. Leveling High is bonded to my soul to the point where you said that removing it would only have a 10% chance of success. If that's the case-"

"8%."

Rob blinked. "Wait, my odds went down?"

The Soul Surgeon shrugged. "Leveling High advanced in the interim since I previously examined you. Considering your prodigious Level growth, be thankful that it didn't encroach further than it did."

"You know what? Fair. But that just proves my point – Leveling High is tied up with my soul. Wouldn't containing it cause unintended side effects?"

"That's a reasonable hypothesis, and is what I myself assumed when learning of your condition." The Soul Surgeon glanced at Rob's chest, his dark eyes shimmering with mana. "However, I am not one to cling to a hypothesis when reality disproves it. The energy containing Leveling High is co-existing in harmony with your personal mana, your Purge Corruption energy, and the 'Blue' Class Crystal energy that binds your soul together."

That's so convenient that it's making me really damn suspicious. When did I get this bad at not looking a gift horse in the mouth? Rob suppressed a sigh. Oh, right, all the disasters. Almost forgot. "Can you tell how long the containment will last?" he asked.

"If you ceased your activities and refrained from Leveling up? Roughly half a year." The Soul Surgeon snorted at the thought. "Realistically, expect it to be much shorter than that. Leveling High will swell as it is nourished with Experience, eventually growing too large for its cage's size to accommodate."

Rob nodded, some of the tension in his shoulders loosening. "I can work with that." To pull an estimate out of his ass; when adjusting for EXP, Leveling High's containment would probably last for a month or two. Within that time frame, he needed to unite the remaining territories, extinguish the Blight, kill the Dragon Queen, kill the gods, and survive a surgery with a less than 10% survival rate.

Maybe that was only good news by his warped standards, but shit, he'd take it.

Rob thanked the Soul Surgeon for his help and exited the office with a spring in his step. Now that he'd gotten his doctor's appointment out of the way, all that was left on today's agenda was to spend some quality time with his friends. The Elders and Grand Overseers had mandated that Riardin's Rangers rest easy – not that it took much convincing. After killing the Leviathan and rescuing Merfolk territory, they more than deserved it.

He was just in the middle of sending out a group text when a Fiend messenger appeared around the corner. The messenger froze when he spotted Rob, seeming to debate if he should change careers, before reluctantly approaching. "G-greeting, Lord R-Roy," he said, voice shaking like a minor earthquake. He held out a letter, its side creased by the Fiend's white-knuckled grip. "Th-this is for you."

"Thanks," Rob said, accepting the letter with deliberate nonchalance, regarding the messenger as he would a frightened animal. "Anything I can help you with? Autographs 'for a friend', perhaps?"

The Fiend blanched. "N-no, I wouldn't dare to presume. You must have far more pressing concerns to attend to."

"Well, actually – aaaand he's gone." Rob watched in silence as the messenger scampered off, unsure of how to feel about their exchange. While it was understandable that the average Joe would be intimidated by a Level 80 Combat Class user, he wasn't a fan of them being so nervous around him. That reaction was much more enjoyable when it came from people in opposing factions.

It is what it is, Rob concluded, tearing his letter open. That's the tradeoff for getting strong enough to influence the fate of nations. At least the Elders, my Soul Surgeon, and the Overseers are treating me the same.

He unfolded the letter, his mood rapidly improving as he started reading through. Rather than an urgent missive informing him of yet another disaster, it turned out to be a progress update from the dimension mages working on charting a path back to Earth. According to them, they were making good headway. The technical details went over Rob's head, but they'd included a few lively metaphors to help him understand, such as 'following a frayed rope through a twisting maze of thorns' and 'being drawn by a source we dare not comprehend.'

The long and short of it was that Earth seemed metaphysically 'closer' than they anticipated. Pursuing the weak trail of mana that Rob left behind when being yoinked to Elatra was still difficult, but it thankfully hadn't faded yet. The mages expected to locate Earth within the next several weeks, after which they'd establish a reproducible mana signature to ensure that they wouldn't need to repeat the whole process over. Then it was just a matter of stockpiling the requisite mana to create a portal. A small portal, at first, but a portal nonetheless.

Only several weeks until he could speak with Jason and his parents again.

Rob stored the letter in Spatial Storage as if he was preserving a priceless heirloom. A broad smile spread across his face, unhindered by any lingering notions of paranoia. Almost there, he thought, feeling lighter than air as he rushed off to share the good news.

--

"Hear me out," Keira pleaded. She raised her palms in what was likely meant to be a placating gesture, but just made her look like a conspiracy theorist about to go off on a tangent about Area 51. "We've established that Rob's Purge Corruption energy is insufficient to kill a fully-grown Blight with full HP. We've also established that the more we damage a Blight, the less energy he needs to expend in order to kill it. Therefore-"

"You are not spending all of your new stat points on Strength," Rob flatly stated. Their other Party members, currently sitting in a circle with Rob and Keira, gave nods of agreement.

"But I could reach 180," she crowed, her eyes twinkling. "180! Mountains would crumble beneath my fists and steel!"

Rob smirked. "This, coming from the woman who makes fun of my Vitality obsession?"

"Oh, so you admit it's an obsession?"

"No comment." He steadfastly ignored her outrageous accusations, focusing instead on his Character Sheet.

HP: 1550 / 1550

Stamina: 356 / 360

MP: 550 / 550

Strength: 60

Vitality: 155

Endurance: 36

Dexterity: 85

Perception: 40

Mind: 29

Magic: 55

Unspent Points: 65

Rob had to admit, he did have an urge to dump most of his points into Vitality. Big Number Go Up was always a tempting proposition, and 200 Vitality would probably be a big milestone, to boot. New Skill, new bullshit to abuse.

He might've considered the option further if it wasn't for his battle with the Leviathan. The #1 problem with that fight hadn't been survivability – it was catching the damn thing. The Blights were beginning to realize that letting the dude with Purge Corruption into melee range was, in general, not the greatest of ideas. Rob would be better-off dumping everything into Dexterity as opposed to Vitality, although he didn't think that was the right call either.

This'll be easier if I start with what I *don't* want to boost very much. He zeroed in on Mind, hesitating briefly before adding one single point to its total, bringing it from 29 to 30. It was the stat that affected him the least, but hey, maybe 30 was a milestone that would grant him a cool new Skill.

...

Aaaany minute now.

...

You have failed me for the last time. Rob tossed Mind into the garbage, turning to Perception. He quickly tossed that into the garbage as well, giving Mind a roommate to commiserate with. Perception wasn't a bad stat, but it was mostly prized by archers and assassin-types, while Rob was a frontline BERSERKER. It just didn't fit his fighting style.

And besides – a Blight was pretty hard to miss.

He toyed with whether or not to show Endurance some love, finally electing to increase it from 36 to 40. While Stamina hadn't been a concern in his recent fights, there was the disquieting possibility of getting embroiled in large scale war battles in the future, and those could last for hours. With that in mind, increasing Endurance was like buying new socks; unexciting, but he'd be kicking himself later on if he didn't get it over with now.

Process of elimination had left Strength, Vitality, Dexterity, and Magic still in contention, with 60 stat points to play with. Dexterity was a must, as was Magic. He needed to be faster in order to win his games of Tag with the Blight. Dexterity would boost his overall speed, while Magic would boost his max MP, letting him use more Rampages to swiftly close gaps.

That wasn't to say he'd be neglecting Vitality entirely. The extra HP would come in handy when he eventually fought the Dragon Queen. Additionally, his Levels of Regeneration, Lifesurge, and Not A Scratch – now Dauntless Reprisal – had reliably increased in accordance with Vitality, so raising the stat was always worth it.

Strength was less of a priority. Aside from Imbue Vitality's powerful triple damage multiplier, Rob didn't deal most of his damage from sword strikes these days. Between Purge Corruption, the Riardin Special, the Flames of Vengeance, and being a Living goddamn Bomb, Rob was an expert at killing things just by being in their general vicinity. He'd throw Strength some table scraps to ensure that it didn't fall too far behind, but that was all.

Let's go with...20 Dexterity, 20 Magic, 15 Vitality, 5 Strength. Rob held off on allocating his points right away, discussing his choices with the rest of his Party first. Once they'd approved, he merrily slotted in his unspent points, grinning as system messages cascaded down his vision.

Strength Increased! 60 → 65

Bulk Up Level Increased! 9 → 10

Power Slash Level Increased! 8 → 9

Magic Increased! 55 → 75

MP Increased! 550 → 750

Vitality Increased! 155 → 170

HP Increased! 1550 → 1700

Lifesurge Level Increased! 18 → 20

Dauntless Reprisal Level Increased! 16 → 19

Regeneration Level Increased! 23 → 26

Dexterity Increased! 85 → 105!

Step of the Wind Level Increased! 14 → 18

100 Dexterity Milestone Achieved!

Active Skill Learned!

Name: Like the Wind

Prerequisite: Dexterity 100

Description: Your body has limits for a reason, but sometimes, it's best to ignore them. Sacrifice HP equivalent to 5% of your max HP to refresh the cooldown on Step of the Wind.

Cooldown: 30 Seconds

Rob couldn't help but laugh when he read the Description. If there was any doubt that his Skills were being tailored to his personal experiences, Like the Wind's activation cost of 5% max HP served as yet another piece of evidence. For most Combat Class users, sacrificing HP to activate a Skill would've been a horrible risk with the potential to end in tragedy. While losing 5% didn't sound like much on paper, it could very well mean the difference between life and death.

For Rob, who was used to watching his HP rise and fall like a bouncy ball, he actually preferred this to spending MP. He'd get back 5% HP from Lifesteal by sneezing on a Blight.

After he informed the Party of his Skill increases, Keira threw up her hands and let out an exaggerated sigh. "It's almost a shame," she groused. "Now that you've been responsible with your point allocation, I suppose that I must too, lest I come across as an unthinking brute."

"The Strength fixation already clued us in," Rob said, unable to help himself.

Keira hmm'd at him, raising an eyebrow. "Careful, Rob. Using that logic, one might presume that a person who focuses on Vitality – and rushes headfirst into battle, irrespective of the punishment they endure – would also possess certain...masochistic tendencies."

"You know for a fact that's not true."

From the other side of their Party's sitting circle, Malika giggled. "I think it's cute how you two flirt in public all the time."

Rob exchanged a confused glance with Keira. This is flirting? I thought we were just hanging out and having fun.

Evidently, Zamira shared their confusion. "From what my mother has told me," she said, "the way she courted my father was completely unlike how Keira and Rob interact."

Orn'tol squawked with indignation as Malika pushed him aside, leaning closer to Zamira. "Really?!" she said, giving the Bladesoul her undivided attention. "What did she do?"

"Initially, my mother attempted to alter her demeanor to fit what she believed my father preferred, eschewing her taciturn nature for that of a bright and bubbly ray of sunshine." Zamira's lips twitched with mirth. "Her stratagem was a catastrophic failure. She felt quite foolish once she discovered that my father found her true personality to be far more endearing."

"Love conquers all boundaries," Malika loudly whispered. "Were there any rivals? Like a wealthy dowager flaunting her riches? Or a conniving schemer planning to steal your father out from under your mother's nose?"

With an exasperated grunt, Orn'tol pulled his sister back over. "Not every romance is like your books, Malika."

"Well they should be!"

Rob smiled. It was nice to see his friends take an interest in hobbies outside of training and fighting. Orn'tol and Malika were reading, Zamira and Faelynn were going to theater performances...those were little things, but they mattered. It gave him hope that Riardin's Rangers would be able to achieve a sense of normalcy once Elatra was at peace.

"...Was there a conniving schemer?" Zamira muttered, after a moment's pause. "Yes, there most definitely was one. While my mother's strategy to conceal her personality from my father was ineffective, the strategies she used to keep other suitors away were...ruthless."

"Oh?" Now it was Diplomacy's turn to lean close. "What kind? Did she-"

The former Skill cut themselves off, shaking their head. "Never mind. Shouldn't relapse." They cleared their throat. "I am glad for your parents' happiness, Zamira. It sounds as if they were truly meant for each other."

A flash of envy passed over Meyneth's face, so quickly that Rob wasn't sure if anything else had noticed. Then it was gone, replaced by genuine affection. "They helped raise a fine swordswoman," she said, nodding. "I am certain that they're very proud of you."

Zamira blushed slightly, averting her eyes. Meyneth observed her, seeming satisfied, and it took Rob a couple seconds to figure out why. Is she sublimating her envy through...embarrassing Zamira with compliments? he pondered. That's honestly a healthier coping mechanism than most people would've come up with.

"If I may speak of something on my mind," the Dragonkin continued, "one of the Deserters I retain a correspondence with visited me earlier today."

"You mean one of your friends?" Vul'to provided.

Meyneth shuffled in place. "She...yes. It would be unfair to call her anything else, although I fail to see what enjoyment she derives from conversing with me. Regardless, she congratulated me on my recent growth in Level, using words that did not appear to be hidden barbs laced with jealousy."

Faelynn raised her finger, then slowly lowered it. "Isn't that a good thing?" she said, in a nonplussed tone.

"It is. I'm also struggling to comprehend it."

Vul'to clenched his fists. "What kind of viper den is Dragonkin territory that it taught you to expect resentment as a matter of course?"

"It..." Meyneth trailed off, shaking her head. "It is a place of no consequence. I've found a new home, where the people I care for appreciate me as I am." Her mouth curled into a shy smile. "Truthfully, I'm looking forward to when we march on Dragonkin territory to force them into compliance. I will greatly enjoy flaunting the bonds and trust we share."

The rest of the Party returned her smile, soaking in the warm fuzzies for a few seconds. Eventually, Vul'to made a sound, as if he was about to speak but decided against it. He froze when eight pairs of eyes turned to look at him, muscles tensing as he quickly gathered his resolve.

"Anyone else would have spurned me after I became what I am now," he stated, his voice strengthening the longer he spoke. "Yet our Party has treated me no differently than before. That is a gift which I will always treasure."

Swept up in the moment, Faelynn went next. "It is the same for me," she agreed. "You all acted as if Fiends being monsters was a trifling matter. If you hadn't, it would have tormented me for...the rest of my life, really."

Keira waited, giving their affirmations time to shine, then chimed in. "This Party means much to me as well. Here, I can be myself." She swept her gaze across the room. "Even when I err, the people here don't judge me, only seeking to assist in any way they can."

She and Rob unconsciously reached for each other's hands. He'd intended to stay silent, yet before he knew it, words were bubbling up out of his mouth. "For me, you guys are..."

He paused. They were what, exactly?

The people who'd befriended him when the entire world wanted him dead?

The allies who'd fought at his back time and time again?

The dumbasses who believed in him when he was about to do something stupid?

The comrades who would die for him, just as he would for them?

What could he possibly say that would ever come close to expressing all that?

Keira squeezed his hand, giving him an understanding look. Rob squeezed back, took a deep breath, and exhaled. "You guys are the best," he said, speaking from the heart. "It's as simple as that. The biggest reason I fight so hard for this world is to make it a better place for you to live in."

And they were making it a better place. Step-by-step, battle-by-battle. Just a bit farther, and Elatra wouldn't be a fantasy hellscape anymore.

It would merely be the land his friends called home.

He was looking forward to that day.

--

I can't trust anyone, Dragon Queen Ragnavi finally realized.

Not that she'd ever trusted her followers in the traditional sense of the word. A ruler in a position of power invariably fomented envy and scorn among her lessers. Family could sometimes be counted on to offer unconditional support, but even then, there were countless stories of family spilling their blood's blood for the sake of a meager bag of coins. And inferiors of no relation were far worse, greedily clawing at every scrap of power she deigned to lay at their feet.

Such was the way of things. Ragnavi knew full well that her subordinates would never love her. That feeling was a luxury for those without influence to lose.

Yet while she hadn't trusted them, she had trusted their self-preservation instincts. A dynasty founded on fear was leagues more stable than one stemming from adoration. In truth, the will of the people was fickle and transient, worth less than the air she breathed. It was a maxim that had been repeatedly proven over the years; those suicidal or foolish enough to oppose her were few in number, and they made for excellent examples, besides.

Then she'd lost half her HP.

That much was...manageable. Crippled or otherwise, she was still the Dragon Queen. Her Level was 20 higher than the next-strongest Combat Class user in Elatra, and her Awakened Racial bonus doubled all of her stats. The disparity between unkillable and nigh-unkillable wasn't so wide that her subordinates could take advantage of it. Only the Leaders working in tandem would have been a threat, and they were too busy fending off the Blight in their territories.

Then she'd lost a Skill.

Diplomacy itself was of little importance. She'd barely used it as of late. The process by which it was ripped from her mind, however, had reduced her to a helpless invalid for twelve fucking hours. She'd never felt so vulnerable, so exposed. As she laid in the grass, having crash-landed during an attempt to flee, unable to move and at the mercy of whoever happened to be passing by, Ragnavi truly learned what it meant to know fear.

And Tylrud's teeth was it a detestable sensation. Worse than the agony of Corruption that plagued her existence. How did weaker creatures live like that without slitting their own throats? She'd done those Elven villages a favor by ending their suffering.

Pain flared in Ragnavi's heart as she recalled Seneschal Sylpeiros' defiance. On that day, if he'd been one of the rare few who lacked Diplomacy, then the great Dragon Queen would be dead right now. All the power in the world couldn't have saved her from being methodically carved into pieces like a pig fit for slaughter.

The worst part was that it didn't need to be Sylpeiros. Anyone, from the strongest Leader to the lowliest Utility Class user, could kill an unmoving enemy. Normally she'd take pains to ensure she was never put in that situation again, but the Fracturing had been a calamity beyond mortal comprehension. She didn't know when it would next occur or how to prevent herself from losing another Skill. Considering that it had stricken nearly everyone in Elatra, even hiding at the apex of the tallest mountain wouldn't stop the Fracturing from reaching her.

Nowhere was safe. And Dragonkin territory, once a sanctuary where she could freely exert her will, was now nothing more than a den of coiled vipers waiting to strike.

From across the room, Ragnavi glared at the door to her personal quarters. It was locked tight, imbued with false confidence of the protection it implied. In reality, anyone with a modicum of Strength could break it down with ease. They hadn't yet, but they would, if another Fracturing came. Her life represented a monumental amount of EXP. She'd certainly have assassinated the Queen if she was in their position.

So why don't I turn them into EXP before they get the chance?

The thought had been growing louder over the past few days. She'd left Dragonkin territory alone thus far because, up until now, they'd been her people. Their fear was part of her influence as a Leader. While that was still useful, it didn't outweigh the threats they'd inevitably pose towards her life. Sylpeiros had even attempted to use her position as a weakness, threatening to reveal her sojourns into Elven territory to the Dragonkin nobility.

As if that would ever stop her.

If she disregarded the dwindling benefits her people provided, Ragnavi found herself struggling to think of a reason to spare them. The most she could produce was a desire to gain the approval of her family members. Leaders were supposed to protect their territories, after all. It was what Ardrud, Iaso, and Chosne would have wanted.

But they were dead, weren't they? Her husband and children were gone, and no amount of respecting their wishes would bring them back. Ragnavi attempted to imagine what they would have told her, snarling in frustration when their voices rose up as indistinct, drowned out by uncertainty and aching Corruption. She could barely remember what they'd sounded like anymore.

Her family's second death was fast approaching.

Ragnavi's breathing intensified, the air around her boiling with volcanic heat. I need Experience, she thought, as a clarity of purpose settled over her. The Dragonkin are here, ripe for the plucking, and they deserve to die. It's their just rewards for baring their fangs at me. Yes. They will die. They will die. The Elves will die. The Dwarves will die. The Harpies will die. The Merfolk will die. The Gellin will die. The Blight will die. Every living creature in this world will die, and give me their EXP, as is my right to take.

Her family would have despised her, but what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

Just as Ragnavi stood up, claws extending, she heard a gentle knock on the door. It was such a jarring moment compared to what she'd felt before that it snapped her out of her trance. Sighing, Ragnavi strode forward and ripped the door off its hinges, leveling an unamused glare at her cowering messenger. "What is it?"

An audible gulp echoed across the room. "I h-have news, my Queen. About Harpy territory."

Her brow furrowed. "Then tell me."

He did.

Ragnavi's mouth split into a full-toothed grin. Fear not, weak thing, she thought, patting the shivering Dragonkin on his head. You've received a stay of execution. One of my problems has just solved itself.

--

Changes

Strength 60 → 65

Vitality 155 → 170

Endurance 36 → 40

Dexterity 85 → 105

Mind 29 → 30

Magic 55  → 75

Bulk Up 9 → 10

HP 1550 → 1700

Stamina 360 → 400

MP 550 → 750

Power Slash 8 → 9

Lifesurge 18 → 20

Dauntless Reprisal 16 → 18

Regeneration 23 → 26

Step of the Wind 14 → 18

Learned: Like the Wind

Chapter 51 (Epilogue)

With curious eyes, King Elnaril of the Harpies stared at the open book resting below him. He carefully laid a finger onto its pages, retracing his steps over peaks and valleys of letters. One word stood out, like an arcane inscription taunting him with secrets yet untold. "Ab...ab...d..."

He paused, piecing the word together via syllables, as he'd done so many times before. A and b made 'Ab'. D and i made 'Di'. C and a made 'Ca'. T and e made 'Te'. "Ab...di...ca...te." Four syllables.

A thought twinged from the corner of his mind. No, it said. That's wrong. Elnaril concentrated, sifting through his memories like pages in a book, realizing that 'cate' was one syllable, not two. He couldn't fathom why, but that was how the people of these lands pronounced it, and who was he to argue?

"Ab...di...cate. Abdicate." Satisfied, Elnaril bookmarked his place in the dictionary and closed it tight.  Another phrase added to his repertoire – albeit one he'd never use – was still cause for celebration.

He smiled, folding his hands in his lap. Words were such difficult little oddities to comprehend, yet the joy of learning them far outpaced any frustration his studies induced. Everyone needs a hobby, his memories told him, before sinking back into darkness.

"Reading again?" a fond voice asked. Elnaril turned his head to find a Harpy standing in the doorway to his personal quarters. The Harpy was of ordinary height and frame, except for his ashen-white, feathered wings, which stretched several inches longer than average when fully extended. Everything about the Harpy's appearance, from his well-tailored clothing to his disarming grin, was crafted to exude an aura of trustworthy competence.

As Elnaril stared at the Harpy, his memories stirred. Desalis, they provided. Faithful Desalis. Kindly Desalis. Earnest Desalis. Based on what Elnaril had experienced in the past five or so years, his memories spoke the truth. This Harpy visited him at noon every day, without fail, often staying for hours at a time. Elnaril prodded his memories for more information, but they slank away, recoiling from the touch.

"My King?" Desalis sprang forward, flapping his wings once for momentum. He grabbed Elnaril's shoulders in a tight, desperate grip. "Do you recognize me?"

A part of him did, but Elnaril wasn't sure how to phrase that sentiment. Some of the meaning would be lost in the telling. After seconds passed without an answer, Desalis released him and backed away, his burgeoning hope snuffed out like a candle under a gust of ill wind. "That's alright," he said, his voice straining with false cheer. "There's light in your eyes, now. Progress. It's...it's progress."

Desalis inhaled deeply, then exhaled, drawing strength from a waning reservoir. "How are you on this fine day, my King?" he asked, all smiles. "I hope the weather suits you well."

Elnaril picked up his dictionary and opened up to its bookmarked page. "New...word," he explained, with some measure of excitement. "Abdi...cate."

The word inspired a mess of conflicting emotions on Desalis' face. He turned away, keeping silent for a solid minute. When he turned around again, the smiles had returned. "I'd like to try something new today," Desalis began, taking a seat in front of Elnaril. "The physicians believe that stimulating your thought processes has been beneficial thus far. Therefore..."

Desalis produced a sheaf of papers from his traveling pack. "It took some pestering, but the Assembly has agreed to hear your input on certain matters of importance. What I have here is a list of issues that must be resolved soon. We've simplified each issue to one of two possible solutions. All you need do is point to the answer which you deem to be correct. How does that sound?"

He hesitated. "Do you understand what I'm asking, my King?"

Leader makes decisions, the memories said. Elnaril nodded; he was familiar with the concept, at least.

"Marvelous!" Desalis' expression brightened. "Then let us begin." He placed two individual sheets of paper on the table, one next to the other. "To start with, there's the Dragon Queen's rampage in the Elven territories. She's attempted to frame it as the work of Blightspawn, but anyone with a modicum of sense can deduce who the true culprit is. Some members of the Assembly wish to censure her depravity, while others advocate for caution, claiming that it would be foolhardy to invite the Queen's wrath. Which do you believe is the right course of action, my King?"

Protect our people. Elnaril followed the memory's urging, tapping the leftmost paper that represented caution.

"Excellent choice," Desalis remarked, as he retrieved the papers. "The Assembly will be pleased. Most of them already..."

He froze. "Pay me no mind," the Harpy chuckled, pulling more papers out of his pack. "Just the odd ramblings of a tired soul."

Elnaril didn't require the memory's assistance to surmise what Desalis had been about to say. Most of the Assembly already elected to take the cautious route, and so Elnaril's approval wasn't strictly necessary. It was unlikely that any ruling the Harpy King made would sway their decisions one way or another.

When taken to its natural conclusion, this meant that the main reason they'd approved of these exercises wasn't to assist the King's progress or glean his input, but instead to measure his faculties. Answering correctly too often might actually be dangerous, as it could indicate that his cognition was starting to improve. Covetous Assemblagers would be hiring assassins to visit him nightly. Not everyone desired for their King's return, after all.

The memories were horrified at Elnaril's theories, but he didn't really care whether he was right or wrong. None of it would matter by the end of today.

"Moving on to the next topic," Desalis said, placing two sheets of paper on the table. "Our Spies within Elven territory and Dwarven territory have confirmed that the Human is alive, well, and allied with the Fiends. If that weren't enough, his Level also appears to be growing at a nonsensical rate. We estimate that he may have reached the high 60s as of now."

At that, a small laugh escaped Elnaril's throat. Desalis gasped, waiting for his King to say more, before slowly realizing that nothing else was forthcoming. "The Assembly is torn on how to regard this anomaly," Desalis continued, hiding his disappointment well. "If left unchecked, he could become a bigger threat than the Blight, or even the Dragon Queen herself. We are unsure if Harpy territory should ally with or against the Human once we make contact with him. Which do you believe is the right course of action, my King?"

Elnaril possessed his own strong opinions on that particular subject, but he chose to answer as the memories would have. Odds are better, it supplied. While the Human might eventually succumb to Leveling High and seek to kill them all, he'd still be easier to subdue than the Dragon Queen, who would assuredly succumb to her own brand of insanity in the imminent future. It was a simple risk analysis.

Which was why Elnaril was surprised when, after tapping the page that represented allying with the Human, Desalis briefly grimaced. "Thank you for your input, my King," the Harpy said, retrieving his papers. He paused, considering how much to say. "Truth be told, the Assembly feels that allying with the Human would rouse Queen Ragnavi's ire. If we are to avoid censuring her slaughter of Elves, then we must also eschew policies with a chance of antagonizing her. There's no benefit to be gained from half-measures."

Not necessarily. The Memories would have avoided censuring Ragnavi, then allied with the Human and Seneschal Sylpeiros in secret, thereby preventing Ragnavi from noticing the noose tightening around her neck until it was too late. Apparently, however, the Assembly had already whispered in Desalis' ears and convinced him of what the 'correct' path forward was. Thus, his disappointment at Elnaril selecting the 'incorrect' path.

Faithful, kindly, and earnest. Elnaril sensed no guile in Desalis' disappointment. More than anyone else in Harpy territory, he wished for his King to make a swift recovery.

Their back-and-forth continued for some time. Elnaril chose some options that Desalis had hoped for, and some options that he hadn't. The Memories and Desalis grew equally despondent, largely owing to a lack of communication. How was Desalis to know that Elnaril refused to support a certain member of the Assembly because the featherless bastard was secretly embezzling territory funds? Only the memories knew of that fact. Alas, words were difficult little oddities, and expressing them was always so taxing.

"I suppose that's all for now," Desalis eventually said, offering Elnaril a tenuous smile as he stowed his papers away. "I'll see you tomorrow, my King."

Elnaril nodded mutely in response. Desalis made to go, then stopped, abruptly flopping back into his chair. "I wonder if tomorrow will ever truly come," the Harpy said, with a bitter chuckle. "It's been like this for years now. Perhaps the progress I claim to see is a delusion of the self."

Desalis dragged a taloned hand over his face. He sank further into his chair, defeat spreading through his posture. "I used to hate you," the Harpy admitted, with an air of someone who just didn't care anymore. "You weren't the Dragon Queen, I'll grant you that, but that's a rather low standard to aspire to. I'd resolved myself to waiting out your lifespan, praying to Zephyria that the next Leader in Harpy territory wasn't such an arrogant prick."

As if against their will, Desalis' lips crept up into another smile. "Then came the war and the Cataclysm. People say that times of tribulation are what reveal a man's true character, and you proved that adage single-handedly. Once you realized that Harpy territory was in actual danger, that you couldn't simply fly through life doing whatever you wanted, things changed."

He snorted. "Still a prick, but one that tried to put his people before himself. That was enough for me. I swore a vow then and there – as long as you did right by Harpy territory, I'd stay loyal until your dying days."

Seconds passed in silence, Desalis waiting for an affirmation that would never come. The Harpy craned his head to the side, staring wistfully at Elnaril's blank expression. "What happened to you, my King? Where has your mind gone?"

Something pinged on the edges of Elnaril's senses, shifting his expression by a hair. Desalis was too engrossed in his own introspection to notice. "I just..." the Harpy clenched his fists. "I just wish that I knew my efforts weren't in vain. That what I'm doing is helping you. If you're in there, my King, then please. Give me an indication that the man I once knew still lingers."

Elnaril carefully considered the request. It was about time, anyway, and Desalis deserved a reward for his loyalty. As the memories trembled, Elnaril turned to face Desalis, drawing a harsh breath from the Harpy. Words were difficult little oddities, but he'd prepared the ones necessary for this moment well in advance.

"I...am not...your King."

Elnaril's torso split open, revealing a maw of blackened Corruption within. Tendrils shot out and wrapped around Desalis' limbs like fleshy manacles. The Harpy screamed as he was dragged inside, wings beating frantically before they were snapped in half. First his feet disappeared into the void, then his legs, then everything.

The maw closed with a crunch of meat and bone. Faithful Desalis, Elnaril thought, as he chewed. Kindly Desalis. Earnest Desalis.

Delicious Desalis.

Elnaril cracked the Harpy's soul like an egg, devouring his fears and supping from the marrow of his dreams. They flowed unceasingly into Elnaril's being, the sweetest of all nectars. The memories wept, unable to do anything but watch as their most ardent supporter in the world was consumed.

It was over in moments. The only thing that remained of Desalis was a smattering of feathers on the floor, and the supreme sense of satisfaction in Elnaril's heart.

After years of holding back, it felt wonderful to finally indulge.

Would any of my kind have been capable of the same restraint? he wondered. One fragment of the #*@$&@#()*$ within Dhalerune Mines had directly stated that, to them, delayed gratification was the ultimate insanity. To live without revelry was anathema. And in the past, Elnaril knew that he would have wholeheartedly agreed.

But that was before his fragment infected that first Harpy years ago. Back then, he'd been too weak and insignificant to do anything except ride along like a microscopic parasite. Elnaril – although he did not yet possess a name – had bided his time, spreading from Harpy to Harpy, working his way up the social food chain until he reached their Leader. He'd spent the better part of a decade supplanting the King's mind, stealing slivers of autonomy piece by piece, acting so gradually that his host didn't realize anything was amiss.

Until there was nothing left of the Harpy King except a half-aware lump of memories.

Admittedly, the process had been a double-edged sword. Elnaril spent so many years immersed in Elnaril's subconscious that he'd adopted some of the Harpy's characteristics. It was hard not to think of himself as himself, separate from the whole, with a name to call his own. He was no longer a pure #*@$&@#()*$, no longer a creature of infinity, having become something more, or lesser.

Elnaril walked to a window at the edge of his room, peering out into the city below. As he watched the Harpies go about their day, ignorant of what was to come, his mouth began to salivate with anticipation. Perhaps he wasn't pure anymore, but that was fine. Elnaril didn't mind what he'd become.

Delayed gratification opened up so many possibilities.

BEGIN, he commanded.

Five seconds went by. Then, like a thunderclap on a cloudless day, screams started to resound. Elnaril's lips stretched into a facsimile of a smile as he watched Harpies clinging to their fragile existences, shrieking in terror, already crying out for a savior. The revelry had commenced.

And just as importantly, the bell had been tolled.

"See you...soon...Rob."

More Story Up Ahead

That's it for Book 4! From here on out is a canon 9-chapter bonus story titled An Outcast In Another World: Duel to the Death, co-written by myself and author Rafael Kalleen. It takes place in-between Book 3 and Book 4, detailing what's been happening to Jason while Rob's been gone. Enjoy!

An Outcast In Another World: Duel to the Death

Chapter 1

“Tell me more about boxing,” Keira asked one night in her room, as she and Rob shared a drink. Of water. Alcohol was not happening again anytime soon. “You've defined its core set of rules," she continued, "and that it takes pains to prevent its competitors from dying in combat. However, at its core, the sport still seems to glorify physical violence, which goes against what you've told me of Earth society. How does your home world reconcile that contradiction?"

Rob peered at her through his glass and flinched at how intense her eyes were – she really wanted an answer to that. “It’s not just something everyone just does, you know?" He explained. "It’s a sport. Sports are...different. On the whole, most people don't like getting into fights, but some people like punching each other super hard – and they like finding out who can punch each other the hardest. Boxing lets them satisfy that desire in a controlled environment.”

She nodded along, the idea appearing to interest her. Wonder if she's going to start a boxing club now that we've settled in, Rob thought. Wish her luck, but I’m not volunteering.

"I suppose that a peaceful society still needs ways to placate its combat-minded folk," Keira remarked, as if she was impressed with Earth's sensible decision-making. “Boxing is the most popular sport on Earth then, I take it?”

“Ah...no. It’s pretty popular, but it’s not the most popular.” Rob didn’t like this line of questioning. Not because he was uncomfortable with the topic, but because he was pretty ignorant of sports in general. They weren't really his thing; he'd learned most of what he knew through osmosis. “I’m not entirely sure what the most popular sport in the world is, to be honest.” He had a few guesses, but he didn’t want to say them and be wrong – even if Keira would never know.

“Then what's the most popular sport in your region?” she insisted. “Is it similar to boxing?”

She’s asking me if it’s violent, isn’t she? “Sort of," Rob hazarded. "It’s called football. It's...kind of like simulating a war, where the goal is to get a ball to the other side of the arena, but the other team is trying to stop you. Everyone has different roles to play, and there’s a lot of complex strategy to it.”

Complex strategy that he'd never really fully understood, if he was being honest. “Jason was actually a star football player,” Rob found himself saying. That felt more natural than attempting to talk about the sport itself. “He was the ace of our home team. Honestly, with time, he might have become the best in the country.” Rob paused, considering what he'd just said. “Maybe he already has,” he muttered, bittersweet nostalgia washing over him.

Keira squeezed his hand, a concerned expression on her face. Rob offered her a warm smile, signifying that it was okay for her to continue. Nodding slightly, she hesitated before asking what was on her mind. "You've mentioned Jason in the past," she began. "But never that he was inclined towards physical violence."

Sorry, Jason, Rob thought. I’m giving you a bad reputation over here. Then again, knowing him, he might laugh it off and embrace the misunderstanding, leaving Rob with a migraine as he tried to explain what he'd actually meant to everyone.

“Sure, let's go with that,” Rob answered, thinking back. “He was damn good at it, too. One of those once-in-a-generation prodigies. Fast, strong – but most of all, he was dedicated. Never skipped a day of practice, always tried to get better at what he did.”

Keira's eyebrow rose by an inch. "Even when accounting for your friendship bias," she began. "That's still impressive. It sounds like he would have made an excellent addition to our Party.”

"...He would have," Rob admitted, thankful that they'd never have the opportunity to test that. For all my fuckups, keeping Jason out of Elatra wasn’t one of them. He would always be proud of himself for that day.

"Although," Rob hesitated. "He'd probably have gotten on your nerves a little.”

She tilted her head. “Why?”

What was the best way to describe it? “Jason takes everything and nothing seriously at the same time," Rob explained. "He works harder than anyone, wakes up early, schedules every minute of his life toward becoming the best version of himself he can be. But somehow, when he’s actually in the middle of something...he clowns around. A lot. Says it helps his nerves.”

Rob had seen him pull off trick plays as a quarterback that seemed to provide little purpose other than pissing off the enemy team. Jason's opponents always appeared in a bad mood, while Jason himself always appeared to be having fun, moving in a smooth, relaxed motion with a grin on his face. Rob understood the appeal of making light of a stressful situation – it was a tried and true coping mechanism – but not to that degree.

Then again, he does win all the time, Rob thought. Maybe there's something to it. He considered the notion for a moment before internally shaking his head. Eh, I'll pass. I’m not insane, and I have bigger things to worry about than some buff guy tackling me.

Keira crossed her arms, looking lost in thought. "That wouldn't be so bad," she eventually said. "As long as he took matters seriously during situations that demanded his full attention."

"Oh, definitely," Rob said. "He'd adapt. Dude's not that stubborn."

Suddenly, he froze, an intrusive thought seizing his mind.

“Rob?” Keira asked. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” Rob replied, frowning. “Just that I said he wouldn’t be that stubborn...then I remembered, well, he is my best friend."

--

The midday sun shone down, illuminating a city street that should have been empty.

Off to the side, a sword stood atop a flaming pile of cars. The sword itself appeared safe from the flames, its surrounding area miraculously clear if only for now. It was a sight straight out of absurdity, but somehow, it wasn't the most interesting thing in Jason's view. The young man stepped forward with an air of confidence, arms spread, grinning wide as he approached his target.

“Hey, have you seen my friend Rob, by any chance?” he asked. “Brown hair, looks like he’s brooding even when he’s smiling, just a bit shorter than me – ah! I have a picture of us from high school on my phone, actually, let me show you." He shoved one hand into his pocket and idly fumbled around. "Have you seen him, by any chance? Guy was sucked into a Portal trying to save me. Well, not trying, guy did save me. Been worried about him though, yeah?”

There was no response. The creature looked as if a god had been told about the concept behind turtles but never actually seen the picture of one. It possessed a shell, four limbs and a grotesque deformed appendage that was probably its head, with a mouth that appeared to stretch from its right side until a second hole where its left eye should be. The creature was laying upside down, situated a few feet away from the flaming pile with the sword.

And it was looking Jason in the eye, only a few feet away from him.

“Hey, look, you can’t blame a guy for trying – we never really tried talking to you guys before. Not like you gave us much chance.” Jason stretched his neck and leaned over to gesture at the creature’s shell. “But, well, you can’t really move right now, and executing something that can’t defend itself would leave a bad taste in my mouth. Even if it is a horrifying turtle monster. So we've got some time to kill until the rest of my unit catches up and helps me finish the job, you know?”

It roared at him.

The screeching, deafening cacophony that followed would've been too much to bear for most people. Even covering their ears would have done little to protect them from the pain invading their bones. While not debilitating, it was just bad enough to make a person almost wish that it was, just enough to make them hope for an excuse to curl up into a ball and give up on the world. Its pitch caused the steel in the sword to vibrate slightly, producing an almost melodic cry.

Jason, for his part, was only mildly bothered. If anything, the creature’s foul breath and the way the wind from its scream had messed up his hair annoyed him more. Shrugging, he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. “The army should be catching up soon. I ran ahead to make sure they didn’t have to fight you. Kinda concerned about how well you guys can resist bullets these days.”

Suddenly, he leaned forward, fixing the turtle-thing with an inquisitive look. “Mind telling me what's going on? When you and your friends first came here, bullets were ripping through you, no problemo. Lately, though, it seems like I can do more damage than most guns just by swinging a sword. And while I have been getting stronger, that’s not the whole story." His eyes narrowed. "Are the Outsiders...adapting to bullets? How does that work?”

He looked the creature in the eye, almost as if hoping for an actual answer. It just stared straight forward, head reminiscent of a deformed tiger, as it impotently rocked back and forth on its massive shell.

“Okay, I’m officially crazy," Jason decided. "Talking to a turtle monster...well, it was worth a shot. Just really want to know where my best friend is. Not like we know literally anything about you 'Outsiders' or whatever.” He was literally speaking to a turtle monster and he still felt ashamed of using that term. Damn the higher ups for insisting on it. "For all I know, you could be capable of speech, but are just pretending to be mindless.” He raised an eyebrow, waiting for a response that never came. “No dice there, huh?”

Out of nowhere, a sudden jolt of energy appeared to possess the monster. With a suddenness that surprised them both, it drove its own head into the ground, forcing it into a makeshift lever to flip itself high and forward into the air. Jason’s surprise eventually gave in to an uncontrollable laughter at the sight. I should really be more freaked out about this, he mused. The things a guy can get used to. The creature was moving, albeit more slowly now. Jason had no idea what kind of organs the average monster turtle had, but he was decently certain he had stabbed at least a few of them.

“Been a nice talk," Jason said, to the hobbling turtle. "Even if you probably can’t understand anything I’m saying.” The sound of a man shouting in the distance prompted him to shake his head with a regretful smile. “But it seems like it’s unfortunately time to wrap this up.”

“Jason!" Sergeant Danse yelled from behind. "What the fuck are you waiting for?! Do your job and kill it!” Jason looked at him just long enough to see that he was sweating, but unhurt. It was why Jason had hurried ahead – he'd killed all of the smaller monsters before his unit even got a chance to see combat.

“Easy there," Jason said, putting on the same air of confidence as before. "Not like these guys are any threat.”

“To you,” Danse exclaimed. “They are not a threat to you, Jason. The rest of us are just human beings, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“They aren’t a threat to you either,” Jason said, standing up and rubbing the back of his head. “I took care of them before you got here. There shouldn't be any more of them left.”

If irony had a sound, it would be the hail of gunfire thundering out across the city that decided to begin at that very moment. Jason froze, his heart dropping into the pit of his stomach. “I...missed some?”

Danse nodded, calming slightly now that his message had been received. “Just two. They weren’t with the main cluster of creatures; you couldn't have caught them. No casualties so long as you act fast though.”

Shit. That changes things. Jason reached out his hand behind him, and without looking, grasped at the sword. It hadn’t moved from where he'd left it. “Guess it’s time to earn my title. Can I ask you to keep this thing busy?”

Danse looked at the monstrous turtle-thing, limping weakly as it reared its head and barked at him. His helmet nearly flew off his head just from the gust of wind its roar produced. “I'm not that incapable, Sergeant Hero," Danse said, rubbing his ears. "It might take more bullets to kill those things every day, but you know what?" He hefted his rifle and met Jason’s eyes. “I've got a lot of bullets.”

The two exchanged a nod.

Jason perked up as he caught a glimmer of motion in the shadows. Moments later, a creature emerged from the darkness, leaping at Danse from behind. The soldier was aware, but didn't bother moving, instead focusing on calmly inspecting his gun and ensuring it was fully loaded.

He had total confidence in what was about to happen.

Jason jumped backward slightly, connecting his heel with the ledge of the car that his sword had been stabbed through before, and pushed off. He accelerated quickly, faster than any normal human standards could have hoped to achieve. Such standards no longer existed in this world – not for him, and not for the monsters. Jason stretched out his arm as he passed over Danse, making sure to casually salute his superior with one hand while upside down in the air. He turned the motion into a swing, his sword striking at the giant bug-creature that was behind Danse, swatting it out of the air like he'd bashed it with a lead pipe.

In the past, Jason had taken to using a baseball bat as a weapon before coming to the conclusion that its reach was lacking. He'd also tested out weapons with finely-sharpened edges, but they didn't get the benefit of Bludgeoning Proficiency, and lost their edge quickly regardless. As such, he'd settled on his current weapon of choice, which was technically a sword. More aptly, it was a large chunk of metal – meant not for cutting, but for beating the shit out of things.

One left, Jason thought, as time seemed to slow to a crawl. This wasn’t an ability he'd gained with his Character Sheet – it was a talent he'd been blessed from birth, one that made him the star player of any team he was part of. There was no one who could focus more on a single task, no one who could make faster decisions in the moment. The faster his heartbeat raced, and the more adrenaline coursed through his veins, the more the world slowed down.

In the distance, Jason barely spotted another of the giant fly-like creatures rushing at a soldier. There it is. Last one. “Keep the Turtle Fucker busy,” Jason said, putting a hand on Danse’s shoulder. "Give me a minute."

Without waiting for a reply, he sprinted forward toward the creature, covering the span of the street in seconds. Once he was close enough, Jason leapt forward in a blur, sword raised high. He brought it down onto the monster's side, his jump attack finishing the swinging motion even before his feet had landed. “You alright?” Jason asked. His words came out just as the fly-creature smashed against a wall, its innards pulping out in a geyser of purple.

"Think so," the soldier muttered, sounding shaken. "I was shooting, but it just kept coming at me. Wasn't like that a month ago.”

“I am so sorry,” Jason said, hands together in a sincere apology. Gunfire is still going off, he thought, checking to the side. Danse is doing fine. “I really thought I got them all. Didn’t expect you guys to get here so fast and...” Jason leaned forward, one hand on his hip and a sudden smile on his face. “Hey – Jeff? That you? Sorry, hard to tell with the helmet and stuff. Didn’t see you at deployment, we were in a hurry and – anyway, thought you were still on parental leave! How’s the kid?”

“BEHIND YOU!”

He tossed his sword upward just slightly, spinning it forward and quickly grabbing the handle as soon as it had rotated enough. “I remember hearing the birth had some issues, hope it wasn’t too stressful for you guys.” Jason pushed the blade behind him and it hit the monster in the head, knocking it flat in the ground. “You sure you should be back here already?”

“Yes...yes!” The second affirmation was more confident, but Jeff’s eyes were still aimed behind Jason and at the fallen monster. “Linda wasn’t pleased with how long it took, but the doctors took care of her and she’s fine. Our son too.”

“That’s wonderful! What did you name him, by the way?”

“R–”

A screech cut him off. Jason held off an apologetic finger and dashed away toward the source, sword lagging slightly behind him and arm fully extended. “Last one. Turtle fucker.”

Danse was right. They were damn good even without him. Gunfire wasn’t hurting the creature much, but it was making it hesitant, pushing it back. At his superior’s orders, they were shooting at it in such a formation so that it never had time to rest, with one half of the unit repositioning while the other provided covering fire. Well done. And that was all they had to do.

“My turn!” Jason shouted. “Let me finish it!”

The firing line parted in the middle to allow him and his sword to pass on through. Despite his lack of formal rank, they all trusted him implicitly to finish this fight. Time to earn that trust. He jumped, sword raised high, then suddenly dropped the sword behind him and slid toward the creature. There's just enough space between its lower shell and the ground, he thought, adrenaline surging. Did it once, one more time—!

The creature's grotesque head snapped at him, but Jason slid underneath it just fast enough to dodge. Still in the sliding motion while underneath the monster, Jason put up his foot in one corner of the shell and pressed against the ground with his palms, turning his body into a makeshift lever. He pushed, and his muscles flexed, bulging with unnatural Strength. “One—more—time!”

As he'd done before, Jason roared with exertion as he flipped the monster onto its shell. And as it'd done before, the turtle creature struggled, flailing with its legs in the air. Recovering from that position appeared quite difficult. Not impossible, though, as Jason was now aware. Which meant there wouldn't be any time for another talk. Shame – the last one had been so very productive.

He pulled his sword from the ground and approached the creature, jumping on top of its shell once more. “It feels in poor taste to kill something like this,” he muttered. “But I figure I only have about ten seconds before you flip yourself back up again. So”—he lifted the sword above the creature's head and looked down—“let’s finish this.”

--

Jason was a man of three masks.

The first mask was the one he wore as he saluted his adoring fans when arriving back in the city. That he even had fans was ludicrous enough. Just because I’m the only one who has a Character Sheet, Jason thought. They’ve turned me into…this. A freak they can parade around like a goddamn superhero. Keep the people calm, give them something to obsess over. Something to joke about. Something to latch onto instead of the monsters attacking our world.

It annoyed him, but he didn't think for a second about not going along with the show. People were suffering and needed a distraction. If that meant showing up on morning news and having a weird amount of people talking about him on social media…well, that wasn’t so different from playing football in college, really. Honestly, somehow, talking to the media as a soldier was less stressful than as an athlete. At least this way he only had to worry about conspiracy theorists misinterpreting him on purpose, not degenerate gamblers going after him for scoring too much or too little.

Reaching forward, he tapped at the microphone a few times before speaking. It was his favorite part of press conferences; just hearing that absurdly loud static sound annoying everyone and them not being able to complain about it. It was childish, he knew, but a man had to amuse himself if he wanted to stay sane these days.

“It was a routine operation," Jason began. "And thanks to my friend Danse’s leadership, we were never in any real danger. I’m happy to report we sustained no casualties whatsoever while containing the hostiles who showed up earlier this morning.”

This was the part where they all heaped praise on him and the army – in short, boring filler. Come on, Jason internally pleaded. Ask me about the details. Ask me about the strategy. Ask me about something meaningful. There’s no *content* here. Of course, even if they did ask him, he would likely have to tell them that most of it was classified. Still, he would have preferred dancing with protocol over dancing with political praise. At least it’s less annoying than the next part.

Media scrums were more precise than clockwork. Reporters always started with soft, ego boosting questions they could all agree as a group were necessary for their respective coverage of the matter, before moving on to poorly thought-out, loaded questions to serve as tomorrow's clickbait. “Mr. Jason," a reporter piped up. "Do you have any response to the claims in social media that the monsters are weak to garlic? And do you think citizens should start stocking up just on the off-chance it might offer some protection?”

And there we go, Jason thought. Starting off strong today. Can’t let it show on my face, but god-fucking-damn that’s stupid. He knew how to handle it. If he just laughed it off or replied immediately, he would be criticized for being too flippant or inconsiderate. At the same time, if he wasn’t strong enough on his dismissal of their insane questions, he would get criticized for that too. People had been latching on to anything to feel safe lately, and that had more often than not backfired. In one case, there'd been an incident where people were hospitalized for drinking rubbing alcohol after a rumor went around that it would make them less enticing to monsters. Better to nip notions like that in the bud before they could spread.

Jason pulled the microphone from the desk closer to his face. There was an art to this – he made sure to grab it from the base, making sure the action wasn’t obstructing his slightly raised eyebrow from the camera. “Sorry, can you repeat the question?” he asked in a serious, but hesitant tone.

The reporter didn't even blink. “Mr. Jason, do you have any response to the claims in social media that the monsters are weak to garlic? And do you think citizens should start stocking up just on the off-chance it might offer some protection?”

“You’re asking me if I think monsters are weak to garlic?” Jason’s response came out in complete deadpan, enough so that Rob would have been proud. “Is that what you’re asking?”

A few other reporters and media personnel laughed. Good start, he thought. It was an effective approach to take when you wanted to laugh at something but couldn’t – repeat the question, appear as though you can’t understand it, and let the other media people mock it for you. It was something his coach had taught him early on before his debut match. Media could criticize you for anything, but they couldn’t criticize you for agreeing with them. Of course, this didn’t prevent individual people from getting upset, but it did set the tone for the narrative.

“Well, I don’t think that works,” Jason said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. The utter seriousness of his tone caused an audible chuckle to pass through the room. “I ate garlic this morning and it didn’t seem to keep them from attacking me. Oh,” he added, as if suddenly remembering something, and then leaning forward with a frown, “it did keep my girlfriend from kissing me, though.”

Another round of chuckles passed by, and then came the finishing blow: he smiled. It was a strong weapon against media scrums, smiling. You had to know when to use it. Jason knew he was handsome enough for it to carry some weight. “She really hates garlic,” he muttered, pretending to try to stifle a laugh.

Watching him trying to suppress his laughter caused the reporters to laugh in turn, after which they moved on from the question. Truthfully, his girlfriend had no issue with garlic, but appearing like a relatable everyman was one of the strongest defenses against a barrage of questions searching for their next clickbait article. Ah, fucking kill me, he thought, as he smiled.

Many more insufferable questions ensued, and he parried them all; not without effort but certainly without difficulty. This went on for a few minutes until the press conference was done, and he was taken to a private area and finally allowed himself a deep sigh.

“Here,” Danse said, handing him a bottle of water. “Drink up. Would be a joke if you killed all those monsters and died of dehydration. Nice press work out there.”

“Thanks,” he muttered, allowing himself to appear slightly sullen. It was more than fine, it was necessary to have some measure of honesty with the people fighting alongside him, even if he couldn’t quite drop the third mask altogether. “God, I hate this whole publicity thing.”

“You’re really good at it though," Danse remarked. "That used to be my job before you came along, and I legitimately hated it. At the time there weren’t even monsters or anything either, so barely anyone even gave a shit about what I was saying.”

“It comes with practice. You would have eventually learned it too.” Jason’s eyes twitched slightly. “But who the hell likes doing this?” he said, in an exasperated tone.

Danse let out a deep, bellowing laugh. “I’m glad to see you’re human. You seem so comfortable fighting monsters that it’s almost scary. It’s nice to see there’s things that even you don’t like.”

“I can tune out distractions when I’m fighting – just ride the adrenaline and see where it takes me," Jason explained. "Talking is different. Thinking is different. Have to be aware of too much at once. It takes effort.” He paused. That was more honesty than he'd intended, and he wasn’t sure how Danse would react. Jason looked up hesitantly and saw that his superior had an understanding smile on his face.

“Makes sense.” Danse nodded slowly, to himself at first, then to Jason. “Take tomorrow off. We need you in your best shape to keep those things at bay – not like we can show up with tanks in a narrow street.”

Jason shook his head quickly. “I can’t take a day off. If there’s more of those things, I need to be able to fight. I’m the only one who can-“

“And that’s exactly why you’ll rest tomorrow," Danse interrupted. "You’re the only one who can engage monsters without collateral damage." He frowned. "Hell, you’re arguably more effective than a lot of our armaments, too. We cannot afford to have you overworking yourself, especially not with the reports of that…special monster running around.”

Special monster? “I can work and still be fine,” Jason quickly said. Then, more cheerfully, he added, “My body feels fine, and I’m feeling pretty good, actually. Another one of those things attacks now and I’d be right on for–”

Suddenly Danse put a paternal, heavy hand on his shoulder and grasped it tightly enough for it to hurt. “This is not negotiable, soldier.” Jason wasn’t officially a soldier; Danse only ever called him that when the matter was serious. “I'm ordering you to rest.”

God, he sounds like my coach.

--

At home, Jason allowed himself to shed off his third mask and move on to the second.

He allowed himself to drop his fake, media-friendly smile. Jeanette didn’t need him to be the savior of mankind, and he didn’t feel the need to act like it. Here, he could just be Jason. That was who she loved and who she wanted him to be.

“I hate garlic?” Jeanette asked playfully as she sat down beside him on the couch. “You're the one who complains when I put too much of it on steak.”

“Hey, hey – first of all, you know the deal, I have to play along with the media. Second of all, you put way too much garlic on steak!” He paused to consider what he'd said at the press conference. “Did that upset you? I can tone down bringing you up if it bothers you.”

“Love, you are literally out there fighting monsters. Doesn’t feel like I should complain about people thinking I don’t like garlic, eh?”

“Doesn’t mean your feelings don’t matter,” he said, in a serious tone. “If it bothers you-“

Jeanette laughed and leaned her head on his shoulder. “Nah, it honestly doesn’t, just like teasing you, is all.” She leaned closer into him. “Only thing I’m worried about is you. Doesn’t feel great knowing you’re off every day risking your life.”

That was the reason behind the second mask’s existence.

“It’s always safe,” he lied. “I’m never in any danger. Honestly, those monsters are weak as hell compared to me. Almost feels unfair, really.” For now. It probably won't last. He banished the thought. “I’m going to be fine. I promise.”

“If you say so,” she replied, in a long-suffering tone. They both knew he was lying, to a degree, but she could allow it so long as he appeared confident enough in his safety. “Hey, if you have some time off…how about we watch a movie or two before bed?”

“Sounds good. Don’t you still have some work to do first, though?”

Jeanette sat up and nodded sadly. “Unfortunately, yes. Have to get that done before we can relax. Figure you still want to exercise a little to get your mind off things first though, so I can use that time to get some work done.”

He couldn’t help but smile at that. Truthfully, he hadn’t decided on exercising, or at least hadn’t admitted to himself that this was his plan just yet. She knew him better than he knew himself some days. Especially lately, when I barely feel like I know myself anymore. “That sounds like a plan.”

“Good,” Jeanette told him, smiling as she leapt from the couch with a sudden burst of energy. “Go get your exercise done, I’ll be waiting for you in the bedroom. Should be done with my work by then.” Right before she reached the door, she turned around and said, “Oh, and I'll be waiting for you without clothes on, so don’t work out too much.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied. What happened to watching a movie though? “Get your work done first though.”

“I'll get my work done but I’m not going to like it!” Jeanette defiantly exclaimed, as if declaring a war. “Not even a little!” She shut the door behind her with a dramatic click.

Jason found himself smiling for almost a full minute after she'd left. Not many people could raise his spirits the way she did. I love that woman, he thought, rubbing his chin. For a few moments, his mind was clearer than it had been in weeks, thinking of how he wanted to marry her, how their marriage would be, how Rob would be his best man…

And then he found himself alone with his first mask.

--

This mask was the oldest of them all. It was the one he'd worn even before monsters started coming around. The one he always used to protect everyone around him.

The one he wore to fool himself.

I’m fine, he thought, mind racing. Just gotta keep killing those things. Eventually we’ll find out what happened to Rob, everyone will be safe, everything will be fine…just gotta…just gotta keep holding on. Just for a bit longer. I got this. Don’t know what Danse is on about, really, I could be back to the fight tomorrow. I-

His exhaustion caught up to him all at once. Not physical exhaustion; that much he could work through. It was mental. The weight of having to fight for everyone’s sake wasn’t particularly heavy, but pretending it didn’t weigh anything was a borderline herculean feat. Both were tasks he could manage, for a time, but some days they felt heavier than others.

And as time passed, their combined weights were building up, bit by bit.

This is nothing, Jason assured. I can keep going for a really long time. Fighting is almost fun, yeah.

It wasn’t. People died, and just thinking it was fun made him want to chastise himself.

I’m not afraid of fighting. Those creatures got nothing on me.

Today, they didn’t. It wasn’t always so easy.

I can talk to the media all day.

Jason would've given up on his scholarship if keeping it meant he had to talk to the media this often.

Everyone is counting on me…they need me.

That one was actually true, and he knew it.

Which just made it worse.

Everyone needs me to be strong in public, Jason thought. I have to win fights without breaking a sweat – it's the only way my unit can feel safe. They're terrified of fighting monsters, same as me, but they relax when they see me smiling and laughing like nothing is wrong. I also have to appear charismatic so the populace at large will feel at ease. The memes about me they're posting on social media seem to be giving them something else to focus on for a change. Better that than discussing how we're slowly losing this war. And I can’t show concern about the fighting, because Jeanette will worry even more. She knows this is dangerous, but if she thinks I’m confident she’ll watch me go with a smile.

I have to–

I have to–

Alone, confident no one would see him, his final mask cracked as Jason sank his head onto his palms. “I’m so scared,” he muttered. “I can't let everyone down. I can't die. Not when I’m the only one who can level up. Just me. Nobody else. I can’t…I don’t have the luxury of not feeling okay. Gotta keep going.”

He remembered what he had told Danse earlier. I can tune out distractions when I’m fighting – just ride the adrenaline and see where it takes me. Talking is different. Thinking is different. Have to be aware of too much at once. It takes effort. Even now, that was true. He needed to distract himself before intrusive thoughts overtook him. “Whoever said you can’t run from your problems didn’t do enough cardio,” he muttered, chuckling at his own joke.

One of his favorite things about their house was the basement. It was soundproof and had a very high ceiling – which meant he could hit at the wall without worrying about anything. He absently picked up a racket and started hitting a tennis ball against the wall, his footwork still as adept as it'd ever been. If anything, his footwork had improved since his tennis days. Despite switching sports, he still hadn’t quite given up on switching back at some point.

I remember playing with Rob when we were kids, Jason reminisced, soothed by nostalgia. We hadn’t even entered high school yet. He remembered dragging Rob to their first tennis lesson, resulting in the two of them playing together for a few years. Practiced, entered tournaments, woke up early for practice – it was heaven. At the time he'd dreamed of the two of them being grand slam doubles champions together.

It was a naive, childish thought that ended right before they entered high school.

“What do you mean you quit?” Jason had asked, horrified. “You’ve been doing so well lately, and I've – we’re on route to get into the rankings just a few years after entering high school. C’mon, man!”

“It’s not about doing well,” Rob replied. “I just...don’t enjoy it. Not like you do. Not enough to make it my whole life.”

Jason knew that. He knew Rob didn’t enjoy the same things he did. But at the time he was still hopeful it would somehow work out. “Just give it a shot,” Jason asked him, desperately. “It wouldn’t be as fun without you. Just one more year, please.”

“No,” Rob flatly told him. It wasn’t mean, but it was firm. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to invest myself into something like this if my heart isn’t into it. I don’t want to, so I won’t. Not everyone enjoys competition the way you do, dude.”

“I know...I know.”

The tennis ball bounced off the wall. Jason returned it without letting it bounce again – the rhythm was picking up now, and he was determined to keep up the pace. At the time, I couldn’t understand you, he mused, swinging his racket. I thought...how can you just say no when someone asked you to do something that clearly mattered a lot to them? He let the ball bounce once this time, then hit it on a rise against the wall, falling back to catch it as it went long.

“Hey Jason, can you be part of the team? Permanently, I mean?” The captain of the high school football team had asked. “That one game when you filled in, when Mark was sick? That – it was amazing, like crazy shit dude. And that was pure athleticism talking, almost zero practice. Think you could be a pretty amazing quarterback if you stuck to it.”

“I – ah...I don’t know, man. I got...”

“I need you,” the captain repeated. “I feel weird about graduating and leaving the team without a leader. The boys could really use someone like you. They *need* someone like you.”

Jason hesitated for just a second. “Okay. I – I'll think about it, okay? Can’t decide on this that quickly.”

He'd never really loved football. In truth, Jason had meant to play it more casually. Thought he could focus on tennis and only do football with his friends at school, that it wouldn’t be a big deal. But before he knew it, he'd become his high school’s star player, taking them from an easy round one opponent to championship contenders. Everyone started looking at him in awe and admiration, praising him for his talent, thanking him for sticking with them.

Eventually, he stopped playing tennis. It wasn’t a retirement from the sport; he just started being forced to miss out on so many practices that at some point he quietly accepted he couldn’t compete in those tournaments anymore. Even now he still dreamed of ditching the pitch and returning to the court. But I’m still a football player. Once this is done and the season starts again, my team is going to need me.

...Again.

The ball smashed against the wall. This time it was different from the last: there was almost no footwork involved, merely ball control. His goal now was to hit the ball at the same spot over and over without moving his feet. And he found that with every thought, his shots became stronger, more aggressive.

“You want me to be what – some weird, Captain America bullshit?” Jason had asked the man, his eyes wide at their audacity. “Seriously?”

“Nothing of that level,” the government agent dismissively said. “It would get mocked to hell and back. Counterproductive if it gets to that point. Let the kids meme about it if they want, but you’re just going to be the face of our efforts. Very subdued.”

“So I'm a poster boy for your, what, propaganda? That everything is just fucking fine?” Jason snapped back angrily. “Do you know how many people are in danger right now? How many people are dying? Maybe if you lot had actually TRIED to do something and listened to me when the first Portal appeared, instead of accusing every country on the map of running an experiment-”

The agent didn't offer any disagreement, merely holding out an empty palm to ask for a moment to speak. “Be that as it may, the fact remains that people are panicking. They're suffering, and you, Jason, are the only one who can make it better.” He placed a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “People need a symbol in times like this. Something to focus on. Something to adore, something to hate, something to laugh at, something to respect...they need *something*. Only you can be that something. It’s up to you to decide if you want to be.”

A few days later, Jason had agreed to be given the honorary title of ’Sergeant’ despite not being a member of the army.

A few days after that, he started making his rounds.

“I hate this,” Jason muttered, hitting the ball harder and harder. “I hate it—so—much!”

The ball finally sped up beyond the point he could keep up with and zoomed past his shoulder. He didn't bother giving chase, instead looking at his racket. It'd been restrung and had its tape changed many times, but it was still the racket Rob had given him when he quit tennis.

“If it were you in my position,” Jason asked the racket. “Would you have told the football captain to go fuck himself? Would you have shrugged off the government's request?" His grip tightened. "I wish I had you here, man. I wish I could just talk things out with you. Things always made sense after a couple beers with you. You know, when you quit tennis, I...was actually upset. I know that was literally back in middle school, but I still get upset thinking about it. Thought you were selfish back then, but I was wrong."

He paused. "Well, maybe I was right, but lately I’ve been thinking that being selfish isn’t such a bad thing. You were always so hard on yourself for not going with the flow of things, even if it caused problems every now and then.” More than once he'd seen Rob accidentally turn down a girl who was interested in him because he was too honest about how he felt about their date ideas.

“I can’t believe you told her that,” Jason had managed to say, before resuming his laughter.

“What?” Rob cried out indignantly. “She asked me if I thought art galleries were fun and – well, I said, not if I don’t like any of the art there!”

A monumental amount of effort allowed Jason to keep a straight face. “And – and what did you say after that?”

“Well, she told me who the artists were, and I had never heard of any of them so...I told her it sounded boring and I didn’t want to go." His eyebrows rose. "What?” He demanded, at Jason’s laughter. “She asked me to be honest before!”

Jason laughed at the memory of Rob's indignant face. “You always saw that as your flaw," he muttered. "But you know, I’m really jealous of how you managed to stay true to yourself no matter what. Wonder what you would say to me now. Hope I can see you again soon.”

...Shit.

Just one stray thought that allowed others to enter his mind. He’s alive. He’s gotta be. I know it. Nothing would make sense otherwise. Why would he be dragged out there simply to be killed? Even if those weird monster things wanted to eat people, and he wasn’t sure they did, taking only one person would be pointless. There had to be more to it.

Besides – and this was his main reason for believing so – Rob was too stubborn to die like that.

Still, it weighed on him. More than anything else. If he knew Rob was safe, that Rob was busy fighting so they could get him back, everything would be worth it. But when exhaustion crept in, when negativity started to take root in Jason's brain and his body was too tired to fight it off…he would sometimes wonder if Rob was dead. And the thought killed him inside.

“I just – I just want to know you’re okay,” Jason muttered through a heavy breath. “Please. Give me – a sign or something. Anything.”

TERMS ACCEPTABLE.

It was a voice. Loud as an explosion and silent as the grave. A shout that came from inside his head, paralyzing his body and causing it to seize up. This was a familiar horror, a nostalgic fear that squeezed the breath in his throat. The voice from my nightmares, Jason realized. When—? I’m awake. This is the first time – since Rob—!

His thoughts froze. The voice in his head seemed to feel...disrespected. Jason started sweating heavily as he dropped to one knee, bracing his racket against the ground to keep his body from collapsing entirely. It was less of a weight and more as if his very life was being drained away from his body. Jason had no idea what was happening or what that pressure was, but one instinct rose above all others: do not give in.

Which was easier said than done. To say that the pressure was overwhelming would be a gross understatement. It was as if...he couldn’t even think of a comparison. It was just too much-

NO! Jason forced the thought away. I have to fight back. Need to find a comparison point. Put my fear into concrete words. Make it tangible. After some effort, an answer came to him – it was as if he'd suddenly found himself atop a mountain peak, the lack of oxygen slowly killing him. I can deal with this, Jason rallied. Steady my nerves. Breathe slowly. Don’t waste air. Slow down your heartbeat. Cold sweat ran down his face. Don’t give up. Focus. Keep your head working. Jason was managing it, if only barely. It’s like...an older brother holding my head down against the ground. The notion spurred a competitive drive within him. Fuck that. I won't let you.

“What terms?” he finally managed to spit out. His voice was as low as a whisper, and he barely recognized it as his own, but a note of defiance was still there. “Who – who are you?”

REBELLION?

A ghostly laugh rang out, sending more than chills running through his spine. It was like hearing glass laugh, an unearthly wail that violated existence, each individual note feeling like a nail driven directly into his nerves.

I’m not giving in, Jason affirmed, shivering. It doesn’t matter how much it hurts. This is the first time they’ve shown up when I’m awake. It’s my chance. My *only* chance.

“Where’s Rob?” he demanded. “Tell me! What did you do to him? If you don’t...I’m going...”

The ghostly laugh echoed again. It bounced off the walls, seeming as though there was a slight pause before each bounce, waves of mirth hitting him at a delay from every angle. Jason sucked in air as he was driven to the ground, barely managing to force down his bile. The laughter continued, more gleeful this time.

They...it...whatever...it knows I’m desperate to find out what happened to Rob, Jason reasoned. It’s mocking me because I’m trying to stand up for myself. It...it knows...I can’t. He bared his teeth. Even if I puke blood, that’s not going to stand.

“Tell me what you did to Rob!” Jason pushed himself to his feet with his racket. “If...you...don’t...” It was more than pain. An overwhelming sense of nausea seemed to grab hold of him, but he refused to let go. His coach had taught him better. If you have vertigo, focus your center of gravity while you still have a notion of where up and down are. Stay low, but stay up. “If you don’t...I’m going to...kick your fucking ass!”

There was no ghostly laugh in response. Jason's chills left him momentarily, his senses returning. There was a vague sense of satisfaction in the air, a feeling that he thought could have been his, although it was hard to tell with the pressure invading his mind. Exasperation was another feeling, but he was positive that it didn't belong to him. The voices spoke again, but this time, they came across as emotionless and direct. It gave Jason the impression that he was speaking to someone else.

LEVEL 30. KILL THE ‘BAKER STREET HORROR.’ YOU HAVE TWO WEEKS. THOSE ARE OUR TERMS.

Two weeks? He was level 22 right now. Leveling up that fast would be nearly impossible. But what was his alternative? Giving up on the only clue he had to find Rob? No. No. No. No. “You’re on,” he barked. “I don’t care what your game is. I’ll do it. And I’m not in the habit of losing.”

POCKET MIGHT HELP.

The pressure vanished.

It was so sudden it took Jason a bit too long to realize the voices were gone. His body was still shivering from fear, but most of the more intense reactions were subsiding. It was as if they'd never been there at all. Have I…have I always been here? Jason wondered. Did I dream this? Did any of this really happen? Instinctively, he reached for his pocket. It was empty before.

Not anymore.

“What the hell is this?” he muttered, holding it carefully. “A bracelet?” Despite its unassuming appearance, there was something fundamentally wrong about it. The bracelet gave off the same feeling of overwhelming darkness that the Portal had – which made sense. After all, it had just materialized into his freaking pocket. As a gift from them. Dangerous was a poor word for it; danger implied a possibility of harm, while this thing damn near guaranteed it. Jason knew this instinctively.

Which didn't stop him from putting it on in one quick motion.

Game on.

Chapter 2

I'm going to get to level 30, Jason vowed. Hunt down the Baker Street Horror, and finally, get Rob back.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t something he was able to say aloud, even while alone in the bathroom. Not convincingly, at least. Jason had long learned that if he couldn’t look in the mirror and say something aloud, then it meant that somewhere, deep inside, he was lying to himself. About what, he wasn't sure. Jason had always been bad at understanding his own feelings. Usually Rob had been the one to help him sort through his emotions, although Jeanette was getting pretty good at it as well.

Can’t exactly ask her for help with this one, he thought. The last thing he wanted was for her to find out too much about what he was planning.

Jason held up his wrist, examining the bracelet from all angles, as a startling combination of emotions ran through his mind. Frustration and fear, yes...but also anger. A strange sort of rage that he couldn't explain. Buzzing, understated, yet quietly insistent. At that exact moment, he wanted nothing more than to seek out monsters, any monsters, and kill them.

He shook his head fiercely and locked eyes with his reflection. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Jason muttered. “Why now, of all times? It’s late. You want sleep.”

The fact he could say those words and not instinctively feel the need to argue with his own reflection meant he probably did want sleep. Jason may have been bad at knowing how he felt, but he was very good at saying what he didn’t feel. I wonder what’s wrong with me, he thought, frowning. There’s something about this plan that feels...wrong to me. Dangerous. He'd already known it was going to be dangerous before; what was so different now? Well, I guess now the difference is that I’m not filled with adrenaline. I’m thinking. God, I hate this. Who the fuck invented logic?

Jason let out a frustrated sigh and glared at his bracelet, the anger within him swelling up once more. No. No. No. No. He grabbed hold of the fury he felt at being unable to control his own emotions, harnessing it to close the feedback loop threatening to start. I have to calm down, have to-

“Knock, knock,” Jeanette said. The bathroom door was wide open, but she still lightly tapped against it. “May I come in?”

Control it, Jason told himself. Whatever you are feeling is what they want. Don’t let them win. Re-framing a crisis as a competition always made it easier for him to process. He conjured an image of those things mocking him for losing his cool, giving him the strength to will himself into normality, at least enough to say, “Yeah. Of course. I...I was just washing my face.”

“I’ve been done with work for a while, you know. Just waiting for you.” Jeanette muttered, in a pouting tone, as she walked into the bathroom. “If you're tired that’s fine, but let me know so I can go to sleep.”

“Too tired for what again? Sorry, I was busy with some stuff and forgot what we said we would-”

He turned around and saw Jeanette standing before him, hands behind her back, head tilted sideways, and entirely naked from head to toe. That smirk on her face showed she was well aware that he'd forgotten what they had planned to do, and that she was very much enjoying reminding him of it. “Well, if you're tired, we can just go to sleep,” Jeanette innocently remarked. “I mean, I understand if you're busy with something right now or-”

The hell was I worried about again? Jason thought absently, tossing his shirt and bracelet to the side and placing a hand to her back before picking her up off the ground. Don’t know what I was so worked up over, I feel great now. “Jeanette, my love, I'm going to be honest – I was thinking about something, but for the life of me it doesn’t seem overly important right now.”

“Good,” she replied, giggling and leaning over to give him a kiss. Then, with a mischievous grin, she added, “Today's my turn to pick what we’re doing, isn’t it?”

--

A few hours later, Jason was stubbornly twitching his eyelids in an effort to stay awake. It was a difficult and ultimately useless prospect, but he was no stranger to hopeless fights. Jeanette, half-asleep, reached for his face and touched it gently. “You need sleep,” she muttered. “Rest is important.”

He shook his head. “I don’t like sleeping.” It was pouty in the way that only half-asleep statements could be. “When I’m asleep, I end up seeing a bunch of things I don’t like.”

“Nightmares again?” Even half-asleep, her concern shone through. “Are they getting worse?”

“And if I stay awake, I get to look at your face instead,” he mumbled.

She stirred and made herself more comfortable. “Aw, that’s sweet.”

He reached for the blankets and lifted them up slightly. “The rest of you is pretty nice to look at too.”

“That's less sweet, but I’m not gonna lie, still like hearing it. I do look pretty nice,” she said, sticking her tongue out. “That said, it’s fucking cold. So show’s over, come back again tomorrow.” Jeanette pulled the blanket back over her torso and looped it around herself an impressive amount of times. She’s like the most adorable cocoon I have ever seen. The two shared a quick laugh, and Jason turned around to sleep, hesitant about what would come but with a smile on his face. If I’m gonna have nightmares anyway...this isn't such a bad way to fall asleep.

His thoughts were interrupted by a heavy blanket going over his face. When he turned around for an explanation, he found Jeanette embracing him tightly in a death grip, giggling to herself like the most adorable half-asleep woman in the world. “Just so you know,” she started, in a tone parodying a lecture. “If your very attractive and very naked girlfriend is complaining she’s cold and steals all the blankets, that’s code for 'come cuddle', not 'go to sleep'.”

“But...you told me to go to sleep," Jason reasoned. "And you seemed comfortable in your cocoon.”

“And you said you have nightmares," Jeanette pointed out. "You can be cozy in the cocoon with me.” He felt the warmth of her embrace, a sudden peace spreading through him as he embraced her back. God, I love this woman. Even if the amount of blankets she put on them was a bit much. “Do you want to talk about it?” She asked, in a quiet voice.

“Not even slightly.”

She went on as if he hadn’t said that. “Is it about the Portal, still?”

“It is,” he admitted. “Same thing as always. Those...those chains. I can’t forget them.”

Jeanette let out a thoughtful whistle. “Are the details starting to fade, at least? That should be a sign it’s getting better.”

He could see it just by closing his eyes. An enveloping, unreal darkness that looked like gazing upon nothingness itself. He remembered glancing into the portal and feeling, for a single moment, as though he understood more than humans had ever been meant to. His mind strained with unwanted knowledge, begging to return to its prior state of blissful ignorance. It'd scared him, paralyzed him, and in that moment, left him entirely unable to dodge the chains that shot out of the Portal afterwards.

They would've caught him – if not for Rob pushing him out of the way at the last second.

“Yeah," Jason answered, injecting calm into his tone. "The details are fading.”

Jeanette let out a satisfied sound. “That’s good. I know how traumatizing that day was, but..." She trailed off, considering what to say. "But I’m glad it didn’t get to you too badly.”

They weren’t particularly fast, he thought, thinking back on it. That detail plagued him more than the day itself. Jason had dodged much faster, much more ferocious tackles without so much as missing a beat. The one time it counted, though, he just...

I was afraid. I was careless. I wasn’t—enough. His heartbeat would be racing here normally, his pulse accelerating, sweat dripping from his forehead...but now, even that memory was dulled. Like watching an old movie he'd seen again and again.

Class had gone on as usual a few days later, the world acting like everything was all back to normal, as if Jason could give a shit about normal life after what he'd seen. He barely said a word during that time. Aside from the pain of losing Rob, Jason found himself in a state of shock. Not over the Portal, or the voice, or the chains – but over his failure. Arrogant as it sounded, he wasn't used to losing. Always had the sense that, when the chips were down, he'd pull through. That he was someone the people he cared about could rely on.

But he wasn't. Not always. When faced with opponents outside of his understanding, he could lose. And if he ever wanted to find Rob, he'd likely have to face them again.

Jason inched closer to Jeanette. “Love you so much,” he muttered, bordering on a non-sequitur.

"Love you too," she replied, in a voice filled with warmth and care. Jason focused on her words, centering himself like a rock in a storm, reminding himself that he wasn’t dealing with the unknown anymore. Not entirely. They had spoken to him, and he'd replied, gleaning an inkling of their motivations and personalities. Whatever they were, they thought they were toying with him – and that suited Jason just fine.

He fucking loved being underestimated.

Jason clutched on to his girlfriend, tightly at first, then gently, letting her find a way to slot her neck just over his arm, wrapping his mind around her presence. “Sometimes, it feels like a monster is trying to split my head open,” he whispered. “But when I have you in my arms, it doesn’t feel scary anymore.”

He slept soundly that night.

--

Their conversation continued when they woke up the next morning.

“You have to talk to someone.” Jeanette’s tone was gentle, but stern. She loved him, but that just made her less willing to go easy on him, and he appreciated that. Most of the time. “I’m glad you slept well yesterday, but you can’t exactly carry me with you when you’re away on a mission or something.” Up until now she had been rubbing his shoulders gently, and here she suddenly stopped to grab them tightly. “Can’t be everyone’s big damn hero if you aren’t feeling fine.”

Jason chewed on some burnt toast he had made that morning – in his defense, their toaster was weirdly temperamental – and grunted lazily for a moment.

“I am clearly feeling fine,” he replied, immediately. His voice had a sort of sarcastic tone to it, as though hinting at his self-awareness made it okay. “Just haven’t been sleeping well lately. It’s going to fix itself.”

Jeanette let go off his shoulders and circled him to look him in the eye. “If you aren’t fine, then people might die.”

That is exactly why I have to be fine. “I know. I’m going to be careful, I promise." He put on a comforting smile. "If I feel like I’m starting to slip a little, I'll-”

“Jason, my love, waiting for your mental health to implode before seeking help is the same as waiting until your car crashes to get new brakes.” She placed a gentle but firm hand on his face. “You will see someone.” It wasn’t often that she sounded this stern, and that just made it all feel more urgent. “If you insist on carrying on the way you have-”

“And I do-”

“Then do it well, at least,” she finished, harshly. Jeanette had made no secret she wished he would withdraw from fighting, or at least from his role as a propaganda tool. She understood the importance of what he did, as well as the fact that he was the only one who could do it, but she also understood how unfeasible it was to keep going at the rate he'd been until now. “I wish you would just...take breaks. That you wouldn’t push yourself so hard, you know? But if you want to insist on going until you find out whether your body or mind break first, at least give them both equal chances to rest.”

She had a point, and he knew it.

I can’t even look myself in the mirror and tell myself everything is fine, Jason admitted. Usually, I’m pretty damn good at lying to myself about that. This feels...different. Off.

And if Jeanette knew that, knew exactly how overwhelmed he felt, she'd be much more insistent to find out what was wrong with him. Which is why he refused to worry her further. “I swear I’m”—Shit. I can’t swear and not mean it, that’s a bad relationship idea—“pretty much mostly fine,” he finished, and he almost laughed at how unconvincing it sounded. I have to tell her something now, so she doesn’t worry. Something true, but not the whole thing.

“To be completely honest, the fighting isn’t really weighing that heavily on me,” he said, and was surprised to find how true his own words rang in his ear. Normally he would’ve had to try to convince himself. “What gets to me is the acting, and how quickly it changes. Around the troops, I have to be cheerful, almost flippant – makes them confident we can take on bullet-resistant monsters and win. With the media, I have to be the exact amount of flippant they want. Lovable scoundrel, relatable star athlete, that’s the angle they want and that’s what I have to give them. It wears me down more than swinging a giant sword at some monsters. Way more. That's the kind of shit I’d pay to do.” He laughed at the end, surprising himself. He'd meant it as a joke, but the idea of fighting seemed oddly agreeable to him at the moment.

“At least you can be yourself here,” Jeanette said, kindly.

“Yeah.” Or nearly myself. Hell, I’m not even sure I can be myself when I’m alone. Jason touched her hand and enveloped it between his. “Thank you, my love.”

She smiled back at him, then diverted her gaze to his bracelet, touching it slightly. “What’s this? Gift from another woman?” Jeanette’s voice was teasing, her body language exaggerated. “How could you.”

“Ah, this?” Jason maintained an even smile as a panicked realization hit. Last night was real. Not some fever dream. Whatever those things are, they made a deal with me. He paused. No, not a deal. A challenge.

And Jason had put the bracelet back on this morning without so much as thinking. It made his skin crawl, but against his better judgment, he kept it on. The voices' words were ringing in his ears – he needed the bracelet to beat them at their game, whatever it was.

“Don’t worry, definitely not a woman," he assuaged. "A gift from an opponent of mine. It’s sort of a symbol of the idea we’re going to have a match soon.”

Jeanette rolled her eyes. “I swear, athletes are more romantic with their rivals than their partners.”

He smirked. “I hope I’m more romantic than that.”

“You are. But my friend Jess, she – never mind that! Don’t change the subject!” Jeanette’s voice became stern once more. “Swear to me that you'll see someone about your nightmares, okay?”

He couldn’t lie to her. Jason held her gaze for a long moment, before finally sighing. “Fine. I swear.”

--

“I must say, your girlfriend was right to have you go talk to someone. You've been through a lot, and there's no way you can keep this up forever. It's a lot for any single person to bear. Too mighty a weight for any one pair of shoulders. You need to lighten it sometimes. Though, judging from your history...I think you're the kind to hope for mightier shoulders over lighter loads.”

Jason breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you. There's no one who would be as wise and understanding as you're being right now. Jeanette was right – talking to someone was a great idea! Wow, I feel better already.” He knew he sounded like a parody of himself, because he was. “I really should be going now. Great seeing you, and-”

“First of all, sit your ass back down, you’ve been speaking for all of thirty seconds.” Vasquez leaned forward and set down his teacup. “Jason, I’m your coach, not a therapist.” Technically speaking, he was neither. He was Jason’s coach back in high school, but technically, that hadn’t been the case since college. “Somehow, I don’t feel as though this is what your girlfriend had in mind.”

“In my defense, she never specified who I needed to talk to.”

His coach didn’t even dignify that with a response. Instead, he drew a deep breath and said, “Jason, I may have taught you how to throw a ball – and I dare say my teaching was fucking phenomenal – but I can’t help you with...this. You're dealing with something monumental, here.” He leaned forward. “Remember what I said at the start of your freshman year, kid? Still true. I’m always available if you need to talk to someone. However, I highly recommend that you also speak with a professional. I can’t do much outside of vague, empty encouragement.”

“Maybe vague, empty encouragement is just what I’m looking for.”

“Please. Stop fucking around, Jason.” His plea was genuine and heartfelt enough that Jason had to avert his gaze. Don’t look at me like that, damnit.

“Wait,” Vasquez started, narrowing his eyes. “There's something else, isn’t there? This isn’t pure stubbornness. If nothing else, you should know that you can push yourself better if your mind is healthy. What’s wrong?”

“It’s complicated,” Jason muttered.

Vasquez laughed. “I’m a good coach. Try to confuse me, I dare you.”

If I want to keep some secrets, I have to be willing to give up others, Jason reasoned. It’s not like the coach’s house is bugged…probably. “Things were really rough for me after the Portal incident first happened.” He turned his gaze to his teacup, losing himself in thought. “Kept getting questioned by a bunch of government fuckheads about it. As if my answers would change after the thousandth time. They eventually left me alone, verbally, but they never stopped following me. Following Jeanette. Don’t think she ever noticed.” Or if she has, she hasn’t told me so that I won’t be concerned. “Then more monsters started showing up, and I gained this weird...power. Ah, coach, if it was bad before then...” Jason trailed off, shaking his head.

He studied his coach for a reaction. The middle-aged man remained still and his face hadn’t turned to horror. Instead, he'd leaned forward and rested his chin on intertwined fingers. Even now, he refuses to interrupt me when I come to him with an issue, Jason realized. Even if he probably has so much he wants to say.

“Military, government – you wouldn’t believe how much infighting there is there," Jason continued. "Don’t think they all agreed how to approach me or what to do with me. Felt like all branches of government were trying to get to me at the same time. Military got to me first, and they turned me into a propaganda tool almost immediately." He hesitated. "You know, though, I – I think not everyone agrees with them. Think some of them would just love to run experiments on me all day long and figure out what lets me gain levels.”

They'd already tested him plenty – but only in the ways they could ethically test him. Not that he thought they would get any kind of answer no matter how hard they tried. Dissect me, and all you’re likely to discover is my unhealthy addiction to protein powder.

“I’m afraid," Jason finally admitted. "Let's say I go to a therapist. How could I ever know for sure that they aren't reporting everything I say back to the government, looking for a weakness or – just something, anything that they could hold over my head. The things I’ve overheard, coach, they're...”

Jason shook his head. “I can’t trust anyone with this. Literally anyone I might be able to talk to could either be a spy or are one of the people I’m trying to protect. This is the kind of thing where I guess you’re supposed to take it up with your parents, since they’re the only ones you know are going to be on your side no matter what, and…”

And my parents died when I was twelve. Before all this monster insanity even started to happen, he thought, but somehow the words wouldn’t come out. It doesn’t feel right to say that. Feels like that would be a lie. Like that’s not really why I came here.

He sat there in silence for a moment, then awkwardly rubbed the back of his head. “This is the kind of thing you can only really talk to your dad or something so...so I did. Here I am.” I can’t believe I said that. But the words rang true in his heart. Truer than any of the bullshit he'd been spewing.

Vasquez regarded him in silence for a moment. Jason’s stomach began sinking into a mire of nervousness and regret. Countless excuses ran through his mind, jokes he could make to lighten the mood, to pretend that the words he'd just uttered were totally definitely not meant to be taken seriously. For a moment, his masks slipped back on and he started laughing as if it were all a farce – but he stopped when his coach held up a hand toward him.

“Jason,” he said, in a gentle tone. “You've been through a lot, haven’t you?”

“Not really," Jason answered, shaking his head. "I’m not the one who got kidnapped by darkness.” Rob... “I’m not the one who has to fight monsters every day without powers.” Danse... “I’m not the one who has to stay up late every night waiting for their partner to come back home, worried that they might not.” Jeanette... “Honestly, everything considered, I can’t complain. I’m doing pretty fine if you ask me.”

Vasquez stood up. “Well, that's why I'm not asking you. I’m telling you that you've been through a lot, whether you want to accept it or not.” He walked across the room and sat next to Jason on the couch. They were quiet for a moment, and then his coach put his arm around him, chuckling lightly. “You've always been terrible at being honest. Why don’t we start with that?”

“I can’t tell you.” Jason shook at the prospect. There was no way he could involve anyone else in this. Not after being issued a challenge from the voices. “There's just too much – I can’t put you at risk. This is my problem, coach.”

Vasquez gave him a mighty shrug in response. “Remember what I always told you? Never have to tell me what you're up to, kid. Just be honest with yourself. I'm here to listen, not to understand.”

Jason considered for a long moment. “I lied when I said I came here just to make Jeanette happy,” he muttered. “I really did want to talk to someone about all this. But it couldn’t be a therapist, that just...isn’t what I need right now. I know what my emotions are, but it’s not like knowing that suddenly makes them go away."

Is this honest enough? No. It still felt like he was lying to himself. “The stuff about the military watching me is true, but honestly that’s not why I came here. If I really wanted to, I could figure out a way to find someone to talk with.” Getting closer. My heart isn’t rebelling as much anymore. “I just...have this issue, you see.”

His coach nodded and tapped him on the shoulder, all while never letting go of him. “Hm. An issue?”

Jason's face tightened. “There’s this friend that I let down a while ago.” Images of Rob pushing him out of the way of dark chains flashed in his mind once more. “I was used to always helping him out, you know? Guy got into trouble, and I’d be happy to bail him out when it came to it. Only...only the one time he helps me, it’s the most important one. Bastard had to take the good part.” Jason forced himself to chuckle. “And now I finally have the chance to help him – to make up for failing him in the first place. But I know that helping him is going to be risky, and it’s going to be a problem if something happens to me. Like Jeanette said this morning, a lot of people are counting on me. But it’s my duty, I owe it to him, you know? I mean he only got in that situation because of me, so I have to...”

Tendrils of disquiet wrapped their way around his heart. Why is it, he thought, that this doesn’t feel right? Of course I want to help Rob! That was the one thing he was absolutely sure of right now. Everything else be damned, he was willing to fight the entire goddamn army if that’s what it took. If Rob needs my help, I’ll do it. If I can find him, then I – ah.

Suddenly, it all made sense to him. What his feelings were, and why his heart didn’t feel right. “It’s not my duty,” Jason muttered, emphasizing the word. “I'm not obligated to put myself at risk for him.”

Vasquez observed him in silence, then he nodded. “You were always shit at taking responsibility.”

“Guess I am.” Jason chuckled. “Truth is, I guess I wanted to force myself to feel like it was. Like I shouldn’t be happy so long as he’s gone. That going a single day without missing him is betraying his memory, or not being grateful enough that he saved my life. Part of me thinks that I can justify throwing everything to hell and trying to help him, consequences be damned, by saying that it’s my duty. My responsibility."

He sighed. "But it’s really not. He wouldn’t want me to feel this way or put myself at risk, and because I’ve known him since we were shitty little kids, its kind of hard to force my feelings to behave a certain way, you know? Because deep inside, I know what he'd want. Thinking that saving him is my duty would just make him upset. If I could ask him, he'd tell me to sit tight here and do what I can to protect everyone – our city, Jeanette, his parents...that’s what he would want.”

Vazquez continued to nod slowly. He didn't prod for clarification, and he knew he wouldn’t have to. Jason hesitated for just a second before saying, “But thing is, real talk, coach?” He leaned forward. "I don’t really give a shit.”

Saying it aloud felt oddly liberating. “You know, coach? It’s not about responsibility, duty, or any of that – I just want to help my best friend. Even if he'd yell at me for it. Is that wrong?”

“No. But considering your issues, I imagine there's more to it than that.”

“There is!” Jason cried out. “I want to help him, but what if I fuck up and make things worse for everyone who’s relying on me? That is what has been keeping me up all night. It’s driving me crazy.”

He knew what he wanted to do. But he also knew exactly why he shouldn’t, and why nobody would tell him to go down that path. Nobody except the voices, who sure as hell don't have my best interests in mind.

Vasquez let out a deep breath. “I get why this is troubling you – but I also don’t. Guess you always have been the type to worry too much about what people think. Sometimes, Jason, you just need to cut loose.”

Rob used to say that too, Jason thought. It was almost ironic coming from him. He wasn’t entirely certain Rob hadn’t been using some sort of advanced deadpan at the time. He’s the one who has to cut loose once in a while. I’m perfectly fine.

He pushed the memory aside. “But coach," Jason began. "What if things...don’t work out?”

Vasquez gave him a mighty shrug in response. “Just try it. If things get troublesome, you can always find a way out of it. Besides, kid, I'm positive that you failing just ain’t gonna happen. Whatever you want, you’re gonna get.”

Jason gave a weak laugh in response. “How can you be sure of that? You don’t even know what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t,” Vasquez admitted. He tightened the grip on his embrace. “But I do know I raised one hell of a man, and he’s not the type to lose. You’re going to go out there, get everything you want, and no one is going to come out hurt.”

“That seems greedy,” Jason muttered.

His coach shook him. “That’s fine. Be greedy. Be obstinate. Most of all, be whatever you want – and I'll always support you, Jason.”

That didn’t address any of his concerns. It didn’t make him any more confident that he was doing the right thing. There was still a sense of guilt over being so selfish, and his soul was screaming at him that he was doing something wrong,

Yet for some reason, Jason felt a hundred times better than before.

Turns out he really did want nothing but empty encouragement.

--

Any lingering feelings of negativity vanished once Jason started his daily combat mission. All that anger, that desire to kill something...it melted into something else. It was an explosive sort of pleasure, his smile widening with every bug-creature that he squashed. They should turn this into a new type of therapy, he thought, cheerfully, as he wiped purple innards from his sword. “Hey, Danse – how many left?”

“Just that one.” Danse gestured at the creature going downhill. It was another turtle thing, although smaller than the last. This one was freaking sliding at an alarming speed down one of those long sloping streets, where a ball would roll for minutes until it reached flat ground. Danse whistled in disbelief as he reached for his radio. “Should I see if any of the snipers have a handle on it?”

They wouldn’t be able to kill it fast enough. Besides, I need the EXP. Jason shook his head. “I got this.” He jumped forward, and it was only when he was already midair that he started to form a plan. My character sheet says I have high dexterity...let’s see how far I can take that.

Some thoughts came over him, then. Concerns that he might injure himself, and logical arguments that there was no need for what he was about to attempt. He banished them all and placed his sword horizontally on the ground beneath his feet.

“JASON, WHAT-” Danse began shouting.

Jason glanced back, grinning and saluting his superior before pushing himself down the slope. He slid faster, faster, picking up speed until the surrounding buildings became indistinct blurs. A moment of imbalance would've sent him flying, but Jason held steady, body straight as he watched the turtle-creature come to a stop at the bottom of the slope.

Have to be really careful with how I do this, Jason thought. He justified his idea by telling himself he wanted to kill the monster before it got near any civilians, or that intervening quickly would reduce collateral damage from the military, but truthfully, he had to admit a part of him was enjoying this. He'd never pushed himself to see exactly how far his Character Sheet could take him before. Time to find out.

Crouching down on his sword as it slid, Jason extended his left arm backward and hovered it over the handle. The turtle was close. Then, in a flash of motion, he kicked off his weapon and jumped. His sword flipped into the air, and Jason snatched it by the handle, effortlessly twisting his body into an overhand swing as he sailed forward. He brought his sword down on the turtle, and its shell cracked in two, viscera spraying in opposite directions.

Reached Level 23!

5 Stat Points Gained!

This feels...incredible, Jason thought, eyes widening as he landed on his feet. He whirled around and brought the sword down again, bashing the turtle's corpse, frowning as it failed to elicit the same sensation as before. I want more. Give me more. More experience. More of this feeling. His grip on his sword tightened, veins bulging, as he smashed the ruined corpse again. Come on, you useless fucking creature – do something right, at least.

“Jason!” Danse’s shout snapped him back to reality. “What the hell – what the hell was that?” His superior was breathing heavily, having run all the way downhill to catch up to him. “That was incredibly dumb.”

“Oh c’mon," Jason protested, his adrenaline subsiding. "You have to admit, it was kind of cool.”

“It was not!” Danse cried. Then he drew a deep breath. “Seriously, what the hell was that? Why did you rush ahead? We could’ve provided you with some covering fire.”

Jason stopped to think. Why had he done that? It felt so natural at the time, that mixture of anger and pleasure hitting so right...but something was different. Maybe I just wanted the EXP.

“I was afraid it would damage the storefront over there,” he lied, gesturing at it vaguely. “Figured the sniper squad wouldn’t be able to take it down that quickly and the explosion guys would cause too much collateral damage, so...you know.”

Danse shook his head, exasperation plain on his face. “You're insane." He peered at the slope. "Did you even know you could do that?”

“Honestly, no. That was the first time I tried.”

“That was the last time you tried that.” Danse didn't need to explain that this was an order. “You could have gotten yourself hurt trying to speedrun that monster, you know?” He chuckled at his own joke and Jason had the good sense to follow along. “I’m glad you’re fine,” Danse muttered.

Jason awkwardly rubbed the back of his head. “Thanks, and...sorry.”

“Just don’t let it happen again,” Danse told him, in a stern voice. “If nothing else, that probably chipped your sword to hell and back. Do you know how much taxpayer money that thing costs? They had to custom order it for you.”

“No," Jason winced. "And don’t tell me. I don’t want to know if I’m swinging around what could be a down payment on a house.”

The two shared a quiet laugh. Jason knew his superior was pissed at him, and for good reason – he would have to make sure this didn’t happen again. Although my level is getting higher. Faster than before, unless he was mistaken. So it was worth it, in the end.

“Hey, Danse," Jason began, pivoting to a different topic. "Last time we talked, you mentioned a special monster. How’s that going?”

He regarded Jason curiously. “Are you sure you want to know? It’s a little dangerous. You can stick with the usual patrol if you prefer.”

“Yeah, c’mon – what do we know about it?”

“Not a lot.” To say Danse was dissatisfied would be an understatement. “It's reached seven victims, we think. Not all of them were fatalities, but I don’t have the exact number with me right now. Thing is, Jason, the way each of them died is different. The only reason we even think the same monster is connected is because all victims reported smelling the same thing before they were attacked.”

An idea sparked in his head, and he wasn’t sure if it scared or excited him. “That creature,” he asked, slowly. “Do we have a code name for it?”

Danse nodded. “Yes. The Baker Street Horror is what we’re going with, since what it actually is appears to be a mystery." He paused. "Why are you making that face, Jason?”

Chapter 3

No one's taking this seriously, Jason thought, as he listened in on the room's gossip-filled chatter. He swept his eyes across the group, feeling like the odd man out – because he was. In a room full of uniformed officers, he stood with his back against the wall, his gaudy blue overcoat blowing against the air-conditioned wind. 'Dress like a civilian', they had told him. 'It'll make the people feel like you're a more reliable guy', they had said. Being manufactured into a marketable-looking rebel feels pretty lame, to be honest.

He was even more upset that he kind of liked the clothes they told him to wear. It almost made him not want to like them out of pure spite. People’s feelings are more important than my pettiness, Jason told himself, sighing internally. I have to focus on what’s important.

Especially because it seemed like no one else was. He would've expected the lead-up to an emergency meeting regarding a series of grisly murders to have more...gravitas, honestly. After a few moments, he realized that their attitude was likely born from willful ignorance. They want this to be just a bunch of coincidental, random reports about different ‘Outsiders’. Not a concerted effort by a single enemy.

Matters would be easier if that was the case. Simpler, at least. The alternative was that a horrible monstrosity, far beyond what they'd dealt with so far, was killing citizens for some unknown reason. No one wanted to admit that was real. Unfortunately for them, Jason had been expecting something worse than usual to appear. The voices prepared for that much when they laid down the gauntlet. Whatever this thing was, it was real.

It was real, and Jason was going to fucking kill it.

The room quieted as Danse started up a projector machine, signaling a start to their meeting. “This is the first victim,” he explained, pointing at a gruesome, mangled corpse projected onto the wall. “Based on the markings on their body, they appear to have been killed by some sort of bear-like creature. The victim called an emergency line before they died, but didn't manage to explain much of their situation before things went south. Notably, they did report a strange sort of smell. Something almost like a rotten fish. Any questions?”

A soldier’s hand shot up in the air. “Did our forces not make it there in time?”

Danse shook his head. “They did.” He paused, eye lowering briefly. “We recovered some footage from their gear, but a lot of it is distorted. They also reported experiencing that weird smell over the comms. Additionally, they mentioned that bullets were even less effective than usual, like the thing could just ignore it. Didn’t get a good measure of what it looked like; their reports were all very mixed, like they were talking about different creatures almost, although our map data shows they were all fighting the same thing."

He closed his eyes. "...And then they died.”

A silence fell over the room as Danse waited for them to process the information. “Second victim—third victim—fourth victim—all the way to the seventh," he continued, cycling through images. "All reporting similar stories. Extremely different monsters attacking them, but each person reporting the same foul smell around the time of their attack. Which I imagine is making you all wonder why we're so sure it’s even the same monster every time.”

Danse clicked on a remote, and the slide changed into something else – a map, with circles and numbers around each location. “Any of you notice something funny about that?” He didn’t give them the chance to answer. “That’s right. Every attack has been within two kilometers from the same street – Baker Street.”

There were some chuckles among the soldiers. Jason didn’t blame them. That the city even had a street literally named ‘Baker Street’ sounded like a joke. It was real, though, and it had been called that for a very long time now.

He and Rob had grown up there.

“It’s not just that. Every time we've managed to catch a glimpse of the target, it appears to retreat toward the same direction. South, when victim number two was attacked, northwest, with victim number three, southeast for number four...” Danse continued to advance through the slides, the humor rapidly evaporating from the room. This was too much to be a coincidence, and it meant they all had to pay attention now, no matter how much they wanted it to be fake.

“What’s strange about this,” Danse began, in a thoughtful tone. “Is that it doesn’t kill like the others. It’s not just a mindless beast. It’s more like...” He trailed off and shook his head, unwilling to say what everyone else was thinking. More like a human serial killer. “There have been reports of strange things happening on Baker Street for a while now. More than usual, I mean. We could just be dealing with conspiracy theorists again, but it could be something else. I'm taking a small team to investigate. We don’t anticipate any fighting, but considering what we are going after...we’ll have backup stationed nearby. Helicopters, especially – if we’re hitting that thing, I want it done from a distance and I want goddamn explosives, you hear me?”

There was a general murmur of agreement. For as much as humor had been their favorite coping mechanism, every soldier in the room knew what happened to the first unit that encountered the Baker Street Horror. Their bodies weren’t even recognizable at the end, Jason thought, shuddering. It’s like they were dissected. Whether it was one single creature or many, no one was particularly keen on fighting it on the ground without heavy support.

Danse knew as much, which is why he made sure to say, “I can't guarantee that we won’t come into contact with the target. But since this is mostly just an intel gathering mission, I'll only need a few volunteers.” That was the official line, but everyone in the room knew better. There was a very good chance there would be combat. “Anyone want to give it a go? This isn't a mandatory deployment. I’m talking volunteers, here. Your rank doesn’t matter – if you were invited here, ‘means you have enough experience to come along. Just say one word and you’re in.”

Silence was king, and every man in that room became one of its subjects. Some turned their gaze to the ground, like small children hoping their teacher wouldn’t pick them to answer. There were those who frowned angrily, appearing frustrated that they couldn't muster up even the bravado to answer. A few appeared outright terrified at the suggestion and had no shame in hiding it. Tyranny was how silence chose to rule, and it had decreed that a single word here could mean their lives were forfeit.

Jason was never much for authority. “I’ll do it,” he said loudly, his hand shooting up in the air. “Let me kill it. It’s mine.”

--

“You know,” Jason muttered, as the two walked into the district. “You could have just ordered some people to come over here. Gonna be kind of hard to cover this entire area with just the two of us.”

Danse shook his head. “We have six others in the other zone.” Yeah, the much safer one, statistically speaking. “Be thankful I even got the attack helicopter stationed nearby – had to kiss a lot of ass for that one,” he grumbled. “Higher ups didn’t even want to acknowledge the monster, much less make a task-force to go hunting for it. Took me cashing in a lot of favors to even get this much...and they still insisted on volunteers only. Said I couldn’t take anything from our usual unit.”

Then how the hell did you get a helicopter? “Why didn’t they want to acknowledge this?" Jason settled on asking. "Your evidence seemed pretty convincing, if you ask me. Everyone in the room figured that something is going on by the time you were done.”

Jason hadn’t expected his superior to fall silent over the query. The two continued walking for a while, and he dared not be the first one to break the silence. “Same reason no one back in that room wanted to believe it,” he muttered. “But worse. It looks much better for the higher-ups if there isn’t a somewhat intelligent, human-killing monster roaming around.”

“Well, yes, but they have to know it exists, right?”

Danse smiled sadly at him. “Kid, you’re adorable. Of course they do. It’s just better if they pretend it doesn’t, and pass the buck. Find someone else to blame for the fuckup of allowing this thing to exist for so long.” He gave a mighty shrug. “Fucking hell, that’s probably gonna be me at the end of all this. But once I figured out that it existed, and what it was doing...not like I could just let it go.”

You’re a good man, Jason thought. And I thank the goddess of luck every night that I was paired up with you when they forced me into this hero thing. But he knew saying that out loud wouldn’t make Danse feel better. “Don’t worry,” he instead told his superior. “If this falls on you, just means you’re gonna get all the praise once I kill it.”

The two shared a quick laugh. For a moment, they forgot that they were standing in the wreckage of a once-lively street, surrounded by collapsed buildings and broken dreams.

“Gotta say," Jason said, grimacing. "Not really getting a ton of warm and fuzzy childhood memories here. This place is like a goddamn ghost town.” Under normal circumstances, he actually would've liked the opportunity to explore a ghost town. That scenario sounded like the kind of dumb-but-fun crap he would drag Rob into on a lazy weekend.

Not like this, Jason thought, examining a pile of brick and stone that used to be his favorite corner store. I don’t want to sift through the ruins of where I grew up. Seeing places that he remembered hanging out as a kid, now reduced to rubble....honestly, it felt crushing. “I know the government said this area was, quote unquote, 'exceptionally dangerous', but what happened to everyone here?”

“Evacuated,” Danse replied. “For whatever reason, it gets hit by Outsiders too often for our protection to be worth much. Government told everyone to get away from here a while back. There’s still some people left around, though.”

“Why is that?” Jason barely kept up with the news, much as he knew he probably should. He was never able to stomach reading news reports on all the people he'd failed to save, and was more than willing to shield himself from it with overwork. “Do they not have another place to live? Is the government not helping them?” He shook his head. “I should start accepting some of those sponsorships; then I could use the money to help people relocate to somewhere safer.”

“Please don’t," Danse groaned. "I would rather my nephew doesn’t start playing with Jason-brand action figures. I see enough of you as it is."

"Why stop there?” Jason grinned. “Could be a two-pack. You can be the knockoff sidekick figure nobody cares about that's only included to jack up the price.”

Danse turned to him with an arrogant expression on his face. “Listen here, you little shit – I’d be the collector’s item that goes for way too much money on eBay, you hear me?” They shared a quick laugh, and Danse went on, “No, don’t worry. For as much as the government is fucking up their handling of everything, they've been pretty good at relocating people. There’s basically a whole new city in Delaware made up of refugees.”

“Is that why some people decided to stay in a monster infested zone without electricity?” Jason asked, in as much of a deadpan as he could. “To avoid Delaware?”

“Even the fucking monsters are avoiding Delaware, I swear to god nothing happens there,” Danse muttered. He looked around for a second to make sure they were still safe. “You could tell me that the Outsiders have secretly been there for years and I'd believe you. No one would have ever noticed.”

It was nice to laugh like this. Almost made the pair forget about how dangerous this mission was. Even odds we leave here with absolutely nothing, bored out of our minds, or nearly dead, Jason mused. An odd coin flip to bet on, but they wouldn’t have it any other way. Out of all the boring people I could’ve been stuck with, I’m glad Danse is the one I’m working under.

“To be honest, the only people left are those too stubborn to leave,” Danse said, seriousness returning to his voice. “Them and the conspiracy theories nutjobs who think we’re hiding aliens or some bullshit.”

Jason turned to his superior. “And we just let them stay here? We should be making them get the hell out of here and go somewhere safe before they get hurt.”

“And how do you propose we get them out?" Danse countered. "Power grid has been shut down, so this is the best we can do. Military has to save its strength to protect the people who want to be protected – not to mention that getting this mission approved at all makes me feel like I’m goddamn fucking Hercules for pulling it off. You have no idea the amount of infighting that’s been going on behind the scenes ever since the Outsiders showed up.”

I have an idea. Not a good one, but he knew that people within the military had very different ideas on how to tackle what was happening. Some thought they should take a more conservative approach, perhaps even try to capture one of the creatures alive and see what they could learn from it. Some had suggested just tossing nukes at everything and hoping for the best. Then there were the numerous policies that fell somewhere in between, including those who thought that vivisecting Jason was the key to finding out how levels worked, and turning the war around.

Shitheads who think that if we all had Character Sheets, we wouldn’t have to worry about monsters anymore, Jason seethed. Probably imagining that people doing a normal nine-to-five will start going around and punching monsters in the face. Fucking idiots.

Danse drew a deep breath. “Not like this war is easy for the military either," he continued. "Some of us have trouble even shooting down those goddamn things, if you forgot.” His words were said harshly, but there was no edge to them. Jason had long since learned that when the man spoke like that, he just wanted to drive a point home. If he actually wanted your feelings hurt, well, he’d make sure you knew. “Besides, these apartment buildings...bad place for combat. Too easy to be ambushed or flanked. Bad idea to try to get people out of here. If they want to stay without heat or electricity, let them. Winter will convince them otherwise.”

“Assuming those things are smart enough to flank,” Jason pointed out. “They haven’t shown the ability to think, let alone coordinate tactics in a group.”

“Assuming anything about those things is what got a lot of my unit killed,” Danse whispered. His voice was unusually quiet and he said no further. “They were good men.”

There was probably someone out there who knew the right thing to say in a situation like this. Maybe there's a reason why he’s so insistent on setting up this task force. “I’m sorry, Danse.”

“That better be a general ‘sorry.’ If I catch you getting guilty over not saving my men before you even had your goddamn powers, your ass is in trouble.” He smacked Jason’s shoulder playfully and laughed. “It’s how it goes. Not gonna give you some crap about being willing to make sacrifices, because that ain’t it. But you gotta be willing to roll with the punches. And by god, those punches can hurt. Save who you can, and be happy with that. Got that? It’s an order. Stop being an egomaniac.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m not an egomaniac, you know?” Jason appreciated the thought, but he couldn't quite bring himself to accept it. I'm the only one who can gain levels. It’s not the same. Doing what I can isn’t enough – I have to do more. Everyone expected ‘more’ out of him, whether they would admit it or not. Even Danse. For all the crap he gave him when Jason did something absurd, he was usually half-smiling at the end and had come to count on Jason's superhuman prowess to save as many lives as possible. 'Don’t be too harsh on yourself', he says. Hate the undertone there. ‘Don’t worry, you always get it right in the end.’ What if I don’t?

It wasn’t an ego thing when people died if he failed to live up to his potential.

The notion that he had to get it right was weighing on him heavily these days. When he was younger, everyone used to praise him when he did something impressive, be it winning at a sporting event, getting good grades, or just generally doing something most people didn’t. But now he'd done it for so long that people had come to expect him to go above and beyond. And with the stakes being what they were now, it scared him. Be the perfect soldier. Be the perfect boyfriend. Be the perfect symbol. Do not break. He repeated those thoughts in his head, almost like a mantra. Do. Not. Break!

He couldn’t break. He wasn’t allowed to break. Not when he'd finally gotten a lead on what had happened to Rob. Just have to kill this monster and grab a couple levels, Jason thought. No big deal. After that...after that I can take a break. Of course, he'd been telling himself he would take a break for months now. The thought was nice, comforting, but he knew deep inside that it was a lie. There would be no rest until it was done. And he didn’t even know what it was. No one else can do it, so I don’t have the luxury of whining about my feelings. I have to get this right.

Just like he always did.

“That looks surprisingly intact,” Danse remarked, “don’t you think?”

“Eh?” Jason replied without thinking. “I – sorry, what?”

Danse elbowed him, then gestured to a motorcycle. “The keys are still in the ignition,” he remarked. “Some people ran away in a hurry. Surprised no one stole it. Wonder if there’s any fuel left in there.”

“You a motorcycle guy, Danse?” Jason asked. He didn’t know much about his superior’s life before the army. “Wouldn’t have figured that.”

Even through that mask, he could see the shit-eating grin on Danse’s face. “I used to be a daredevil before joining the army. Did motorcycle stunts in my off time.”

Jason’s mouth hung open. “You’re fucking kidding.” He just couldn’t picture the epitome of sternness and propriety doing flips in the air with a motorcycle. “Please tell me you have videos of that.”

Danse shook his head, laughing. “Maybe you'll get to see them when the war is over." He appeared a little embarrassed, and in a hurry to change topics, looked around the area, smiling when he found something else to focus on. “Hey, speaking of undamaged things – that looks pretty intact too, doesn’t it?”

Jason’s gaze shifted to the caged structure across the street Danse was pointing at. At first, it took him a while to recognize it, as it was sandwiched between the rubble of nearby buildings – which only made the realization hit harder. It was a tennis court. The very same one he and Rob had spent so much time playing in as kids. Even the net is still up...is someone using this?

“Fancy a game, Jason?” Danse laughed. He paused, noticing the haunted expression on Jason’s face. “Hey, are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Jason answered, his eyes fixated on the court. “Just...remembering a few things. That’s all.”

For a moment he forgot all about everything. About the monsters, about having to fight, about Rob being gone, about who he needed to be. He looked at the court, and saw the past. Two small children, maybe twelve years old, setting up canisters across the court and competing to see who could hit the most without moving their feet. Rob hadn't been very enthusiastic about the idea, but went along with it in the end. After some prodding. And he didn't even complain.

That is, until they had hit the four hour mark.

“Dead on,” Jason had shouted, pumping his fist when he hit a target. “Another one for me.”

“I swear to every god you can think of...” Rob was mostly speaking through heavy breaths that day. "...That if you say that one more time, I fucking quit.”

Jason exhaled in disbelief. “What’s wrong with what I’m saying?” he asked, as if he didn’t already know.

The way he reacted, you would think Rob had been waiting for that question for a while. “It’s not just today. Every goddamn time you hit a good shot you do the same fucking thing – you nod twice, smile, then go ‘dead on’ like a jackass. It was okay the first few times but, c’mon. Please. Stop.”

Jason smiled at the memory. Wait, is that actually why he quit? Because I said that too much? He hesitated, considering the notion, and then shook his head. Nah, that’s silly. Rob was being honest when he said that he just didn’t love the sport like I do. Maybe he was annoyed at how often Jason said that line, but even back then the signs had been there. Was just easier to ignore it.

“Come on, we have to get our first serve percentage higher somehow!” The young Jason was running around the court, jumping up and down and demanding Rob to energize himself too. “Hey, hey – did you hear? Rob, I heard that pro tennis dude at the club saying that he expects us to beat the older kids in the tournament. Can you believe that? The guy is an actual professional and he sees something in us. That’s—so—cool! We gotta win now, can’t let him down.” Jason shook his head. “Like, I've been hitting that kick serve pretty good, but it’s bad form to use that as a first serve – old guy told me so. I should work on that. Gotta practice more.”

Rob always had the same look on his face when Jason started acting like this. That look of resigned exasperation he showed when he didn’t have the energy or desire to keep up with his friend, but also knew that explaining it would have taken even more energy. Took me a few years to figure it out, Jason reminisced. Guy would never say it aloud, so I had to learn when he really wasn’t into something and was mostly letting me drag him into things. Plus, Rob got better at letting him know about it over the years. But even back then the signs were there.

“I don’t really care if we win or not,” Rob had muttered. “Who cares if the old guy has a high opinion of us? I didn’t ask him for that. And why do you care what he thinks of your serve?”

“Always stressing over the details, eh?” Jason laughed. “You gotta loosen up sometimes, Robbie.”

Rob pointed a finger at him. “I swear, Jason, we talked about this—don’t call me—”

“—I won that bet fair and square.”

“—The dog was not part of—”

“—A leg is a leg—”

At the end, Rob held up his hand to stop the argument short, rubbing his temples as if he had a headache. Even as a child, he had some habits like a grumpy old man at times. “Maybe I do have to loosen up, Jay. But you do too. In a different way.”

Scratching his chin, Jason sighed. I wonder what he meant by that, he wondered. Will have to ask him when I see him again.

“Jason!” Danse cried out loudly, slapping his back somewhat harshly. “You in there?”

It was a hard enough slap to almost make him stumble. Would be a sick joke to kill a ton of monsters and die from cracking my skull on a rock. Jason shook his head and straightened himself up before turning to face Danse. “Yeah, I’m good. Sorry, was just thinking about something.”

“Zone out later. We have a few people to interview about the Baker Street Horror.” Danse’s voice was harsh at first, but it softened by the end. “You gonna be okay? This is where you grew up.”

“Yeah,” Jason muttered, hands clenching. “I’ll be fine.”

For a brief instant, his bracelet itched.

Chapter 4

Now this, Jason thought, looking at the man who he was about to interview, is a strange fucking dude.

Anyone who willingly chose to remain inside a monster-dominated area was already of questionable intelligence at best, but this man was something else. His apartment was relatively tidy, all things considered, with what appeared to be a portable generator and some canned food neatly piled up in the corner. The man himself wore a light olive suit that he was clearly proud of, although he apparently wasn’t used to wearing it often, from the general uncleanliness of its fabric and the way he adjusted his shoulders. He had a frankly confusing amount of hair, having not had a haircut in ages despite his clearly receding hairline, resulting in an image of someone who was both trying too hard and too little. To the guy’s credit, his hair was slicked back, but that weird mass ended up nearly pointing upward, like a young teenager who'd only now discovered hair gel.

All in all, everything about his appearance screamed that he was waiting for the day he got to live like this.

This guy is the lead I’m in charge of? Jason suppressed a grimace. Thanks Danse, very cool of you. “Mr. Doakes, it's a pleasure to come see you.” Jason shook his hand, putting on a smile that wasn’t returned. Doakes eyed him suspiciously at first, and it was far too late that he decided to smile back and motion for Jason to sit down on the couch across from him. Oh boy. Gonna be one of those days. “I hope you've been holding up under your current conditions.”

“Men like me don’t ‘hold up’ when hell knocks at their door, Mr. Jason,” Doakes said, in a hoarse whisper. “We thrive.”

Neither of them spoke immediately after this. From Doakes’ part, no doubt because he meant this to be a heavy and intimidating statement. There was a satisfied, arrogant smirk on his face as if to say ‘You've finally come to me for help.’ Jason, meanwhile, was wondering if he really had to talk to this fucking guy.

Can I have the press back? I’ll take boring media dudes over crazy conspiracy guys any day of the week. He drew in a deep breath. Okay, maybe this guy isn't so bad. Maybe he just loves my shithole of a hometown.

“We thrive in spite of your efforts to silence us,” Doakes accusingly declared. Goddamn it. “The people know, Mr. Jason. You think you can convince everyone that some conveniently supernatural event took place in a well-known propaganda center?”

“You're referring to my college, right?” Jason muttered, in a deadpan. “That’s – oh Christ. Okay. Listen. I’m here to ask about the information you said you have on the monster with the weird smell-"

“I don’t give a shit if the media buys what you’re selling," Doakes spat, face contorted in anger, as if he hadn't heard Jason in the slightest. "If you have your own fanclub, or even if my niece thinks you're our hero.”

Well, I do have some fan pages, Jason thought, knowing better than to say anything aloud. Jeanette manages them right now. Some of the messages I get are pretty weird, honestly. Really prefer the memes and internet arguments about how well I’d do against Batman.

His thoughts were interrupted by Doakes, who hadn't stopped ranting. “Convenient superhero with powers just happens to come out of nowhere? Bullshit. I know you were involved in the first Portal incident,” he said, triumphantly. “Do you want to know what I think about that, Mr. Jason Miller?”

The Portal incident was hardly a secret, jackass, Jason thought. Tabloids were all over it when Rob disappeared. Took me a lot of self-restraint not to punch some reporters. He drew another deep breath, exhaling slowly. “No. I really, really don’t.”

Doakes leaned forward. “I think you've been a government pet project for a long time,” he hissed. “One of their little experiments in a secret lab somewhere. A real-life Captain Amer–”

“Okay, gonna stop you right there.” Jason sat up suddenly, prompting Doakes to flinch back, the man's body language deflating like a balloon leaking air. “First of all, I don't think Captain America had levels and shit. This is more like I was bitten by a radioactive Playstation. Second of all, NO!"

His shout nearly caused Doakes to fall out of his chair. A thrill of satisfaction surged within Jason. I'm done with this clown. "Now do you have any information about the fucking monster, or not?

“Do you deny it, then?” Doakes demanded. “That you're a super-soldier engineered by the government?”

Jason stared at him with murder in his eyes, hoping that would be enough to cause the weirdo to back down. It wasn’t. Doakes was shrinking in his chair, shaking slightly, but he maintained an accusatory glare the whole time. “Answer me, Mr. Jason. Unless of course you can’t answer, because you're legally mandated to tell the truth at all-”

“The government has fuck all to do with my powers.” Jason’s voice surprised even himself. It was a low, bristling sound like a gust of wind smashing against a rock. His hand had curled into a fist, he realized, but not so tightly as to hurt himself. Just enough to throw a punch if I have to. “Listen, Mr. Doakes,” Jason went on, mustering all the respect he could into his words. “I don't mean to be rude, but we have important matters to speak of. Every second I spend here is a second I could be spending outside fighting – people are dying with every second we waste.”

Doakes, the absolute fucker, laughed. “Oh, you think I buy that those attacks are real? I'm fully aware the government is staging them as an excuse for their recent uptick in military maneuvers. Most of those 'victims' are actors or CGI.”

Jason thought back to all the destruction he'd seen. The people he couldn’t save. The brother who'd waited beside his sister’s body for days until help came. The parents who'd buried their own child. The child who'd cried for her mother – her mother that Jason, at the time, was too weak to save. He thought back to every single corpse, each one burned into his mind.

His fingernails dug a little deeper into his palms.

Can't lose my cool. Need the intel. Won't let Danse down. “Mr. Doakes,” Jason repeated, voice taut. “We really need to talk about what I came here for-”

“This is what you came here for,” Doakes cut in. “Heard rumors you were going to talk to James down the street about it – figured you would come to talk to me too. The only way for an ordinary citizen to get answers out of you lot is by resorting to something like this.”

Gears started turning in Jason’s head. He opened his palm, rolled his wrist, and stretched his fingers. “You mean you don’t actually know anything about the monster?” Jason asked. “You just made this shit up because you wanted to talk to us in person?”

He could be helping people. Helping Danse. Getting EXP to increase his level and save Rob. Instead, he was here, wasting time with this fucking guy.

How many people were dying right now?

“Government lackeys aren't the only ones that can engage in a game of deception,” Doakes began, grinning as he spoke. “That's why-”

Jason’s fist connected with Doakes' face. The man cried out in pain as he leaned backwards, mouth dropping open with shock. Jason paused, then stared at his fist with a curious expression. He'd always assumed that blind rage was what made people lash out in situations like these, but in all honesty, he was feeling pretty level-headed. It wasn't like he couldn't control himself. Not if he wanted to. There'd been plenty of mental leeway for him to stop the punch with. He just...hadn't.

And he didn't regret it in the slightest.

“You can’t do that!” Doakes cried out, as he cradled his cheek. “This is-”

Another punch, this one sending Doakes and his chair tumbling to the ground. A trail of blood combined with a nasally voice indicated that his nose was broken. The fear in his tone indicated that his spirit was broken, too. “I’m sorry, I just wanted answers! I just-”

“It’s funny,” Jason muttered, taking one step forward and cracking his knuckles. “I don’t get into fights often, you know, but it’s always the same feeling when I do. Maybe some satisfaction, maybe some relief...and nearly always guilt over hurting someone. Most of all, I end up calming down pretty quickly – hard to stay mad at someone when they're nursing an injury I gave them. Right now, though?”

He took another step forward and looked at the rat of a man cowering on the ground. “I’m actually getting angrier every time I hit you.”

“P, please,” he begged. “I’m sorry for wasting your time, just let me-”

Jason kicked him in the stomach. Lightly, but it caused Doakes to hunch over in agony. How many people died because of you wasting our time? A burning feeling began to swell up inside of him. Selfish, insane bastard...I could have been saving people...killing monsters...getting EXP to...

An insane thought came over him as he looked down at the cowering man beneath him. No one would miss him, Jason realized. No one at all. They wouldn't even question it – considering where he's living, they'd report his death as being caused by monsters. Just give him a Darwin Award and move on with their lives.

Jason studied the man’s face carefully, as if it was the first time he'd ever seen another human. The shape of his skull, the way his throat moved when he breathed, how his lips trembled to produce a cowardly whine...it was fascinating, in a strange sort of way. Jason knelt down beside the fallen man, and raised his fist. “I wonder,” he muttered.

I wonder if humans give EXP.

His fist descended.

And hit the floor right beside Doakes' head, producing a sizable hole. The bastard looked hesitantly at what Jason’s fist had done and froze. He wasn’t even able to cry out in fear.

“Do something like this again, and next time, I won't 'miss'," Jason promised. "Get the fuck out of here, go somewhere safe – preferably hell or Delaware, I don't care which.”

“Yes—yes, sir,” Doakes muttered weakly.

Jason allowed himself a brief period to check for hidden cameras, counting on his sharpened senses to find them. After half a minute, he determined that – as far as he could tell – there weren't any. Satisfied that his ass was covered, Jason stormed out of the apartment, thoughts whirling in his mind like debris in a hurricane.

What the hell was I doing? Jason started to shake, unable to reconcile his fear of what he'd wanted to do with the anger still inside him. The latter feeling refused to leave his body, even as he felt horrified at what he'd considered doing, even if only for a split second. I...wanted to kill him. Sure, Doakes was an annoying bastard, but that was hardly grounds for goddamn murder.

But it would have felt good, he admitted. I’m not even sure if I would have regretted it. That thought terrified him most of all. And the EXP...it could have helped me get to level 30 faster. To save Rob.

Jason shook his head violently. No, no, no, NO! There’s lines I won’t cross. Even for Rob. Was this what the voices wanted? To get amusement out of his suffering? Is this the price I have to pay to play their game?

Realization struck. Jason looked at his wrist – more specifically, at the bracelet he'd been gifted by the voices. Ever since putting it on, he'd noticed some changes. The amount of experience he gained from his kills was higher. Additionally, he was stronger than before, able to perform feats that he couldn't just a few days ago. His legs were faster, his torso could take more punishment, and his sword swings carried more weight behind them.

He was also more impulsive. Aggressive. Violently so. And when he killed things...it felt good.

“Is that what you’re betting on?” Jason shouted to the sky, as if the voices could hear him. “That I’m going to go crazy before winning our game? You're wrong. I'm going to power through this, beat the fucking Horror and-"

“—JASON?—” The man in question froze as Danse’s voice crackled through his earpiece, distorted as if it was on the radio. “—NEED—BACKUP—BAKER—CORPSES—”

Jason shifted gears in an instant; his anger, plans and frustrations neatly compartmentalized into a box marked as ‘for later.’ Task focus, he told himself. Jason’s coach had drilled that notion into his mind for years. It was his most important ability, more than anything actually listed on his character sheet. The ability to disregard his concerns and focus only on what was ahead of him, if only for the moment. “I’m on my way. Don’t you dare die on me.”

Jason heard gunfire in the distance, and pointed at it to fixate the location in his mind. “Dead on,” he muttered, before taking off running at a full sprint. He was already near the top of the apartment complex, so instead of climbing down, Jason leaped out a window and onto a lower-story building, vaulting from rooftop to rooftop as he traversed the city. He moved faster than he'd ever done before, faster than just the levels and bracelet would've allowed. A measure of concern about the bracelet popped into his mind – and he banished it away. Danse needs me, Jason told himself. That’s all that matters.

He was done losing people.

An explosion went off as he neared Danse's location, dropping Jason's heart to the bottom of his stomach. He rushed forward in a panic, willing his feet to move even faster. Please, be alive, he thought desperately. Please, Dan-

“Danse!” Jason shouted, rushing to the fallen soldier. “Are you okay?’

Jason completed his last leap, jumping down from a third-story roof to a grassy public park, landing first with his feet and then rolling at the end to reduce impact. Several months ago, the fall would've killed him, but now he didn't have so much as a scratch. “Danse, speak to me! Are you okay?”

His superior was bleeding, breathing heavily, and most worryingly of all, trembling. At first Jason took that to be a sign of the worst; he'd never seen the man shaking before. But his wounds appeared superficial enough, and beneath the helmet and dark glasses there was something of a smile. “Jason...that thing changes shapes,” he muttered, each word taking visible effort to say. “It killed the guy I was interviewing, then took the shape of the same monster that killed his family, and when it turned to me, it – it looked like my soldiers. The men that died under my command. That’s why...that’s why its attacks vary so much. I’ve radioed the information in, just in case we don’t make it.”

Jason nodded. He didn’t want to be pessimistic, but that was probably smart. “Can you walk?”

“Yeah. I got away from it. Just barely though." He grimaced. "My bullets...did nothing, Jason. Absolutely nothing.”

“How did you escape then?” he asked, looking over his superior’s wounds.

“Tossed a grenade and blew up the floor we were on,” Danse muttered. “The floor fell, took the monster with it. Part beneath me didn’t quite crumble, so I didn’t die. Then I dragged myself out of there while it was lost.”

You had a fucking grenade with you? Jason marveled, laughing. Nobody gave me a grenade. “Who’s the crazy fucker now? That’s awesome, you madman.”

“One big difference between you and me.”

“Yeah? What is that?”

Danse looked at him seriously. “I had no expectation of coming out alive. I just did what I thought I had to in order to slow that thing down, and got lucky.” The two shared an intense look for a moment, anticipating what was to come. The sound of rubble moving in the distance only served to heighten the urgency in the moment. “I can walk still,” Danse muttered. “Cracked a few ribs, I think, but I should be fine. Helicopter was on standby, so it should be arriving soon. Get ready.”

“Cool.” Jason helped his superior to his feet and started walking toward the source of the sound. “And for the record, I do think I’m going to survive.”

“You better,” Danse muttered, limping away. “That’s a fucking order, soldier.”

Jason held out his hand in a lazy – but sincere – salute without turning back, continuing his slow walk for a moment before quickening his pace into a dash. I have to end this quickly, he thought. Before there’s any casualties. On the plus side, killing the Baker Street Horror without backup would kill two birds with one stone. He'd win part of the game and get a ton of EXP, all at the same time.

To do that, though, he needed to make good on his promise and survive. The Baker Street horror can change its shapes, he considered, as he ran towards the destroyed building. Turned into the monster that killed this witness’s family, turned into Danse’s dead soldiers...does it pick things that traumatized the people it’s targeting? Maybe the first victim with all those claw marks feared bears or something. What would it do if it faced more than one person, though? That question was superseded by a more pressing one, that Jason probably should've thought of before he heard the creature just around the corner. What will it be for me?

What was he most afraid of?

Would it turn into the corpse of the people he failed to save? Or maybe the corpse of the people he had yet to disappoint? A sudden, sinking thought came to him. Rob’s corpse? What if he’s dead? Jason shook his head. No. I refuse to accept that. He’s alive! He’s gotta be. What could it-

“Ah, Jason,” said a new voice, “it’s a pleasure.”

There it is, Jason thought, that darkness. The same feeling when I talk to that voice.

A sarcastic clap came from behind the column. A person? Am I afraid of a person? The clapping became faster, louder, and that feeling of drowning returned, an overwhelming darkness filling his lungs. Jason fought against it, his wrist burning as if a question were being posed to him. Do I want to let it help me here?

No. That would be like admitting he couldn’t do this by himself. Stubborn, maybe, but it was more than stubbornness guiding him at the moment – it was pride. He breathed through the darkness, filling his lungs with more of that maddening air around him, daring it to do anything. “It’s a good policy,” Jason warned, “to answer questions quickly when the one asking them is a man carrying a big fucking sword. So let’s get this right on the first try, eh? Who the fuck are you?”

Jason blinked, and when his eyes opened again he saw a sword flying toward him. His body surged with an intense desire to survive, time slowed down, and adrenaline flowed into his body. It was a thrust, he realized, and even in that hazy state, he knew it was a questionable move at best. This man’s sword is too thick and blunt for a thrust to do any real damage. It's not meant for stabbing. He wasn’t in the mood to confirm that assumption, however, and leaned his torso backward to avoid the attack for long enough to draw his own sword.

Steel met steel, giant sword met giant sword, and Humanity’s Hero met the Baker Street Horror.

Swords locked against each other in an equal struggle, both swordsmen struggling to find their center of gravity. It wasn't ideal; locking blades with your opponent and merely trying to outmuscle him was a surefire way of dying. Jason had been trained by the government to know that much. If you absolutely had no choice, what you were supposed to do was attempt to slide your blade down your opponent’s, then use the base of your sword against the top of theirs for leverage.

Strangely, both men tried doing this, and when they did, sinking their knees low and trying to shift their grips, they both had their blades go past the other man after bouncing off each other’s shoulders. We drew the same amount of blood from each other, Jason thought, as a manic grin took over him, and that means I can kill it. Both their swords were now past the other’s torso, and the first man to make a move would give the other an opening: from that distance, you would need to bring your sword back too much to actually hit your opponent – and that would give them chance to just punch you in the face or wrestle you to the ground if need be.

So, caught in that brief standstill, hoping the other would make a mistake, they locked eyes. And Jason saw what his biggest fear looked like.

It was a young man, tall and athletic, sporting a nice, messy hairstyle – the kind someone spends a few hours in front of a mirror trying to make sure looks just careless enough while still looking attractive. He wore a red overcoat, sported an attractive smile, broad shoulders, and appeared entirely comfortable swinging that large, monstrously oversized sword.

He looked identical to Jason.

“What do you know?” Jason muttered. “Guess I am a bit of an egomaniac. Danse is never gonna let me hear the end of this.”

A version of me with higher levels, he realized. He hadn’t needed to even check to be sure of it. The way Baker had swung his sword was similar to his, but sharper. A lazier, more confident swing that reached its target just a moment sooner, hit a fraction stronger. Even in this standoff, he could sense the monster emanating a terrifying strength. Deep inside himself, Jason felt something he hadn’t experienced since he was a little kid. A quiet voice in his head, a nagging feeling that whispered, You can’t win. He ignored it.

It was harder to ignore Baker suddenly making a move, bringing the side of its sword against the side of Jason's ribs, sending him flying to the side and smashing his back against a pillar. Bludgeoning—just like—just like me—but better. That son of a bitch. “Well, I have to admire your taste,” Jason muttered, using the pillar for support as he stood up, “you picked one handsome devil to copy.”

Baker simultaneously appeared as though he was and wasn’t listening. He appeared as though he was because he smiled at each word Jason said, shaking his head and chuckling arrogantly as if to taunt him. He appeared as though he wasn’t because when he spoke again, it was not in response to Jason’s words at all. A sort of eerie, lifelike imitation that fell just one step short of reality. “Why do you starve yourself?” Baker asked, using Jason’s own voice. “Your blade – it is your soul. Feed it.”

His bracelet ached and he banished it away from him. “This is a one-on-one fight,” he told the bracelet, “don’t you dare interfere before I even start. I’m going to win this my own way, you hear me?” Jason barked at the object as if it could answer him. Worst of all, the darkness seemed amused by his outburst. He could almost swear it was laughing. “Fuck this,” Jason muttered, pointing his sword at his mirror. “Fuck off with your bullshit, just fight me already.”

Baker shook his head, smiling bemusedly, a sort of lazy expression that infuriated Jason to see on his own face. I don’t make that face. If you’re going to copy me, at least do it well. That face looked too real in its intended emotion. Like it actually could accomplish anything without trying. Jason knew very well that he needed more than that.

“Very well,” Baker declared, in a boisterous voice. Then, in a raspier, more daring tone, “Dance with me, Hungriest Man.”

Chapter 5

Jason had never been in a proper sword fight before. He'd used his blunt hunk of metal to slam creature after creature into a pulp, but he'd never really faced someone who was using a similar weapon. Much less someone who looked exactly like himself. The government had done their best to give him a semblance of training, but it wasn’t as if there was a plethora of ancient masters running around who knew how to wield giant swords. Only reason it was even possible for him to swing this oversized monstrosity was because of the points he'd put into Strength. And without proper guidance, there'd been no choice but to figure out swordfighting as he went. Which had been fine.

Until now.

Range and leverage, he thought to himself, are the keys to fighting an opponent with a melee weapon. No matter what weapon he'd researched, those two points were always at the top of the priority list. The distance your weapon could reach was its biggest limiting factor when it came to combat. So long as you could poke your opponent from out of their range, it didn’t matter if your attacks were less likely to hit – because you'd have more chances to keep trying, over and over again.

“We seemed pretty even in power back there, eh?” Jason taunted. A moment before, the two had momentarily locked blades, coming out of the exchange with similar wounds. Which was good – it let him know that whatever difference they had in strength wouldn't be enough to dictate the result of the fight. “Pray to whatever devil created you, because I’m sending you to meet them right now!”

The monster didn't reply. He studied Jason carefully, smirking, and both circled round the other with slow, methodical footwork as they waited for an opening. Humanity had become phenomenal at footwork over its millennia of dueling, and while Jason had little experience with wielding giant swords, he'd tried enough one-on-one combat sports to know when the right time to strike was. When someone takes a step and places their weight on their foot, Jason thought, watching Baker carefully, they can’t move for a moment.

It was a basic law that even monsters couldn't ignore. The moment a person steps forward and plants their right foot on the ground, they experience a form of ‘lag.’ It's impossible for them to move that foot away from the ground immediately; there needs to be a pause while they adjust where their weight is placed. Good footwork will minimize this ‘lag’ with small, quick steps, but it'll always be present. Human or monster, it made no difference. C’mon, Jason thought, give me the opening I want. Take just one more step. Just one more—THERE!

Baker crossed his feet once more, but it was too large of a step. Just large enough that his foot would be planted on the ground for slightly too long. Barely an opening at all.

“Dead on,” Jason muttered to himself in mid-air, as he exploded forward in a slicing motion. You can’t dodge if your feet can’t move, he thought, squeezing the grip of his sword and aiming for the creature’s head. It was an odd feeling, aiming for your own face, but he didn't hesitate.

“Hmm,” Baker said in a soft voice. "Good start."

There was no attempt to dodge. Steel met steel, hero met monster, and two blades collided in what appeared to be a fierce clash – at first. It was only too late when Jason realized that Baker had the upper hand. Though both blades collided at the same time, and both men used roughly the same amount of strength, the ways they'd positioned their blades were different.

Shit, Jason thought, seeing an eerie mirror of his own grin on the monster’s face. The upper half of his sword was clashing with the bottom of Baker’s – a disaster by any measure. The closer your point of blade contact is to your own wrist, the more power you can apply. In this situation, where both combatants had the exact same amount of strength, it was more than enough to settle the winner of their exchange. Baker’s blade pushed Jason’s to the side, allowing him to quickly thrust forward at the human’s shoulder, biting hard. Stumbling backward, Jason didn't regain his balance in time to defend when Baker swung his sword into the same spot as before, viciously knocking him to the ground.

67 Combined Slashing and Blunt Damage Received!

HP: 233 / 300

Can’t stay down. He’ll kill me. With only that vague thought to guide him, Jason rolled out of the way, awkwardly jumping to his feet and using his sword to keep his opponent at a distance.

Baker smiled at him. “Self-taught, disorganized...but altogether, good timing. Hmm. You'll do.”

“If I sound even half as annoying as you do when I talk, then holy shit...my friends deserve a medal for putting up with me.” Jason cracked his neck, as if that was what was bugging him instead of the growing, intense pain in his left shoulder. “Because I've been listening to you for about five minutes and there’s not a single thing in the world I want more than to smash your face open.”

“What about your friend?” Baker asked, its smile widening. “Or have you already accepted he’s dead?”

It was eerie, to hear those words in his own voice, from a creature that had stolen his appearance. Guess I understand why it chose this as my biggest fear. The thought came to him calmly, almost strangely so.

Jason drew a deep breath. This was no time to lose his cool. Had to focus. What had gone wrong last exchange?

He'd picked the right time to attack, that was certain, and they possessed roughly equal amounts of strength. The thing was, the monster felt as though it had a higher Level than Jason did, so it should have been stronger than him. Maybe he could tip the scales by allocating some unspent stat points – he'd saved five for a rainy day like this. Dexterity was the first notion that came to mind, but it wasn't speed that had dictated their clash. That fucker decided how to position his blade before I even touched him, Jason realized. Not only was Baker higher leveled, he appeared to simply be better at using his strong points.

“You are talented.” Baker’s voice was a ghostly mirror of Jason’s. “An abnormality among your species. Enough that you should know how outmatched you are. So”—the monster laughed and extended a hand—“embrace your hunger. Don't fight it.”

I have to beat this thing to save Rob. I have to–

His bracelet burned, so suddenly and intensely Jason couldn't stop himself from crying out in pain. When he was younger, he'd been bitten by a venomous snake, and even now he could remember how it felt. Like fire injected into his body, coursing through his arm and searing his nerves until the antidote finally took effect. This felt worse. It wasn’t fire – it was ice. A cold feeling that spread in his arm, numbing and hurting all at once, making him wish the damn thing would fall off so he wouldn’t have to deal with the sensation.

DESIRE POWER?

“Give it to me,” he whispered.

The cold spread through his body, no longer an invader, but a welcome guest. He felt dirty, as though he'd just drank unclean water, yet at the same time, he felt...awake. As if he was seeing the world for the first time. Colors were more vibrant, sounds reverberated differently in his ears, and a sense of unfiltered joy filled his heart, a thrill he had never felt before.

Baker smirked at him, and Jason smirked back.

Instinctively, as if he'd known how all along, Jason placed both hands on his sword grip instead of just one. With his strength, a single hand would have been enough even for his monstrous sword, but two hands allowed for smaller, more precise movements. Leverage was important, after all. His goal right now was to get the tip of his blade circling around his opponent's, so that when he thrust forward, the lower part of his blade would push against the higher part of Baker's.

Jason had no idea why this information was suddenly popping into his head, nor did he care. The bracelet burned, his heart raced, and he felt good. His sole desire was to eviscerate the creature in front of him – nothing else mattered. At that moment, he couldn’t even remember why he'd wanted to beat the Baker Street Horror so badly, and it hardly seemed important.

There was an opponent in front of him.

That was enough.

Once more, Baker took too large of a step, and Jason didn't let his chance slip by. He rushed forward, his blade dancing around his opponent’s, circling round it like a clock’s hands, pushing it out of the way as his lunge continued.

A direct hit.

Jason pierced his thrust into the creature’s stomach and he saw its – his – face contorting in pain as it retreated. If you can feel pain, I can kill you. The thought was invigorating. “What’s the matter, you fuck? Afraid?” Jason taunted, stepping forward. His own injuries didn’t even seem to bother him anymore. Odd, that. “Get ready – I’m not done with you yet!”

The creature grinned. Which should have been unnerving, yet Jason found himself grinning back, a manic smile blooming on his face. “Good,” he muttered, “amuse me more, you fucking monster.” The thrill inside of him was his fuel, and his racing heartbeat was his engine.

Through the fever pitch of emotions rising in his chest Jason made sure to consider his next move carefully. It wasn’t time for another blunt thrust. This one had to hurt. Jason lunged at his opponent, arms held straight as he positioned his massive blade forward, shifting his center of gravity to accelerate the movement. At that moment, his body became like an arrow. Baker’s eyes glowed yellow, and he bent his knees, bringing his sword underneath in a horizontal fashion to push Jason’s blade high, missing the monster’s head by a half inch.

Both blades were pointing away from their opponents now, Baker’s blade pointed high and behind his own head, while Jason’s blade was pointing straight up at the sky. Both men’s hands – still gripping at their swords – were pressing against each other now, nearly in a wrestling position, with Baker’s hands slightly beneath Jason’s. Shit. He has the upper hand here. Jason refused to let Baker press the advantage – its hands were lower, so if they separated from their struggle, Baker would be able to bring his blade down faster. But so long as they continued locked like this, neither man could swing at the other.

Definitely the same amount of strength, Jason thought, as the two struggled, taking circular steps across as they tried to wrestle the other without letting go of their blades. Can’t let him-

Baker pushed Jason at just the right moment, creating some distance between them. Jason’s wrist burned, and a primal instinct deep within told him not to let the creature build more distance. Again he launched himself like an arrow, sword extended in a straight line with both arms stretched forward. Baker shifted his sword in a horizontal position, almost as a shield, pointing sideways and to the ground. It was a stance that would let him parry any straight thrust. Then—! Jason shifted his grip upward, bringing both elbows high and to his left, and then swung his sword down, utilizing leverage in an attempt to knock the monster’s blade aside.

Clang.

Baker met the upper-half of Jason’s blade with his lower-half, deflecting it to the side, and allowing himself the chance to raise his elbows and bring his sword down in a cutting motion. It was all Jason could do to bring his sword up in a weak attempt at deflecting the blow, but here the difference in their expertise became apparent once more. Baker aimed not for Jason's blade, but for his wrist.

32 Bludgeoning Damage Received!

HP: 201 / 300

It was a slight blow, but it landed all the same. Jason screamed in pain as he ran backwards to safety, desperately creating distance between the monster and himself. My wrist – is it broken?

“Fucking hell,” he cursed, aloud and to no one in particular, “this bastard still has another gear to kick into? That wasn't his best?”

It was a good strategy, and Jason knew it. Be it boxing, tennis, or any sort of one-on-one contest – if you can afford not to go all out from the start, without losing in the process, then you absolutely should. Tiring out your opponent, allowing yourself to understand their fighting style better...it was a valid approach, so long as you were confident that your 70% could handle your opponent’s 100%.

Jason grit his teeth and choked down a growl. He wasn't used to being the 100 to his opponent's 70.

“That isn't enough to satisfy your soul, Hungriest Man,” Baker said, in a low, arrogant tone. “A starving man never stops at the first bite. Go on. Take another." Its voice distorted, hitching like a rusted record player. "Give in.”

Jason shook his head. “Shut up,” he roared, “don’t talk shit to me like you’ve won already. I’m going – I’m going to win!”

He had to win.

There was no other choice.

MORE POWER?

The cold, aching pain in his wrist flared up as a thrilling high coursed through his veins once again. It was a seductive sensation, inviting him to forego pain for pleasure. All his frustration, fears, and concerns started to leave him, a beautiful fury was taking their place, both kind and forgiving. He didn’t have to be perfect, the fury said. He just had to let it take over and guide him to victory. Everything he'd been worried about was going to go away.

All he needed to do in return was listen.

ACCEPT.

He wanted it. Oh, how he wanted it. If he had more power, he wouldn’t have to worry about anything. Everyone would be safe, he'd be able to handle any amount of monsters that came their way, he'd find a way to save Rob...and he wouldn’t even crack under the pressure of handling it all with a smile. I enjoy fighting more when this power courses through my veins, Jason thought, absently. I’m not scared as long as I have it. There’s no need to play around, and killing things just becomes...fun. He felt as though he were flying above the clouds, devoid of responsibilities or the usual weight on his shoulders, only the pleasure of battle remaining within him. His eyes sparkled, his grin widened-

And he punched himself in the face.

“Ah, son of a bitch,” Jason muttered, falling to his knees and breathing heavily, “almost—almost got me. That was rough.” He shook his head and laughed nervously, forcing himself to stand to his feet. “I’m not about to lose my mind to you. If you want to give me your powers, I'll take them...but this isn't a trade. It’s straight-up theft. I’m scamming you out of your powers, and I'm not giving anything back!”

His newfound strength was gone. Jason still felt the new strength that had come with putting his bracelet on, but not the one that had come when he asked for more power. It seemed like the less madness he allowed to settle in his soul, the less power he would obtain. A careful balancing act, Jason thought. But I've been balancing my mental state since the Portal first opened. This is nothing new.

The perfect soldier who works hard, but appears like he can do everything effortlessly. The perfect boyfriend who opens up emotionally, but is never too broken emotionally to the point of worrying his partner. The man who could lift the weight of the world on his shoulders, and come out of it stronger as if it were no more than an excellent workout.

What was any different about this?

“Fight it if you must,” Baker said, unimpressed. “You cannot escape the inevitable.”

Jason threw his head back and laughed. “Seems like you don’t understand. I don’t care if my opponent is an undefeated team, a discount copy of me, or even a god from another dimension – I always win in the end.” He confidently stepped forward, the boast soothing his nerves. Not a good thing, as he knew he had to watch out lest he turn into an asshole, but for now, it felt oddly relaxing. “Fuck around if you want, just be ready to find out what happens when you challenge Jason fucking Miller to a fight!”

Once more, he struck forward like an arrow, hoping to repeat the same exchange as last time. Even if his Dexterity was lower than his opponent’s, that wouldn’t matter so long as he started the move sooner than they did. As soon as the two of them became locked in a clash of swords again, Jason would try kicking Baker in the stomach to gain the upper hand, before following up with his blade. That was the plan, anyhow.

Much like last time, Baker blocked Jason's thrust by going underneath and then standing up, his sideways-pointed blade pushing his opponent’s sword high and to the sky, while his own was pointed nearly behind his own head. Here, Jason tried to knee Baker in the stomach – only to be shocked by the sound of steel meeting the ground.

Baker had dropped his sword, bending his knees to sink lower. What’s going on? Jason thought, absently. From this angle, I can use the pommel of my sword to bash his head—why is he—

It was here that Jason felt his enemy’s arms wrap around his waist in a ferocious bear hug. “NO!” he cried out, instinctively understanding what was about to happen. Jason desperately started smashing Baker with the pommel of his sword, the angle not allowing him to bring the blade down. It was no use. Baker stood up, lifting Jason high above the ground, and then bringing him down in a mighty slam.

People don’t often think of slams as devastating moves in a sword fight. Nobody gets stabbed, blood doesn’t pour out of wounds, limbs aren’t cut off. But even someone who knows how to break a fall can't fully absorb the impact of being thrown against the ground at full speed. It is as if their whole body shuts down for a moment, an earthquake that only they can feel, with severe blunt trauma done to their back and head.

Jason did his best to brace for the fall, but it wasn't enough.

39 Bludgeoning Damage Received!

HP: 162 / 300

Where—what—

He dropped his sword to the side, losing track of where he was for a long moment. His vision never quite went blurry, but it was as if his brain had stopped being able to process what he was seeing. His body didn’t hurt too badly, but it was vibrating, numb, like he'd slept on all of his limbs at once. Jason attempted to cry out in pain, blinking confusedly when his lips refused to move.

I’m concussed, he realized, absently. Huh. Would more Vitality help with that? It was a calm thought, as if he wasn’t on the verge of dying, divorced from the cruel reality of his situation.

He was snapped back to reality by Baker lifting him up, seizing both of Jason's wrists and stopping him from moving. It was only vaguely that he realized his feet were no longer touching the ground. “Understand now?” the creature said. “Choose. Death or power? There is no third option. You cannot even understand what you desire, much less defeat it. Embrace it...or die.”

“Ah...so that’s what you were trying to say,” Jason muttered slowly, his head buzzing as the world only slightly came back into focus.

A sudden anger started to flare up inside him. This wasn't the icy, cold hatred from before; it was red, warm, and burned like a roaring flame. Its intensity focused him, prompting Jason to narrow his eyes at Baker – the creature for the first time. From a distance, it had looked just like him, a perfect copy from top to bottom. Upon closer inspection, though, he could almost see scales beneath its skin, as if it was wearing a mask of human skin over its face. Every crevice and curvature on his face revealed a hidden secret beneath, ones that were barely outside of the realm of human perception. The sight should have been disturbing, but for some reason, Jason didn’t care.

“You're saying I have to give in,” Jason muttered. “That I can’t beat you by myself.”

“Of course.”

He’s holding my arms, Jason thought. I can’t move. My sword is far away. My legs aren’t touching the ground. I can’t kick from this angle. Fury started to overtake his body, and this time he couldn’t fight it.

No. This was different. He didn’t want to fight it. In that hazy, half-awake state, Jason was only vaguely aware of what he was feeling. He vaguely understood that letting his emotions get the better of him, and that this had been a problem moments before, but that was all. Something was different. After a few moments, he realized why.

“I hate it,” Jason muttered, raising his head to look Baker in the eye. Ah. I get it now. “I hate when someone tells me I can’t do something.”

It wasn't the same feeling as before. He wasn't being controlled or coerced.

He was just really fucking pissed off.

Jason brought his head forward in a headbutt against the monster’s face. Baker reared its head back in surprise – more out of surprise than pain – but an opening was all Jason needed. Again and again he smashed his head against the creature, every blow a victory. Jason probably hurt himself more than Baker, feeling like he might lose consciousness with every blow, and in that moment he didn't give a single shit.

6 Bludgeoning Damage Received!

LET.

7 Bludgeoning Damage Received!

GO.

11 Bludgeoning Damage Received!

OF.

13 Bludgeoning Damage Received!

ME.

HP: 125 / 300

Baker was stronger, Baker could take more of a beating – and Baker still fell first. The monster was a simulacrum of a human being that may not have even possessed a will of its own. At the very least, it didn't have any strong feelings motivating it to stand his ground. On the other hand, Jason was willing to die to make it let him go.

Covered in the blood of his enemy and himself, his head dazed and aching, Jason finally freed himself and retreated toward his blade. Pain combined with his injuries nearly overtook him then, but he refused to let his consciousness fade, bracing himself with his newly retrieved sword and biting his hand to stay awake. It hurt, it burned, but he didn’t care. He had no intention of giving in to the voice inside his head, and neither did he have any intention of losing.

Which was easier said than done. Jason's body was shaking. Merely standing took everything he had, and every second he remained standing was a product of pure, stubborn defiance. Yet he didn't for a second consider losing. Jason had no idea how, but he knew he was going to win. “Come on, Masked Lunatic,” Jason thundered, “we’re not done yet. Not until I beat you.”

It—he?—chuckled slightly and walked forward, picking up their own sword and raising it above their head. “As you wish.”

Baker brought down its sword in a mighty swing. All too late, Jason realized that he couldn't dodge it. Couldn't even block it. Despite that, he refused to close his eyes. Jason Miller wasn't one to die quietly. “Bring it,” he hissed, grasping his sword and pulling it up in a futile motion.

Suddenly, a distant jetstream of wind blasted into the two, forcing Baker to halt its attack. “Lucky human,” it muttered, with a smile. “You did well.”

“FIRE!”

The order echoed loudly down the streets as Danse's helicopter took aim. A hail of bullets from the helicopter caused Baker to take a few steps backwards, vaguely using his sword as a shield to cover most of his body mass, and shrugging off the few bullets that hit their mark. Without missing a beat, he jumped up twenty goddamn feet to land on top of the destroyed remnants of a building.

“Get back here you son of a bitch!” Jason cried out, angrily stumbling forward. “We aren’t done yet!”

“We are not,” Baker agreed. “Next time we meet...you'll make the right choice.”

Anything else it had to say was interrupted by a missile hitting the ground right beside Baker. The resulting explosion was like standing near a miniature sun, burning up some of Jason’s clothes and giving him first-degree burns across various parts of his body. A normal human would've died right then and there.

65 Heat Damage Received!

HP: 60 / 300

Jason looked up in a daze, confused and in pain. He swept his eyes across the streets, finding nothing. The monster is gone. Escaped, most likely. It would be wishful thinking to assume that it'd been killed by the explosion.

“That’s right,” Jason spat out in a weak voice, “you better run, coward.”

His bracelet burned, and he ignored it.

The sound of coordinated footsteps accompanied by Danse's voice let him know that it was fine to relax. Jason let go from the sword grip and fell to the ground, breathing heavily and closing his eyes. “I’m gonna kill Baker in a bit just – I gotta take five,” he said, unsure if the men were even close enough to hear him. “Just-”

“He’s part of my unit!” Danse cried out. “You can’t take him away!”

“Orders are orders,” said another voice, one Jason didn't recognize. “I’m sorry. Resist, and you will be arrested.”

“But-”

“As stated, orders are orders. We serve our country first – don’t forget that.”

Ah. Fuck. Jason had a vague idea of what was about to go down. If he had more energy left, he would've struggled. Instead, he put both hands behind his head and let out a deep sigh before passing out. I’ll deal with this shit when I wake up.

Chapter 6

Four years ago, Jason had led his team to a shocking victory against the reigning champions. It was the kind of miraculous underdog story that brings a smile to people’s faces years after the fact. Both his hometown crowd and his team were celebrating like they'd won the lottery. For the first little while, he was happy to join them in lifting up his trophy, posing for photos, and everything else that they needed him to do.

But soon enough he managed to get away from it all, hiding in the locker room by himself.

And alone, he allowed his masks to drop, and muttered to himself, “...Goddamn it.”

“You didn’t seem happy out there today,” Rob noted. Neither of the two felt it necessary to question what Rob was doing there or how he'd known where Jason would be. They'd known each other for far too long for that. At first, Jason didn’t even move from the bench he was laying on, relenting only when Rob sat down beside him and pushed him in a demand for more space. “You know, I’m not much of a sports guy, but I was under the impression that people usually celebrate when they win.”

“Funny. Very funny.” Jason was using his elbow to shield his tired eyes from the ceiling lights, but even in that exhausted state, he appreciated Rob taking time off his antisocial schedule to talk some shit. Sometimes, that’s just what a guy needed. “We won, but at what cost?”

“Hmm.” Rob’s questioning sound would have come across as sincere to anyone who didn’t know him. “I think the school actually makes money off your football games, so the cost was probably pretty low.”

Jason’s annoyance surpassed his tiredness, and he sat up in a hurry to look at his friend with an expression of pure indignance. “You know what I mean! Did you see that – that horrible style?”

“You’re talking like I know enough to understand the difference.”

He ignored Rob’s response, running his hands through his own hair as if he wanted to pull it out in a fit of despair. “Ahhh goddamn it! We were so goddamn boring! Where was the style? Where was the fun? Didn’t you see it, Rob? Every single play we ran was textbook as fuck. I mean, okay, we won, but is there a point in winning if you look boring doing it?”

Rob didn't respond immediately. He maintained an even gaze into Jason’s eyes, letting the silence – or rather, the cheering echoing from outside the locker room – hang in the air for a moment. “Well, they certainly seem happy.”

“Well, I’m fucking not!” Jason cried out, sighing. It was childish, he knew, and he wouldn't dare act like this in front of anyone else. He wasn’t even sure if he would allow himself to feel this kind of emotion when alone. But it was fine when Rob was there. “That was stupid! I wanted to fake a field goal then run into the endzone myself!”

Rob nodded slowly, as if he understood. “Hmm. Would that have helped you win?”

“God no!” Jason replied, almost as if offended. Then, he relaxed into a smirk. “But it would have been really cool.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

Jason drew a deep breath. Here – and only here – he allowed his disappointment to show on his face. “Because it’s not just about me. Look, I get that if the boring textbook plays work, that’s what you go for if you want to win. I really get that. But I’m willing to risk losing if it means I get to have more fun, you feel me? Only...” Jason hesitated. It wasn’t that he minded telling Rob about it. It was that he minded admitting it to himself. “It sucks. Knowing that if you mess it up, you aren’t just screwing up things for yourself, but for the entire team. Feels sort of...heavy, if that makes sense. Kind of suffocating. Makes me feel like I have to do things the boring way not to disappoint anyone.”

Rob made a loud sound of understanding and nodded, letting silence fall over them for a moment. They both knew what he was about to say, but the silence showed that he understood how important this matter was to his best friend.

“I don’t recall that stopping you from acting like a clown when we played tennis as a duo,” Rob pointed out dryly. “Every other point, you'd do some stupid shit, like hitting between your legs or something.”

“That’s different,” Jason said, in an oblivious tone, “it’s fine if I upset you. I mean, you’re gonna forgive me.”

There was absolutely no delay between those last few words and Rob’s finger flicking Jason’s forehead with rather impressive precision. He couldn't have hit him that fast based on reaction times alone – he'd been waiting for it. “Jackass,” Rob muttered, annoyedly at first, then relaxing into a smile in the end.

“What? It’s true,” Jason told him, laughing. They both stood up. “I never felt tied down to anything when playing with you. It’s different from a whole team.”

Rob shook his head, sighed, then tapped his friend on the back of the shoulder. “Come on, jackass. You did win a tournament today, so I guess dinner is on me.”

“Really? I’m down for steak.”

“Cheap fast food is what I can afford. Funds are a bit sparse right now." He reached his hands into his pockets, and pulled out nothing, proudly presenting his empty palms. "You’re gonna take reheated, prepackaged cheeseburgers, and you’re gonna like it.”

“Deal.”

The two started walking out of the locker room, Jason shaking his head a few times to put on his mask of ‘perfectly happy captain proud to be part of his team’ before seeing anyone else. Just before they reached the door Rob stopped. “Hey, Jason?”

“What?”

“You should try being more selfish once in a while,” he said, in a serious tone. “I don’t like seeing you stress yourself out with this shit.”

Jason opened his mouth to reply, but shut it when he realized he didn't have anything resembling a counterargument. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I...promise that I'll try.”

And he had. He really had. But it was hard, so hard to be selfish – because at the same time, it was frighteningly easy. His most intense desire was to indulge himself on the field, doing whatever he wanted, the rest of the team be damned. It was exactly why he knew he had to be hard on himself.

Maybe he really wasn’t suited for team sports after all.

He truly wanted to be a good person. It was something that defined him at his core. And wasn’t a good person supposed to let everyone else rely on him? Wasn’t the image of a reliable guy smiling and saying, ‘Leave it to me’ supposed to be cool? Wasn’t it the right thing to make people happy? Wasn’t it the mature thing to keep those selfish feelings buried deep inside him and focus on teamwork?

Jason really thought so.

But then why did he feel so constricted? The older he got, the more it felt as though his limbs had been wrapped in chains. An invisible metal that wasn’t quite heavy enough to paralyze him. He convinced himself he could still move normally, and if he ever felt as though the weight was slowing him down, then he simply had to get strong enough to pull it up with him.

It would all be fine if he let the weight of those chains guide his limbs, but he refused to.

"You’re the best captain we've ever had!" his teammate told him, a broad smile on his face. "Everything feels like it’s going to work out when you’re there with us!"

Still, it felt heavy.

"I’m so glad you’re not in danger," Jeanette said, resting her head on his shoulder. “Knowing that you're handling things fine helps me stay sane."

So heavy.

"I lost a lot of good men before you came along," Danse told him. “Don’t ever forget how much good you’re doing, kid.”

So...heavy...

ACCEPT POWER.

SO. FUCKING. HEAVY.

“JASON!” Danse shouted. “Stop, you’re going to kill him!”

--

His wrist burned.

When Jason came to, he was in a hospital of some sort. Where am I? His memory was hazy. The last thing he remembered was fighting Baker, and almost losing before the coward ran away. What had happened after that? There were soldiers, yes, and they sounded vaguely threatening. Had they taken him somewhere?

It was then that he noticed the man in the white lab coat he'd pinned down, looking up in horror at Jason with broken glasses and nose, tears streaming down his face. “Please, Mr. Miller, I had no choice, I was just following orders, I-”

Jason looked around. A number of military men were on the ground, chaotic pools of blood surrounding each of them. Some moaned, some stood almost completely still, and most had their limbs twisted in quite unnatural ways. Slowly, he looked at his own hands and found wet, fresh blood there. Splotches of red evidence proving what he'd done.

He didn’t feel particularly bad about it, and that concerned him. “What happened?” Jason muttered.

“Those guys took you here,” Danse said. He was standing across the room, blessedly unharmed. “I tried to stop them, but...no, excuses are worthless. They wanted to fucking vivisect you, figure out something about your powers – fuck, I should have known!” He sounded frustrated with himself. “That is why they authorized our mission. Higher-ups were probably hoping you’d die and that they could just recover your body. I’m sorry for not noticing it sooner, Jason.”

That wasn’t the part that he was worried about. “No, I mean”—Jason gestured around the room—“what happened?”

Danse rubbed the back of his head uncomfortably. “You woke up when they were trying to...run experiments on you.” He paused. “Then you fought back.”

A sudden apprehension rushed into his head. Had he killed any of them? Shit. If I did, then I’ll be in deep legal shit. Jeanette might get in trouble over being associated with me too. He still wasn't able to conjure up any strong feelings at the thought of actually killing a person. Morally, he didn't care one way or another.

Worst of all, a part of him wanted to kill them. His wrist burned at the thought, and he grit his teeth, banishing the temptation with more effort than he would've liked.

“They're alive," Danse assured. "We...we stopped you before it got too bad.” He hesitated. “Don’t worry. The army has walked back their orders to run experiments on you.”

“Why?” Jason hadn't meant to sound so distrustful. Danse was his friend. Yet for some reason, he found himself unable to keep his voice calm. “Why the hell have they decided against it?”

The pause was long and painful. “It's been a few days since you lost consciousness, Jason.” Danse’s voice sounded regretful. “They kept you drugged up for a little bit, tried running some experiments until something inside of you changed. I informed your girlfriend you were going on a secret mission,” he quickly added. “She isn't concerned about you disappearing.”

Of course she is. But less than she would have been otherwise. “Thank you,” Jason muttered. “That doesn’t explain why the higher-ups are changing their tune about me, though.”

“Baker...isn't a local issue anymore.” Danse shook his head. “He’s been sighted all around the world. Japan, France, England – you name it. He never looks the same to anyone, but we've confirmed that it’s the same monster." He frowned, a pensive look on his face. "It’s different from what the Outsiders have been doing until now. There's no pattern to it. Baker just wants to kill things.”

Jason raised his eyebrows by a hair. “And?”

“And you’re the only one who fought him and lived.” Danse gave him an awkward shrug. “I don’t think I count – all I did was throw a grenade and run.”

The silence that followed hung heavy. Jason could anticipate what Danse was getting at, and he didn’t like it one bit. But he wanted someone else to say it aloud for him. Even if it was Danse, even if it was his friend – someone needed to have the balls to tell him what they expected him to do. Jason looked at him accusingly. “So?”

“There’s been a lot of rumors about the ‘Red Blur.’ They don’t know for sure that it’s you, but there’s been rumors, of course. All everyone is sure is that there's a man who fought the Baker Street Horror to a standstill.”

Pretty generous to describe it like that. His overcoat was blue, too. They'd either seen the monster itself as it stole his shape, or Jason's jacket had been so covered in blood that they couldn't discern what its original color was. “Why the fuck does that matter?”

“Because it's been slaughtering people.” Danse’s voice grew heavier, and in that instant, even behind those thick sunglasses, Jason could see the weariness in his eyes. “A lot of people. They've been treating it as less of a monster and more of a natural disaster. That thing is like a one-man army, Jason. Wreaks havoc and then slips away before anyone can put it down. People need to believe in something, something to give them hope, and...”

“...And that’s my job. Same as always.” He let out a bitter laugh. Fucking rich. “So what? Am I supposed to just head out there and go fight for the same people that tried to fucking vivisect me?” Anger flared up within him, and he couldn't tell if it came from his heart or his wrist. Jason had never wanted to break something so badly before. At that moment, he knew he had to break something, someone to keep himself from going mad.

Danse didn't blink. “Yes,” he told him plainly. “That is what you are supposed to do.”

Every face in that room felt like it belonged to an enemy. Every soldier that remained upright could have seized him, drugged him, tried to cut him open – enemies. Every single one of them. Their eyes didn't even look human anymore to him, but they didn’t feel like monsters, either. There was something almost...soothing to their existence now, each pair of eyes giving him glimpse into a future where he would shut them forever. And this calmed him. It felt as though all his pain and concerns would go away once they died. More than that, all of those concerns, all of that negativity broiling inside...it would do more than fade away. It would be converted into pleasure.

A voice inside of his head screamed at him.

KILL THEM.

Jason leaped forward at one of the guards that remained upright. The soldier reached for his gun, but Jason caught his wrist first. I’m stronger than you are. He squeezed his grip tight, bone snapping loudly as the man screamed in pain and dropped his weapon. A chorus of steel flared up as guns were drawn, but Jason was ready, spinning around to place his back against the wall as he held his captive as a shield.

Around seven people left, he considered, grinning. They’re going to be pretty inaccurate if they want to avoid hitting their friend, and even if they shoot me my Vitality is going to keep me from dying immediately. Bloodlust surged through him. He wanted to paint the walls red. His heart racing, Jason planted his right foot against the wall behind him, preparing for a lunge forward. Let’s see what you can-

“Stand down!” Danse thundered. He had no authority over anyone in that room at that moment, neither the soldiers nor Jason. Yet his voice was so commanding, and his unarmed presence walking to the middle of the room so demanding of attention, that they all listened to him. “Guns down. Now.”

There was hesitation. “Now!” Danse ordered again, and they all dropped their weapons once more. He sighed in relief, tuning towards Jason next. “Soldier, let go of him.”

Danse spoke like it was an order. Jason's eyes narrowed. He didn't have a single goddamn reason to follow orders right now. He'd been betrayed by the army. By the very man he held in his arms. There was no reason to listen.

He did anyway.

“What do you want?” Jason barked, as he let go of his hostage. His anger hadn’t left his body, but the sheer surprise he felt now had tamed the explosive feeling slightly, if only for the moment. Danse stepped forward. “Don’t come closer!” Jason shouted. Out of all those people, Danse was the only one he didn’t want to harm...and the only one whose presence made him feel scared by how little control he had over his own body. “If you come closer, I’m going to—I’m going to—”

“Break my bones?” Danse ventured. He took another step forward. “Kill me?” His superior shrugged slightly, taking yet another step toward him, and removing his sunglasses. There was warmth in his eyes. “If it helps you feel better, do it. If killing me helps you control yourself, then do it.”

Surprise once again proved to be an effective master over anger, Jason's confusion suppressing the aggression simmering inside. “What the hell are you saying? You know I’m not kidding right? This is..." He shuddered. "Really hard to control.”

“Yeah. I know.” Danse rubbed the back of his head and smiled. It was an awkward action, and it was only here that Jason realized he wasn’t as uninjured as he'd seemed to be at first. His arm...is it from his fight against Baker? He wondered, horrified. Or did I do that?

"Jason," Danse began. “I know what you’re going through is difficult-”

“You don’t!” Jason shot back. His words were visceral, coming from deep within his gut, and they felt truer than anything else he'd said in his entire life. “Having to deal with those powers—my mind—everyone’s expectations—the monster—the fucking betrayal—you don’t know!” In his anger, Jason stomped on the floor, his wrist burning as his foot shattered some of the white concrete beneath. “This isn't something you can ever understand—no one knows what this feels like!”

Every soldier in that room retreated against a wall, some inching toward the door in open horror. Danse didn't move a muscle. “You're right,” he acknowledged, smiling bitterly and raising his arms in a reluctant shrug. “I don’t know. Lucky dumbasses like me don’t get how tough people like you have it. I never really had to fight that hard. Ah, sure, I fought...but my men always saw the worst of it. Was promoted early on, praised for shit that barely even counted. Nepotism is a bitch. And I never got to see the things they did, the horrors they did...they’d come back from an assignment laughing it off like nothing happened, you know? But then I’d catch them staring off into the distance with a haunted expression...”

Danse trailed off. He considered his own words for a moment, then shook his head. “No, that's too simplistic. If it was just being haunted, they could have dealt with it a lot easier. Instead, they would just stare off into space with blank faces. For the most part, they wouldn’t be thinking about anything at all. They were just...numb. Nothing felt real to them."

He closed his eyes, pain evidence in his voice. "Occasionally, they would remember things from back then – back when they were fighting. Like their bodies were desperate to feel something, even if it didn't fit whatever situation they were in. They acted like normal, but inside they were like a scratched CD. Just blank noise...and occasionally repeating an old sound.”

Danse was quiet for a long time. “I could never understand what they went through. Could never help them much. But I knew that they had things to sort out, and I did the only thing I could.”

“What was that?” Jason muttered. “What did you do to help them?”

He laughed in response. “Whatever I could.” There was a sad smile on his face. “Whatever that meant.” He took one last step forward and placed a hand on Jason’s shoulder.

KILL HIM.

It would be so easy, Jason thought. But though the anger within was spurring him onward, he couldn't muster up the desire to go through with it.

“Do you think I didn’t realize how much shit you were going through while fighting those monsters all by yourself?" Danse continued. "That I didn’t notice how your clowning around was your way of trying to cope with everything? I noticed. I...just don’t know how to help. It’s the same thing as with my men." He locked eyes with Jason. "I know I’m asking for the impossible here. For you to keep risking your life, even though your mind is going insane, and after the people you've been fighting for betrayed you. I know that. But I still have to ask you to do it.”

“Why?” Jason managed, in a weak voice. He didn’t mean it as a snappy response, nor did he mean for his words to hurt Danse. He just really needed to know why. “Why are you asking me to do that if you know how fucked up this is?”

“Because you're the only one who can,” Danse said, in an apologetic tone. “And I’m sorry.”

I hate it.

I hate it so much.

It was true, and that made it all the worse. He was the only one who could protect the country – the world right now. Whatever magic shit powered the Outsiders was somehow susceptible to Jason's boosted stats. A monster like the Baker Street Horror, borderline immune to most modern weaponry, could only be defeated by someone like him.

And there was no one else like him.

There was nothing Jason wanted more than to throw it all away, to damn everyone to hell, to let them deal with it without him. Only, he knew they couldn’t deal with it without him. Just like in football. It was the same scenario on a different scale.

Whatever he wanted for himself didn’t come into it. He still had to do the right thing.

“Fine,” he muttered weakly. “Give me back my goddamn sword.”

--

Jason knew he needed some alone time before returning to his unit. Right now he wasn’t safe to be around. He'd almost killed Danse. A part of him still wanted to kill him – to kill the entire goddamn army. They deserved it. They deserved even worse than that.

But there are innocent people who don’t deserve it. People who need the army's protection. It was a rational thought, he figured, but there wasn’t much rationality in him anymore.

KILL.

He'd managed to muffle the thought, but not rid himself of it completely. Worst of all, he couldn’t mention it to anyone. If he did, the military would probably go through the vivisection bullshit again – or at least arrest him. Jason had to get rid of the sensation somehow, if only for the moment...and there was one terrible idea that came to mind.

Before he had even fully decided it, he'd already called Danse. “I know you fucks are tracking my position. How far am I from the contested areas?”

There was a delay before the response came. “You're safe where you are. It gets tricky about two blocks west or four blocks north. There should be checkpoints near you. Can't miss them. Take it easy with your walk – no way you’ll accidentally stumble upon any enemies. You can relax.”

“Yeah. I’m relaxed.”

Jason hung up and immediately headed west.

Monster attacks – Outsiders, whatever they wanted to call them – usually came in somewhat randomly, but certain sections of the city were targeted more heavily than others. Sometimes the military couldn’t even be sure they'd wiped out every monster in the area; the damn things varied in size and could hide in half-demolished buildings for days. The street he and Rob had grown up in was one of them, and this was another.

“Sir,” said one of the men at the checkpoint. “The area after this point is dangerous. Do you have an ID and orders?”

“Here’s my ID.” Jason lifted his monstrously large sword from the scabbard over his shoulder. Just enough to flash steel. “Know anyone else with fucking superpowers that can lift a sword this big? No? Yeah, that’s me. Stop me if you can.”

“Sir—I—”

KILL HIM.

Jason walked right past the man, ignoring him as best he could. He didn’t feel his heartbeat accelerating, but rather dropping to a low, steady rate. There was a very good chance his pupils were dilated now. Every single one of his muscles was stiller than if he was resting, but also ready to explode into violence with a single command. Whatever moving thing he saw, be it debris, a pigeon, or a person, it all seemed to both seize his attention and resonate with something deep inside of him.

This wasn’t the gods speaking to him anymore.

It was his own voice that spoke out and demanded violence. Maybe he should've been scared by that, but he wasn’t. He was just fine with it.

At that thought, when he realized how little this all bothered him, the hilt of his sword jumped up against his forehead, drawing the slightest filet of blood.

1 Point of Bludgeoning Damage Received!

Easy there, Jason. Chill. The pain steadied him, as it always had. Got his head back in the game. Maybe I’ll feel better after blowing off some steam.

Despite it all, he didn’t believe that. It was like an addict trying to convince himself that he would feel less angry at the world if he got just one more hit. Unfortunately, knowing it didn’t make it easier. He couldn’t stop right now – not when he was so close to finally finding out what had happened with Rob.

Yet even at the peak of his insanity, Jason couldn’t push one thought from his mind. What about after I find what happened to Rob? Am I going to be able to shrug this off?

Old habits die hard. Ever since he was little, when Jason couldn’t find a way to answer the questions in his mind, he would always turn to exhausting himself to the point of being unable to think. This time was no different. Before more doubt could set in, he took off running, making as much sound as possible.

“Come on, you insane bullshit monsters!” he demanded. “Fight me!”

It took both a long time and yet not long enough for him to find something to vent his frustrations on. Soon enough, the heap of metal he called a sword was being brought against monster after monster. His swings weren't too accurate, nor were they too efficient. Today, his goal wasn’t to save anyone, or even to gain EXP.

It was to kill things.

KILL. KILL.

Even better if he wasn’t killing them in one blow. Most monsters around this area were weaker than the ones he saw on average, but they would live if he avoided their vital organs. This, Jason imagined, was what an alcoholic felt like when nearing closer and closer to another drink.

Watching the creatures squirm was oddly soothing.

But not soothing enough.

Jason imagined Doakes, the conspiracy lunatic, his life ebbing away in an iron grip. He imagined that entire room of doctors ready to vivisect him if he hadn’t woken up at the right time, and how fun it would be to give them a taste of their own medicine.

Easy there. “I’m so messed up,” he muttered, sitting down on some rubble. There were still monsters around him, but he paid them little mind. “What’s wrong with me?”

Everyone has bad days, times when they just don’t feel like themselves. This was different, though. It was closer to feeling like someone else entirely. Jason didn’t mind that he couldn’t focus like usual – he minded that his priorities didn’t seem right. That he was almost a different person.

“Then again,” he said aloud, to no one in particular, as he half-heartedly cut away one of the monsters coming at him. “Suppose I shouldn’t really care about that.”

With a lazy swing of his sword, the last of the monsters died, and so did his interest in killing them. His heart wasn't in it anymore. There was no way to tell whether he'd actually improved his mood, or just gotten too exhausted to think, and he was okay with that.

Time to head back. Jason wasn’t looking forward to talking to the checkpoint guys again. Were they even military? Hard to tell these days, with everyone being armed to the teeth in case of monster attacks. Don’t even know why they bother. Not like those guns do much to the monsters anyway.

And that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it?

Jason knew that Danse had a point. If not him, then who would fight the monsters? They could spawn pretty much anywhere, and the military wasn't always fast enough to respond. Even when they did, their explosives dealt too much collateral damage.

No, there was only him. Just him. And even then, he had to wonder if it was worth it.

They'd tried to kill him. The people he was supposedly protecting tried to vivisect him. Maybe he should just let them burn in the end. Maybe he should–

“Look! It’s Jason Miller!”

“He’s really here!”

Jason immediately put on his media-friendly mask. He hadn't anticipated the crowd that was now forming by the checkpoint, but on second thought, maybe he should have. In fairness, he had gone out for a walk with his now iconic blue overcoat and oversized sword. If he'd been thinking straight, he would've taken that into consideration.

Still, that wasn’t the time for regrets – it was the time for polite smiles and empty platitudes. He waved at the crowd, laughing at every silly comment he heard them make, and started to consider how he could leave the area without being seen. Thankfully, most questions were easy enough to answer, and it was almost soothing to do so. Feels like watching a robot answer for me. A robot I built myself over years and years of playing sports.

“Jason Miller – we just saw you coming out of Bentley Street. Does that mean the military is planning on retaking it from the Outsiders?”

The reporter made it sound like a traditional war, when in reality there were no enemy combatants holding the streets, the infrastructure was just too damaged to be worth defending and it seemed easier to focus their efforts elsewhere. This wasn’t confidential intel; the government and military had announced as much, albeit as diplomatically as possible.

“I can't comment on the military’s plans," Jason answered. "I may have a big sword, but my ranking isn’t high enough to decide what I can disclose or not, you know?”

“But surely there is something you can tell us. The people need to know more.”

KILL. KILL. Wow. I don’t know if it’s the craziness from earlier, or if I just really hate talking to the media. Honestly, don’t want to flip that coin. “I’m afraid that’s all I can share. If you don’t mind, I need to talk to – the citizens. They're just as important as the media, right?”

It was as good an excuse as any, which is to say not at all. Still, Jason managed to escape it. He shook hands with some serious looking bald dudes in suits, fist bumped some teenagers who he doubted even knew who he was outside of liking his sword, and waved at a bunch of random passersby. Typical PR outing.

The little girl gave him pause, though. “Thanks for trying to save our home,” she said, in a meek voice. “I really appreciate it.”

Jason gave her a blank stare, but the girl’s mother gestured at the street he'd just come out of. “We used to live there,” she apologetically said, “before...”

“Ah. My condolences.” Somehow, without the woman needing to elaborate, he knew that the two had left much behind them. There was too much grief in her eyes for that not to be the case. “I hope you're doing well now.”

“As well as we can.”

There were others in that crowd, he soon learned, who'd also lost many loved ones in this war of his. Husbands, wives, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters...some even had lost themselves. It reminded Jason that, while he didn't have it easy, he'd avoided the worst of it since getting his powers.

The effect was sobering, enough so that he was thankful when he saw Danse approaching him in a military vehicle. Jason wasn’t even bothered by the tracking the military probably had on him. Or they could've just turned on whatever channel that reporter is from, I guess.

“Figured you might appreciate a pickup,” Danse said cheerfully, taking Jason’s hand and pulling him into the truck. “You always hated media crap.”

“Guess so.”

The two rode in awkward silence for a short while. Jason had nearly tried to kill him not too long ago, and it felt odd to be speaking to him normally. But that was what the man wanted, and it would've been even ruder not to say anything at all. “Feels weird. Seeing normal people, you know.”

“It’s tough.”

“But it doesn’t make it okay. It doesn’t make everything go away.” Jason drew a deep breath. “Maybe if I were a really, really good guy I’d say: ‘Oh, after seeing those civilians who lost so much, I’m willing to be more self-sacrificial no matter the cost.’ But you know what? I’m not. I’m really not.” He laughed bitterly. “Am I a bad person, Danse?”

“Not even close. You’re one of the greatest I've ever met.” There was an awkward pause that followed. Danse couldn’t meet his eyes. “Jason...you have every right to be upset. I told you as much. But you’re the only one who can–”

“Yeah, yeah. Still doesn’t feel right,” Jason grumbled, looking out into the streets they left behind. “I’ll do the right thing. It's just...”

“Feels wrong?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you think would feel right?”

“Hell if I know.” Killing more monsters, perhaps. “The thing is...I don’t know how much longer we can handle all of this.”

“I don’t either,” Danse said frankly.

At that, Jason raised an eyebrow and turned round to look him in the eye. There was a self-deprecating smile on Danse’s face. “I might not be too useful in fighting, but I know when my men aren’t doing well.”

“You’re very attentive. Did you realize that before or after I nearly strangled you?”

“Before, if you can believe that.”

The two laughed. It felt like too dark of a joke to make so soon, but for men who danced with death every sunset, no jest was too far. There was so much Jason wanted to say, yet at the same time, it felt like he didn’t know what any of it was. “Last time we fought Baker...I didn’t feel like I could win. I’m not sure anyone can.”

“We could always nuke it,” Danse said. It sounded like a joke. Probably. Hard to tell with how stern he looked, but his eyebrows were raised behind those sunglasses. “That would kill it.”

“If it stayed in one place, sure. How likely do you think it is that we’ll get it somewhere uninhabited and keep it there until we fired?” Jason shook his head. “Besides, no country is going to want to nuke its own soil just to kill one monster.”

“There is another solution.” The silence that followed spoke loudly enough, but Danse made a point to say it aloud. “You could kill it.”

He looked just like me... “Yeah. I guess I could.”

The anger wasn’t starting to fade, but the impulse in his head had. At least for now. Jason knew his reprieve wouldn't last long.

His eyes shifted towards the bracelet burning into his wrist. It wasn’t too hard to have a rough guess of what was going on – not that it made things easier, and not that it made much of a difference either way.

He refused to go crazy until he'd won his bet.

--

Jason had planned on acting distant towards his unit when he came back. It would let them know that something had happened, and that he wasn’t happy. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. None of them knew why he'd been missing for a few weeks, the official story being that he was out on a mission chasing after the Baker Street Horror, and they greeted him with broad smiles when they saw him. They'd been so relieved he was back, so happy to see him safe, that his plans faded almost immediately.

Shit. How does Rob do it? I can’t help myself, Jason thought, as he smiled and joked with the men he'd meant to withdraw from.

They needed him now more than ever.

“Baker was last sighted in France,” Jeff told him. “At first, we thought that was gonna be it. The army surrounded him – even brought some tanks. But...they barely scratched him, and before the really big guns could be deployed, he vanished.” He paused. “Baker was sighted in several different countries a few days after that, pretty much intact. He’s just running around, destroying everything he can, fighting whatever he wants. No one can stop him.”

The unspoken hung in the air.

Except for me.

It wasn’t like they could just drop a nuke on a single humanoid target with the ability to teleport across countries. Bullets did less against him every day, and he seemed fast enough to dodge most explosives regardless. Not to mention the sheer collateral damage those weapons left behind – fighting him did as much damage to an area as Baker himself.

“If he comes here again...” Jeff started, uneasily. “I’m scared, Jason. My child was just born, you know?”

“Yeah.” Jason shook his head. Don’t say it. Don’t take responsibility. “Don’t worry. If he comes back here, I'll finish him myself.”

Jeff cheered up as Jason's mood darkened. They exchanged some small talk for a little while, and it was almost a relief when they got word that monsters were sighted ahead. Jason quickly nodded at his group and ran off ahead to finish them.

Even now, he hadn’t lost track of his main goal.

EXP.

Level 30.

Rob.

He'd been unconscious for a week. Needed to kill things as fast as possible before the time limit ran out. How long did he have left? A day? Two? Shit. He was Level 23 right now. Was it even possible to gain seven levels that quickly?

But that’s not really why I’m rushing ahead, is it? Jason thought, as he caught sight of the first monster and pursed his lips. This is just fun.

Jason couldn’t lie to himself anymore. He was enjoying the killing. Usually, when he grew to enjoy something, he would get bored with it after a while – you can’t help but get a little less excited about something if you do it over and over again, after all. But this was different. Killing monsters wasn’t getting less enjoyable. If anything, he was enjoying it more every time he did.

Enough that he was growing concerned.

“Sorry Turtle Fucker, no time for chatting today,” Jason said to the monster’s headless corpse. “Really have to go.”

This wasn’t enough. It wasn’t giving him enough EXP, true, but it wasn’t giving him enough excitement either. Would Baker give him the feeling he wanted right then?

Would a human?

Jason struck himself in the face, breathing heavily as the realization dawned on him. What the hell am I thinking? The most frightening part lately was that he would catch himself having those terrifying ideas like they were the most natural thing in the world, as if the little voice inside every person that told them to disregard intrusive thoughts had been silenced. He had to stay on guard. If he let himself stop paying attention for even one second, it would...

ACCEPT POWER.

The voices still terrified him, yet Jason noticed his hands weren’t shaking. That wasn’t good. It was as if his emotions and actions were divorcing themselves from each other. “I'm struggling enough to remain sane right now,” he muttered. “So forgive me if I’m not thrilled about making it easier for you to turn me into a mindless beast.”

YOU CANNOT WIN.

Jason shrugged. That thought had come to mind before. His last fight against the Baker Street Horror hadn't been easy, and he honestly couldn't imagine himself winning against it. That made sense, he supposed. If nothing else, this whole thing had given him time to really understand more about the beast. It was becoming stronger every day by adapting to people’s fears, just like the other monsters were adapting to gunfire. Jason’s fear had been ideal for it.

What he was most afraid of was the perfect version of himself.

The version of him that could do almost anything required of him without effort. A mythical genius that existed in everyone’s mind, blessed with the ability to do whatever he wanted – that actually could do everything easily, instead of just hiding how much effort it all took.

How was he supposed to beat that?

YOU MUST KILL IT.

“Don’t waste your time,” Jason shot back, the air around him growing colder. It was like speaking back to a winter night that encroached closer and closer upon you with every breath. “Let me do things my way. I hate to admit it, but I’m barely hanging on as it is.” The bracelet had given him more power, he knew. Without it, he would be even weaker...and even with this advantage he still barely landed a hit on Baker. But he couldn’t accept more power. “It would be pretty lame if I found out what happened to Rob but ended up too crazy to do anything about it. Let me try this my way. Either I kill it and you get to go on with whatever you have planned, or I die and you are presumably amused. Win-win for you, no?”

NO.

Now this was interesting. “Why the fuck does it matter to you if I kill it or not?” he asked slowly.

The voices didn't respond, sending Jason's mind racing with possibilities. Why did they care so much about him defeating the Baker Street Horror? That’s not how they had been at first. If anything, they'd appeared completely certain that Jason would fail to beat it, almost reveling in the idea. Now, the voices were acting like killing Baker was absolutely necessary.

Danse’s words came to his mind. "It’s different from what the Outsiders have been doing until now. There's no pattern to it. Baker just wants to kill things."

No fucking way.

ACCEPT POWER.

It wasn’t going to tell him as much, but Jason could bluff here. “No,” he told it, flatly. “I don’t want to go crazy.” Crazier, at least.

There was a pause. Not only was there silence, but even the cold air appeared to grow warmer for a moment, until both the voice and a chilly breeze returned at once. POWER WITHOUT MADNESS.

“That would be great if I could trust you. Thing is, I can’t. And that’s a pity, you know? For the both of us.” Jason shook his head. “I mean, you lost control of the monster, haven’t you?”

No response. It was hard to gauge its reaction just based on the lack of sound, but Jason was nothing if not a shit-stirrer. “Oh my, you got yourself in a bit of trouble, eh? Created that thing, let it feed on human fears...and now your mad dog broke out of its leash. What’s that, were you not prepared for how utterly terrified humans can be of things? Tell me, was it any particular fear that turned out to be too much? Oh noooo, what’s going to happen if you can’t control it? Although that might just be the issue itself, eh?” Jason laughed out loud. He hoped the other soldiers were still too far behind to hear him, but it was hardly a pressing concern. “Guess you’re not used to not controlling things.”

It felt as though he was being choked.

Jason was lifted up in the air by an invisible force. Only the tips of his feet touched the ground, and he couldn't breathe at all, like a ghost was grasping his throat and draining the life out of him. His limbs grew heavier as that same invisible force shoved him to the ground, pressing down hard. Even moving a single finger felt like a superhuman effort. Colder than before, the air now felt like a blade millimeters away from his neck.

ACCEPT.

POWER.

Jason tried to speak, but he wasn't capable of opening his mouth. Heavy, invisible chains had lashed him to the ground and sealed his lips. There was no real choice. If he rejected their proposal, he would be killed right here and now. Even if he survived, Baker would kill him just a bit later. Resisting was more than futile, it was impossible. His body wouldn't move at all; he could barely even move his fingers.

ACCEPT.

POWER.

His mouth still couldn't answer. The voice appeared to notice this, and he felt the grip on his right hand loosen. It didn’t even want him to answer him aloud, just for Jason to give a signal of yes or no. The freezing, oppressive air, and his failing lungs told him what would happen if he didn’t capitulate. He thought of Danse, Jeanette, the army, the press – everyone who needed him to be strong.

ACCEPT?

The voice allowed Jason to regain just a little movement in his hand. Slowly, he started to curl his fingers inward, about to extend his thumb upward in affirmation. It was the right thing to do, he knew. But he heard something like a mocking chuckle from the voice, and a sudden spark of stubborn fervor overtook him, stronger than the madness could ever be.

He curled every finger inward except for his middle one.

There was a pause. It should have been eerie, yet Jason couldn't help feeling very pleased with himself. Horror could not touch his heart, for pride had already made its home there. Go ahead, kill me.

...ACCEPT POWER LATER. The voice disappeared with that, as did the cold air and the pressure on his lungs.

At first, Jason did nothing but laugh. It was outright hysterical to him. He'd managed to talk back to the voices, even if he was still nowhere closer to knowing what their goals were. Yet, as the laughter echoed in the open air, exhaustion set in – and so did his concerns.

He'd told the voices off, sure, but they still seemed certain he would accept their offer. And were they wrong? Jason still didn't have a chance at defeating Baker.

“He’s what everyone else thinks I am,” Jason muttered. “Stronger than anyone. Faster than anyone. Can do anything without breaking a sweat.” Even in their brief fight from before, the Baker Street Horror had shown himself to be much more adept at using a sword than Jason ever could be. People assumed that Jason was a master swordsman just because he carried the hunk of metal around, not realizing it was just the first thing he'd thought of that wasn’t a baseball bat.

Everyone thinks I’m some sort of invincible genius, but – that’s not it, goddamn it!

If he was, he wouldn't be in this situation. Jason couldn't do anything to Baker right now. He would need to accept the voices' offer to stand a chance against it. Even if I go crazy, at least Baker will be dealt with, Jason reasoned. What about future monsters though? He couldn’t fight them if he'd completely lost his mind. Then there was Rob; Jason still needed to find out what happened to him. To get him out of wherever the fuck he went. And Jeanette...she would be crushed if he turned into a mindless berserker.

And what if he did defeat Baker somehow? The army was still always going to be a shadow looming over his shoulder, able to kidnap him again and – and cut him open while he was still alive. They would have very little reason to let him roam free once Baker was dealt with. Maybe the best thing to do was to let it rampage around, keep himself in the public eye, make it harder for the army to make him disappear without anyone noticing...

But that would mean letting thousands of people die, just so he could stay safe.

Shit.

What could he even do? There was no goddamn right answer here.

“Hey.” Jason wasn’t even aware when he had pulled his phone out of his pocket, and only vaguely aware that he had called her. “Jeanette?”

“Jason?” Her voice was both surprised and relieved. Even over the phone, he knew how much concern his sudden disappearance had caused her. “Oh my god, you’re – you’re fine. I want to be mad at you, but I’m just glad you’re-”

Jason felt guilty for not letting her finish. “I need help,” he muttered.

He couldn't see her face, but just that pause was enough for him to know exactly what expression she was making. It was the one Jeanette always made when setting aside her own fears to talk about his. Jason hated seeing that face, because he wanted to be the one to help, to be her pillar of strength. But it was also the most soothing expression in the world, and just imagining it right now brought him a measure of peace. “What’s wrong, honey?” she kindly asked.

“It’s too much,” he said, and hated himself for saying it. It was too honest. She was going to feel even more concerned. But there was no stopping him now; the words were already spilling out of his mouth. “Don’t know what to do. There’s so much. A monster I have to defeat, a friend I have to save, an army I have to fucking avoid – and I’m supposed to do it all with a smile on my face. How the hell am I supposed to do that.”

“Hard to help you when I don’t know exactly what’s going on,” Jeanette said, in a joking tone. God, her laughter healed his soul. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“There is way too much to say at once.”

“It would be easier if you'd told me as it was starting to pile up.”

Ouch. She had a point, though. “I just...I don’t know what to do. No, I guess that isn’t true.” He drew a deep breath. “But it’s hard.”

“That bad?”

“That bad,” he confirmed.

“I can’t make it easier for you,” Jeanette told him. “I would if I could, but I don’t have superpowers. I’m good with a gun, but I doubt that would be enough.” Good was an understatement. A few more competitions and she would qualify for the Olympics as a shooter. “But I can get some nice movies set up for when you're back, so you can relax. Ah, no food with garlic though, I hate that, remember?”

Even in his current state, Jason had to laugh at that. “Yeah...of course.”

“Do your best. I'll be with you no matter what, okay? Not just me. Your coach, your friends from the army – everyone.”

Jason sighed. If only it was that easy. “Jeanette,” he said, in a quiet voice, “if I try to do what I think is the right thing and fail...it’s not just me. You guys are going to die with me too. I can’t gamble with your lives.”

“Yes, you can.”

Jeanette’s answer came so promptly, so quickly, so devoid of hesitation, that it took Jason a moment until he could even utter back, “What?”

“I can’t speak for anyone else, but I’m betting my life on you. We all are, really. You’ve been our only hope for a while, right?”

“That’s exactly why,” Jason began, voice full of exasperation, “that I can’t just be a reckless-”

A loud burst of static hurt his ears and cut him short. Jeanette had tapped against the phone to cut him off. “It would be really selfish of us to expect any more from you," she said.

“It wouldn’t!” he shouted. “It’s your goddamn lives we’re talking about. If I’m wrong, if I lose, then-”

“Do you think fighting is the right thing?” Jeanette asked, as if she hadn’t heard him. “That what you’re afraid of doing is what you think you should do?”

He wanted to lie. To run away. To find an easier option.

“It is,” he admitted.

“Do you know what to do now?” Jeanette asked, gently.

Jason drew a deep breath and nodded. “Yes. I do," he said, in a tone full of confidence. He looked around the empty area. “There's just one more thing I have to do, and then I’m coming home. I promise.”

“Good,” she replied happily, as if he wasn’t just about to risk his life. “I'll be waiting for you.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.” Jeanette paused. “I'll be waiting for you, okay?” she muttered once more. "As long as it takes."

Jason hung up, but continued looking at his phone for a moment. “Please do,” he said.

He allowed himself only one more moment to hesitate. Then, he gripped his sword and looked to the sky. In the end, there was still one easy way to solve everything. But it was completely absurd...more than that, it was dangerous. The avaricious thoughts of a madman.

Memories of his conversation with coach Vasquez flashed in his mind.

“That seems greedy,” Jason muttered.

His coach shook him. “That’s fine. Be greedy. Be obstinate. Most of all, be whatever you want – and I'll always support you, Jason.”

Maybe that was just how things had to be. “BAKER!” Jason declared to the sky, pointing his sword at the sun. “I'M RIGHT HERE, YOU COWARD! COME FIGHT ME!”

Chapter 7

KNEEL.

BE MINE.

SERVE.

The creature they called Baker had only recently become aware of the first time he'd heard those orders. It vaguely remembered being born, a long time ago – if you could call its spawning a ‘birth.’ It didn’t have a name. It didn't have a self. It was an it.

Things had changed. Lately, Baker was starting to think of itself as a ‘he’. It possessed life where there should have a mindless husk. The Human had even given a name to his presence, and he found that something about having a name overjoyed him.

Joy. So strange. What is it, I wonder?

When he had been spawned, alongside countless others, it remembered just one feeling – an unending, all-encompassing hunger. More than just orders, he was given an impetus deep inside his very core, forcing him to attack any living creature that presented itself before him. His entire existence was spent locked up in chains, unleashed only when new prey presented itself. Blood and death kept him fed, but the hunger still remained.

Did his siblings feel the same? It was hard to tell. It – he – didn't know if they had feelings aside from hunger back then. He certainly hadn't. He wasn’t even sure if the hunger was a feeling, so much as an unceasing urge. His first ‘thoughts’ only arose when he heard them speaking to him.

The voices who turned him into something else.

FIGHT. KILL.

Obeying his first command brought about his first hints of awareness, of being, but it wasn’t there that ‘it’ evolved into ‘he.’ Some time later – a few minutes? A few months? – Baker had started to eat and adapt to humanity's fears. Whether it was something they had made him capable of doing, or something Baker had always been capable of, he didn’t know. His memories were ever-present, stretching back as far as the moment of his inception, but they were only as useful as his understanding of the world around him had been back then. Time passed, he received more orders, his shape changed, and he ate more fears. Every fear gave him something new. Something more.

His first major development came when he transformed into a bear.

There was a human woman whose parents had been mauled by one when she was younger. She always feared suffering the same fate – a paranoia that, in the end, became reality. Baker turned into the animal, and was immediately surprised to see how much more of the world he understood. It was an animalistic, almost feral understanding of things...but it was still an understanding. He felt the same things that an animal did when he used his newfound claws to tear the woman apart. Satisfaction. Excitement. Urgency. Feelings and sensations he'd never known before.

Baker didn't tell the voices about it. Something deep inside him, something he'd lacked until now, told him to stay quiet. It took him several more hunts to recognize what it was.

He had acquired a survival instinct.

Development slowed. Baker ate more and more fears, but none filled him as the bear had. He devoured other humans, animals, corpses...yet he didn’t feel complete.

Then he met Jason Miller.

It wasn’t just the awareness that came with being human that had changed things. It was that it – no, HE – knew that he personally resonated with Jason’s fears. Unlike the human, Baker didn't care for anyone other than himself, but there was something else he noticed within Jason's mind. A thought that, now that he could put it to words, sounded oddly terrifying.

Among many other things, Jason Miller was afraid of being the gods’ plaything.

Baker felt much the same way.

Even after breaking free of their control, something done nearly on a wild whim, he still felt their presence in the back of his mind. Did Jason feel the same? Did the man whose face he stole also sense their call, that inevitable, immutable pull toward them?

In a way, Baker accepted it. He would experience as much of the world as he could, and when all was said and done, return to his eternal prison. There was no escaping the fate of his origins, no more than a creature of flesh and blood could resist the march of old age.

These human considerations, Baker thought, looking at his hand, are so debilitating. Freedom is as alluring as it is temporary. Jason Miller would soon surrender his mind to them, becoming their new toy and hostage. Baker would follow shortly after, unable to persist as an independent existence.

It saddened him, of course.

But that was just how things were.

“BAKER!” Jason Miller raised his sword to the sun and issued the challenge. “I'M RIGHT HERE YOU COWARD! COME FIGHT ME!”

I suppose it’s the end, then. For you, human...and for me. Baker drew his sword and started his descent.

--

“Jason used to tell me,” Rob began, in a thoughtful tone, “that the reason he worked so hard was because he wanted to be free.”

Keira raised an eyebrow. “Was he held prisoner? Fighting to earn your freedom sounds like a barbaric practice."

“Ah, no, not like that,” Rob said quickly, waving it off. He paused, thinking of the best way to put his thoughts into words. Jason had liked to say a lot of esoteric things about the meaning of competition and self-improvement, some of which went over Rob's head, and most of which unfortunately didn’t. By now, he'd come to understand that competitive idiot's mindset, if only due to osmosis.

“He doesn’t like going for a straight and easy victory," Rob settled on. "Jason's a fan of messing around. If he can choose between entertaining and efficient, he'll pick entertaining every time he can get away with it. Of course, if you want to do that sort of thing and still win, you have to be good. Really good. Being able to mess around in a serious match is a privilege of the hyper-competent. So he was always looking for a way to improve himself...so he could mess around more."

Rob had grown to understand that more and more lately, even if he would never mess around like Jason always did. Well, even Jason would take things more seriously in an actual fight to the death instead of a sports competition.

Probably. Rob frowned at the thought. Shit. Would he?

“I admire the idea of always trying to be the strongest version of yourself, but it’s probably for the best that your friend didn’t end up here,” Keira said, sipping at her cup of water. When Rob looked at her inquisitively, she added, “Don't get me wrong – I don’t mean to insult your friend. He sounds very competent. It’s just that, well, you make it sound like he’ll do just about anything to win.”

“Thought you’d approve of that,” Rob said, raising an eyebrow. “What’s wrong with him being a little stubborn?”

“Nothing, but...” Keira stopped and looked at him hesitantly. “I mean no disrespect, but he's a Human. All things considered, with Leveling High as an added consequence...it would be problematic if he was willing to do anything to win.”

Rob nodded slowly as the implication dawned on him. Jason was the type of guy who would remain determined to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat long after the fangs had gone through his skin. His only saving grace was that Humans couldn’t push beyond their limits just by trying really hard – and dear lord, Jason tried hard. If there was actually a way for him to shatter those limitations, to succumb to his desire of becoming stronger...

“Jason would definitely want it on some level,” Rob acknowledged. Keira looked at him, eyes full of surprise, as if she hadn't expected him to meet her on those terms. “A competitive fucker like him...I hate to admit it, but he craves power like a starving man wants food. He’d consider just about anything just to get more of it.”

--

ACCEPT. POWER.

Jason exhaled, his throat dry. It was tempting. Very, very tempting. At first it had felt like a blind proposal, a mere undefined concept in his mind, but it was different now that he'd experienced his first taste of what the voices had to offer. The power danced in his mind, so precious, so sweet. A single word, a single drop of his right knee to the ground, and he would welcome it inside himself. The strength he had always yearned for. Simple, sheer power that would allow him to truly become as invincible as everyone believed him to be.

The voices barely needed to speak to him now. His very desire sang to him all on its own, enchanting him, luring him into it. Jason was surprised he could contain the feeling at all.

“Are you ready to accept your power?” Baker spoke in a casual tone, strolling up beside him with an extended hand as if he were an old friend. “Or have you come here to die? The latter would be most convenient for me.”

Jason regarded the monster carefully. Baker still looked nearly identical to himself, but it had also changed in a few ways. It appeared more human now, the crevices in its skin less noticeable, and its human mask almost melded with the otherworldly scales beneath. His clothes were more rugged than before, the red overcoat nearer to wine than blood. And yet the monster itself, Baker, was unharmed.

“Good to see you, Baker,” Jason told him, drawing his gargantuan sword. “Heard the voice's puppy stopped wagging his tail. Why are you still going on about killing me and making me accept their power? It shouldn’t have anything to do with you anymore, fuckface.”

Baker opened its mouth as if to reply, then stopped, laughing quietly and shaking his head. “I am comprised of your fears, Jason. I know you better than anyone in this world – better even than yourself. Why are you wasting time with questions? It’s not as if you care, or that there’s anything I could say that would make us come to an agreement.”

Well, it had a point there. Jason shrugged, as much as one could shrug while holding a heavy blade with both hands. “If you’re made of my fears – that applies to you as well, doesn't it?”

The monster drew his own sword and pointed it at him. “I suppose it does. It’s about time we—”

“—Finish this,” Jason cut him off.

Distant gunfire told them both that their fight wouldn’t be interrupted. More monsters had appeared elsewhere; enough to keep the army busy. Jason wouldn't be surprised if that was instigated by the voices to keep anyone else from interfering, now that they had vested interest in seeing him succeed.

ACCEPT. POWER.

It was tempting...so tempting...but even when nearly seduced by their invitation, Jason could sense the exasperation, the fury that bordered on anguish in that otherworldly voice. It wanted nothing more than for him to accept their demands, truly believing that he couldn't win this fight without their help. In his hazy state, it wasn’t a rational concern of what would happen to his mind that kept Jason from accepting their offer. Rather, it was a much rawer, more primal emotion that ruled his denial.

Spite.

Don’t know why they want me to use it, but I hate those fuckers, so I’m not gonna, Jason thought.

It was with that mindset that he charged, launching himself forward with both arms, thrusting his blade forward to maximize his reach. Baker, having anticipated the slow attack, lifted his own sword and met Jason’s blade from the side. The monster took one step to the right, bringing his elbows high, and pushed Jason's blade past him. Redirecting thrusts took less stamina and power than meeting it in a contest of strength, and also allowed for your opponent to draw closer with little footwork on your part.

Jason knew as much. If he continued his attack, his blade would meet empty air, causing him to keep running until he was past Baker, and allowing the monster a free swing at his back. He couldn't allow that to happen. Instead, when his shoulders were nearly lined up with Baker's, right before passing by, he kicked the ground to throw his own back against his opponent’s chest. If you had a dagger, I would be dead, Jason thought, in an oddly calm tone. But from this distance, you can’t hit me with a sword as long as yours.

It would have been a ridiculous approach to employ in a regular sword fight. Fighting in close range was a well-documented area of study, as Jason had found out, but there was one very good reason you didn’t just backdash at your opponent’s chest, even if they were using a long weapon. You were basically inviting them to grab your neck and strangle you.

That was exactly what Baker did – and exactly what Jason had been counting on. The monster changed to a one-handed grip of his sword, cold fingers wrapping around Jason’s neck. Suffocating a person from that angle would be difficult with a single arm, but eventually, it would succeed.

That was fine, if it came down to that. Jason’s aim wasn’t to win their impromptu wrestling match. Instead, he dropped his sword entirely and used both hands to grab Baker’s arm...but not the one that was strangling him. He went for the arm that was still holding its sword. Jason’s right arm wrapped over Baker's sword arm, pulling it closer toward him, and his left arm grabbed the creature’s forearm, bones creaking under his grip as he remembered the incident in the hospital a few days ago. I crushed a soldier’s arm in a second. Bet I can do it again before Baker suffocates me.

He called upon the power of the bracelet. It felt like a sort of poisonous ice was running through his veins, sending a chill down his every thought, and he had to fight it to keep it from freezing his mind. ACCEPT. POWER. NO! I’ll steal it instead! He knew he was weaker than Baker, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t beat him. Even the world’s strongest boxer could get knocked out by a nobody on the street if the latter landed a lucky punch at the right time. The competitor who made the better choices won – that’s what a one-on-one competition boiled down to. If Jason could crush one of the monster’s arms, its ability with the sword would be lowered dramatically.

I've got better strategy, Jason thought, adrenaline rising within him, the army and I trained for this. I can–

“Uninspired,” Baker muttered, unbothered. “And uncreative.”

The creature jumped backward, at first making it seem like it was intending on landing on its back. Then it turned around slightly in mid-air, causing both it and Jason to land on their side. The two of them rolled together after the impact, finishing with Jason's hands and knees on the ground as Baker grabbed him from behind.

Their swords had been abandoned. Baker was using both of his hands to choke Jason now, his right arm enveloping the human's neck entirely, and his left arm planted on the back of Jason’s head to keep him in place.

Then the monster squeezed.

Jason felt the life being drained out of him, less a sharp pain and more like the sandman was paying him a visit, his limbs growing numb. Not a single wisp of air was making it down his throat. Can’t...breathe... He tried pulling Baker's arm away from his neck, but the creature's grip was too tight, an iron vice choking the life out of him.

“Futile, Jason, futile,” Baker said, calmly. “I am your worst fears come alive. The perfect version of you, the one you know you can never live up to. While you barely even know how to grapple, a meal I devoured happened to be quite adept at it." Its inflection changed, mimicking the taunting tone Jason sometimes used to throw off his opponents. "Fun, eh?”

Death was knocking, his body rushing to greet it. Jason felt the strength in his limbs fading further, his feeble resistance waning, his desperate survival instinct suffocated out of him. Draw enough blood from a man, and he might use his last breath to swing a blade in your direction, even as he departs from this world, but things are different when a person can’t breathe. Even the desire to fight back is drained from their body, a sort of invasive drowsiness, like a sudden invitation to sleep that cannot be ignored.

ACCEPT. POWER.

FADING. FAST.

A strange sort of adrenaline settled over Jason. Not quite a burst of energy, more like the last sparks flying out of a dying fire. For a moment, his fading consciousness didn’t bother him, and the voice didn’t appeal to him in the slightest. This second wind wouldn’t last, he knew, and he couldn't let it go to waste. Baker moved to wrap his legs around him, and Jason jerked his body to the side, twisting the monster's foot inward and creating just enough of an opening to slip his head mildly out of the grip.

TURN! Jason shouted inside his head, as if he were a coach commanding his own body to listen.

Jason threw his body sideways, bringing the monster currently gripping at his head along with him. The move surprised Baker, causing it to loosen its grip, and allowing Jason to thrust his arm and free himself from the hands around his neck. Fucking finally, I can breathe again. From that position, Jason tried to put Baker on the same hold he'd fallen victim to a moment before, but the creature turned around and kicked him in the ribs. Son of a fucking – why do you have to keep hitting the same goddamn ribs?

The two stumbled away from each other to relative safety. Jason grit his teeth and scrambled for the sword nearest to him, less upset about the pain and more about the opportunity he’d just wasted. By the time he'd managed to retrieve his weapon and take a fighting stance, the monster had already picked up a sword himself, staring at him with a dispassionate gaze.

“You can't out-grapple me any more than you can out-fence me,” Baker said, beginning his footwork once more. “But it was a decent attempt, nonetheless.”

ACCEPT. POWER. NOW!

TOO.

STRONG!

CAN’T.

WIN.

Images flashed through his mind. Jeanette, Rob, Danse – everyone around the world who needed him to win. If he lost, if he fell here...countless others would die. The world wouldn't end, but it'd have to deal with Baker roaming the planet and wreaking havoc, less a monster and more a natural disaster. Is this it? Am I...am I this weak?

Jason furiously shook his head and advanced forward, bringing his sword downward in a vertical slash. “FUCKING DIE ALREADY!” he shouted.

Baker met the attack with his own sword, bending his knees and elbows to brace against the impact. For a split-second, they were locked in a contest of strength. Had they pressed onwards from there, Baker would have won without issue. But as steel bounced off steel and both men stepped forward, standing too close to properly swing their gargantuan blades, they quickly realized that their clash would come down to a contest of technique. Jason needed to find a way to get around Baker's guard from above, and Baker, kneeling below, needed to find the space to swing his sword without exposing his upper body to Jason’s counterattack.

And here, in a contest of pure technique, the only exchange that Jason felt he had a chance in...

...He lost.

Baker exposed his head as he took a half-step backward. Jason saw the motion and tried to punish it, but his swing was just a hair slower than Baker's. The realization that followed almost hurt more than the attack itself – that, despite reading the situation correctly, his body simply couldn't keep up.

'Almost' being the key word, because as he stumbled backward, the pain on his side rapidly became unbearable. “My—my fucking—ribs,” Jason cursed. They were cracked at least, but were they broken? If so, then moving even a little bit could result in him stabbing his own lungs. Bone fragments in the wrong places would kill just as easily as a sword to the chest. Jason forcibly brushed his concerns aside; there was no point in considering the possibility. If he stopped fighting, he would die anyway.

Jason adjusted his stance carefully, holding his sword in a defensive hanging guard, pointing the tip of the blunt blade diagonally and towards the ground. He was barely holding it over his head, deflecting the worst of his enemy’s blows, but the vibration from their clash was enough to send tremors of pain jolting through his bones. A sort of nervous desperation started to touch him, a rising concern that he would soon face defeat – and he banished the emotion. Focus, he told himself.

That, at least, was easy. No one could focus better than he could. Jason set his mind on the present, on his very next move. Always on the next move. At times like this, he needed to take things step by step, sparing at most one or two thoughts for the immediate future. His blade deflected move after move, low and high, taking one step backward with each exchange. Try as he might, Baker was unable to close the gap between them, and after five awkward blocks, the back of Jason’s foot found some uneven ground, giving him the opportunity to hop over it and gain some distance. Baker took half a step forward, as if intending on giving chase, before hesitantly halting. It was one thing to retreat with a short jump, and another to advance with one. A person can't change directions in mid-air, and even if he was the more skilled duelist, jumping forward recklessly would open him up to a counterattack.

The monster held back, allowing Jason to find some measure of safety between them. Jason didn't dare think of this as a victory; the fact that Baker wasn't chasing after him meant only one thing. That he was winning, easily, and didn’t need to take risks.

Jason’s injuries attested to that.

“Give up,” Baker told him. “This is as far as you can go. No amount of clever strategies will change reality. It’s not just that my level is higher; it’s that I am the version of you that is as strong as you can imagine yourself being.” He dashed forward and brought his sword against Jason. Giant blade met giant blade, and Jason fell backwards, chest screaming in pain, as he stabbed the unsteady ground to remain upright. “Accept your fate, human.”

Baker didn't even give Jason the chance to pull his sword out of the ground. He ran up and slammed the blunt side of his sword against Jason's torso, causing the human to collapse to the ground, gasping like a fish out of water. “You can’t do it,” Baker muttered, sounding vaguely forlorn. “You’re abnormally talented, so it may have taken you a long time to realize this...but we all have limits, Jason. Things we can’t ever do. It’s just the natural order of things.”

Limits.

A dreaded word that scared him more than death itself.

Was this it? Had he finally hit a wall? Baker was just...better than him. An encapsulation of the image of perfection in Jason’s mind – everything he wanted to be. The creature's moves were sharper, his confidence was unshakable, and his speed was just a fraction faster. Baker was capable of feats that Jason couldn't picture himself achieving, at least not during the course of this fight.

Limits.

Jason felt an invisible, nonexistent chain wrap itself around his body. He thought of how Baker had managed to escape a fight against tanks. How many people would die until they finally managed to land a lucky shot against the slippery bastard? Someone with resistance to gunfire, incredible durability, and this much ability to maneuver around would be nearly impossible to take down with conventional weaponry...without major losses, anyhow.

How many people would perish simply because he'd failed to win this one fucking fight?

Limits. BREAK THEM.

Another set of chains wrapped itself around him. He thought of Jeanette, Rob’s parents, everyone he knew. How they'd implicitly believed that he would make things better. That he would somehow pull through, just like he always did. As if this was just another game of football, and Jason was heading off to deliver a beatdown to the reigning, undefeated champions like it was no big deal.

Limits. SAY THE WORD.

Heavier and heavier, those chains. Danse and his unit were on Jason's mind now. How long would they survive without him? They were going to fight to their last breath, he knew, but the only reason they'd kept their casualties low so far was because of Jason. Jeff just had a child, he should be with his family, not fighting – shit. So many of them would die.

Limits. ACCEPT POWER.

The chains that haunted his nightmares, the ones he saw every time he closed his eyes, were the last to show in his mind. If Rob hadn’t saved him months ago, those chains would've taken him to god knows where. Goddamn it, Jason thought, realizing that he wasn’t ever going to find out what actually happened back then. Rob would be disappointed if he knew about this...but Jason had done everything he could. He'd fought valiantly. Properly. Followed orders, worked hard...

...And for what? Just to get betrayed by the people he'd risked his life for, then get killed by some fucker who stole his face? What a joke of a life.

GIVE IN. It sang to him, the enticing siren of power. ONE WORD.

Baker stepped towards him, sword raised. “Thank you for the freedom,” the monster told him, “and the face.”

It’s fine, isn’t it? Jason thought, reaching for his wrist. For the bracelet. I...I really tried to do things the right way. It’s not my fault things turned out like this. The bracelet called to him, inviting him, burning him. His very heart cried for it, every heartbeat appearing to draw the bracelet closer. Jason was stuck, oscillating between what he wanted to do, and what he knew that he should do.

Every chain pulled at him at once, until he felt like he was suffocating once more. “It came down to this, eh?” Jason muttered. Baker laughed loudly. “Fine. Do it already, then let’s finish this.”

NOW! GIVE IN!

Jason’s hand fell on his bracelet.

--

“It would be different from what you’re thinking, though,” Rob said, in a casual tone. Keira eyed him suspiciously, causing him to add, “What?”

“You're speaking in contradictions,” she replied. “Every problematic scenario involving Jason ends with you saying how things 'would be fine' – usually without so much as a second thought. Normally I would attribute that to simple bias, but it doesn't feel like that's the case here. So...why?” She seemed sincerely perplexed.

It's hard to explain unless you've spent time with him. “Jason,” Rob began in a careful tone, trying to phrase it as best as he could, “is a good man. He has a bunch of interests, but he refrains from pursuing them for the sake of helping others. I don’t think I could do that.”

Keira raised an eyebrow, but Rob went on as if he didn’t notice. “He isn’t happy, you know? Always trying to do the right thing, being the guy everyone can rely on. It’s...tough on him. I can tell. But he keeps doing it anyway. That’s why he always wants to be stronger – so he can live up to everyone’s expectations.”

“More contradictions,” Keira muttered. “How does that lead to everything turning out 'fine' if he'd come here?”

Rob drew a deep breath. The thought of Jason going through the same ordeals he had chilled him to the bone. Not because he thought Jason would lose, but because of how Rob knew he would lose years of his life just watching him. “You have to understand," he explained. "Deep inside, Jason is the wildest, most selfish, arrogant, self-centered, stubborn bastard I have ever met. He wants to be a good guy, and he works really hard at it. But when it comes down to it, he’s a maniac obsessed with self-satisfaction...and god bless him for it.”

Keira watched him silently for a moment. “I’m sorry, you’re talking about your best friend? The man you supposedly value the most in this world? That doesn’t sound like a kind way to describe him.”

“Yeah, that’s who I’m talking about,” he said, in a nostalgic tone, smiling as he shifted his gaze to the fireplace. "And I miss the hell out of him." Jason was the first person he'd ever felt like he could be brutally honest with. The first person he'd never been afraid would distance himself if Rob said the wrong thing – and who, if anything, enjoyed the banter. Rob did too, if he was being honest. There were others, now, but Jason was the one who let him realize that kind of friendship was even possible.

“And thing is," Rob continued, "even though he wants to be a perfect, selfless guy, he isn’t. If he was, I would be more worried about him. Maybe he would die trying to save a group of people, or – well, yes, maybe he would go crazy like...a Human.” Just the thought made him shudder. “But it’s not his virtues that make me relaxed. It’s his flaws.”

“What do you mean?” Keira asked, leaning forward in interest. “How can his flaws protect him from losing his mind?”

Rob laughed. “Because I’ve known Jason since we were kids.”

“And?”

“And he’s always been insane,” Rob said with a shrug. “He would rather die his own way than win by doing what someone else told him to.”

--

“Ah, fuck it,” Jason shouted. He put a hand to his bracelet – and then ripped it off, tossing it as far away as he could.

The world seemed to hold still. Baker followed the object with his eyes, his mouth hanging open, but Jason paid him no mind. The burning sensation on his wrist was gone, his mind felt clearer than it had been in days, and the invisible chains around him had shattered. “Ah, this is so much better!” Jason said, rising to his feet and stretching both hands over his head. His ribs still hurt – if anything, they hurt more – but the air felt nicer against his face, and all hesitation was gone from his body.

He had tried to do things the right way. He had tried to be responsible and save everyone.

And he was done trying.

WHAT.

“Have you lost your mind even without Leveling High?” Baker asked, his voice full of a sort of confused outrage. He gestured wildly in the direction Jason had thrown his bracelet. “You couldn’t beat me while you were using the bracelet’s powers. What do you hope to accomplish without-”

CREATION. KILL. Jason knew the voice was talking about Baker. He didn’t care. ACCEPT. POWER. NOW.

“Shut up, both of you!” Jason thundered. To his surprise, they listened. Perhaps they were interested in what his explanation was going to be. Ah...an invisible voice in my head, and a monster with my face in front of me, both hanging on to every word I say...this is fun. He burst out laughing, loud and hard enough that his ribs started to hurt. “I’m done doing things people tell me to. I’m done playing along and being responsible.”

His coach’s voice rang in his head. ‘Guess you have always been the type to worry too much about what people think. Sometimes, Jason, you just have to cut loose.’

Rob’s voice, when they were kids. ‘Maybe I do have to loosen up, Jay. But you do too. In a different way.’

Rob’s voice again. ‘You should try being more selfish once in a while.’

His coach’s voice, one more time. ‘That’s fine. Be greedy. Be obstinate. Most of all, be whatever you want.’

“If you are the limits of my imagination”—Jason reached for his sword and pulled it out of the ground—“if you are the strongest version of me my mind can conjure up”—Jason stumbled forward—“then I’m going to go beyond what I can imagine.” He swung his sword at the monster. Without the bracelet, it was heavier, slower than before. Jason didn’t mind. His sword may have been heavy, but his heart was light, bursting with a sense of airy freedom that he'd sorely missed. Baker stepped backward in a panic, as if scared of him.

The sight brought a wide grin to Jason's face.

STOP. POW–

Jason’s laughter erupted once more, muffling the voice inside his head. “If I’m going to die anyway – I want to die my way. Fuck it. Turns out that I'm a greedy person. This is what I want. I’m not going to lose my mind or this match to this fake piece of shit. I’m going to win and protect everyone – but I’m going to do it my way.”

His unhinged laughter grew louder, echoing across the empty streets, and he could swear he heard a note of hesitation from the voice in his head. “If people need protecting, I’ll protect them while still doing all the dumb shit I want to keep myself entertained. If the military wants to cut me open, I’m just going to become so famous as a hero that they can’t get rid of me. If some monster steals my face, I’ll break it until it doesn’t look like me anymore. If some shitty voice or god or whatever the fuck you are wants to play a game with me, I’ll make him regret picking me as an opponent.”

It all felt so simple.

Ah, Jason thought, truly content. He never should have tried to be who he wasn’t. People were counting on him? Well, that was their problem. It was their fault for placing their faith on him. He was going to do this his way. More likely to die, less likely to succeed – whatever. This way, he would feel at peace.

I have to visualize, he thought, grinning, a version of me that surpasses my imagination. It sent a jolt of exhilaration down his spine. Every competitive bone in his body trembled in excitement at the concept.

Every concern he had before was gone, having vanished like smoke in the wind. This was how it should be. Why worry so much about the details? In the end, it was just a game. Jason won games. It all just came down to doing the impossible – and there was nothing Jason found more fun than redefining that word.

“Madman,” Baker barked at him. “You took off the bracelet. You didn't accept their power. And what did your valor give you? Nothing more than weakness. I'll crush your bones with a single strike.”

ACCE–

Jason laughed louder again, getting amusement out of both Baker’s hesitant tone and the fact that he could overpower the voices with his laughter. “Oh, maybe you will.”

“What do you have planned, human?” Baker hissed at him, his composure starting to crumble. “The fight is done! You have nothing. Removing the bracelet doesn’t help you at all.”

POW–

More laughter. Oh, now this was the right stuff. Not any of that crazy power shit. Just him, someone who underestimated him, and complete freedom to do whatever the hell he wanted. “I don’t have anything,” Jason admitted. “No new powers. You're still stronger, faster, and more skilled with the sword than me."

He grinned. "So...tell me, Baker...” Jason stepped forward. “Weird monster that you are, you just started experiencing these human emotions for the first time after eating my fears, right?” He took another step forward. Baker fell backward and readied his sword. The monster was sweating now, and his hands were trembling slightly. “It must be really difficult for you. So many emotions you've never experienced before. So many changes are happening to your body and mind. Weird time in a young man’s life, eh? Gotta warn you though, not many people come out of puberty looking as handsome as I did.”

“Stop talking,” Baker muttered, “stop trying to pretend that you'll choose your own fate. None of us can. In the end, you're still going to accept their power. Surely,” he added at the end, as if trying to convince himself.

“Anger, arrogance...you learned a lot from me.” Jason rested his sword over his left shoulder before stepping forward. It wasn't remotely a proper fighting stance, leaving him wide open for any sort of attack. “So how about I teach you one more?”

“Human, stop pretending to-”

“Let me show you fear.”

Jason leaped forward.

Chapter 8

Distance...approach...mindset...I have to secure all three to win.

Amateurs think that power, speed and strategy are the only things that determine who wins in a competition. Jason was a born competitor, the kind of man who woke up early in the morning even when his body begged him to rest for longer. He knew better. In any kind of contest, your decisions are what determines who wins or loses. Physical ability is important, and being skilled allows for more options to choose from, but you still have to make the right decisions to win. A perfect body and a carefully honed strategy will do you no good if you neglect to use them.

And a lot of things go into making a decision. Your mental condition, most of all.

Including fear.

Jason leapt toward Baker as time slowed down to a crawl. He knew it would be the same for Baker, since the bastard had copied everything about him. Right now you’re thinking that there's no way I can beat you in a sword exchange, Jason thought, a burst of mania spreading across his body. But you're worried that there must be a trick to it. You’re wondering why I look so confident despite the fact we both know I’m weaker. And that makes you afraid.

If Baker fought as usual, he would've easily been able to deliver a decisive killing blow. Jason was weakened and rushing ahead, his approach full of openings. All Baker had to do was respond like he normally would have.

But he didn’t. Fear encircled his mind, prompting him to assume a defensive stance. Baker's intention was clear – while Jason probably couldn’t do anything, it was better to err on the side of caution and obtain more information before taking action. It was a reasonable plan by any standard.

The problem was that Jason Miller was the most unreasonable man in the world.

Jason lifted his sword and readied for the impending clash. Baker raised his steel in response, preparing to execute a defensive parry. Then, just before their blades met, Jason disengaged the movement and shifted, appearing to be feinting where his blade would go. His double's monstrous eyes followed his every motion, waiting for the moment when Jason would commit to a direction for an attack. Baker stayed in a defensive stance, careful, waiting—

—And was left waiting as Jason ran straight past him.

"What are you..." Baker began, before trailing off in disbelief.

Jason couldn't help but grin. The creature’s distance and mindset were being affected by his fears. Baker was a step too far away, and his focus was on survival rather than victory. Still running, Jason turned his head around and tapped two fingers against his forehead, bringing them out to point at Baker in something between a salute and a taunt. “Catch me if you can, bastard!” He took off, laughing maniacally as he left a very confused monster behind him.

YOU MUST KILL–

KILL–

CREATION–

“For a seemingly all-powerful creepy fucking thing, you sure worry a lot,” Jason said, his heartbeat racing and grin widening. “Chill the fuck out, bro.”

CHILL?

“Yeah. Chill.”

Jason heard the sound of heavy, monstrous footsteps racing up behind him, faster than his own and quickly gaining. Each step sounded like the tick of a countdown timer. The moment Baker caught up to him, he would die, and there was very little he could do to avoid that outcome. Jason was outclassed in every way, from levels to actual skill.

And he wasn’t afraid at all.

Jason glanced back to check on his handiwork. Baker's face was twisted into an ugly grimace, regrets displayed plainly on his visage. It was an expected reaction. If he'd unleashed a straightforward, devastating attack on Jason at the beginning of their clash, all of this could've been avoided. Instead, it was stuck giving chase. The creature was clearly getting frustrated – just what Jason wanted. Distance...approach...mindset...

He swept his eyes across the city, taking in the destruction the monsters had wrought, and smiled. I never did find out how far I could push my body since gaining the Character Sheet. It was an oddly peaceful thought. I only know how strong I can be with the bracelet. Good chance I die trying this.

That was just fine with him. He didn’t care about consequences – he just wanted to move his body according to his wildest whims. Jumping forward, Jason landed on top of an abandoned car, using it to leap towards a pileup just ahead.

DON’T.

“Get back and fight me!” Baker thundered. He'd nearly caught up by now.

Jason smiled so wide that his cheeks started to strain. It was so goddamn fun to hear those outraged, powerful voices in sheer disbelief over what they were witnessing. There was very little he enjoyed more than to shock stronger people by pulling an insane stunt they couldn’t believe he would even attempt, much less accomplish. If you’re lacking in skill, compensate with risk, he told himself. It was a policy that had served him well before, and would serve him well today.

With a leap, Jason rebounded off the car pileup and towards a nearby balcony. His foot nearly got caught on the guardrail, but he managed to clear the jump by mere inches, landing safely on steady ground. From there, he saw a faraway rooftop. Jason examined it closely, mentally calculating the distance. Could his legs actually reach that far? If he was wrong, he was going to fall to his death. Low chance of survival. Extra HP wouldn't help him that much, especially in his wounded state.

Not that he was worried. The only reason he wasn't already dead was because he'd been taking risks. Going off of sheer speed, Baker should've caught up to him by now; it was the monster’s hesitation that was costing him. He couldn't predict Jason’s wild turns, or even what axis of movement they were about to travel on. From horizontal, to vertical – and now horizontal again.

When Baker leaped up onto the balcony in pursuit of him, Jason tossed himself through the door of an abandoned apartment. Baker gave chase, but by the time he reached the living room, Jason was nowhere to be found...though the human's loud, taunting laughter showed that he hadn't gone far. "Show yourself!" Baker yelled, slamming his sword into an innocent coffee table. “Stop running, coward!”

“Why?” Jason responded, his voice echoing throughout the apartment. “I’m having so much fun. Come catch me, Masked Fucker!”

“Bastard-“

Baker froze as Jason charged at him from behind a doorway, sword extended in a surprise attack. The monster's survival instinct kicked in, and he took a step back, blade held horizontally over his head in a defensive stance, ready to block either a cut or a thrust at any given moment. Baker's eyes screamed murder; he was planning to go for a finishing blow in his riposte.

Which was why Jason didn't give him the opportunity, instead running past and leaping out of the same balcony he'd used to enter, only briefly stopping to turn around and once again wave at the increasingly frustrated monster. “Come on now, you’re stronger than me. Shouldn’t I be dead by now?”

Make it mad. Joy surged through him at the thought. Fear, anger, frustration...all those feelings lead to mistakes. Let it build up. Look for a small opening, a single crack in the dam holding back all his mistakes...distance...approach...mindset...

One-on-one competitions weren’t just a measure of skill. They were a measure of who fucked up less. Skill helped improve a competitor's competency ratio, but it couldn't keep their mentality from crumbling under pressure. Baker was only now learning what fear was – there was no goddamn way he knew how to handle it.

While Jason was having the time of his goddamn life. Pressure and challenges were blessings for him.

KILL IT!

SUBJUGATE IT!

REMEMBER GAME!

MIGHT DIE!

YOU CAN FALL!

Jason knew deep inside that it was a bad trait to have – not that he could bring himself to care right then – but he adored when people were exasperated at what he was doing, and the more powerful they were, the better. Hearing the almighty voice that had fucked over his life in a state of panic, listening to it agonize as it watched him leap from balcony to rooftop to building...frankly, it gave him a euphoric feeling greater than winning any tournament.

“Funny thing about our game,” Jason muttered, in a calm voice, as he decided on a new rooftop to jump towards. He secured his approach and changed his target only a step before the jump, deciding on a balcony instead. CAREFUL! “You cheated. That’s not very sportsmanlike of you. And if there's one thing I don’t respect, it’s when someone challenges you to a match then fucking cheats."

He kept his voice subdued. Experience had taught him that speaking in a measured, pompous tone while doing something outrageous made people lose their minds even more than usual. If he was shouting, they would simply assume he was mad, and madness was something that could be prepared for. But a person calmly deciding to be insane...not so much. It made Jason less predictable – and everyone else easier for him to manipulate. “You said you would tell me more about Rob if I got to level 30 and killed Baker. That was fine. But you didn’t tell me you were going to try to make me crazy. That’s clear interference with one of the players in the game. Weak shit, man.”

LOOK OUT–

Jason jumped off the balcony, barely dodging an attack from Baker, and braced himself as he crashed through a window. He rolled into another abandoned apartment, wincing in pain as he sprang to his feet. Breaking through glass hurt – if not for his Character Sheet, he would have been covered in jagged shards, bleeding far more than he was. This much damage was fine, though; Jason had suffered worse injuries in football. “Just saying," he continued, "I don’t see a point in playing a game if you’re gonna cheat. How about we change the rules?”

Silence. Amusing, hilarious silence, as if they were inviting him to go on. “You really want that monster dead, right? Then forget the leveling, no way I make it in time without your bracelet.”

ACCEPTABLE TERMS–

PROPOSAL ABSURD–

KILL IT–

THAT IS NOT–

In that moment, Jason realized something. It wasn’t just one overlayed voice speaking to him. It was multiple, distinct voices – and they were divided. Whatever united front they'd presented until now had been thrown to the wind. They hadn't accounted Baker breaking free of their control, nor for Jason rejecting the cursed bracelet.

FINE.

It was the only sound he heard after their disagreement ended, but he could still feel the vague discontent inherent within their decision. The voices had come to meet on this, but a good compromise left everyone unhappy.

KILL BAKER.

INFORMATION ON HUMAN.

This was enough. Jason relaxed, feeling like the final weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He'd been worried until then that, even if he managed to beat Baker, he still wouldn’t find out anything about Rob. Now, that was out of the way. The only thing left to do was to pull off a miracle. Easy.

It was an arrogant thought, but one with plenty of evidence to back it up. Creating miracles out of thin air was his specialty. So...how do I go about killing this guy?

A half-formed idea came to him – and that was enough. He didn’t need a fully-formed plan or a shining beacon at the end of the tunnel. A vague flicker of light was plenty for him to ride the momentum to victory.

It always had been.

Jason landed on the tallest rooftop he could find, exhaustion starting to set in. The building was nearly twenty stories tall, and even with his Character Sheet, he wasn’t sure if he could survive a full drop from an actual skyscraper. Definitely not a direct one, and even if he used something to break his fall, he still had good odds of dying. He'd reached the rooftop after jumping through a lower balcony and climbing his way up, so there was no easy escape route in sight, either.

That was fine.

He knew what he needed to do to win.

“Are you done running?” Baker demanded. Unlike Jason, he didn’t appear winded from the chase, yet he still trembled more. Whether out of fear or anger, none could tell. “I thought you wanted a fight.”

Jason laughed, lifting his sword and resting it over his slumped left shoulder. “It just seemed like our fight deserved a better backdrop for its finale.” His ribs ached. Adrenaline had kept him functioning until now, but the injuries from his last encounters were piling up. He was quickly nearing the point his body would tap out – thankfully, everything would be over soon. “A showdown between the guy who told the voices to fuck off, and the monster who just barked back at them...it deserves to be settled as close to the sky as possible, don’t you think?”

Baker didn't reply immediately. He kept his gaze sharp the entire time, appearing to consider his next words carefully. “I don't understand you, human.”

“Ah, but you do,” Jason said, glancing upwards. “Because you learned a lot from me, didn’t you? My memories, my fears, my abilities...so you must know that I’ve always loved looking up at the sky. You know...this is so freeing. The sky looks beautiful.” Grey clouds had blocked the sun, and an odd, depressively-dark color painted the world above them. Jason still thought it was the most beautiful thing he had seen since Jeanette. “I've always hated being chained down. Told what to do. Guess you felt the same, eh?”

Baker said nothing, but he nodded slowly.

“You're everything I was afraid of. The perfect person that always considers the most logical, mature outcome, and can apply himself toward making it happen...but you know what?” Jason flashed a sheepish grin and rubbed the back of his head. “Truth to be told, I could never be like you. I’m not logical or mature. Deep inside, I’m the kind of guy that wants to ride his irrational desires to their insane end. So the way I’m fighting right now isn’t something you can predict.”

“If you are willing to surrender yourself to madness,” Baker questioned him, taking one step forward, “why not accept the bracelet’s power? Why fight your fate?”

Jason laughed loudly. “I’m willing to accept my madness. No one else’s. You’re the same, aren’t you?” He pointed at Baker with his sword. “Why not tell the things that made you to fuck off? Stop killing everything that moves, too. We could be friends.”

“You told me you would teach me fear, human.” Baker spoke in a quiet, measured tone. “I must confess, the fact you mean that is what scares me the most. Remember that I have killed hundreds of humans.”

“Well, you were being controlled by crazy voices. Don’t think that makes you responsible. Whatever, we could work out the details later.” Jason’s voice was sincere, but he didn't so much as blink when he saw Baker extend his sword in his direction. “Guess it’s not gonna work out that way, eh?”

“I have your face, human,” Baker told him. “But it cannot be my face so long as you live.”

Jason sighed. “That's probably for the best. I do still gotta kill you to know what happened to Rob. So let’s go ahead and—“

“—Finish this dance,” Baker told him.

Both swordsmen assumed their stances, a calm stillness about them, waiting for the other to move first.

The dark sky above thundered a warning, and a moment later, a rain heavy in volume yet gentle in speed began to fall on them. Jason’s injuries ached, steaming in the cold, each droplet feeling like a burning icicle going through his skin. Adrenaline wasn't enough to keep the pain and exhaustion out of him, and the gap between their skills was ever-present, threatening him like a knife in the dark. Neither fighter made a sound, only the sound of raindrops against their extended steel blades breaking the silence.

And then Baker struck.

Had it gone for a sure kill, it would have won immediately. But it was intelligent, careful, and not quite arrogant enough to presume that it could defeat Jason in one hit. This sanity was its weakness. Baker started with a quick thrust, both hands on his blade, only taking a half-step forward to prevent a counter from hitting him. Jason had not intended on countering him. His plan still only half-formed in his mind, he held his sword high and pointed down in a hanging guard, redirecting the thrust and taking a step backward.

If Baker had lunged with a full advance, the attack would have killed him. It was his caution against a counterattack that weakened his move. This caution remained in the next step, where he pulled his sword back, not stepping forward until he had it in position to unleash a vertical cut. Jason didn't have the luxury of waiting for a safe opening; his skillset was limited, and he had to make up for it by throwing caution to the wind. He advanced forward while his opponent still had his sword extended, attempting to slam it against the monster’s shoulders as he ran past.

The fighters made contact in that exchange. Baker’s sword came down and slammed on Jason’s left shoulder, and Jason’s sword slammed against the side of his opponent’s bicep. Both direct hits, yet the monster clearly came out of it with less damage, though the overcoats of either man were damaged in a similar fashion. Blunt as their swords might be, it could still damage their clothing. Their exchange appeared to instill confidence in Baker for a second, yet it was gone when he saw Jason’s smirk. Never show fear, Jason told himself, a mirror of his coach’s voice, if you're outclassed in skill and strategy, you can’t lose mentally!

The rain fell heavier on them now.

“Scared yet?” Jason taunted. His shoulder ached, his ribs burned, his body wanted to shut down – but he refused to stop smiling. “Wouldn’t blame you if you were.”

Baker drew a deep breath. It seemed like the creature understood the unsteadying of its nerves now and was trying to control it. That wasn’t good. “My skills far outclass yours,” he muttered. “You will die in the next exchange.”

Jason thought of many clever responses to that, and discarded them all. None felt right. “Yeah,” he acknowledged. “Probably.”

“You don’t seem panicked.”

“‘Probably’ isn’t 100%. ‘Probably’ is ‘probably’...I still have a chance to live, so long as I don’t panic.” Jason bent his knees, lowering his position closer to the ground. His ribs burned. Just a little longer. It was hard to even stand at that moment, and even his overcoat felt too heavy on him. With his free hand and the power from his Character Sheet, Jason ripped off both his overcoat and the shirt underneath in one motion, throwing the fabric aside and allowing the cold rain to cool off his burning skin. “We’ve been having a fantastic fight here. Why stress over things I can’t control?”

“The outcome of the fight is something you can control, coward.”

“Amateur.” The disdain in Jason’s voice was harsh enough that Baker winced as if he had been struck. “All you can do in a contest is your best. The outcome won’t always be what you want or even what you deserve. Sometimes, the less skilled person wins. Sometimes, hard work doesn’t save the day. Variance always happens.” This was something he had come to learn his whole life. “There is no such a thing as a sure winner.”

“Yet you act as though you are certain to win,” Baker noted.

“Yet I act as though I am certain to win,” Jason agreed.

The monster let out a sound of contemplation for just a moment, then also ripped his overcoat and shirt, standing as Jason’s exact mirror once again. His form had grown more human, the hints of scales beneath its skin nearly gone, and it barely sported any injuries. “I resisted tanks. What makes you think you can kill me without so much as a single Skill or explosive?”

“Blunt damage seems to do just fine to you, though,” Jason taunted. “Just have to bludgeon you to death.”

“You landed a direct hit on me, and it did nothing,” Baker insisted. His voice was growing more anguished, more desperate. “So why – why do you fight fate? Accept their help! Their power! Why...why...” Baker shook his head. It was struggling to find the right words, an almost physical pain evident on his face. “Why...how do you keep smiling?”

Jason looked at the monster and studied it carefully. It was clearly disturbed, which was according to plan, but he couldn't bring himself to mock it further. Beneath the heavy rain, he lifted his sword and looked at the monster with the utmost seriousness. “I don’t know what’s right or wrong,” he told it, frankly. “Maybe I've already lost sight of what’s important or rational. But even if I happen to be wrong, I’ve already made my decision – so there’s nothing to fear, because I already understood what might happen the moment I threw away that bracelet. I can accept whatever comes after it...and I'll pay any cost to be me.”

Both swordsmen gazed deep into each other’s eyes. They would never know exactly how the other thought. Despite having their selves so intrinsically connected, they were perhaps more different than any other two existences in this world or any other. Nothing is ever quite as different as a man’s ideals and his own self. Yet, standing as close to the sky as they could, beneath the cold rain that crashed against their bare skin, they came to a silent understanding – it would end with the next exchange.

Baker dashed forward and brought his sword down in a mighty cut. Jason blocked it, taking a step backward, his low stance allowing for a quick recovery. The step backward combined with his low center of gravity allowed him to disperse some of the shock and gain enough time to keep up with the monster. Despite the bad angle, Baker used his superior skill to bring his sword up and repeat the vertical cut once more. Again, Jason blocked it and took a step backward. His ribs burned and he felt his breath start to catch. JUST. ONE. MORE. STEP. Baker put everything he had in the next clash, and Jason needed to take two steps backwards to properly absorb the impact.

He stopped when his feet reached for the ground beneath him and found nothing. Behind him was only a drop all the way to the city below. Jason could no longer step backward to absorb the shock, and there was no way to dodge to the side without being pushed off the edge. “It ends here, human – JASON MILLER!” Baker barked out. “FAREWELL!”

Baker lunged forward with his blade raised, intending to lower it in a final cut. It wasn’t a half-step anymore. It was the destructive, final attack he had been avoiding unleashing until now.

I have been waiting, Jason thought, time slowing to a crawl, for this moment. The moment you let go of your fears and try for the attack you've been so hesitant to use. Jason watched the movement carefully. Baker straightened his bent right leg to explode forward, his body nearly mid-air in the attack. It’s frustrating when you can’t use the attack you want to the most. Like you’re chained down. When you finally get to use it, the euphoria that comes with it makes it faster, stronger...but also sloppier. This isn’t just in fighting – it’s every sport.

Jason threw his sword aside. I’ve found it. The weak point in the dam.

Baker’s hands were raised high. It was going to be a destructive move, and he knew that Jason couldn't hurt him from the distance he was at, even with his blade. The monster was far stronger than the human – but mid-air like this, all the strength in the world wouldn’t have mattered. Momentum was different. The monster’s technique wavered, if only for a moment, and in his rage, he attacked from a distance that was less than ideal.

THIS DISTANCE—THIS APPROACH—THIS MINDSET—

Jason wrapped both arms around his opponent’s torso – and then kicked off the ledge of the skyscraper’s rooftop, jumping backwards towards the city. DEAD ON!

Both swordsmen flew off the building, and there was nowhere to land but the ground. Baker was the better wrestler, but that meant little mid-air. Jason’s suplexing motion had turned them both around as they fell, and he adjusted his grip so that his own head would be pointed to the sky, planting both feet against Baker's armpits to keep the creature aimed straight down. Baker struggled mightily, trying to turn and raise his sword, and accomplishing little. They nearly turned around a few times, but Jason forced the attack to remain true.

“Nobody decides my fate but me!” he roared.

The dark stormclouds had not stopped blocking the sun. “Hey,” Baker whispered, a melancholic tone about him. His voice was nearly inaudible at that speed. “You're right. The sky...really is beautiful.”

The mighty meteoric crash came to a halt. Baker’s head reached the ground first, and Jason held on tight, not letting go even as the impact touched his own bones. His legs broke first, placed so near the creature’s arms, but he willed them to remain in place, shattered as they were. Baker had to die at that moment. Jason squeezed the monster’s torso with a grip so tight that he didn't know whether he would let go first or if his arms would fall off. Baker resisted bullets and explosives – blunt damage would have to do. And if his sword wasn’t enough to do anything...gravity was the great equalizer.

Jason’s mind went blurry next. He knew his arms must have let go of the monster at some point, but his aching headache told him he'd hit his skull in the process. A cloud of dust had emerged from their point of impact, blinding and all-encompassing. How much time had passed? In his daze, he couldn't tell. It could have been seconds or minutes – the fact that he didn't know was concerning. I’m still alive, he thought, genuinely surprised. What did I break?

What hadn’t he broken was probably a better question. A few ribs were definitely piercing something, and his arms had twisted in unnatural ways, the white of his bones poking through the blood river that colored his entire body now. His legs were broken in enough different places that they almost zigzagged back into a straight pattern. “Funny,” he muttered, his voice weak, “don’t think most people get to know what their bones look like. That’s whiter than I thought. Figured it would be yellower.”

Rubble started to move beside him. “Please tell me you’re dead,” Jason muttered, “I’m out of gas.”

Reached Level 24!
5 Stat Points Gained!

Reached Level 25!
5 Stat Points Gained!

Reached Level 26!
5 Stat Points Gained!

“Thank god,” Jason muttered.

EXCELLENT.

“Not you,” he spat out. Jason coughed up blood – not exactly excellent news, but he was more or less confident he would survive this. Some quick Vitality point allocation might be wise, however. Jason wanted to shout back at the voices, to demand more of them, but he felt like an exhausted athlete forced to talk to a commissioner after a tournament, and most complaints seemed oddly unimportant. “Baker’s dead. Tell me.” Jason felt the life draining out of him, but there was just enough stubbornness anchoring his consciousness to this world. “Tell me about Rob.”

There was silence.

“If you have a bone of sportsmanship in your body, tell me!” Jason demanded. It was the worst accusation he thought one could lay upon another. “I won fair and square!”

The voices talked among themselves again. Distant, quiet, a vague mutter at best. They couldn't come to an agreement.

Push it. “Is Rob alive?” Jason shouted. His tone was threatening, as if he could actually harm the voices in some way. As if he knew where they were. As if he knew what they were. As if every bone in his body wasn’t broken. But he'd shouted them into compliance before, and he would do it again. “Is. Rob. Alive?”

YES.

A wave of happiness and relief swept through his body. Jason might as well not have been injured anymore. It was worth every broken bone and every time he'd brushed against his own sanity for this. “Is he happy?”

Murmurs of disagreement in the faint voices. Jason would have laughed if it didn’t hurt so much. “That’s how life be sometimes, eh?” The lack of a quick negative was enough for him. “What’s his level right now?”

51.

Jason let out a sound of annoyance. “Goddamn it, that powergaming bastard. I have my work cut out for me if I want to catch up to him.” He considered what else he wanted to know. There was a list of rehearsed questions he had thought of, but none of them seemed important at the moment. If Rob had just come back, and we were sharing a few beers over some shitty video game...what's the first thing I would ask?

“Has he gotten laid?”

Silence from most of the voices, almost more out of bafflement than refusal to speak. Only one spoke up. YES.

“That’s rad. You go, Robbie,” Jason muttered. It was a silly question, but it told him a lot. That Rob hadn’t gone insane, that he had people beside him, and that he was at least borderline functional. That was enough. Fucking hell, it hurt to talk. It hurt to exist at that moment. But there was one question he still had to ask. “Does he hate your fucking guts and want to kill you?”

Heavy silence fell. It was a disconcerting sound, and the first one that made Jason think of the voices as something other than gods or anything of the sort. Gods wouldn't hesitate like that. Finally, one voice rose above the others, decisive and certain. EXTREMELY.

So many questions he wanted to ask...yet none seemed to matter. His friend was alive. He was at least mostly happy. And he wasn’t alone. That meant a lot. He had other questions, of course, but they mattered little. Will I see him again? What did it matter what they told him? So long as they were alive, they would meet again, no matter what the voices had to tell him. “Last question,” Jason muttered, “tell me, voices playing at god...are you afraid?”

There was a silence at the question and whether out of shock or something else Jason could not tell.

“You wanted to drive me crazy. Use me, for some reason – probably because Rob hasn’t been very easy to control. Guy is almost as stubborn as me. But you didn’t count on me throwing away your bracelet or your monster breaking free. You also didn’t expect me to beat your little creation, did you?” Silence still reigned. “Maybe you thought we were just your playthings. That humans would be an amusing thing to distract yourself with...and maybe, just maybe, you started to realize that might have been a mistake. You're feeling a chill. You're starting to wonder, ‘If humans can resist our madness, what else can they do?’ And you don’t have an answer. For the first time, you feel unsure. You don’t know what’s gonna happen. You’re looking at me and wondering ‘If this went wrong, what else will?’”

NOT ABOUT FRIEND.

NOT PART OF DEAL.

The voices started to fade and Jason laughed. “I’m not your prey. I’m not your toy. I’m your opponent. This isn’t a war, it’s a race – to see if Rob or I get to kill you first!”

A different kind of silence fell. Not an eerie stillness, but a complete absence of the horror that had been haunting him for the last few weeks. The voices were gone. For now, at least.

“Cowards,” Jason muttered, shifting his weak eyes to the sky. Sunlight pierced through the dark clouds, bringing about a smile when they touched his face. “Hey Rob,” he muttered at the sky, “hope you’re doing well. I just kicked the shit out of the personification of my depression, then shit-talked some crappy gods until they left. You’d get a kick out of it.”

Chapter 9

“Hey there hero, how's it going?” Danse stepped into the courtyard and was wholly unsurprised – and unimpressed – to find Jason already on his feet, sword in hand. “Did the higher ups really give you permission to be out of bed?”

“Not even remotely.”

“Listen to your doctors, goddamn it.”

“I swear I used to, but when you have superpowers...it gets more difficult,” Jason shot back, wiping some sweat off his brow. “My doctors are basically guessing how my body works. It's not like they know for sure what’s safe and what’s not.”

Danse crossed his arms and lifted an eyebrow. “And you do?”

“Of course not,” Jason snapped, pretending to be offended. “But if someone is going to be guessing, I’d rather be the one making the final call. And I think that staying in bed and letting my enemies grow stronger while I stay the same just ain’t the way to go. This way is safer.”

Jason had expected the man to protest more heavily, but instead he just nodded along, sighed deeply, and underhand-tossed a water bottle in Jason's direction. At the sight, Jason immediately dropped his sword and jumped backward to catch the bottle like it was a football. “Thanks. I should probably be drinking more water.”

“Damn straight you should.” Danse shook his head. “Saw the proposal you sent the higher-ups. That’s more ballsy than I expected from you.”

“I mean, they did try to cut me open like a frog. I've got some leverage on them, especially if they want me to keep quiet.”

“They could still try it again.”

That was true. Every kind of non-lethal experiment on his body had yielded no results, and as more and more creatures continued to pop up, the military was growing desperate to replicate his abilities. Still, it’s not as though vivisecting him had overwhelming support among the organization, and his defeat of Baker had certainly gotten him at least a few months of peace.

It was just enough time for him to make sure he couldn’t be disposed of. “I’m looking forward to seeing them try,” Jason declared.

Danse nodded slowly. “That proposal...seriously? Seems like you’re putting a lot of trust in the military. Doesn’t sound like you.”

“I mean, I've been incapacitated for a few weeks and the world hasn’t burst into flames yet." More people had died to monster attacks while he was out, and while that knowledge burned, he knew that letting the guilt consume him wouldn’t be beneficial to anyone. They needed him calm and in control.

Not that growing numb to the death around him was a good thing. I’m going to need so much therapy after this fucking thing is done, Jason thought. But for now I’ll keep focused. “I need to start relying on you guys more if we want to win this.”

“Win?” Danse’s judgemental look was replaced by one of confusion. “You’re acting like this is a game.”

“I’m acting like it’s a war.” Until now, they'd been thinking of the monsters' arrival mostly as an invasion of mindless abominations. A sort of natural disaster to repel and survive. But Jason's recent experiences had taught him more than just the fact that Rob was alive. He'd learned that there were intelligent forces behind the Portal's existence, and they had their own goals – be it amusement, control, or something else.

And that wasn’t all. Based on what he'd heard, the voices had heavily disagreed with each other on how to handle the Baker situation. Powerful as they were, they were subject to the same flaws that any human organization possessed. Individuality, desires, discord...so long as an enemy had those, they could be exploited.

They could be killed.

“Let me be straight with you," Jason continued. "I’m planning on killing whatever has been sending those fucking things to Earth.” If Rob doesn’t kill them first. He better let me have at least one of the fuckers. “That means getting as strong as possible.”

Danse nodded slowly. “And a drone system for capturing monsters will accomplish that?”

“It doesn’t have to capture them, just...keep them somewhere until I can get there and kill them myself. I mean, if they do capture them, all the better – bring them over like it’s takeout, and I’ll eat the levels after that. But I’m fine even if the drones only restrain the monsters until I get there. Unmanned systems are best because of how dangerous this is gonna be. It’s not just my bleeding heart making that decision; I’m being practical about it, too.”

His head had felt clearer since fighting Baker, clearer even than before he put on the voices' bracelet. There was something to be said about confronting your demons and piledriving them into the ground from the top of a skyscraper. “Training troops to capture monsters would take a while, and having to train more after half of them die in one deployment isn't sustainable," Jason explained. "Instead, we’re going to use unmanned weapons to bring monsters to me from all over the world, or at least keep them pinned down so I can kill them. It's necessary, as I can’t level up as fast as I could before I got rid of...never mind.”

Jason hadn’t explained the whole bracelet thing to Danse, and he was in no hurry to. “Just, if I have nothing to boost how quickly I level up...then I say, fuck it. I’ll use the entirety of humanity’s ingenuity and technology to make me stronger.” If he couldn’t level up twice as fast, then all he had to do was to kill three or four times as many monsters, and everything would even itself out. Probably. Jason wasn’t much for RPGs, he was more of a fighting game kind of guy – but it sounded right in his head.

“It makes sense,” Danse said, in a thoughtful tone. “The stronger you get, the better our odds are. Surprised you’re willing to go so hard into a plan like this, though. You always hated strategies that focused around you.”

“I did,” Jason admitted. “They scared me because...well, what if I messed up and got everyone killed? The thought still scares me.”

Danse regarded him quietly for a moment. “What changed?”

“I just realized that I can’t go on like I have until now...and that being timid is the same as admitting defeat. If we want to survive – if we want to win this war, we have to be bold. I can’t do that by running away from my responsibilities." He grinned. "Besides. If I’m being honest...I kind of want to do this.”

The thought of fighting didn’t scare him anymore. From now on, he'd see everything through on his terms. Everything felt more natural this way, like it was how the world was always meant to work.

“If it’s fine with you, then I approve of it," Danse replied. "Don’t think the higher ups will fight that too hard; it’s an excuse for so many military contracts and budget adjustments. Got a question, though: why'd you decide to use your powers like this? Even if you're more willing to take risks, it's a big departure from your usual.”

The voices said Rob was level 51 and I’m almost half of that. Fucking hate losing. “It's the mature thing to do,” he answered, in a smooth tone. Truthfully, he would have chosen to increase his levels anyway for the sake of winning this goddamn war, but being competitive with his friend brought a smile to his face. It was childish, he knew, but in a harmless way. “Besides, I’ve started gaining some fun abilities from my Level increases.”

Danse perked up; combat advancements always caught his attention. “Yeah? Like what?”

“There’s one called Counter. It's my favorite right now. If I hit something as it’s just about to hit me, I can deal just over twice as much damage as I would have otherwise, and paralyze them for a second too. Can’t move my feet while using it, though.”

Danse rubbed his thin thoughtfully. “Like some sort of boxing cross-counter thing?”

“Probably. I mean, I don’t know. Never got much into boxing. Always wanted to, though. Maybe I should join a club when this is all done.” Jason had begun to realize that thinking about the things he wanted to do after the war helped him stay sane. It made everything feel temporary...and it gave him something more important than even hope itself.

A goal.

The glory of victory was an effective motivator, but ever since Baker, he was more looking forward to spending time with the people he cared about. Now that he knew Rob was alive, it was easier to imagine that the dark clouds of today would eventually give way to sunny skies. Time to start working towards making that happen.

“Hey, Danse? Can you do me a favor?” Jason asked.

“Name it.”

“Watch my press conference today.”

Danse frowned, his eyes narrowing. “I'll be there in person.”

--

“Coach!” Jason called out, his posture rigid as he looked straight ahead. He'd gone over this moment in his head at least a thousand times. This had to be done right. “I’m quitting football. Forever.”

Vasquez looked up from his phone to meet his eyes, raising a single eyebrow in response. He regarded Jason silently for a moment before speaking. “Shouldn’t you be telling this to the guy who’s your actual coach right now? Technically, I haven’t coached you since high school.”

Jason shook his head. “Coaching is just a job for him. You’re...different. You taught me more than just football.” It was one of those things that was hard to express out loud. He would rather fight a dozen Bakers than have to put together his feelings into a few words, he thought, until a sudden sharp pain at his side made him rethink his view. Ouch. Okay, maybe six Bakers at most.

“I don’t care about letting him down," Jason continued. "I was just a number for him, you know? One more guy coming in through the system, letting him make some money off my name while I don't get paid at all because–”

Jason stopped himself. His rant about payment in college sports hardly seemed urgent. “If there was anyone I was afraid of disappointing, it was you, coach,” he muttered. “And I figured if I made you feel like you wasted your time teaching me or taking care of me all those years...I wanted to make sure you heard it from my lips. Not from a tweet or something.”

Vasquez held his gaze for a moment. Jason tensed, not knowing what to expect. “Sit down,” his coach told him, gesturing at the couch.

“I have to go soon, I–”

“Sit.”

Jason complied, keeping himself from crossing his legs or resting them on the coffee table as he would have done anywhere else. Sweat began to run down the back of his neck. Despite his apprehension, he didn't say a word, waiting in silence until the older man spoke.

“Do you really think, you dipshit, that I would be sad about you quitting?” Vasquez's voice was sharp, stabbing worse than Baker’s blade had.

“I just – you spent so long coaching me,” Jason said, his voice filled with a baffled sort of guilt. You even invited me to Thanksgiving, Christmas...made me feel like I had a place somewhere. Those days were probably gone now. They wouldn’t have any sort of relationship once he stopped practicing football, and he would have no reason to justify visiting Vasquez that often. “You even went out of your way to continue teaching me after I graduated high school and I’m just...throwing it all out the window.”

Vasquez barked a low, growling laugh. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? I taught you a lot more than football. So long as those lessons stick with you, then by God I did a good job.” To Jason’s absolute surprise, his coach smiled kindly at him. A moment later, Jason felt stupid for being shocked at all. Of course that would be his reaction. “Do you think a coach’s job is just to teach his players how to perform well on the field?”

“Definitely not,” Jason muttered.

“Good. Then you know I don’t care if you’re a football player or not. I’m proud of you either way. Besides...” His coach trailed off, appearing undecided about whether to say what was on his mind. “Never thought you should’ve been playing football to begin with.”

Now that surprised him. “Coach, what – what do you mean?” Jason demanded, in a defensive tone. He wasn’t really into football, but he'd still felt proud of his skills. “I’m damn good! You saw how many trophies we earned while–”

Vasquez motioned for him to shut up. “Never said you weren’t good,” his coach told him, “just that I don’t think you should have played. You were never the type to settle on a team sport. Sit down, you’re good at team sports, yeah, but that doesn’t mean you were happy with them. Just because you’re good at something, doesn’t mean you should do it.”

“But the team,” Jason protested, “they needed me. They would've lost without me around.”

“So what? Let them.” Vasquez let out a deep sigh. “Not worth your happiness.”

Memories of Rob quitting tennis and being all the happier for it flashed in his mind. “It really isn't,” Jason muttered. “So...are you saying you’re not disappointed?” he asked, hesitantly.

“Of course I’m not disappointed. Why would I be? Still going to be proud when I see you winning Wimbledon or whatever the big tennis tournaments are called.”

“I'll do my best.” Jason smiled. It was hard not to. “Can’t promise I’m going to win all of them, though. With all this new tech flying around, the big three are as good as when they were at their peaks.”

“Jason, you literally have superpowers.”

“I'd still take a healthy, young Nadal on clay over anyone with superpowers,” Jason said. An exaggerated shrug of his shoulders was enough even for his coach – who knew little of the sport – to understand he was mostly joking. Mostly.

It was a good note to end things on. Even if he wouldn’t see his coach as often anymore, Jason knew that Vasquez was still proud of him. That was all he could ask for.

“Well, I really should get going now," he said. "Wasn’t kidding when I said I was busy – got lots of things to do today.” It hurt to stand up so quickly, but he didn’t want to linger for any longer than he had to. Better to leave while he could at least pretend to be a little cool. “Have a damn press conference coming up soon.”

“Yeah, yeah, get out of here,” Vasquez waved him off. He grunted and looked down. A few seconds later, he exclaimed when Jason turned the doorknob. “Wait!”

“What is it, coach?”

Vasquez appeared to hesitate for a moment, but his face was determined. His decision had been made; he was just taking time to find the right words. After some deliberation, he nodded to himself, and looked up. “Haven’t met your girlfriend yet,” Vasquez muttered, in a strained voice. “Be sure to bring her over for Thanksgiving, you hear me?”

Jason didn't know what expression his coach was making. The man had shifted his gaze to the ground, and was trying to hide his emotions with a low grumble. Jason looked away too, for the same reasons he suspected his coach was averting his eyes. Shit. I’m not making a cool face right about now. “I will, coach. I promise.”

“Good. Send me a text once in a while to let me know you’re alive. I’ve been worrying sick over you – thought you were dead for a while. Not like the news would tell me.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“And Jason?” His coach’s voice steadied, and Jason managed to match his resolve by turning around and looking him in the eye. “One more thing.”

“Just name it.”

“If you care about the people you love, sometimes you have to be selfish. You can’t solve everyone’s problems without hurting yourself...and if you hurt yourself, you’re also hurting the people you love. Be selfish. Be greedy. Flip off some strangers so that you can smile at your loved ones. That’s life.”

Jason stared at his coach for several seconds before nodding back. Then, suddenly, he threw his head back and laughed. It was just like Vasquez to say something like that – and just like Jason to find it comforting. “Thanks coach,” he muttered. “I’ll see you soon.”

--

“So. You’re here. And you’re presumably sorry.” Jeanette asked him. Her voice wasn’t cold – it was warm, even. But it had been weeks and she was still a little pissed off at him. Which...was probably fair. “Are you?”

“I am!” he promised her. “I should have talked to you more.”

“And?”

Jason let out a defeated sigh. “And I promise to never try fighting any otherworldly shit without telling you about it first.”

“Good.” She pulled him closer and kissed him rather aggressively. “You'd better.”

“I will,” he told her. Jason’s voice was joking at first, but upon seeing the look in her eyes, he spoke more seriously. “I swear. I know that wasn’t reasonable of me...and it was downright insulting. You’re strong enough to handle me not being completely okay.”

Jeanette narrowed her eyes. While she was pleased with his words – as Jason knew she would be – she was also trying to find the trap there. “That’s way too mature. What’s the catch?” She widened her eyes, seeming to peer into his soul. “Come on, what’s wrong? Any dangerous missions coming up soon or something?”

“No, but...well, you’re going away for that shooting tournament, right?” It was downright weird to him that international sports were still happening while the world was being invaded, but it made sense. People needed distractions, and the world kept spinning even as it was being blown up. “Just wanted to make sure you knew.”

“It's only for two weeks," Jeanette said. "I’ll be back before you know it...and you will call me if something comes up.” It was less a question and more of a threat. Jeanette looked positively terrifying in that moment, and he had to admit, it was a good look on her. “Not like you to get all mushy like this, though.”

“You've been yelling at me for almost a month since I told you everything!” When Jason first arrived back home with his body as a broken mess, Jeanette had been concerned. But as he healed, and as she realized how much he'd been keeping from her...well, she might’ve gotten a little upset with him.

“If I don’t say it that often, you’ll forget it,” Jeanette told him, her voice sharp as a dagger. “You're really, really good at ignoring lessons you aren’t a fan of.”

“And you’re good at reminding me of them,” he muttered.

She smiled. “If it helps, you stupid creature, I feel more at ease now than when you were hiding things from me.”

Jason stared at her with wide eyes and a mild frown. “Seriously? You’re more relaxed now that you know I’m fighting teleporting abominations that steal my face, than when you thought I was just killing weird turtles and shit?”

“It’s not like I believed you when you said that nothing was wrong," she explained. "I just didn’t know what. This...this is better. I can deal with this better than I can deal with the unknown.”

“Guess that makes sense.”

“Too bad I couldn’t have been there with you. Kind of curious if that monster really looked like you.”

Jason shrugged. “Honestly, don’t even know if his corpse still looked like me after I killed him. By the time I woke up again, it was already gone – military probably didn’t want a monster’s corpse just sort of hanging out in the middle of a public street.” He awkwardly rubbed the side of his neck. It didn’t feel like he was being completely honest with her yet, but that would change soon. “Hey, Jeanette?”

“Yeah?”

A small grin crept onto his face. “I know you’re going to be at the airport, and using your phone is a hassle, but watch my press conference later. It’s going to mean a lot to me if you could.”

--

As it turns out, a near-death experience wasn't guaranteed to give someone a newfound appreciation for all things in life. Media scrums hadn't magically become more fun for Jason since last time. He still hated the goddamn things. Ever since what the media had dubbed ‘The Duel in the Rain’ transpired – probably by someone with a flair for melodrama – they'd been hounding Jason with questions, wondering if he was the one who'd taken down Baker. It made sense considering where the duel occurred and where Jason was usually deployed, but that didn't stop the military from publicly denying it.

They didn’t want Jason to gain international support, nor did they want other countries to know they possessed a ‘weapon’ capable of defeating a monster that survived tanks. Secrecy worked best in their favor. Over the last month, Jason had been instructed on how to speak to the media without letting them – or other countries – glean too much from his answers. It was of vital importance that they kept his full capabilities under wraps.

“—Mr. Miller, you have been injured for quite a while now. What caused the injury? Was it the Baker Street Horror?”

“—Mr. Miller, civilian casualties have gone up while you were injured. Does that concern you?”

“—Mr. Miller, are there any other soldiers being trained like you? Anyone else with your abilities?”

“—Mr. Miller, what can you tell us about the monsters you've defeated recently?”

One by one the questions came, and one by one he parried them all without hesitation. His training had prepared him well; he wasn't about to make a mistake anytime soon. Gazing to the side, he caught sight of Danse, flanked by a number of officials. They really aren’t letting me anywhere without a set of bodyguards, huh. Probably for the best, all things considered.

The questioning continued, and Jason found himself feeling mildly disappointed at how easy they were to handle. So far their queries had been on the boring side. Just a bunch of things he expected to hear, and that the press knew would result in vague non-answers. That was how these things always went; a bunch of softballs to butter up the interviewee before one mildly pointed question. It was like a theater performance, with a beginning, rising action, and conclusion.

“—Mr. Miller...are you familiar with the ‘Red Blur’?”

And there it is.

A collective groan passed through the room. Jason understood why; the media had asked that question multiple times a day since Baker was defeated, with little to show for their efforts. So far, today's reporters had been trying to gather as much info as they could with indirect questions. No one had bothered confronting Jason directly, as it was absurd to expect an honest answer.

Jason pulled his microphone closer. There was an art to this, and he was a master of it. He made sure his face wasn’t obstructed by the microphone, positioning so that the reporters' cameras could catch his slightly raised eyebrows.

“The ‘Red Blur’?”

“Yes. Word on the street is that a person defeated the Baker Street Horror. This individual was moving so fast all the witnesses caught sight of was a blur – left behind by his clothes, most likely.”

Jason let out a thoughtful sound into the microphone, making sure his subtle deliberation was caught by everyone. “Well,” he started, in his approachable, everyman tone, “if a person really did that, then they would have to be really strong. We’re talking stronger than a lot of million-dollar weapons. A person like that would be invaluable to the war effort.”

He could feel dozens of resigned glares from the military burning into his skull. They'd expected him to be coy, but that doesn’t mean they liked it. Murmurs spread among the media crowd, and the tick-tack of laptop keys echoed throughout the room, their next speculative headline already forming.

“Yes,” the reporter replied, “they probably would be.” There was a hesitant pause. The reporter appeared pleased with the answer he'd received, and was unsure whether to press his luck. Then Jason smiled, and that was enough for him to take the bait. “Mr. Miller, if I may be so bold...is there any truth to the rumors that you were the Red Blur?”

Danse was the first to realize it. His mouth dropped in a silent scream, and he winced in pain before any words were even said. Somehow, he could feel it in his bones, it seemed. I'm sorry, buddy, Jason thought. But not that sorry. When he flashed a grin in Danse's direction, all the color drained from the military faction's faces.

Jason coughed into the microphone to draw everyone’s attention. He leaned forward, baking in the spotlight, enjoying the deafening silence that drowned the arena. This is a bad idea. But he really wanted to do it, and Danse’s final sigh of exasperation only motivated him more.

“Yes, I am the Red Blur.”

Jason closed his eyes and smiled as he listened to the chaos that followed.

Afterword

I hope you enjoyed Book 4 and the side story If you're here, that means you've read all those words, and that's ridiculously humbling to me. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for the support, and for staying along for the ride.

And if possible, please leave a rating and a review on the Amazon story page for Book 4. A book's success lives and dies by positive ratings and reviews. The more I get, the more successful the book will be, which will allow me to keep working as an author. Every rating and review helps me A LOT, so if you can find the time, please consider it.

About The Author

Brett Finnicum a.k.a. KamikazePotato

Hello all you lovely people! My name is Brett, and I've been a massive fan of fantasy stories since the first time I first picked up a book. Over the years, I've devoured well over 100 fantasy novels, dozens of fantasy video games, plenty of fantasy TV shows and movies...you get the idea.

Naturally, this made me want to create a fantasy world of my own. Around the time I decided to sit down and write a story I would actually share with everyone, I also got into the LitRPG genre, and here we are.

An Outcast In Another World has been successful beyond my wildest dreams. It's a big step forward towards me being able to fulfill my lifelong aspiration: being a full-time writer. Anyone reading this has already helped contribute to that goal, so from the bottom of my heart, thank you.

--

Rafael Kalleen

Hey guys, I'm Rafael Kalleen – I co-wrote the Jason's bonus story with KamikazePotato. We talked about doing this forever, but I still can't believe we actually got around to doing it. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as we enjoyed writing it! If you want to check out my solo stuff, I have a book up on Amazon called Duellist's Road: No Shortcuts.

What Else?

My Patreon currently has another canon side story running, after which Book 5 will start being posted there chapter-by-chapter.

If you want to be kept updated on when the next books in the series will be coming out, you can either sign up for my mailing list (which will ONLY contact you when a new book comes out), or follow my twitter account under the name kamikaze_potato.

And if you're interested in checking out Rafael Kalleen's work, you can find his book Duellist's Road: No Shortcuts on kindle.

That's all for now. See you next time!

Table of Contents

- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Summary of Book 3
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6

- Character Sheet and Skills At The End of Chapter 6

- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21

- Character Sheet and Skills At The End of Chapter 21

- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Chapter 31
- Chapter 32
- Chapter 33
- Chapter 34
- Chapter 35
- Chapter 36
- Chapter 37

- Character Sheet and Skills At The End of Chapter 37

- Chapter 38
- Chapter 39
- Chapter 40
- Chapter 41
- Chapter 42
- Chapter 43
- Chapter 44
- Chapter 45
- Chapter 46
- Chapter 47
- Chapter 48
- Chapter 49
- Chapter 50
- Chapter 51 (Epilogue)
- More Story Up Ahead

- An Outcast In Another World: Duel to the Death

- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Afterword
- About The Author
- What Else?